Tired of Winning

I’m getting tired of my daughter winning. Perhaps an explanation is in order.

Ever since she became a teacher in the public school system she has been winning awards. First it was first year teacher of the year finalist, then new teacher of the year when she moved to another state. After that she won district teacher of the year. Now, her school is winning awards due in no small part to her efforts in the classroom.

But, in the public school system they do things totally differently than they do in the private sector. In the private sector, when you perform at a high level they send you, all expenses paid, on exotic trips. You do a great enough job at something in the private sector and they stack dead presidents in your bank account, give you stock options and raise your pay to keep the competition from swooping in and stealing you. In the education business, when you win something you get the privilege of adding five new responsibilities to your work schedule for exactly zero additional compensation. Your school’s test scores go through the roof? Congratulations!! You get to put together an hour long power point presentation to teach all the other teachers how you did it and make your presentation on Saturday...when you were planning on grading papers. Win teacher of the year? Awesome, your reward is a three year commitment of being paraded around the district like a prize pony at the state fair giving speeches and posing for pictures...when you were planning on working on lesson plans. Then, once the administration realizes what a gifted speaker you are, you’re picked to make every presentation that comes up for the rest of your natural life.

If you’re my daughter, you do all of these things with a smile and 110% effort because that’s who you are and you know no other way to operate. You remind your father that teachers aren’t in it for the income, but rather for the outcomes. I am at a loss of how to respond to such a statement. Why in Sam Hill aren’t teachers paid more income when they produce better outcomes? Instead, public schools have a system that actually produces negative incentives for excellence. “You sure you want to be teacher of the year? I mean, it's a shiny trophy and all but it adds seven extra hours to your work week for three years.” On the other hand it will look good on your resume when you eventually burn out and start looking for a job in the private sector so you can have your weekends back.

Dumbest thing I’ve ever seen...

Out With The Old...

Yesterday morning at exactly 8 o’clock, a guy named Kory showed up at my door with two large tool boxes which he sat on my front porch. Kory, a man of few words, informed me that he and his young assistant were here to install my new carpeting. This short declarative sentence would be the only words to pass between us. I asked if there was anything he needed for me to do before I went to work to which he replied with an emphatic head shake...no. I barricaded a very nervous Lucy downstairs with a series of gates and headed into the office. Around 11:30, I returned to this...

These dudes had disassembled practically every piece of furniture upstairs and crammed it all into our bedroom. They were laying down carpet like their very lives depended on it. When Pam got home from work around 4:00, Kory and his helper were long gone, with my check for $1,150. Pam was thrilled with the result..

Of course, the big question would be...how would Miss Lucy like the new carpet? When released from her downstairs jail, she made her way warily up the stairs and began her sniffing tour, walking very slowly, tail down, ears back, looking for trouble. Despite a generally favorable reaction, we soon discovered that although the new carpet is sooo much softer and comfortable under foot than then old stuff, where does she still insist on making her headquarters???

Add It To The List

This morning, I’m up earlier than usual. Carpet installation day has arrived. The downstairs of our house looks like an episode of The Hoarders. Lucy is in high anxiety mode as a result. It promises to be a crazy day.

So, I opened one of my favorite sites on my laptop and was greeted by a screaming ad that asked the question...Worried About Your Liver?

Ok...I must here confess to you that never once in my almost 62 years have I ever given my liver a moment’s thought, so the answer is “No”. But, thanks to this provocative question at the bottom of my laptop screen I’m thinking...Wait, should I be worried about my liver? I mean, I have never been a heavy drinker, but who knows...maybe there’s some new liver threat out there that I am unaware of. I decide, oh hell, why not be worried about my liver?! I can just add my liver to the ever expanding list of body parts about which I am gravely concerned.

So far that list includes but by no means is limited to:

1. Weird bump on my left kneecap that hurts like nobody’s business when I lean it against something.

2. Three random hairs that have begun to grow on the end of my nose. I mean, what the heck?

3. The strange thing that’s going on with two toenails on my left foot.

4. Why in the name of all that is holy is my right eye all of a sudden turning on the water works?

5. Why is my back always tight, as if it is on the brink of locking up?

6. What’s the deal with this little skin fart thing that has sprouted on the back of my left thigh?

7. It is no longer tenable to say that my hearing is “fine.”

8. My left foot is home to some sort of nerve thing that burns like fire and will not allow me to point my toes outward.

9. Now, dry-mouth is becoming a thing.

10. Short term memory completely unreliable, long term memory highly selective.

11. My liver

So, thanks to the demonic parasites who inhabit Madison Avenue, I have a new concern, my heretofore blissfully ignored liver. Of course every item on my list is probably irrelevant since the Coronavirus will kill me long before that skin fart thing becomes an issue.

Lucy’s Meme

I woke up around 4:30 this morning and noticed that Lucy wasn’t sprawled out at the foot of our bed taking up every square inch of leg room like she normally is. I got up and made a trip to the bathroom, then couldn’t find her anywhere else upstairs. Odd. Not like her. So, I walked downstairs and found her messing with my laptop...

She immediately closed it and sheepishly slunk away and back up stairs while I admonished her. “How many times have I told you to leave my computer alone!!”

We both went back to bed. When I woke up at 6:30 and opened my laptop, I found this...

What am I going to do with this dog?

Being a Blessing

It is one of the inevitabilities of life that the older we get the more accustomed to death we become. Now that I am in my 60’s, most of my friends and clients are also in their 60’s, which means that each year I hear of death and disease far more often than I did 30 years ago. This past year has been especially difficult in this regard, having lost four dear clients over the past 8 months. By now it should not surprise me, I shouldn’t be so shocked by mortality...but I still am.

Far too many times recently a grieving widow sits across the desk from me at my office clutching a tissue as she sorts through the relentless stack of paperwork authenticating her loss. Whatever words of mine intended to encourage fall flat. I try not to make it worse by saying the wrong thing or something too flip, desperate not to make matters worse. It is not a skill that improves with practice. I am just as halting and awkward now as I’ve ever been around grieving people.

I hate to admit such a thing, but when the deceased was a difficult person...its easier. There is a part of me that thinks that some sort of divine justice has been served. I know that this is a horrible, judgmental notion, but it comes anyway. What’s far more difficult is when the loss is some wonderful, loving and caring human being. The person sitting across the desk from me is not anguished over the fate of their loved one, just devastated by longing and overcome by the prospect of life without them. Their faces are darkened by the specter of loss. The financial problems that my work solves offers them no cure for loneliness. 

My friend with cancer recently received great news after her surgery...no cancer found in her lymph nodes. But her cancer is a relentless and persistent enemy. Her doctors want one more year of chemo to guard against its return. So she will face it because she wants to live, has so much to live for. She fights with grit and tenacity. I cheerlead with stupid jokes, feeling more and more useless as she plows on valiantly through every setback in her path.

Why does it all make me so angry? What right do I have to anger in the face of mortality? It is the way of the world. People are born and people die every single day. The important part is what we do between these two events. I know this in my head, but when presented with death and dying, a part of my heart rages at what Dylan Thomas called...the dying of the light.

My dad used to tell me that my goal every day should be to “figure out how to be a blessing to someone today.” In other words, every day we live should count for something more than merely making a living. Life should be so much more than pursuing our narrow self interests. Some days are easier than others. Dad was a natural at being a blessing to others. For me it takes intentional effort. But in this season of life where it seems each day brings fresh news of loss, it’s more important than ever for me to get the hang of this being a blessing business. People are depending on it.

The Evolution of My Addiction

I had my very first cup of coffee on the morning of my 13th birthday. The rule in the Dunnevant house was no coffee until you became a teenager. So, I saddled up to the breakfast table and watched Mom pour me a cup from the silver percolator coffee pot that looked like this.

I loved the smell, and had long looked forward to becoming like my dad and taking mine...black. That first sip was one of the most profound disappointments of my short life. Of course, I wasn’t about to let my mother know. I finished that first dreadful cup in what, up until that time, was the single bravest act of my life. As I drank I remember thinking, Are you kidding me? This stuff is horrible! How do they stand to drink this every single morning of their lives?? It was the first time I entertained the prospect that grownups might not, in fact, be very smart after all. Of course, eventually I grew to love coffee, but the evolution hit another snag before beginning in earnest.

A couple years later I was spending the weekend with some friends. Saturday morning, I gathered around the breakfast table with my buddies and watched one of their Moms plop one of these on the table in front of me...

Ahh yes, I was about to discover that the only thing worse than percolator coffee was instant coffee. But, following the lead of my friends, I spiked it with cream and a teaspoon of sugar, which served the purpose of helping me stave off the embarrassment of not finishing the stuff.

But, then came my college years and this...

These were the years of 4 hours of sleep a night, if I was lucky. The warehouse where I worked had this stuff next to a tea pot with scalding hot water and styrofoam cups. After a couple hours of building wooden pallets I would pour my first cup...cream, no sugar. At quitting time I poured another and drank it while driving home to fortify me for a long night of studying. I was ignorant. I didn’t know any better. Then I met Ron Roop, my sister’s new boyfriend, who introduced me to this...

It was my road to Damascus moment. The scales fell from my eyes. I discovered that coffee came from actual coffee beans, and not freeze-dried crystals!! My first cup of freshly ground coffee was something called Kona, and I was transported to a whole new world. The rest is history.

I bring all of this up because of a recent trip I made into that great symbol of consumer excess...Starbucks. The only time I ever go there is to buy one of those fancy coffee drinks for my wife and her teacher friends. There’s a Starbucks right up the street from where she works, so recently I went in to pick up something for her. Usually I order whatever the featured special is, for one simple reason—there is a brief description of what it actually is. But on this day, there were no specials, so there I was scanning the menu boards trying to make sense of the smorgasbord of ridiculousness that was before me. Because Pam and I both are on something resembling a diet, I decided to go with something that had the words non-fat in the description. Later, I discovered that whatever it was I bought her was positively dreadful. It was the thought that counted.

But it got me to thinking. How in the name of all that is holy did we get from this...

To THIS...

...in fifty years? Progress? Marketing? Capitalism? Or just simple addiction?

Think about it...while I go pour a cup.

Cleaning Out The Museum

Yesterday was like a day at the museum, actually more like a day in the basement of the museum. See, after 21 years in this house we are finally replacing the carpeting upstairs. In order to do so, we have to clean out five closets. They are as follows:

Study closet—the place where the archives of our entire lives can be found, including the paperwork from every trip we’ve taken, every lesson plan Pam produced during her teaching career as well as every single document produced during her 13 years of working in Children’s Church at Grove Avenue Baptist Church.

Toy closet—every Halloween costume our kids ever wore, every Discovery Toys game they ever played, two armored divisions of army men, every Disney VHS movie ever made, the obligatory slinkie, American Girl paraphernalia, every CD of every choir concert either of our kids ever performed in.

Patrick’s closet—you just don’t want to know.

Kaitlin’s closet—what you would expect to find in a closet shared by Anne of Green Gables and the Baby-Sitter’s Club President.

Our closet—the only one of the five being used daily so the only one not a complete disaster.

By the end of the day, I had hauled four absurdly heavy giant contractor-sized black garbage bags outside to the garbage, made one trip to Hope Thrift with a car full of donations, and dumped $92.52 worth of coins into The Coin Machine at Publix’s.

Along the way, Pam would take photographs of items she either didn’t recognize or was unsure what to do with. We have caught grief from our adult children in the past for previous purges, and were taking no chances this time around. So Pam would hand me something and say, “Hold this!” Then she would take a picture and send it to the kids. Here are two such photographs:

My daughter laughed at one of these and replied...Dad’s face!!! Hahahahaha...

I fail to see the humor.

Along the way, we found our Passports, which was nice. Also, I stumbled across a sizable stack of short stories, forty year old journal entries, and a shocking amount of poetry with my name listed as the author...very little of which I remember writing. Several times, I found Pam sitting on the floor cross-legged amidst a pile of papers, lost in thought and close to tears. At the end of the day, as we sat in a booth at Casa Grande eating supper at 8 o’clock, we both were lost in thought at the trail of years we had just plowed through. It was the smallest artifacts which prompted the strongest feelings...finding Patrick’s Boy Scout troop badge, the three ring binder Pam put together for Kaitlin’s college search trip, and these two hand made treasures... 



This was how she spent her weekends leading up to the arrival of our two kids, back when cross-stitching was a thing. 

Over tacos we thought about our lives together, what a whirlwind it has been. Where in the world did we get the energy to make it through Little League, choir concerts, field days, back yard Bible Clubs, ski trips, summer camps? And that’s just the pathos produced by TWO CLOSETS!!

Here’s the advantage of finding, loving, and holding on to one another for 36 years. On a cold night in February 2020, we can smile across the table at each other and silently know that it’s been a good life, one that we wouldn’t trade for anything.

Handicapping The Democratic Field

In past election years in this space I have offered opinions on the relative chances of Presidential candidates actually becoming President. It was my amateur attempt at political handicapping. I feel that since we are now actually counting votes—or in the case of Iowa, attempting to count votes—I should probably offer up the 2020 version. If you are interesting in my tract record at prognostication, check out the archives from 2016 and 2012. (Hint: It ain’t bad.) Keep in mind as you read this that I make no judgements about the political proposals of these men and women. This is merely a discussion of their chances of winning their party’s nomination. Not being a Democrat myself, I have no dog in this fight, just the trick knee of someone who has been paying attention to Presidential elections since 1972. If you’re keeping score at home, that’s 13 of these babies. So, like Farmers Insurance, I’ve seen a thing or two.

Candidates: (in alphabetical order)

Joe Biden

- Not chronologically the oldest of the four septuagenarians on the Democratic side of this race, but it sure seems that way. Biden entered this contest as the odds on favorite. He alone commands the mantle of his predecessor. He alone had the establishment’s full throated backing. And he is toast. It’s difficult to watch a man who has clearly rounded the bend and is now barreling headlong down the backstretch to diminished mental capacity. When you listen to Biden speak its as if there is a giant disconnect between his brain and the words that fly out of his mouth. He knows what he wants to say, but simply can’t string together the right words in the correct order.

Chances of winning the nomination 25:1

Pete Buttigieg 

- This 38 year old small town mayor has an impressive resume in everything except government. Served his country in Afghanistan, a Rhodes scholar, and easily the brightest light on the stage. His tenure as mayor isn’t exactly where he would begin an auto-biography. If he was smart he would avoid talking about it altogether (check out the crime statistics in South Bend). And he IS smart. From my perspective, Mayor Pete is the only Democratic candidate who actually seems to...like people. Would I want to have a beer with this man? Absolutely. Wild horses couldn’t drag me to a bar with any of the rest of them. Being the youngest candidate to come along in  quite a while, he probably is the only one who actually remembers that dreadful week in senior US Government class when we all learned...How A Bill Becomes A Law. He seems to understand that to get anything meaningful done in Washington much more often than not requires forming coalitions which usually involves actually convincing someone on the other side. He has the temperament and seemingly the will to at least attempt to find compromise. But, he is a gay man, and that is not an inconsequential fact in 2020, despite the rapid evolution of our country with respect to sexuality. My estimation is that there are at least 25% of the population (democrats and republicans) who will not vote for a gay man. I think that is too high a hurdle to clear.

Chances of winning the nomination 20:1

Michael Bloomberg

- The 60 Billion dollar man, 200 million in to his ad blitz was streaking across the democratic firmament like a ground breaking epiphany. Then he walked out onto the Nevada debate stage exuding all the personal warmth of an iguana. His performance was so pathetic, he made Joe Biden look eloquent. Still, he, unlike Mayor Pete had many successes as mayor of the most difficult city in America to govern. The amount of money he has already spent amounts to nothing more than a rounding error of his personal wealth...so there’s a whole lot more where that came from. But he’s going to have to do a better job of faking sincerity and defending himself in debates if he wants to win.

Chances of winning the nomination: 10:1

Amy Klobuchar

- The reasonably aged 59 year old senator from Minnesota has been a surprise. Given no chance of success by all the usual suspects, she has carved out two decent showings in the early contests and does a good job in the debates. In an environment of unreasonableness she seems ruthlessly reasonable. I can imagine her being able to hammer out compromise and forging coalitions...in Senate subcommittees, but not in the White House. She needs another four years to develop into a President-sized talent. Meanwhile, I would be willing to bet large sums of money that she will be the VP nominee.

Chances of winning the nomination 30:1

Bernie Sanders

- The proud Socialist is unique for many reasons. He’s the only Democratic candidate who is not an actual Democrat. He’s the oldest in an old field. And he is the clear front runner, much to the bowel-stewing consternation of the Party big shots. He is carried aloft by mostly young people who aren’t old enough to remember his behavior in the 1970’s when he was most famous for his consistent apologetics for the Soviet Union and any other enemy of the United States, most famously with his classic, “Bread Lines are good!!” Its hard for someone like me who has been listening to this guy bitch and moan about this country all of my life, claiming that every single one of our enemies were morally superior to America, now watching him celebrated as some sort of champion of democracy and freedom. But, right now his Socialism is chic and unless he has another heart attack or the Democratic establishment figures out a way to cheat him out of the nomination, he’s going to win it.

Chances of winning the nomination 5:1

Elizabeth Warren

- A former front runner with a strong organization and even stronger leadership team has been a disaster as an actual candidate. Her brand of hostile, technocratic coldness might work in Massachusetts, but so far, national voters just aren’t into this finger jabbing scold. Yes, she cleaned Bloomberg’s clock in that debate and is good in debates generally largely because she is smart as a whip. But, is it just me or does she give off the impression that she really really doesn’t like people very much. Listen, she wouldn’t be the first elite politician who didn’t particularly care for their constituents, but the really good politicians, not to mention Presidents, are the ones who do a better job of hiding the disdain. Ronald Reagan was great at it, Bill Clinton even better. Elizabeth Warren, not so much. I still think she has a shot, but she needs a win...badly, and soon.

Chances of winning the nomination 15:1

The Great Physician

Throughout my friend’s long ordeal with cancer, her worst day was probably around the middle of January. She had spent all day at UVA, meeting with all five doctors on her treatment team. It was that day when she was told that all five of them were united in their opinion that there was cancer in her lymph nodes. Although they wouldn’t know definitively until they operated, they were fairly certain of what they would find and they wanted her to know so she could mentally prepare herself for what this dark news would mean...one more year of chemo. My friend felt devastated, defeated by the news. Uncharacteristically, she lashed out in anger and frustration. The entire tirade lasted all of ten minutes, then she was back to her old, confident self.

When I read the note she wrote to her family last night before the surgery I smiled at the familiar optimism, marveled at her confidence in the Great Physician. Whenever she prayed during these last six months it has always been with this bold, uncompromising absolutism, steadfastly refusing to allow the Almighty any wiggle room with her requests. There would be none of this...if it be God’s will...temporizing. No, she prayed with a supremely confident faith, placing all of her bets on our Savior’s observation that...You have not because you ask not. So, despite the horrible consensus of her doctors, she continued to pray for a complete healing. 

It was around midday when I received the text from the family...NO CANCER IN LYMPH NODES!!!

I placed the phone down on my desk and tried to gather myself. It was exactly what she had written 24 hours ago to her family...Tomorrow, I will be cancer free...the Great Physician will heal me and use this cancer for his glory...

Yes, the Great Physician had lots of help. Her team of dedicated professionals deserve great praise. The course of chemo treatments clearly did their job. My friend helped her case by following their advice to the letter—most of the time. But these same professionals were all convinced that they would find cancer in multiple lymph nodes, so sure of it that they painted the most negative scenario they could to prepare their patient for the reality of her condition. The only one who didn’t lose confidence after that long hard day in January...was my friend. 

Then, just a few minutes ago I got the news that no cancer was found...anywhere...no residual cancer cells.

It will be several more days before I get to speak with her. I can’t wait to hear her southern drawl telling me how she knew that her Savior would deliver her all along! Knowing her...I will never hear the end of it.

My Friend’s Big Day.

So, tomorrow morning around 7:30 my friend will arrive at UVA hospital to have her cancer surgery. For the past six months I have been pretending to distract her from so heavy a burden by telling her jokes and making her laugh. But what has actually been happening is every morning I get to witness her steadfast faith in God on display. Every morning I get to watch her overcome setback after setback with unfathomable endurance and good humor. Every morning, I am encouraged. Every morning I am reminded that I have no excuse to complain about anything in my life. By comparison, I win the lottery every morning I wake up without cancer. Every morning, she wakes up with cancer inside her along with the poison she has had to ingest to fight it. But by some miracle she has attacked each day with smiling confidence.

This picture was taken three years ago when we were at a dreadfully dull meeting someplace and I was doing what I do at such affairs...not paying attention and being a bad influence on people like my friend, the rule follower, who was trying to listen like a grown up. We attended 30 years worth of these meetings, and somehow she’s still my friend!

So, for those of you who are so inclined, it would mean a great deal to me if you could lift prayers up all day tomorrow for my friend. The procedure might last up to eight hours. There is a lot at stake. Just knowing that total strangers will be praying for her would mean the world to her.

She sent me a note she wrote to her family:

“Tomorrow, I will be cancer free—no residual cancer cells—the Great Physician will heal me and use this cancer for his glory. Cancer has stolen my hair, my fingernails, and the skin from my fingers, given me anemia, fatigue and lots more. But it hasn’t stolen my faith and my ability to pray and worship...”

Our last text conversation wasn’t nearly as profound...

But, that’s just me. That’s how I deal with tragic moments. The truth is that I don’t have as strong a faith as she does. I wish I did. I wish I could come up with profound, healing words that fit the moment. But...jokes come out instead. Nevertheless, tomorrow morning and throughout the day I will be praying for my friend. 

I hope you will too.

Our Weekend

We returned home today from our Valentine getaway thoroughly rested and less eager to reengage the real world tomorrow than we were to disengage from it last Friday. Absence does not always make the heart grow fonder. Our accommodations at The Inn at Riverbend were elegant in an understated way. Giles County, Virginia is the very picture of a back water outpost, a postcard view out of every window, the layout of the towns of Pearisburg and Pembrook a collection of everything from the sublime to the ridiculous, in dire need of a competent zoning commission. Luckily for us, these twin towns had the three things vital for any successful four day/three night adventure, a local pizza joint, a Walmart, and a delightfully quirky top tier restaurant which could only be reached after a death defying 5 mile drive through Deliverance-inspired line-less country roads, which insured that upon your arrival you were not only ready for a good meal, but a stiff drink.

Our Saturday 4 mile hike to Cascade Falls was maybe the best hike I have ever taken. At every step along the way there was something marvelous to see. When we arrived at the falls, an hour and twenty minutes from the parking lot, it took our breath away. A kind stranger took our picture.

The Inn itself met all of our needs. Perched at the top of a large hill with a 180 degree view of the New River and the surrounding mountains, the place made you wish you had come there in the summer. We would loved to have spent our leisurely hours sitting in the rocking chairs just outside our door taking in everything, but it was much too cold for that. Instead, we had to settle for the comfort and almost oppressive silence of our beautiful room. There was a small book collection in the shelves surrounding the fireplace out of which I plucked Ian McEwan’s Solar on Friday afternoon. I can’t remember a weekend where I had enough unencumbered time to start and finish a book. It was a delight.

What I really enjoyed about this weekend adventure was not so much the thrill of adventure itself but rather just spending uninterrupted time with my wife. After 36 years together, there is still something comforting about reading a good book in bed and being able to reach over and touch her soft, warm hand. 

When we arrived back home, Lucy greeted us with her customary enthusiasm. But after an hour or so I got the distinct impression she was weighing her options. Were we, in fact, better caretakers than her favorite dog-sitter, Becca? One gets the impression sometimes after she spends several days with Becca that Lucy has come to the realization that perhaps we aren’t as awesome as she once thought. Becca gives her undivided attention and dotes over her every idiosyncrasy, (and probably is much more liberal with the treat jar). But, like all dogs, Lucy is incapable of holding a grudge. In no time she was back on my lap in the recliner giving me a thorough debriefing sniff.

I opened my laptop to see what we missed while in the internet-challenged mountains of western Virginia...

Bloomberg Considering Hillary as running mate.

China next in line for plague of locusts.

Nevada Democratic Primary bracing for count irregularities 48 hours before Vote.

Woman Allowed to bring service-horse onto first class section of plane.

....I see that our nation’s headlong plunge into insanity continued unabated by our absence.

Getting Away

My wife of nearly 36 years is quite clever. The other day she texted me out of nowhere with this observation:

“Hey, I have next Monday off. Any chance we could swing a Valentine’s Day weekend out of town?”

The woman knows me better than I know myself. She knew exactly what would happen. Her text was the equivalent of waving a red flag at a bull. She knows that there is nothing I enjoy more than spontaneous, last minute trips away. Sure enough, the next morning I sent her a text of my own informing her that we were headed to this place:

It’s out in Giles County near a little town called Pearisburg. That’s the New River at the base of the hill. There are great restaurants within 25 minutes, fun stuff to do all over the place. All that was left to do was get in touch with our dog whispering friend, Becca, who as fate would have it was available and thrilled to get to spend three nights with Miss Lucy.

Pam has put up with a lot from me over the years. In so many ways we are total opposites. My odd personality quirks frustrate her. My lack of organization skills, my inability to focus, my aggressiveness and lack of appropriate caution all befuddle her. The existence of this blog for the past ten years has been a source of endless anxiety...Good Lord, what has he written now?!

But, it’s not like I have brought nothing to the table. When I came into her life she was assured that it would never be boring. I’ve done alright in business. I’m a decent vacuumer, and although I never do it to suit her, I wash the dishes after dinner every night. That’s gotta count for something! 

But, my finest husbandly virtue is that I can take a hint. If this beautiful woman wonders aloud whether or not it might be possible to go away for the weekend, I don’t have to be told twice.

I win at life!

The Truth

Two Sundays ago I sat in my usual spot at church, on the aisle, ten or so rows back from the front. I listened to my absurdly gifted pastor, David Dwight, tell a story about the time he was asked to help his elderly and frail father take a shower. As he described the experience, I felt my throat tighten. Suddenly, the memories came pouring back and I became aware of the beating of my own heart. In David’s telling, the time caring for his Dad felt like something holy and precious. For me it was much more complicated.

When my mother died in her sleep nearly eight years ago, my dad found himself alone for the first time in his life. At the time he was 87 years old and in declining health. He would live two more years before passing away in 2014. For almost all of his last two years, his four children worked round the clock to keep him in his own home. Only his last 60 days would be spent in a nursing home. But with each passing month it became more and more difficult to take care of him. Towards the end, we started taking turns helping him in and out of the shower. My shift was Thursday nights.

The first time for me was neither holy or precious. It was awkward and uncomfortable. When it was over, I got in my car to drive home and for the first time since my mother passed I found my self crying. I actually had to pull over to the side of the road. But these were no tears of joy. These were angry, bitter tears. It was all so unfair. How could God have allowed such an incredible man to fall so far? How could God allow such a faithful servant to lose all of his dignity like this? Is this how God rewarded men and women who spent their entire lives serving him? In the parking lot of what used to be a beer joint, at the corner of 660 and Route 33, I fell apart in a rage of anger and bitterness.

As I listened to David, I realized that a part of me was still holding on to some of that bitterness. Not all of it, much of it had drained away with the passage of time and better experiences on subsequent Thursday nights. Several weeks later in fact Dad and I had an experience that was very much what David had described. After struggling to get Dad’s pajamas on after his shower and tucking him into bed, he reached for my hand just as I was leaving and whispered, “you’re a good son...” As I looked at him I felt overwhelmed with thankfulness that I was lucky enough to have this giant of a man as a father. I kissed him on the forehead and turned the light out. The drive home on that night felt very different, something approaching holiness, I suppose.

David made the observation that when we are confronted with tragedy and disappointment in life we come to a fork in the road. We have to choose either bitterness or beloved-ness. His message convicted me that I had some unfinished business back at that fork in the road. I had to backtrack, go back to that spot and ask forgiveness for the bitterness I was still unconsciously holding on to.

This is why I love my church. I don’t get finger wagging screeds. I don’t have to endure pointless theological dog and pony shows or a bunch of esoteric nonsense that has no relationship to the real world. Instead, I get told the truth about myself, drenched in so much love and compassion it’s almost impossible to take offense. 

Thanks. Hope Church.

12 Gems

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 Name this politician.....

1. “If the government were placed in charge of the Sahara desert, there would be a sand shortage within three years.”

2. “It’s true that hard work never killed anybody, but I figure, why take the chance?”

3. “I’m not worried about the deficit. It’s big enough to take care of itself.”

4. When responding to a reporter’s worry that he was known to take long naps in the afternoon, “I have left orders to be awakened at any time in case of national emergency…even if I’m in a cabinet meeting.”

5. “Politics is supposed to be the second oldest profession. But I have found that it bears a very close resemblance to the first.”

6. “The nine most terrifying words in the English language are, “I’m from the government and I’m here to help.”

7. When answering a reporter’s question about whether he was too old to run for President…”Thomas Jefferson once said, ‘We should never judge a President by his age, only by his works.’ And ever since he told me that I’ve stop worrying.”

8. First remarks at the beginning of a press conference, “Before I refuse to answer any of your questions, I have an opening statement.”

9. “One way to make sure crime doesn’t pay is to let the government run it.”

10. “I have wondered at time what the Ten Commandments would have looked like had Moses run them through Congress.”

11. “Government is like a baby. An alimentary canal with a big appetite at one end and no sense of responsibility at the other.”

12. Responding to criticism of his foreign policy by Ed Asner…”What does an actor know about politics?”

    
    

    
    

    
    

Oscars and the Coronavirus

It has been said that there are two things which can be counted on in this life...death and taxes. I would add a third, that the morning after the Oscars show, social media will lose its mind over left wing actors lecturing us about politics. I’m thinking that if something happens every single time you watch a show, you lose your right to bitch and moan about it if you continue to watch. Maybe at some level people enjoy being triggered. If nothing else, the Oscars serves as an excellent reminder that millennials aren’t the only snowflakes in America.

Why would anyone spend more than five seconds caring about anything that Joaquin Phoenix says? Don’t get me wrong, the man is a fine actor, but by any reasonable measure he is profoundly unstable and has been for most of us life. So, he’s a vegan and lectures us for stealing milk from cows? Who cares? 

So, Brad Pitt finally wins something besides a Razzie, and all anyone can talk about is his John Bolton blast. Look, somebody wrote him a really funny line. End of story.

You know what would really be hilarious though? If just once some A-List actor stood up to accept an award and said something like, “I would like to thank the Academy for this honor. Tonight I plan on celebrating by eating a 16 oz. Porterhouse, a giant genetically modified baked potato slathered with butter that I stole from a cow, a tall glass of iced tea sweetened with cane sugar which I will drink out of a styrofoam cup using yet another plastic straw. God Bless America!!”

But, listen folks. If you choose to watch the Academy Awards, then get all bent over politics, you only have yourself to blame.

I am told by all of the usual suspects that I should be very concerned about the Coronavirus. One source threw out the number of perhaps as many as 52 million dead before this thing runs its course. So, why am I not freaking out? Oh, I don’t know. Maybe its because in my lifetime I have been told I was about to die so many times I’ve lost count. Ebola was going to do me in. The Avian flu was going to put me in the ground. SARS would be the death of me. Rapidly spreading flesh-eating bacteria was the latest periclum back in the day. But, here I am, still alive and kicking with a deep distrust of authority, and an all consuming suspicion of experts. Do I plan on visiting China anytime soon? No. But am I planning on losing one minute of sleep over the latest pandemic apocalypse? Puhleeze.

Gym Smells

I’ve been a three workouts a week member of American Family Fitness for the better part of twenty five years now. As someone who is very well acquainted with the inside of a gym, I understand full well that odd smells are a part of the experience. Everywhere you turn there is one malodorous assault after another. After a while you get used to it. Your olfactory glands become accustomed to the rotten sneakers, the gym bag that smells like a dumpster, and that one guy who applies his favorite musk cologne by the handfuls. But yesterday I was introduced to something new. 

I am a creature of habit when it comes to my workout routine. After my workout I always do the same thing—I spend fifteen minutes in the steam room, then swim a couple of laps in the pool before my shower. Yesterday was no different. I walked into the sauna and was alone, a rarity. Ahh, the sauna. At AmFam the sauna is like a Petri dish of bizarre smells. One day you go in there and some guy has put drops of eucalyptus oil in the blower so the place smells like a cough drop with BO. The next day it’s back to normal...like morning at the beach on a day when a dead whale has washed up on shore.

So, I endure my fifteen minutes then head towards the pool. AmFam has a wonderful pool facility. There’s a lap pool, a separate pool for water classes, a third pool for kids and a huge whirlpool. Very nice. Usually when I open the door I am greeted with that acidic smell of chlorine with an inescapable dash of sweating men. But yesterday was different. Whoa!!! What the heck happened in here, I thought. Surely, there must have been an accident of some sort, perhaps someone had expired after some horrific gastrointestinal disaster. I looked around and saw only five other souls in the place, none of whom seemed terribly distressed. So, I went about my business, swam my laps then parked myself in a chair to rest before heading to the showers. But try as I might, I couldn’t get used to this smell. Truly horrible. So, I beat a hasty retreat, took my shower and headed home. Before I left I did something I very seldom do. I stopped by the front desk to get the story behind...the smell. One of the perky front desk peeps smiled at me and asked if he could help me with anything. I said, “Dude, what in the world is up with that terrible smell in the pool??”

Front Desk Guy: Excuse me? 

Me: The pool area smells horrible. What happened?

Front Desk Guy: Really? I haven’t heard any complaints. What kind of smell is it?

At this point, I hesitated. I could have used any number of words to describe what I had experienced, but I had to be careful. We have lots of members from all over the world at AmFam, and I didn’t want to run afoul of the sensitivity police. I know that we all put off different scents. I’ve heard that westerners smell funny to Asians because of how many dairy products we eat etc, etc. So, I had to tread carefully. But, as is so often the case with me...

Me: What kind of smell was it, you say? It’s like...someone went to the World’s Fair, walked into the International Cafe and tried every spicy dish on the Southern Hemisphere buffet, then had diarrhea.

Front Desk Guy: .....wait, what?

Me: It’s like one of the prisoners from Cool Hand Luke, after working all day tarring that road, walks into a Turkish bathhouse, eats a dozen tins of sardines, then lets out a fifteen second fart.

Front Desk Guy: (suddenly convulses with laughter) Well, Doug, I can assure you that I will personally go check this out, and I am sorry you had a bad experience.

Me: I didn’t have nearly as bad an experience as the poor dude responsible for that smell!

Actually, after reading back over this, I’m not sure I needed to write an entire blog about this, but, it’s Friday and what’s done is done.

Have a great weekend, everyone.

A Feature, Not a Bug

Some days are meant exclusively to serve as a bad example. These are the days that conspire to expose every single bad quality of your personality. Yesterday was one such day.

I knew when I woke up yesterday what I faced. I at least had the benefit of advanced warning. It was going to be a day which featured lots of interaction with paperwork problems. In my profession this means that I must speak on the telephone with anonymous functionaries in far off offices in other time zones. In those conversations I must explain myself to a series of 21-30 year olds with a scant understanding of what exactly it is that I do for a living. A day of such interaction has been known to produce the absolute worst in my character. To that end, my wise and faithful assistant, Kristin, gave me the following speech just before I entered the gauntlet:

“...Ok, please remember that it’s not their fault. They are just doing their jobs. Be nice. Stay calm. Don’t roll your eyes. Behave yourself.”

Ok, she said some of those words. The others she clearly implied!

So with the nervous Kristin listening in from down the hall, I began. I will sum up the gist of what these conversations were like below...

Kyle: Yes, Mr. Doonevant, thanks so much for calling. So, I have some questions about a few items on the case you submitted on Mister Goldblatt.

Me: Fire away.

Kyle: On page 6, section two of the VAD form you listed the client’s NIA at $1,050,000. By my calculations, it would seem that the actual number is closer to $1,100,000.

Me:..........

Kyle: So, which one of us is right?

Me: Depends on which one of us is better with a calculator.

Kyle: (hysterical laughter)

Me:.......

There were many times during the ensuing conversation with Kyle and the subsequent conversation with Graham—another beauty— where my patience was tested. But each time, I girded my loins and stifled my inner snark. Kristin was quite impressed and very proud of me.

But, here’s the thing. Whenever I stifle my natural gift for smart-ass repartee, whenever I swallow hard and play it straight...pressure begins to build in my head. I know that it is just a matter of time before something will trigger a full blown snark explosion. The longer it builds up, the worse the explosion will be. I am not proud of this particular character trait, but I’ve lived long enough to know that this isn’t a bug in my personality, it’s a feature. Sure enough, later on in the day...it happened.

I use a CPAP machine because I was diagnosed six years ago with sleep apnea. Occasionally, I must buy supplies for my machine like masks, replacement hoses, filters and whatnot. They aren’t terribly expensive but they are notoriously troublesome to purchase. It’s all done over the phone with some outfit in Texas or some such place. So, I ordered replacement parts in October of 2019. Right after Christmas, 9 weeks after my purchase, I received a call from the CPAP supply company informing me that my order could not be processed for some indecipherable reason. Then two weeks ago I received a second call asking for a sim card from my machine before they could process my order. When I replied that my machine had no such sin card, I was instructed to call back when I was at home with my machine so they could instruct me how to get the required data from the readout of the machine. Yesterday afternoon, I made the call. Of course, the information and instructions I was given before were no longer actionable. Once again...Tanya...informed me that they needed proof that I was actually using my machine before they could process my order through the insurance company. This last tidbit of information sent me over the edge...

Me: Tanya, is it?

Tanya: Yes.

Me: Tanya, let me ask you something. Why would I be ordering a new mask, new tubing and new filters from your company if I wasn’t using the machine?? Clearly, I am trying to buy your products because I have worn them out by...using them.

Tanya: Yes but...the insurance company requires proof and that means we need that SIM card readout.

Me: Why do they need proof, Tanya? These are not opioids we’re talking about. There is no chance I will become addicted to this CPAP machine and then run around trying to get my friends and neighbors hooked! All I want is a new mask!

Tanya: But the insurance...

Me: Tanya. Screw the insurance company. Why can’t I just buy these myself. I’ll give you my credit card number and we can just bypass the insurance company altogether. In fact I’ll double my order so we won’t have to go through this for a couple more years.

Tanya: Well, I suppose we might be able to do that...but you’ll have to call the factory direct. I’ll give you the number just in case we get separated.

Tanya then hooks me up with the factory where I get placed on hold for twenty two minutes when suddenly I heard an ominous click, and then the line went dead. My thirty seven minute experience with the CPAP supply company was now at an end.

And after all that you people expect me to watch the State of the Union Show? Not a chance.

Iowa

So, after a year of televised debates, press conferences, sound bites, and campaign rallies, the hearty Democrats of Iowa finally got their chance to caucus last night. I rolled out of bed and eagerly searched the internet to find out that the winner was........Donald Freaking Trump.

Seriously, Democrats?

1917. A Movie Review.

I must begin this movie review with the confession that I am not a movie buff. I like movies well enough but I’m not what anyone would call an aficionado of film. I know what I like and what I don’t like. Generally speaking, I prefer drama over comedies. I would much rather watch historical fiction than fantasy, a psychological thriller over a car chase scene. On the whole, the fewer explosions the better. But last night Pam and I went to see 1917 and frankly, I don’t even know what to say. I would love to write something deep and profound about our experience but all I can think to say is...holy crap.

1917 is a compilation of war stories told to Director Sam Mendez by his grandfather, an infantryman in the Great War. The plot is rather thin and extraordinarily simple. Two men are tasked with the nearly impossible mission of crossing nearly nine miles of no-man’s land to warn a company of 1,600 men to call off a dawn attack on the enemy. It’s a trap and they will all be massacred, including the brother of one of the men assigned this deadly mission, unless these two men succeed. For the next two hours we watch their mission unfold through the muck, mire, mud, dead men and animals which litter the landscape. What makes this war is hell theme work so astonishingly well is the fact that it unfolds in one continuous shot. Ok...technically this isn’t entirely true...there are two, maybe three barely discernible cuts, I’m told. But for the viewer it comes across as one uninterrupted scene. How Mr. Mendez and his cinematographer, let alone the exhausted looking actors managed this is something that I will ponder for the rest of my life. It was so dazzling, so intensely personal and immediate an experience, I felt as if I was running through the muck with them, dodging the sniper fire, feeling the intense heat of the biggest fire I have seen on film since Atlanta burned in Gone With The Wind. After the first thirty minutes or so, you get over your mouth ajar gawking at the technical brilliance of what you are watching and settle down into the drama of it all, the stunning bravery, the epic foolishness of World War I in particular and war in general.

The only misstep is a scene where in the midst of our hero’s mad, frantic, time sensitive dash to save 1,600 men, he takes the time to give away all his food to a woman with a baby hiding out in the remains of a shell ridden house, even to the point of reciting poetry to the infant. Even though the scene seemed totally out of place, it did serve to give the audience a breather from this high wire act of a movie. Perhaps it was required to give Lance Corporal William Schofield, played brilliantly by George MacKay, an actual physical breather. I haven’t seen an actor run harder or faster in a film since Chariots of Fire!

When Pam and I left Cinebistro, all we did was talk about it all the way home, something we rarely do after a movie. This one will hang around a while in our minds. Both of us think it should win every award it is possible to give to a film. Of course, it has a few things going against it. There are no social justice sermons, no preening lectures about income inequality, climate change, or gender bias. There is no mention of racism, no glorification of Hollywood’s past, no car chase scenes, no profanity, no sex or nudity, and nobody struggling with their sexual identity. And, considering that this was a war picture, surprisingly few explosions! But, if Oscars are handed out for brilliant film making and storytelling, 1917 is your winner.