America Burning

100,000 dead from the Coronavirus. 40,000,000 have lost their jobs because of an unprecedented 2 and a half month long economic shutdown. Now, cities across America are in flames over racial injustice and police brutality. Meanwhile, the President of the United States continues Tweeting like a Middle School bully. Oh, and this afternoon, a private Company will launch men into orbit for the first time in history. Welcome to America in 2020.

Recency bias is the temptation to think that the most familiar thing is either the worst or best thing to ever happen. It is seldom true. America has lost over 100,000 people in pandemics before. There has been unemployment rates higher than we are seeing today, and in my lifetime there have been at least four times where race riots have swept through American cities. So, none of what we are witnessing is terribly new. Well, that’s not accurate either. We’ve never tried to shut down an entire economy before, no American President before Trump tweeted fifty times a day, and what the heck is TESLA?? What is new and terrible is that all of this is happening at the same time. Scary.

I posted a blog yesterday about the George Floyd murder and subsequent violence that had broken out in Minneapolis. In it I offered two observations, one that although I could never condone violence I could certainly sympathize with the rage and hopelessness that the protesters feel after seeing yet another member of their community murdered by a clearly bad cop, and second that although the majority of police officers are good people doing a difficult job under horrible conditions with courage and nobility, there are far too many bad cops doing unspeakable things and when they do, they need to be brought to justice, not shielded by some mysterious thin blue line claptrap. For reasons that are beyond my ability to comprehend, many people disagree. So, I’ve been thinking it over and trying to come up with a more effective way to communicate the principle at play with regards to police misconduct. After much thought, here goes.

I love teachers. I’m married to one. My daughter is one, as is my sister. Teachers have been huge influencers in my life. They do fundamentally vital work, they fight ridiculous bureaucratic headwinds, and are paid an embarrassing wage compared to the importance of the job they do. However, when one of them gets caught having sex with a student, I’m sorry...I want them in jail. I don’t want to hear some Teacher’s Union hack at a press conference using wishy washy language about stress or mitigating circumstances. I’m not interested in listening to some education bureaucrat talking about complicated relationships and how we have to stand by our teachers. No, no...he had sex with a child. His career as a teacher and his days of being a free man on earth are over!!  Taking this position about this teacher/rapist does not change a single thing about the fact that I love, respect and honor teachers. It simply means that I will not under any circumstance tolerate sex between teachers and their students. 

There. Is that better? Have I made it clearer?

Then there’s this...We need to not rush to judgment. We don’t know what might have provoked this officer to place his knee to the neck of this unarmed man for 8 and a half minutes until he was dead. 

Have we seen video from every angle showing the entire encounter between these four cops and Mr. George Floyd? No. No we have not. But, let me ask you...what could a single unarmed man possibly have done to four heavily armed police officers that would justify the reaction we all DID see on video? Did he take a swing at one of them, resist arrest? Maybe he did. So then, its ok to jab a knee into his neck and sit on him for 8 minutes while he is NOT resisting arrest in response? Why on earth is this such a difficult concept to understand? Was reasonable force exercised by the cops here? If you think so...I just don’t know what to say.

Here’s what I know this morning as my country burns. We, people like me and most of my readers, are going to have to start listening to black and brown people. We are going to have to do a better job of trying to put ourselves in their place, and try to imagine what it’s like to have to live with injustice. We are going to have to develop our underused empathy muscles, the ones atrophied by partisan politics. We need to stop listening to the voices of bitterness and resentment and start listening to the voice of our Savior who died not just for us but for everyone of those angry people in the streets of Minneapolis, Atlanta, Louisville, Oakland, Portland....and Richmond.

Enough.

In the ten year history of The Tempest I cannot count the number of times I have written about a black man getting killed by a police officer. Ferguson, Baltimore, now Minneapolis. Then I wake up this morning and see this:

There was a time when I would have decried this sort of anarchy, criticized the destruction of private property and pointed out the pointlessness, even the counterproductive nature of such behavior. Indeed, if I were the owner of the Arby’s in the above photograph I would be rightly furious of the wanton destruction of my livelihood. But honestly, after the last ten years, I have to ask myself a difficult question...What would I have African Americans do? Call their Congressman?

Here’s the thing...I am a law and order guy. I generally support the police. They perform one of the most difficult and dangerous jobs in America for low pay. However, the overwhelming majority of them are finding it next to impossible to do their job precisely because of the presence in their number of too damn many bad apples. And when some of them get caught committing some heinous, racially charged murderous act, the odds are that their actions will be protected by a system that circles the wagons around bad actors and rules cold blooded murder as justifiable homicide.

It’s impossible to put myself into the mind of a 25 year old black man in an inner city of America. But when I make the attempt, I feel myself filling with rage at the injustice. If I were that 25 year old black man, you would have a hard time convincing me that the lives of  African Americans are thought to be as valuable as the lives of whites in the suburbs. Anybody who thinks the justice system available for George Floyd is the same justice system available to Doug Dunnevant is living in a fantasy world. This fact is what is driving the violence right now, the feeling that nothing will ever change so, screw it...burn it all down.

I am not condoning violence. The scenes above are horrific and represent failure on everyone’s part. But neither am I going to clutch my pearls and wag my fingers at those hopeless protesters. Are there simple opportunist among them who don’t give a s**t about the death of George Floyd, but see a chance to raise hell and loot? Sure. But most of the people on those streets are just fed up. So this time, I’ll take a hard pass on making a law and order argument until these folks get some justice.

Enough.

Anxiety Eating

I have learned recently that I am an anxiety eater. 

Over the past couple of weeks a new development has introduced itself into my life which has supplanted the COVID pandemic from its post atop my worry list. As a result, and unbeknownst to me, I have started to anxiety eat. Apparently when high stress/worry scenarios appear in life some people lose their appetite. Other people...eat. Count me among the second group. And we are not talking broccoli and cauliflower here people. For me it’s been chili cheese fritos, cappuccino fudge ice cream, caramel popcorn and anything else that can easily be shoveled into my pie hole. Despite putting in over 15 miles of road work over the past ten days, two days ago I tipped the scales at a robust 202 pounds, 10 pounds heavier than I was before the lockdown.

As a result of this extra poundage, I immediately swore off...snacks. It has now been 48 hours since I have indulged my craving for these guys:

This has not been easy. The popcorn isn’t that great actually, but it’s crunchy and sweet and satisfies some previously unknown weakness in my character. The ice cream...cappuccino fudge blast...is a sinful late night temptation. But, friends, that little number in the middle is perhaps my greatest weakness. I would read you the list of ingredients but, I would be ashamed. Chili cheese Fritos have absolutely no nutritional value. Their only purpose is to tempt you with their worthless yet diabolical deliciousness. With each handful you can literally feel your arteries hardening. Nevertheless, whenever I happen to walk past the pantry no matter what time of the day or night, I feel like Odysseus sailing past the Sirens. But I have no one to tie me to the mast, so my arm involuntarily finds itself being thrust down...down into the crusty, burnt orange abyss of fat larding nirvana. 

So, why is this half empty bag still in the pantry, you ask? This is a fair question to which I have no satisfactory answer. Despite its presence, I have resisted now for 48 hours. At some point they will be stale.

Who am I kidding? Stale or not, in a moment of weakness I would be on that bag like a fat kid on a box of jelly doughnuts. I should throw them out now. And I will. I swear.

At some point...

The Month of Nerves

Thirty days from today, Pam and I will leave Short Pump at some as yet to be determined hour of the night to make the drive to Maine for a month of lake living twenty minutes from the Atlantic Ocean. Due to COVID-19 concerns we will be making the drive up straight through for the first time in probably twenty years to eliminate the need for a hotel. I’m thinking we will leave around 1:00 in the morning which will put us at or near Camden, Maine somewhere around 4:00 in the afternoon. However, this arduous journey is the least of my worries.

It’s probably a dangerous reality of my life that I place so much significance on my time in Maine. It is the central event on each year’s calendar, the measuring point for everything else. How many days before Maine? is a question that is eternally asked in my house. In recent years even the month of July isn’t enough to scratch the itch, so we’ve added a two-three week fall trip. This year its even worse. I’ve thought of little else for the past eleven weeks of this insufferable pandemic. But now that it is so close I can practically smell it, the reality of the risks we face have become clear and are as follows:

1. Suppose one of us gets sick in the next thirty days? 

2. Suppose someone we love gets sick in the next thirty days?

3. Suppose there is a catastrophic surge in cases nationwide that forces another lockdown quarantine to be declared A. Before we leave or B. Once we are there?

4. Suppose one of us gets sick after we arrive in Maine—where the medical facilities aren’t as numerous or as well-equipped?

I’ve often thought that it was possible to love something too much, to desire a thing with too much intensity, transforming it into something close to an idol. For me, my time in Maine is getting close to that status. So, this year, I want it even more, which means that for the next thirty days I will be sweating bullets. June will be a month of nerves, a time of great caution in the Dunnevant household.

Maine has been and continues to be my get out of jail free card. Can’t imagine losing it in 2020 of all years.

Memorial Day Picnics in the Age of COVID-19

Today, the Dunnevant Clan comes out of its COVID cocoon for the first time for a Memorial Day picnic. In true Dunnevant fashion, it will be a groundbreaking event since it will be the first such picnic to take place...in shifts.

So, depending on where you stand on the wisdom of reopening the country, what follows will either terrify you or cause a spontaneous eye-roll of derision. That’s ok. We are a divided nation. I’m ok with both reactions. I also care not a whit for what you think about our picnic. The fact that my crazy family has managed to go nearly three months without a gathering of any kind is a testament to something...I’m not sure what. I wouldn’t have thought this family had it in us to obey any government mandated rule for this long, but we are a family full of nurses, teachers and germophobes.

The family mover and shaker, my big sister Linda Schwartz, sent out a family email announcing her intention to host the event several days ago. The stated purpose of the email was to seek consensus on the particulars and to insist that nothing would happen until and unless all of us agreed to the format. After a deluge of back and forth emails, it was determined that we would arrive...in shifts as follows:

12:30...First crew consisting of Jenny, Matt, Darcy and Bennett, Paul, Christina, Ezra and Evelyn. This is the younger crowd, the test run, the guinea pigs. Any deadly errors which might occur in this time slot will be corrected in time for the...

2:30...Second crew, including Pam and me, Paula Ron and Ryan and Linda and Bill. Each family unit will sit at an appropriate social distance. Linda will help everyone’s plates while wearing appropriate protective gear. Dinner will be provided by a local BBQ joint in Ashland and will be ladled up with a six foot extendo-spoon that Bill found on the internet. Survivors of the first crew will stick around for no more than 15 minutes of greeting time upon arrival of second crew, then beat a hasty retreat. Once the younger crowd is gone, Bill and Linda will haul out the heavy liquor. 

It should be noted that Becky, Ruaridh, Ava and Cameron will not be in attendance because of Ruaridh’s asthma. My son and daughter and their spouses live entirely too far away, while my big brother and his wife will not be able to make the drive from Maryland, without running afoul of that State’s much more draconian lockdown laws, which include but are by no means limited to, confiscation of all personal property and forced attendance at all future Baltimore Orioles home games.

It goes without saying that this entire affair will take place outside in the back yard. Anyone who insists on entering the house to go to the bathroom will only be allowed to do so in full hazmat gear with a rope tied around their waist. 

So, if national polling is to be believed, roughly 55% of you will think that we are being ridiculously over-cautious. 40% of you think we are taking entirely too many chances with this selfish gathering. The remaining 5% want to know what kind of heavy liquor, exactly?

The answer is...I lied. Linda and Bill are teetotalers.

Imperfect Algorithms

So, yesterday I received this in the mail...

I wondered, “That’s odd. I don’t remember writing him.” But, it’s not every day when you get a letter from the President of the United States, especially one that requests in bold red letters that you reply at once. It’s no secret to the readers of this blog that I’m not exactly a big Trump guy. Nevertheless, Presidential communications still have the power to stir the imagination. I sat myself down in my library where I traditionally open letters from Presidents and carefully opened it, being careful not to damage the envelope for posterity.

I have highlighted for the reader several undeniable truths found in this intuitive and prescient letter.

1. I am among a select group of conservative grassroots leaders.

There can be no question about this. Select indeed, since last I checked there are no conservatives of any kind left in the Republican Party. Well, maybe Rand Paul might let slip a howl of protest about the trillions of dollars of new spending and sovereign debt piled up over the last couple of years every once in a while, but everybody knows Paul is a crank. No, We’re all Keynesians now.

2. My active political involvement.

Indeed. I have been known to vote from time to time.

3. The experience I bring to the table is critical to our Party’s success.

The word our is carrying an awful lot of weight in that sentence. Pam and I have never been registered Republicans in the 36 years of our marriage. As a single man, I have never been a registered anything, although I think I did register for the draft at one point. It is true that I have cast votes for many Republican candidates, some who won and some who lost. But is also true that I have voted for a Democrat or three along the way. Still, I must confess that I do bring a lot of experience to the table...mostly concerning my photographic memory of Beatle lyrics and a skull full of baseball trivia.

4. As someone who has their finger on the pulse of your community.

Undeniably true. I have always had my ear to the ground and nose to the wind for all things Short Pump. I mean if you want to know who serves the best hot pastrami sandwich around here, it’s Boychiks, am I right? If you need a heads up on speed traps, I’m your guy.

Listen, I might have my finger on the pulse of my community, but the rest of my hand is always grasped firmly around my wallet when it comes to anyone asking for political contributions. When I finally arrived at the purpose of this executive communication...seen at the bottom of the page, I must say I was a little let down. 

When I asked my son about this letter and why it was sent to me of all people since I am none of the things this letter claims me to be, he pointed out that the algorithms that political parties use to compile their mailing lists aren’t perfect. Data is often conflicting but the algorithm only sees...this guy has a blog and seems to have conservative political inclinations...not...this guy’s blog has been making fun of Trump for the past five years. He also pointed out that the poor saps who happened to give money to Obama in 2012 and Trump in 2016 are probably getting deluged with letters right about now!

Memorial Day Plans and an Update on My Friend

The family received an email from my big sister, Linda Schwartz last night announcing tentative plans for a socially distant Memorial Day BBQ at her house. I use the word tentative since it will be the first attempted gathering of the Dunnevant Tribe since COVID’s rude arrival nearly three months ago. Linda asked for our input on ideas for making the affair safe and acceptable for all. “Perhaps we can break up into two groups to stay under the 10 person group limit, half of us coming for lunch, the other half for dinner,” she offered as a suggestion. No worries, we all replied. Since it will be outside and the tables will be arranged far enough apart to accommodate CDC protocols, having all of us at the same time would be fine, we reasoned. Then someone suggested that to get around the 10 person group limit, we could simply declare ourselves a church to stay within the law. Of course, I couldn’t pass that up...

“I like the church idea. We could call ourselves the First Church of the Perpetual Holy Ghost Barbecue COVID Cure Congregation.”

To which my wife responded: 

- Covid Congregational

- Pandemic Presbyterian 

- Quarantine Quakers

- Masked Methodists

I immediately saw this for what it was...a cry for help! It was my wife’s way of saying...Oh My God I have been quarantined inside this house with this man for entirely too long!! I am TURNING IN TO MY HUSBAND!!!

But, I have to say, when I read her email I was overcome with great pride.

Speaking of pride...an update on my friend.

So a couple days ago she was out for her daily walk when she took a nasty fall, scraping up her knee and landing awkwardly on her shoulder. Luckily one of her neighbors was out in her yard, saw her fall and came running to the rescue. At first she thought she might have broken something in her shoulder but it turned out to be just a bruise. This bit of news came on the heels of yet another potential setback in her recover when a suspicious polyp was found and biopsied. That too proved benign, a great blessing. But honestly when she shared all of this with me I felt like screaming at God. Her story sounds and feels more like Job every day and occasionally I get angry about it. But she remains supremely confident in her recovery and in the sovereignty of her creator. She is a marvel. A few days ago when Pam was preparing our anniversary slideshow she ran across these pictures from back in 2006...

That’s her and her husband, Johnny.

This is a group picture taken the same night down in Amelia Island in much happier times. My friend with her two big brothers from Short Pump.

Keep her in your prayers. She is tough as nails, but despite that strength needs all the prayers she can get.

36 Years

 

For 36 years now, this woman has endured this man.

Can I get an Amen?

Sofa Church, Socially Distant Umpiring and a Wedding Anniversary

It’s May 18th and there’s no baseball. The MLB is presently in negotiations with the players trying to cobble together a shortened season for 2020, the year of dashed hopes. Meanwhile, my wife and I have pretty much exhausted the present supply of watchable shows on Netflix, Amazon Prime, Hulu, and Starz. On the plus side of the ledger, our COVID-19 Rummikub tournament continues uninterrupted. As of this hour my wife is slightly ahead on points due to her diabolical sandbagging talents. Yesterday was the 10th consecutive Sunday that we have attended Sofa Church. The Live-streamed service is fine. Our staff tries really hard to do it well. It still sucks. When your communion elements are grape flavored Sparkling Ice and a sandwich thin, something of the poignancy of the moment gets lost. 

But, there’s always good news lurking out there if you know where to look. The State of Maine just lifted the quarantine rules for out of state visitors effective July 1. That means that we will not have to confine ourselves in the lake house for the first two weeks of our stay! It had been originally through the month of August so this is a huge relief. Of course I can think of many fates worse than being quarantined here:

With this view every night:

So, I’ve been thinking about how baseball can possibly have a season, even a shortened one, in the world of COVID-19. The first item on the agenda will be...how is anybody going to get professional baseball players to refrain from...spitting??? Assuming that miracle can be performed, how is it possible to maintain social distancing between the catcher and the home plate umpire. If the umpire has to move six feet behind the catcher, his ability to maintain a consistent strike zone (already damn near impossible) will be hilarious to behold...

UMPIRE:  STRIKE ONE!!!

CATCHER: Dude...he hasn’t thrown a pitch yet!!

 The complete elimination of sunflower seeds from the dugouts of the big leagues will be like asking Congressman to go a week without hogging a microphone. It will be like asking Donald Trump to quit Twitter. Unthinkable.

Tomorrow is a big day. It will be our 36th wedding anniversary. It will be pouring down rain. Our kids will be hundreds of miles away. No restaurants will be available. I have yet to come up with a proper plan for the evening. But, we will celebrate nevertheless. She is the love of my life, the one indispensable person in my world. She was my best decision, the one thing about which I am most proud. Although a couple of nights ago, she gave me pause. I happened to be walking through the den and there she was watching a television show about celebrities watching television. She was giggling and chuckling, throughly enjoying herself. I said, “what the heck are you watching?” She replied happily, “Its so funny...there are all these famous people being filmed watching television, just regular shows.” It might have been the very first time I have ever been embarrassed to be married to Pam Dunnevant. Then I thought that after 10 weeks of COVID-19, I should cut her some slack. Right now I suppose we all take our entertainment wherever we can get it.

Anyway, I’ve got 24 hours to come up with a plan for our wedding anniversary. Wish me luck.

His Eye Is On The Sparrow

I was walking around the culdesac yesterday afternoon when I saw one of my neighbors firing up his grill. I walked up his driveway and struck up a conversation. I was interested in how his wife was holding up in her job as an ICU nurse. It was crazy hearing about the protocols they go through each time she returns home from a shift. But then he told me about her very first survivor of COVID-19, a 54 year old man who just recently was taken off the ventilator after five weeks. It looks like he’s going to make it. Every other case they have had has been fatal. The one bit of information I forgot to ask was, how many cases they’ve had? Next time I see him, I’ll remember to ask. He did say that some of the cases have been otherwise healthy people, one guy who was an avid runner. But, think about this 54 year old man who spent five weeks on a ventilator, heavily sedated, isolated from every single person who ever loved him. Think of his wife and children, unable to see him, comfort him as he lay in a hospital bed fighting for his life. Think of the disorientation he must have felt to wake up and be informed that it’s been over a month since he was admitted!

The past two evenings Pam and I have sat out on our deck in this marvelous weather we’ve enjoyed, as the sun has set behind the houses in the distance. We are able to lounge around for hours out back thanks to the wonderful people at the Mosquito Authority, by the way. Best money I’ve ever spent. Both nights right around 8:05 every bird in the neighborhood begins singing all at once, a mad, frantic chorus. Each night it happens just before sunset. Our bird watching son in law informs us that it is their night song, an instinct inbred in birds of all kinds which causes them to herald the rising and setting of the sun. We listen to the delightful sound and marvel. Then it becomes dark and the sun catching lanterns on the railings of our deck come on, having stored up solar energy all day, and now illuminating the stained glass cardinals...

In a minute, the stars will come out and the birds will be silent. Then the crickets will begin their dull chirping, rhythmic and enchanting. My wife lifts her cell phone skyward and watches it’s screen reveal the constellations with a new app she has downloaded. Here is Capricorn, there Sagittarius. I watch her face lit up by the soft glow of the screen and ponder my great good fortune that I am not the 54 year old man on the ventilator, or the avid runner who’s life was snuffed out by a virus.

The birds and the crickets know no such virus. They chirp and sing at every sunrise and every sunset all the while running the risk that some creature larger and more powerful than they will devour them. For them, every minute of their existence is a risk. And yet we are told that their creator takes notice when even one of them falls. As I sit in the darkness of my backyard, listening to the hum of the crickets, I take great comfort in the fact that...his eye is on the sparrow.

Mr. Dunnevant Goes Grocery Shopping

So, yesterday afternoon I had a new COVID-19 experience. I went grocery shopping. Sure, I’ve popped in to my local Publix before to pick up random stuff during this pandemic, but not until yesterday was I entrusted with a full grocery run. Pam was feeling worn out so I volunteered to go in her place. Tired as she was, she hesitated to give such an important task to me. My wife is one of those people who knows exactly what she wants and where to find it, and she doesn’t much care for delegating. Nevertheless, there she was handing me...the list...and sending me on my way with great fear and trembling.

Wait...you didn’t expect my wife to send me to the grocery store without specific, written instructions did you? Nooooo. This list was amazing in that it was organized by aisle from the right of the store to the left, and, came with handy idiot-proof notes hand written in green ink. When she handed it to me all she said was, “Make sure you remember to bring a pen with you so you can mark things off the list as you find them.”

I arrived at Publix at exactly 3:07 pm, pen-less. Luckily, the friendly guy at the help desk, displaying male solidarity, handed me a loaner in a gloved hand with the encouraging, “You got this, bro.”

I head to the produce section and start checking stuff off. Everything is going great until I get to the green beans. Pam has written “small bag, if fresh...or none.” I take this to mean, only buy a bag of green beans if they look fresh. Question: how does one discern the freshness of a sealed bag of green beans? I stood there pondering the package looking for freshness clues for what felt like five minutes, eventually throwing a bag in the cart. Then it got even worse when I got to raspberries. Her instructions in green were quite clear...only if they look firm. Ok...she didn’t say only if they feel firm for good reason. These things come in sealed containers as well. No, she asked me to judge their firmness by...sight. Another five minutes of incredulous indecision.

By the time I made it to the canned fruit aisle I was presented with yet another fork in the road moment...the list said pineapple rings. My first thought was WTH is a pineapple ring?? I saw crushed pineapple, pineapple chunks, and even something called pineapple tidbits, but the elusive pineapple rings were nowhere to be found. However, there was one lonely can of pineapple slices:

My powers of deduction came into play here as I reasoned that this pineapple product was shaped suspiciously like a ring. As a bonus, these “slices” came in “100% pineapple juice...which sounded to me like some sort of extra thing. It was thrown into the cart with cocky confidence!

The most difficult purchase was yet to come. There I was standing in front of the dairy case. The item in question was Dannon vanilla yogurt. My eyes scanned the astonishing array of yogurt products in the case. I thought to myself, what in the Sam Hill is this? Don’t people realize how disgusting this stuff is? People actually purchase and voluntarily consume something that smells spoiled and curdled as soon as you open the package!! There must have been 15 different brands of the stuff, but the only thing that said Dannon was one lonely package of...I’m not even kidding...coffee flavored yogurt! I text Pam: nothing in the dairy case that says Dannon. She quickly replies: It says “Dannon” in tiny little print. She wasn’t kidding...

If you squint really hard you might be able to make out the manufacturer’s name in tiny letters right above the light & fit thing. See, even Dannon knows that this stuff is disgusting, even Dannon is embarrassed to be selling such a horrible product!! 

As I reached the 45 minute mark of my foray into grocery shopping while wearing an N95 face mask, I began to sweat profusely. I pawed and picked at the mask, adjusting it to let in some air. Then I got the idea to head over to the ice cream case, not to buy ice cream, but to open the big glass door, stick my sweating head inside the case and slip the mask off for some sweet relief. It was glorious. While doing so, I received a couple of menacing side eyes from professional grocery shoppers passing by. But, I made no apologies. I offered no explanation to these people for my behavior. It was this or I was going to end up creating a scene by ripping the thing off and screaming profanities. You do what you have to do.

By the time I made it through the checkout line and had loaded my groceries into my car, it was 4:17pm. I had spent $124.90. It turned out that my bag of green beans was, in fact, fresh, the raspberries were firm enough, and pineapple slices are the same exact thing as pineapple rings.

It should be pointed out that when it comes to grocery shopping, actually going to the store to fetch these items is the easy part. I’m told that the preparation of the list is the hardest part, and often more time consuming. If so, now I totally understand why Pam so often comes back from the grocery store in such an ill-temper. Add to this having to wear a face mask and you’re talking about some serious first world problems here!!

 

Let Me Introduce You to Your Next Worry!!

I have made excellent use of this quarantine thing by plowing through some great classic works of literature that I had never gotten around to reading. First it was Middlemarch, then The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius, and just last night I finished, Anna Karenina. While it's true that great big old Russian novels, particularly anything by Tolstoy, can be thickly ponderous things, I thought Anna was brilliant. The old weirdo could write, my friends. There’s a scene in the book where he describes a group of peasants and himself mowing a field of tall grass with scythes. The writing is so beautifully rendered you can smell the grass, hear the sweep of the blade and feel the tightness in your back and shoulders by the time he is through. Incredible.

Then, while scanning through some business news articles—something I don’t recommend—I stumble across a piece in The Atlantic that informs me that not only should I feel appropriate shame and guilt for my white privilege, my stable family privilege, my wealth privilege and all the rest, now there’s another privilege for me to confess to...flour privilege!! That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, it would appear that we have bought up practically every pound of processed wheat left in America for the purposes of satisfying our baking itch. In so doing I suppose we have hogged it all and now there’s a shortage of flour. If it weren’t for that British Baking Show, we wouldn’t be acting this way. I’m not kidding y’all. This is a real thing...

One thing that we will never run out of in this country? Things to feel guilty about, worry about and fret over. There will always be some new fresh catastrophe right around the corner to feed our ulcers. We will never, ever exhaust the raw materials from which our anxieties are manufactured. It is an infinitely renewable resource.

My Reopening Plan

Traffic has picked up on Broad Street. The parking lots around my office are starting to fill up. The lot at Lowe's the other day looked like they were giving away free beer. Whatever might be happening at my State Capital or up in Washington, and no matter what might be happening with the actual Coronavirus, the American people seem to be voting with their feet, and their verdict seems to be...enough already.

This coming Friday, my State begins Phase one of the great reopening. Assuming that there is no corresponding spike in transmissions, two weeks later, Phase two will begin. Like everything else in America, how one feels about this reopening seems to fall along party lines, Democrats generally being against it, while Republicans are for it. Of course, these stances are not absolute. I’m sure that there are plenty of Democrat small business owners out there who are desperate to reopen, while there are also plenty of Republican lobbyists not so keen to hop back on a packed airplane anytime soon. But what about me...Mr. In Between?

It’s weird. We’ve been at this going on nine weeks now. Pam and I have been very careful to abide by every guideline and mandate that has come down. Still, neither of us know anyone who has gotten sick and died from COVID-19. We suspect maybe that our daughter in law might have had it, but that’s about it. Of course, that’s anecdotal and by no means illustrative of anything other than our good fortune. If numbers from Johns Hopkins are to be believed, the United States has had over a million cases and over 80,000 deaths so far. This number is higher than the predictions from the last White House briefing I watched from three or four weeks ago when they were estimating the total deaths would peak at 60,000. This past weekend Pam and I attended a wedding which perfectly illustrates the conundrum in which we find ourselves. The fact that this wedding was held at a drive-in theatre tells you that the families involved were taking the Coronavirus seriously. And yet, when we arrived, the first thing that happened was, my wife and the mother of the groom found each other ...and hugged. Then they separated, startled by the embrace with an exasperated look on their faces...Is this ok? I don’t know, but I’m so happy to see you I just can’t help myself..its a wedding for God’s sake!!! I think that this is how most of us are feeling. We understand that COVID-19 is deadly serious, but as human beings we just don’t know how to proceed, what is proper and what isn’t.

In this regard it sure would help if we could agree on the facts. It would be such a relief if we all had a source of numbers and information that we could all trust. At this point, anything I hear from either the White House or anyone in Congress is highly suspect. Even the veracity of the CDC and WHO have been called into question. One minute I hear one thing, a couple days later the exact opposite, and usually from the same source! It is maddening.

Here are just a few of the many conflicting things I have heard recently:

Kids can’t get it.

Kids can get it.

Animals don’t carry the virus.

Dogs can get it.

Once you’ve been exposed to the virus, you have immunity.

No, you don’t.

We are at least a year away from a vaccine.

A breakthrough might come sooner than you think.

We shouldn’t open until we have a cure...a vaccine.

Forget that, there are so many mutations out there we will probably need several vaccines.

Wearing face masks are critically important.

Wearing face masks makes little difference. At best a placebo effect since it makes the wearer feel safer.

Everyone needs to be tested before we can reopen safely.

That’s impossible and unneeded. We only need to test at risk populations in hotspots.

We are already past the worst of this.

The second wave of this will be twice as bad as what we have seen so far.

People who are sheltered in place in their homes at this point are babies and cowards.

People who are going about their lives are selfish money grabbers.

So, yeah. 

Here’s my plan. I am going to do my best to follow the guidelines handed down by my state and local government. I will wear a face mask when I go inside a store. I will continue to wash my hands a half dozen times a day. I will continue to use hand sanitizer every time I get in my car. When the restaurants open, I will probably limit myself to those with outdoor seating. I will still do my best to honor the six feet distance rule when interacting with others. Probably won’t shake anyone’s hands for quite a while. I will be patient with my church when it decides to reopen...I won’t get bent if I don’t get one of the tickets to attend the service I like. My business will slowly start allowing in-office appointments. We are still trying to figure that out. My gut feeling is that it will take several months of this reopening before I start feeling more normal with regards to personal interaction. It won’t be the end of the world if I have to alter a few lifestyle choices going forward, but they will have to be my choice, my decision as an informed, free citizen.

For me caution will be the theme of any reopening. And also, that old Ronald Reagan line comes to mind...Trust, but verify.

My Daughter’s Birthday

Today is my daughter’s birthday. The very first time her birthday rolled around after I started this blog was in 2011, nine years ago. That’s when I wrote what follows. I have attempted other birthday tributes, but none have ever been able to improve on my first attempt. I read it at her wedding as well, because when I was trying to decide what to say at that momentous occasion, I found that I kept coming back to...this.

Kaitlin Elizabeth Dunnevant. I’ve always liked the way her name rolled off the tongue. Lots of letters and syllables coming together to make a pretty sound. On her birthday I will take a minute to make a partial list of the many things that come together to make her so wonderful.

* She is the lump in my throat every time I watch Father of the Bride.

* She is the unexpected catch in my voice whenever I brag about her at work.

* In a life of mistakes she is evidence that I got something right.

* She is the smile on my face every time I see a blonde curly-haired two year old in a yellow dress.

* She was the pit in my stomach whenever teenage boys with bad intentions came around, and they all had bad intentions.

* When her softball team lost a thrilling game in the bottom of the last inning she was the only one with tears coming down her cheeks. She may be the most competitive Dunnevant of them all. It’s a glorious thing.

* On the five minute drive to school in second grade I could always make her smile at least once no matter how miserable she was and no matter how hard she tried not to.

* I marvel at the level of discipline she has developed.

* She is the pride I feel when I see her curled up on the sofa reading yet another book. My gift to her.

* When I see her fierce loyalty to friends, her tender heart to the less fortunate, her love and devotion to all things family I realize how amazing my grandchildren will be to behold.

* She is the shame I feel still that I spent the first 24 hours of her life disappointed that she wasn’t a son.

Happy birthday to my brave, talented, and beautiful girl with the beautiful name...even though her and I both know that her real name is  Kato Tomato.

Lucy’s Complaint

I try hard not to be drama queen. Hard when I live in booby-trapped house with my humans. Every day find new horror. It not enough that humans not concerned with out of control ceiling fan, trash can, peoples walking just outside of house with small doggers. They not see ghosts that live in corners of every room in house! Every day they walk down scary stairs without caution and expect me to follow them! Not in million years...I must first inspect condition of stair, check light and condition of wind like any self respect dogger. Well, this morning come latest crazy...

I come down for breakfast and not believe what I see. I stop short even though I hungry. I think...is this joke? Human think weird things funny sometime. I look around but nobody laughing. I take closer look. What fresh cat hell is this? Human has put kibble in...water bowl!! I make closer inspect. No two ways about...they have put kibble in water bowl and expect me to eat it. To make matter worst they compound foolish by putting water in kibble bowl!! Chip in very wrong place. Make it impossible to eat without grave worry. Do they not see problem?? I so hungry I could eat cat, but make no difference. Too much danger. Human plead with me to eat. Easy for her to say. Her not eating food out of wrong bowl!

Eventually, I summon courage of ancestors to endure wrong bowl fiasco. Human try very hard...but honestly!!

The Murder of Ahmaud Arbery

My son has taken up running of late. He wants to train to run in a 10 K. Back before the Coronavirus, he would run in a neighborhood adjacent to his office during his lunch hour. Suppose that one day during one of his runs he was gunned down by a couple of vigilantes who wrongly suspected him of a burglary in that neighborhood. Then imagine that the two vigilantes were a black father and son. Cops arrive at the scene and quickly determine that they have probable cause to arrest the two killers but when they present their evidence to the district attorney, who is also black, she refuses to do so because one of the killers used to work for her. The killers go free for two months, my son’s murder in cold blood is ignored and there is no justice for him. How would any of you expect me to react to such injustice? 

But Doug, you might say, wouldn’t this story be just as tragic without mentioning the race of the people involved? Sure it would. But that’s exactly the point. Try to imagine this happening where the victim is white, the assailants and the district attorneys are black and no arrest is made until a video surfaces two months later? You can’t. Because it never would happen. That is the tragedy of what has happened to Ahmaud Arbery in Brunswick, Georgia. It took three district attorneys to finally summon the gumption to arrest Gregory and Travis McMichael for the brutal murder and it took a leaked video splashed all over social media to accomplish that. 

I have written many times in this space about the two separate but unequal systems of justice in this country, one for the rich, powerful and well-connected, and a second for everybody else. This is not a distinctly American problem. It is as old as justice itself. But too often in this country, the people most victimized by the injustices of the system are either black or brown. It can’t be denied by any reasonable person. It is a stain on us and should make all of us angry. I cannot speak for this young man’s family. I can’t begin to understand what they are going through right now. But, there’s one thing I do know. If the victim were my son, I would become the Glynn County Police Department’s worst nightmare.

The attorney for the victim’s family said it best, “They did not arrest the killers of Ahmaud Arbery because they saw the video, they arrested the killers of Ahmaud Arbery because we saw the video.”

Shameful.

Mother’s Day and a Wedding

So, last night we had the fourth different couple over for dinner on our deck over the past three weeks. This time it was my in-laws, Russ and Vi White. Pam wanted to celebrate Mother’s Day a little early since the forecast for Sunday isn’t great. We ordered a meal from Taziki’s which was delicious. Then Pam served up strawberry shortcake for dessert. After dinner we sat around a fire like we have done at least a thousand times up at Dummer’s Beach in Maine. Lucy entertained us with her frisbee-catching skills. It was a lovely evening.

This woman is the only Mother I have left, my Mom having passed away eight years ago. Vi White has been just about the best mother-in-law anyone could ask for in our 36 years of marriage. Whenever we have needed her for anything, she has dropped everything to help. Never once has she interfered in our lives. She has loved and doted on our kids and their spouses. She has even tolerated the constant succession of golden retrievers running around our house all these years, quite the accomplishment for an unrepentant cat person. So, on this Mother’s Day weekend, I salute her.

Tomorrow, we will be attending a socially distant wedding at a drive-in theatre in Christiansburg, Virginia and we are so psyched. We will get in our car and drive three hours, pull into our spot, watch the proceedings from inside our car, then drive three hours back home. I’m thinking about wearing a dress shirt, tie and suit coat along with pajama bottoms and tennis shoes! It’s supposed to be 48 degrees in Christiansburg tomorrow. I’m worried the poor bride is going to freeze to death, but...what price, love?

My Protest Beard

It’s been two weeks since I last shaved. How does it look? Suffice it it to say that I look like an extra in a Zombie apocalypse movie, or for my older readers, I very much resemble Humphrey Bogart in the African Queen. I haven’t had a haircut since the 3rd of March which only adds to the stranded on a deserted island look. I could allow Pam a turn at giving me a trim, and, I could shave. But I choose this version of myself for the moment. Why? Because frankly, it feels right. Call it my protest beard.

Don’t misunderstand. I’m not “protesting” against government overreach or bureaucratic incompetence. I’m kinda over that. I’m not even protesting the orgy of corporate greed on display as publicly traded companies with full access to capital markets gobble up stimulus money designed for small, closely held businesses...greed being an ancient vice, nothing new under the sun and all that. No, I’m just protesting the giant, unmitigated disaster that 2020 has become. I figure if this entire year is going to slouch along in such an unkempt, disheveled, thoroughly unbuttoned fashion, why shouldn’t I??

But, I am supposed to be a professional man. Consequently, I feel a twang of guilt when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, enough to make me question the whole no shaving thing but not enough to make me change my behavior. So, like all emotionally conflicted people, I have constructed a compromise...just for today. Wednesday’s agenda does not include any FaceTime appointments. Today is full of case planning, bill paying, and an online continuing education course, all of which could be done in my underwear. Instead, I have decided to get dressed up today. For the first time in over two months, I am going to put on dress pants, a dress shirt, real shoes and socks and see if I have forgotten how to tie a tie. Yes my friends, I am going to dress like I used to dress for a face to face appointment with human beings back before the Coronavirus. I can only hope that I don’t get pulled over by a cop on my way to work:

Me: Yes, Officer? I feel certain that I was going the posted speed limit.

Cop: What? Are you some sort of wise guy? Where do you think you’re going dressed like that?

Me: Like...what?

Cop: What’s that thing around your neck?!

Me: It’s a silk tie.

Cop: So, you going to a funeral or something? You expect me to believe you’re headed to church??

Me: No no...I’m going into the office. It’s just around the corner.

Cop: Out of the car please!! And keep those hands where I can see ‘em!  Wait...you’re wearing dress shoes, with SOCKS? That’s it buddy. I’ll have to take you in for questioning.

Me: But I’m not...

Cop: Save it for the judge, fancy pants!!

About Those Annoying Commercials...

I don’t watch a lot of television. When I do it’s usually Netflix or some other service which doesn’t have commercials. But, during this shutdown I have watched more TV than usual. As a result I have been exposed to my share of these insidious new commercials which have sprouted up like mushrooms after three days of rain. For lack of a better term, I will refer to them as the...We’re all in this together advertisements, or W.A.I.T.

You’ve all seen them, these WAIT ads. They all feature a soft piano followed by swelling orchestration. There are beautiful children on the screen, looking back at the camera as they run in slow motion through fields of grain. An announcer begins his heartfelt message:

During this time of great challenge we are all rediscovering the importance of family, the simple beauty of a sunset, the hopeful smile of a child. We here at Subaru have known all along that we aren’t in the car business, we’re in the people business.

Subaru. Here for you.

I don’t know about you, but before COVID-19, I had no earthly idea how many corporations were in fact not in the automobile, household cleaner, health and beauty aids, real estate, computer, insurance businesses, but rather in the people business. It has been quite a revelation to learn that the real business of Coors Brewing is not to sell me watered down lite beer that taste like horse urine but instead to come along side our neighbors in their hour of need. Seriously? What can Coors possibly offer my neighbors struggling through the isolation and lost revenue of a two months and counting economic shutdown that doesn’t involve a cold six pack of their product? Regardless, I suppose it is comforting to know that Cadillac is there for me if ever I might...need them. I’m trying hard to imagine what I might ask of them. I mean, they have promised to be there for me. Maybe I can call the local dealership and see if they wouldn't mind running over to Publix and doing Pam’s grocery shopping later this week. 

But, its not just big companies killing us with kindness. Even local concerns are jumping on the WAIT bandwagon. I’m telling you, Short Pump is suddenly awash in exemplary corporate citizens, all lining up to assure us that they too are in the people business. Never in my lifetime have the people become such an integral component of the business plans of every thing from Alcoa to Zenith...

(Swelling music slowly building in intensity as design engineer works diligently at a drafting table)

Narrator: When I came to work here at Lexus, I knew that my job wasn’t just to design cars. No, at Lexus my job is about serving humanity for the greater good, which is why we are all now designing the finest personal protective gear that money can buy, which we are offering to all Lexus customers at our cost...

It’s this type of public-mindedness that makes me want to rush right out and buy one of their $60,000 cars.

Listen, I get it. Madison Avenue is a powerful voice and the nature of public relations is to get out in front of things to help shape the narrative. But, merciful fathers, enough already. Here’s a better suggestion. Try honesty:

Look folks, here at Acme Equipment, we are holding on for dear life. Our working capital is almost gone, we’ve had to let half of our employees go and we’re not sure how long we will be able to last if this shutdown stays in effect much longer. So, if we are still here when it ends, we sure would appreciate your business. Until then, please check out the GoFundMe link on our website.

Can I Make a Suggestion To My Church?

Zoomed with my kids yesterday. They are all healthy and handsome. We don’t zoom with them every five minutes, just once every ten days or so. It’s always such a relief to see their faces, to be reassured that they are well. For this I am thankful. But video-chats are a poor substitute for hugs.

What’s today...Monday? Yes, Monday. We had church on the deck yesterday morning when we watched Wes Peterson bring the message via Pam’s iPhone while eating breakfast...so yesterday was Sunday...making today Monday. This is how I keep up with the days of the week now.

Yes...that breakfast was amazing. Pam has been finding recipes all over the place during this...thing...and the results have been stellar. This particular offering was sausage wrapped in a croissant stuffed with cheese, somehow moist and flaky at the same time. Poor Wes didn’t have a chance. It’s hard to concentrate on a sermon when eating such a thing. He spoke about Elisha, I do remember that much. I’m about done with virtual church. It’s been eight weeks since I’ve been in a congregation at my church. I’m missing it more and more with each passing week. I have a half-baked plan in my head of how we should reopen, and since every other response to the Coronavirus has been half-baked, this one should fit right in.

My church normally has four services on Sunday. Our main auditorium seats roughly 700 people. We have an overflow room which seats probably another 100, and we have a separate building down the hill a ways called The Lodge which seats another 100 or so. In normal times each of these services are full or nearly full. In the auditorium the seats are crammed together very closely, too closely I have always thought. Here is my half-baked plan. Let’s say Pam and I wanted to attend the 9:30 service next Sunday. We would have to go to our website and make a reservation...first come, first served. As soon as a pre-determined number make such reservations (say 250), that service would be sold out. We would then be instructed to download a ticket to present when we arrive. Meanwhile, the chairs inside the building would be vastly reconfigured, providing for the proper social distancing requirements. Two chairs together for husbands and wives, space, space, space, then some single seats, space, space space then another couple of seats together etc.. No offering would be taken up, no communion served. This plan would only provide roughly a thousand people to attend on a given Sunday over those four services, far lower than the twenty five hundred that currently attend. But, as the weeks go by, the number allowed in would rise from 250 to 350 etc. No coffee would be served. None of those delicious cookies. (I TOLD you this was half-baked). I have no idea what to do about the kids wing. That’s beyond my pay grade. 

I offer this plan as a starting point. I’m sure that the very bright people on our church leadership team have already discussed similar plans for re-opening, but so far have shared none of their ideas with us. If I could offer any suggestion to them it would be to share their vision of how we will re-open. Their silence on this subject isn’t helpful or hopeful.

Ok, enough of that. How do you all feel about blond jokes? I have to be careful in this day and age. For one thing, I am married to a blond. For another thing, in my experience people either think that blond jokes are hysterical or they think that they are a misogynistic tool of the patriarchy. Such are the treacherous waters of the comedy ocean. But, I will take the risk and the heat for what follows:

An old, blind cowboy wanders into an all-girl biker bar by mistake. He finds his way to a bar stool and orders a shot of Jack Daniels. After sitting there for a while, he yells to the bartender, "Hey, you wanna hear a blonde joke?" The bar immediately falls absolutely silent.....

...in a very deep, husky voice, the woman next to him says,

"Before you tell that joke, Cowboy, I think it is only fair, given that you are blind, that you should know five things:

The bartender is a blonde girl with a baseball bat.

The bouncer is a blonde girl.

I'm a 6-foot tall, 175-pound blonde woman with a black belt in karate.

The woman sitting next to me is blonde and a professional weight lifter.

The lady to your right is blonde and a professional wrestler.

Now, think about it seriously, Cowboy. Do you still wanna tell that blonde joke?"

The blind cowboy thinks for a second, shakes his head and mutters, "No, not if I'm gonna have to explain it five times."

Best Day of The Coronavirus

Yesterday was perhaps the best day I’ve had since the onset of COVID-19. It was a premeditated gardening day. I had braved the long line at Strange’s the day before and bought all the necessities. God provided me with picture perfect weather that felt like July 1st in Maine. So, I spent five hours with my hands buried deep into potting soil, laying out my tomato plants and Pam’s herb garden. For the rest of the year we will reap the benefits of the herb garden. The tomatoes, not so much. They are mostly my personal vanity project. I water them, check on their daily progress, fertilize them, take pictures of their prodigious growth, then bask in the glow of pride as dozens of green tomatoes burst forth on their sturdy vines. Then literally hours before I plan on picking them to make BLT’s I will discover large chunks of ripe tomato flesh missing...in the shape of squirrel teeth. My deep, psychotic and clearly deranged hatred of that worthless animal renewed, I will roam my backyard for days afterwards, BB-gun loaded and cocked seeking revenge. Out of the 75-100 tomatoes which these plants will produce during the summer, Pam and I will eat roughly 10-15 of them, making my tomatoes the most expensive vegetables in the western world.* The rest will either get befouled by squirrels or ripen while we are in Maine, providing nourishment for our dog sitter. And yet, every year you will find me laying out my tomato plants. Hope springs eternal.

We will have far better luck with the thyme and parsley...

...two varieties of basal.

...mint and rosemary.

To top off this perfect day, Pam invited my sister Paula and her husband Ron over for a socially distant dinner out on the deck. We ordered our meal from Tazikis, sat ten feet apart while eating, then gathered around a fire that I made in my beloved solostove, the single greatest purchase made in the Dunnevant household since Lucy...

Today looks like another beauty. Maybe another fire tonight.


* before I get inundated with helpful tips on protecting my tomato plants from squirrels, let me save you the trouble. I’ve tried everything in the book...yes, even deer urine. Nothing has been able to prevent the tree rats from stealing them at the peak of their ripeness. Although, I have had the intense pleasure of catching a few of them in the act and skillfully sending them to squirrel hell with one single shot from my Daisy Powerline 35, an activity which makes the entire project feel temporarily worthwhile.

Seven Things I Learned This Week

Having your personal freedoms taken away from you during a pandemic should be viewed as a growth opportunity. At least, that’s what an endless barrage of insufferably upbeat self-help posts on Facebook have been telling me. I should be seizing this golden opportunity at self-reflection presented to me by the evisceration of my liberties. So, this week I have heeded their advice. To that end, may I present to you...seven things I learned this week:

1. When cracking jokes about the most ruthless and ridiculous sociopath to rule a nation since Pol Pot, it is apparently possible to go too far. 

2. There is an enormous amount of difference between growing a beard and simply not shaving, which a surprising number of people don’t understand.

3. Sitting around a blazing fire with people you love might be one of life’s greatest pleasures.

4. If one’s own happiness is temporarily unattainable, there is always the happiness of others to consider. Put another way, get over yourself.

5. Without naming names, there are several Governors who are clearly enjoying their shiny new status as men and women of consequence. Their newfound powers must feel positively intoxicating. I mean, one minute they are lounging around the governor’s mansion in their pajamas asking their aides which outfit they should wear to the new strip mall ribbon cutting and the next thing they know, they’re standing in front of a bank of microphones, with a sign language dude in their peripheral vision ordering people to do this and don't do that and trying desperately to give off a Churchillian vibe, dreaming of the White House.

6. There is possibly no phrase in the English language that I presently despise more than...new normal. Our present circumstances are neither, and for all of you statists out there desperately seeking that generational opportunity to reorder society to your liking...this ain’t it. When this is over, the old normal is coming back with a vengeance.

7....with the possible exception of the movie theatre and the post office, which are both dead.