An Afternoon at the Theatre of Horrors

Our Christmas Day was Tuesday, the 27th of December and it could not possibly have gone any better. We opened presents all morning, took a break for a fabulous breakfast, then opened up the stockings in the afternoon. There was much merry making, playing with toys and nap taking. Then for dinner we headed over to Wong’s Tacos for a feast, after which we ended the day watching a funny movie—Glass Onion. Then, when this morning rolled around, everything went to hell in a hand basket—both Sarah and Patrick tested positive for COVID.

Immediately, Plan B was initiated. Unfortunately, nobody could remember where we put Plan B. Was it filed in the Christmas emergencies Google Doc, or was it folded in one of Pam’s sixteen planners? Luckily we have not forgotten the fine art of improvisation. Patrick and Sarah have spent most of their day in their room with the door shut, while the rest of us have broken out our collection of masks from moth balls. We are all hoping for the best. Tomorrow both sets of kids are scheduled to drive home. If you are so inclined prayers would be appreciated for Patrick and Sarah specifically…since I can’t imagine how bad it would be to make a 9 hour drive in holiday traffic while feeling like crap.

However, into every catastrophe, humor finds its way. When you least expect and are the least prepared for it, something hilarious tends to happen. I will try to explain while at the same time protecting the names and reputations of everyone involved.

Pam and I always buy tickets to a show when the kids come home for Christmas, and this year was no exception. Six tickets were purchased weeks ago for an afternoon show at a theatre that will remain nameless and for a show which will also remain nameless. Nothing in our previous experience at this particular venue could possibly have prepared us for what we witnessed. The title of the show suggested nothing but the best possible combination of music and merriment. We settled into our seats—just the four of us and N95 masks securely in place—and watched as four singers rushed out onto the delightfully warm and Christmas-y set.

My daughter listened to a TED Talk recently about public speaking which suggested that when a person walks out on a stage, we decide what we think of them in less than a minute based on two things—warmth and competence. The performer who was closest to me on the stage gave off two powerful vibes. I immediately thought, “This dude is gay and high.” Incidentally, neither of these traits are a negative in musical theatre. I was still pumped for the show. Then, he opened his mouth to sing. I must say that I have never been quite so glad to have been wearing a mask. His voice kept flipping back and forth between overacting show choir to incompetent opera. His relationship with the notes he was trying to sing were strained to the breaking point. As I listened to him I kept thinking, “man, there’s not enough weed in the world…” For a moment I thought it was a gag, that it was a plot device like when Barney Fife tried to join Mayberry’s choir. We would soon be treated the comic relief of having the one male singer kicked out of the troop leaving only the Lennon Sisters on stage. But no. He was for real…and to drive home the point he was given the first solo that hardy standard, Mel Torme’s Christmas Song. Our guy did his finest Frank Sinatra impersonation, placing his hand against the microphone stand and began, “Chestnuts roasting on an open fire,”. So far, so good, I thought. He’s actually only a half a step under his note. Then the second line came out something like this—“Jack Frost shi, shippppping in the flows.” Luckily, he recovered his knowledge of the lyrics in time for us to hear about folks dressed up like Eskimos. At the intermission Pam leaned over and asked me, “Do you think maybe the real guy came down with Covid and they like literally got this guy off the streets 15 minutes ago?” What we didn’t know at this early point in the evening was that it would get much worse. Luckily of the other singers, one had a decent voice but was clearly under the weather, another had a passable voice but sang so softly she was hard to hear, and the third girl was wonderful and saved the entire show from a tomato barrage. The high point of the evening was when our unfortunate male singer was one line in to a third crooning solo when he tried to suavely remove his mic from its stand but it was stuck, whereupon he pulled harder and stabbed the mouth of the thing into his nose…FLummmpp! If he had played this for laughs it would have brought the house down. Since it was during O Holy Night…not so much.

During the show we were treated with several fun songs done reasonably well. But, we and the several five year olds in attendance got to hear Santa get outed in one weird song, along with a super fun round featuring a Christmas song, a Hanukkah song and a Kwanza tune where nobody could understand a word being sung. 

You might think we regretted going. No way. They gave us all a cookie on the way out.

Waiting For Christmas

Absolutely love all the pictures of families opening presents and modeling fresh Christmas pajamas on Facebook. We have enjoyed a Christmas Eve service at the Altria Theatre featuring our nephew Isaac Nunn leading worship in front of 3,600 people. We had a fabulous dinner at Tarrant’s downtown with the Roop’s.

We have driven around town gazing at the Christmas lights, tacky and otherwise. Our two wonderful next door neighbors and their delightful kids both have visited bearing gifts. We (mostly Jon) have been making quick work of a 1,000 piece Christmas puzzle. Everything has been lovely. The only problem is…Christmas hasn’t arrived. Our presents are still safe and secure under the tree. And today brings more waiting. What in the name of the Grinch is going on here?

Its simple. Patrick and Sarah aren’t here yet. In our family. Christmas doesn’t happen until everyone is present and accounted for. Here’s the deal…

P & S have been busier than one-armed brick layers these past couple days. They have performed at two different Christmas Eve services, dealt with negative temperatures that knocked out their power in Nashville for four hours, and hosted and prepared two fabulous Christmas dinners at their new home—on the same day!! Yes, as a matter of fact, that does sound insane. But somehow they pulled everything off like champs. Here’s just one picture of the gourmet delights they prepared…

Amazing. I swear those two should have their own cooking show!

So as I write this, Patrick, Sarah, and Frisco have hit the road headed to Short Pump, only to be greeted by a snow storm which has slowed their pace. They are hoping to arrive here around 6 o’clock this evening. If so they will be just in time for a soup dinner with 18 of their cousins, aunts and uncles from the White side of the family. We will open presents and make merry until 9:00 or so. Then, if the two of them haven’t already fallen asleep standing up, the six of us will open up our new Christmas jammies and then go to bed so that on Tuesday morning, the 27th of December Christmas will finally arrive.

The extended Dunnevant tribe has also had to wait for Christmas. The cruise director, my big sister Linda and her husband Bill are under the weather and had to cancel the extravaganza until early January. This will be remembered as the long Christmas.

But, it isn't really the day on a calendar, is it? Christmas happens when everybody is there.

The Hand of Fate, or The Will of God?

The wind is picking up and the temperature is falling. Outside, dead leaves tumble across my lawn from the towering oaks across the street. Its finally stopped raining. My oldest and her husband are on the road here from Columbia while temperatures plummet. From Nashville my son sends me a screenshot of today’s conditions. There is a minus sign to the left of the number 2 and a bit of snow on the ground. They won’t be on the highway for home until Monday morning. Over all of these things I am powerless.

As I listen to the wind now lashing the house it occurs to me how powerless I am over a great many things. It is perhaps the most stubborn lie we tell ourselves, isn’t it? This idea that we are the captain of our own ship, that we set our own course, that we are masters of our own fate. Despite a lifetime of difficult lessons teaching us how fragile we are in this life, we have the amazing ability to cling to seductive things—and nothing is quite so seductive as the notion of personal autonomy. Yes, we have agency. We enjoy the gift of free will. But no matter how many wise choices we make in this life, there is nothing protecting us from random encounters with the laws of physics. Car accidents and cancer diagnoses—like rain— fall on the just and unjust alike.

I have made my living helping people plan for the future, specifically to see to it that they don’t run out of money before they run out of life. It is a wise and prudent thing to do. Besides, I’ve found that if a man doesn’t make plans, he will always become victim to the plans of others. But there is space in the planning business for that rarest of human qualities…humility. We do our best to be good stewards of money and resources, but we also have to remain open to the hand of fate. For people of faith, the hand of fate is translated… the will of God.

This morning I saw a beautiful photograph of a young woman who lost her life earlier this year in a horrible accident. There she was, bundled up in a winter coat, a knitted scarf snug around her neck, her hands covered in warm black gloves with a face that radiated hope and potential. Her mother had posted the picture. Of course she would. It was beautiful. I know her mother and father. I know of their great faith. But I cannot fathom the depths of a loss so overwhelming. I fret as my daughter drives home for Christmas. But for my friend, her daughter will never be home for Christmas.

But as I studied the photograph closer the thought occurred to me that I might have it all wrong. My understanding in this matter could very well be spectacularly wrong. Maybe…she is home. To my unbelieving friends this at best is a harmless fantasy, at worst a delusion of the simple minded. I can offer not one shred of physical evidence to prove my belief in God and an afterlife. I only have scripture and the tender urging, sometimes feint but never silent voice of the Holy Spirit…absent from the body, present with the Lord. It is the hope of the Gospel, that transcendent story that began in Bethlehem. One of the pastors at my church has a catch phrase that he is famous for…You go nowhere by accident. Its his summary of something that the old prophets said thousands of years ago…A man’s heart plans his course, but the Lord directs his steps. 

Something to ponder on this blustery day.

Dad Jokes—Christmas Edition

Everyone knows what tonight is, right? Of course tonight is the night before the night before the night before Christmas—and time for Dad Jokes—Christmas Edition.

How is Christmas exactly like your real job?

You do all the hard work, then some fat guy in a suit gets all the credit.

How come Santa didn’t sign up for Obamacare?

Because he has private elf-care.

What do you call a snowman with six pack abs?

An abdominal snowman.

What’s another name for Santa’s little helpers?

Subordinate Clause’s 

Incidentally, before publishing these jokes I ran them by a friend of mine who is probably my worst critic. Let’s just say that although she is quite talented in other areas, her sense of humor isn’t what anyone would call…robust. I would share her name, but I don’t have her permission so I’ll just refer to her by her initials—SHERRI MATTHEWS. Anyway, she loved these jokes. In fact, its safe to say that she was speechless. Her favorite one wasn’t really a Christmas joke but since she almost actually chuckled, I’ll end with it:

Did you hear where the Mother Superior down at the Nunnery has banned all perfume immediately?

She made it absolutely clear that she wasn’t about to tolerate any…

…nun scents.

Testing My Patience

I am desperately weaving in and out of the insane traffic between my house and Sonic near 6 o’clock tonight when I receive a text from my wife. It appears on the screen in the middle of what used to be called a dashboard. I read the words with eyes that dart to and fro at the red tail lights in front of me. Time had gotten away from us both, which happens a lot in the days leading up to Christmas. We looked up and it was time for dinner and neither of us wanted to cook or be bothered with going out to eat. The least obnoxious alternative turned out to be the short one mile drive down Pump road, then a right on Broad street, and finally a left into the Sonic drive thru. Pam’s instructions were bewildering:

Pam: PLAIN Sonic Cheeseburger (this comes without lettuce and tomato)- - with ketchup and mayo. Tots.

Perhaps it was the traffic or my hunger. My spoken answer was equally confusing:

Me: That text makes no sense. It’s contradictory. What do you want? Lettuce and tomato or no lettuce and tomato?

After hashing out this crucial point, I finally arrive at the drive thru menu board. Thankfully there is no one ahead or behind me so I have time to consider my options. I make the executive decision then proceed to the little window level microphone and speaker where I am greeted by the crackling sound of a Latina teenager, who asks me the question of the moment in a thick Central American accent: How can I help you?

Me: Yes. I would like a PLAIN cheeseburger with ketchup and mayo along with a…

Crackling voice coming through speaker: You want cheeseburger without ketchup and mayo.

Me: No no…I do want the ketchup and mayo.

CVCTS: Ok..no ketchup and no mayo.

Me: No dear…I want the ketchup and mayo. In fact if you don’t put the ketchup and mayo on this cheeseburger, my wife will not be happy.

CVCTS: I see. What you want is cheeseburger with ketchup and mayo. Is this right?

Me: Perfect!! Now I also want a medium order of tots…

CVCTS: Is this a combo?

Me: No. No combo. Just the cheeseburger and tots.

CVCTS: Combo would be cheaper.

Me: Perhaps. But we have water at home. I also would like the Crispy Chicken sandwich along with the medium chili-cheese tots.

CVCTS: Thank you. Your total is $15.95. Please drive around.

First of all, don’t judge me for ordering the chili-cheese tots. I’m very much aware of the calorie count and total absence of any nutritional value of this particular item. But before you go all Ina Garten on me, I will simply ask you one question—Have you tasted them? If not, shut up.

Second of all, what happens next tested all of my powers of patience and forbearance. My Latina clerk appears at the checkout window looking as if she was so bored a whisper of a wind might blow her off her feet. I handed her my credit card and she soon handed it back to me along with my receipt, then slammed the window shut. This gave me a moment to inspect said receipt for any errors. Sure enough, I see that I have been charged for one medium tots. No chili-cheese tots to be found. About this time the window snaps open rather violently and Miss Guadalupe hands me a bag. I open it and see a cheeseburger and a chicken sandwich along with the chili cheese tots (which I have not been charged for) but no regular medium tots (which I have been charged for). Needless to say, I am perplexed. I try to explain to her about the missing tots, but she looks at me like I’m some crazy Gringo with two heads. Soon a Latino attendant shows up and I try to explain the situation to him and he seems to get it, smiles effortlessly and takes the bag out of my hand while once again slamming the window in my face. I look in the rear view mirror and am relieved beyond words that there is no one behind me. At least I am not holding some family of four up from their dinner. Latino dude then slings the hapless window open and hands me the bag with a confident, “thank you!!” I open the bag and could immediately feel the hair standing up on my neck. Inside the bag was the cheeseburger, the crispy chicken sandwich and an order of regular medium tots…but no chili-cheese tots. 

At this point I’m trying to remind myself that they are only kids. It’s almost Christmas. I consider myself a Christian man. It’s my duty to extend grace during the difficult encounters of life. I’m trying very hard, but in my heart I know that there is no damn way that chicken sandwich is still crispy at this point!! Still, I take a deep breath and conjure up a smile…

Me: Excuse me. I see that you have included the regular medium tots but now there are no chili-cheese tots in this bag. Where did my chili-cheese tots go?

Latino Attendant: I thought you said you wanted regular medium tots instead of chili-cheese tots.

Me: No no…I’m rather sure I said I wanted both…(window slams for the third time during the middle of my patient explanation)

Another couple minutes slip by while my chicken sandwich devolves further and further away from crispness. Then suddenly an African-American youth appears at the window and I spot the manager name tag. He seems to be studying a screen carefully and with practiced skill. Once again the window buckles open with a rude jerking motion (perhaps it needs some WD-40 by now) and the manager speaks:

Manager: So, what you want is a cheeseburger, a chicken sandwich, one regular tots and one chili-cheese tots, correct?

Me: Thanks God in heaven…YES!!!

Manager: Ok, that will be $4.95.

Me: Excuse me?

Manager: Yeah well…we didn’t charge you for the regular medium tots the first time…

I wasn’t about to use a credit card to pay for one regular medium tots so I fished through my wallet and was surprised to find a ten dollar bill. 

By the time I made it home my chicken sandwich was the consistency of a dill pickle slice but at least vaguely warm. 

But the chili-cheese tots were absolute money! 

Before I go to bed tonight I’ll pop a couple Pepcids

You Don’t See One of These Everyday

I made the huge mistake this afternoon around one o’clock of venturing over to Dick’s Sporting Goods to do some Christmas shopping. The problem was that everyone else in Virginia had the same idea. The resulting surge of humanity resulted in me having to park three football fields away over in the American Family parking lot. While making the quarter mile hike from my parking space to Dick’s I happened by the most freakish vehicle I have ever seen in a parking lot at the mall. It was the sort of thing that was so bizarrely stupid and nonsensical, I just had to stop and take a couple pictures. As I was doing so a fellow shopper stopped and saw me taking pictures, looked at me and said, “I know, right?? Who would go shopping in that monstrosity?”

As I got closer I started to notice the absurdity of the thing. It bulged out of the parking space with one end and lapsed at least six feet into a second space. As I approached, I noticed that the bottom of the passenger door came up to my waist…and there was no step. What manner of human being would buy such a thing, let alone drive it?? He obviously is single. How would a girl get inside the cab without pole vaulting?

To protect his/her reputation, all of the windows in this thing were darkened—which I thought was illegal in Virginia. But as weird and jacked up as this laughable phallic symbol was, the best part was the thing hanging off the tailgate…

 So, this cowpoke is ready to tow damn near anything, apparently. I’m sure one of my readers can give me a perfectly rational explanation for why Bubba here needs a towing package with six different possibilities. But the question remains—why would you chose this thing to run by the mall? I’m thinking that if your rig requires two parking spaces, you might want to consider taking the bus. Besides, if this dude lives in Beaverdam or Montpelier, he probably can’t get to the mall and back on one tank of gas.

But, like they say, there is no accounting for taste. To each his/her own. Maybe this dude is seven feet tall and this is the only vehicle that fits him. Perhaps he runs a towing business. Maybe he lucked into it by being the winning bidder at a blind auction. Or maybe this was like a company Christmas Party White Elephant exchange that got out of hand.

All I know is that somebody sure could have used that extra parking space.

An Argument I Once Had With My Mom…

My Mom once told me to stop making breakfast puns.

She warned me that if I did I’d be toast; she said she just pancake it anymore. How waffle, right? I was in a real jam, so I learned to be syrup-titious about it. At least Dad, a cereal punster himself, kept egging me on. He was such a ham. Whoever sausage a thing?

When Mom realized how crestfallen I was she apologized. To which I said, “Omelet it slide this time.”

I can’t begin to eggsplain how hurt I was by her rejection of my puns. It was eggstraordinarily painful. It certainly didn’t go over easy. But Mom and I eventually hashed it out. Ultimately the yolk was on her though. I figured out that there were a brunch more meals to make puns about.

It was only years later when I discovered that she was laughtose intolerant. That’s when I realized I shouldn’t have Benedict about it.

I guess I should stop now. Don’t want to milk this too long.

Happy Hollandaise, everyone!

When Dogs Die

One of the great dogs in our neighborhood passed away yesterday. Our next door neighbor’s French Bulldog, Vander crossed the golden rainbow, leaving them sad and bereft. I’m not sure but Van probably was there at the birth of all three of their kids, so the loss will be even harder for the kids. Ever since I found out, I’ve been thinking about the dogs I have lost. The memories are both bitter and sweet.

Our first Golden Retriever was a beautiful big-headed blond named Murphy. Pam and I had only been married for a year when we got him. We immediately built a fence around our backyard to accommodate Murph. Although he spent plenty of time inside with us, he was largely an outside dog. Both of our children were born while Murph was with us and he loved them dearly and endured all of their horseplay with supreme patience and dignity. The first winter after we moved into this house, Murphy passed away on Christmas Eve. It was one of the worst experiences of my life. Prior to Murphy, all of my childhood dogs had been outside animals and would quietly wander off deep into the woods when it was their time to go, sparing us the sadness. But, there I was laying on a cold tile floor at Gayton Animal hospital on Christmas Eve holding Murphy close while they administered the injection. Nothing I had ever experienced in life had prepared me for that moment.

Twelve or thirteen years later it was our second Golden, the indomitable, never to be replicated Molly who left us after a beautiful life. She was without question the most loving, affectionate animal I have ever known, and easily the smartest. She was the unofficial dog of the Grove Avenue Baptist church 200 student strong youth group. She was raised in a house crawling with teenagers on the weekends and she quickly warmed to the task of being showered with affection. When she was diagnosed with cancer at age eleven we were devastated. The Vet told us she had two weeks tops. She made it three and only showed outward signs of suffering in the last 24 hours. She died in our arms on the living room floor at four in the morning. It was excruciating. I’m not sure that Pam has ever gotten over it, she loved her so.

Now, our crazy neurotic Lucy is only eight and healthy as a horse. She has plenty of time, but her day will come and it will be horrible. Its the bargain we all make when we introduce a dog into the family. God allows us the privilege of their company for a limited time, and then he calls them home. The joy and happiness and laughter they bring to our lives means that when they go home they owe us nothing. They have given everything they had to us, holding back nothing.

But with the passing of time, I have a different perspective of their passing. I think that it should have been a time of celebration. Our dogs lived wonderful, full lives. They were cared for, adored and pampered. They enjoyed the love and devotion of children. They spent their days sleeping in front of warm fires and snuggling with us on sofas. They truly lived their very best lives in our care.

As far as Van is concerned, I would tell those sweet kids that he lived a great life and I bet if he was given the chance to live that life over again, he would chose them…again. Why wouldn’t he? What greater life could there be than one where you are loved and cherished by your family? Would that all of us could say the same.

Trying My Best to Grow Up

It’s six o’clock in the morning and all is reasonably well. Today I have an audit to endure from my broker-dealer, which is always a highlight of any year. This one will be my first virtual audit…the gift that keeps on giving from the COVID Era. I suppose my discomfort will also be virtual.

Speaking of discomfort, I ran across an excellent dad joke this morning:

How do you say constipation in German?

Farfrompoopin. Except in the region of Bavaria where the word is stoppenzeploppin.

My wife will eventually read this and when she does I bet she will ask herself this question: “My husband is getting ready to turn 65 years old. When in God’s name is he going to stop with these juvenile dad jokes??” This is a perfectly reasonable question for her to ask. With age is supposed to come wisdom, maturity, and seriousness of purpose. I suppose it’s not a good look to be making bathroom jokes at this stage of the game. I mean, the country is 31 Trillion dollars in debt, our President is within months of incontinence, and people are dying in Ukraine and what am I doing? Inflicting cringeworthy dad jokes on my beleaguered readership. Well, I am seriously considering growing up…but first there’s this:

A dinosaur named Sarah opened a women’s clothes store.

She called it Try Sarah’s Tops.

You should never challenge death to a pillow fight…

Unless you’re willing to face the Reaper cushions.

The Air Force has built new missiles filled with strawberry jelly.

They are designed to jam enemy radar.

Learning New Tricks

I fixed dinner tonight. This isn’t something I do very often. First of all, Pam is a terrific cook, while I’m more of a terrific consumer. This symbiotic relationship has served both of us quite well over the years. However, there are times when she needs a break from the kitchen. She hasn’t been feeling great for a couple days and this afternoon came home from work with an ailing, albeit sexy voice. She had planned on making my favorite soup. The recipe was laying on the counter. I glanced over it and thought, “I got this.”

It didn’t seem all that complicated, just a bunch of slicing of vegetables and what not. I gathered all the ingredients and laid them out on the counter and got to work. Along the way I did have to bother her with questions—which was a pain, because if I hadn’t the poor thing would have taken a nice long nap on the sofa. Instead I kept asking stuff like…When it says one Tablespoon of Olive Oil, what kind of olive oil do I use?? There’s like four different bottles in here and they all say different stuff! She also had to remind me that the minced garlic called for in the recipe would be the kind in the refrigerator, not the minced garlic in the spice rack…that kind of thing. Nevertheless, once I got started it was quite fun. Cutting up the celery, carrots and onions was cool. I found myself making a game out of it, seeing how fast I could cut up an entire carrot without slicing off the tips of my fingers—probably not a wise move. The most time consuming part of the process was shredding up the collard greens. Pam says she always takes off the big thick veins that run down the middle of each leaf. That was kinda boring. Once I got everything chopped and in the pot I had around 30 minutes to kill. So, I got everything together to make the Red Lobster Cheddar Biscuits, since any idiot knows that you can’t have Black Eyed Peas and Collard Green soup without biscuits. Pam was ambivalent about the notion of me cooking two separate things at once and offered to make the biscuits herself. But, I refused her offer because I wanted her to rest and I was feeling it.

So I look in the pantry and see that there is a box that had already been opened. Pam had used half the ingredients a few days ago to make just five biscuits for the two of us. I look at the box and think…this is perfect. I’ll just half the ingredients and make another five. Everything was going perfectly. The soup was simmering and smelling wonderful. I had preheated the oven like a champ. All I had to do is dump the mix, some cheese and some water in a mixing bowl and get the biscuits in the oven. But when I started mixing everything up I knew that something was wrong. Instead of dough that could be fashioned into biscuits the bowl was swimming with thin, yellow dough-soup! I had halved every ingredient perfectly except the water. Pam calmly walked into the kitchen and opened a new box of Red lobster biscuit mix, and handed me half of the flour to correct my error. Embarrassing.

But, I am happy to report that everything was delicious. Pam’s voice is even lower than it was when she got home. But at least she didn’t have to make dinner!

A Thousand Words

My big brother is ten years older than me. He’s retired and lives in Maryland. He’s the oldest and I’m the youngest of the four Dunnevant kids born to Emmett and Betty Dunnevant. Even though our father passed away eight years ago, Donnie never fails to remember his birthday. Today he posted a short tribute to him on Facebook along with a very rare photograph that I never remember having seen before. From looking at it I’ll estimate that it was taken probably 60 years ago. I have been mesmerized by it all day.

On the far left are my grandparents, my Dad’s folks. Then Mom and Dad. Donnie is standing next to Dad, then to his right is Linda. Next to her is Paula, and on the bottom row is me, maybe four or five years old. Looks like we were probably at a picnic. Dad and Donnie were playing badminton. Almost everyone was wearing white so it was probably in the summer. It is an image frozen in time from long ago when we were all different people. John Kennedy was in the White House, still a year away from his rendezvous with an assassin’s bullet. My Dad was 38 years old, my mom 32. I look at my Grandparents and notice that they are the only ones not smiling. It wasn’t because they were unhappy. It was because they were both born in the 19th century, and back then people their age never smiled for photographs. I wish I knew who took this shot.

But there’s something else, something that I have noticed in similar photos from back in the day. Linda always is pictured holding tightly onto my shoulders. And behind her, our mother seemed to be holding on to Linda. I’m wondering if they were concerned that I might make a break for it and ruin the picture. And…what’s with my shirt? There are stains all over the front. Everybody else looks fresh as a daisy. Paula looks like she doesn’t want to get anywhere near me, afraid I might get her in trouble or give her cooties. But in fairness to her, I look like I am up to no good. But seriously, what was going on with that haircut? No doubt it was one of those at home specials, probably given to me by Linda who did everything she could to make me look like Adolph Hitler.

60 years ago. Its just the four of us now.

Attention All Husbands

I have been married to the beautiful and beguiling Pamela J. Dunnevant for nearly 40 years now. It has proven to be the single finest decision I ever made. Nevertheless, after all these years one would think that I would know everything there is to know about her. You would think that I would have picked up on all her unspoken idiosyncrasies, all of the non-verbal cues that woman are famous for. Well, imagine my surprise when during lunch with friends a couple weeks ago, I discovered that for 38 years, 8 and a half months, I have been folding the towels incorrectly. Not to put too fine a point on it but actually I’ve been folding them just fine—but I have been placing them in the linen closet totally wrong.

Ok, I should admit up front that before Pam and I entered into marital bliss I had never folded anything that came out of a laundry basket. when I was a kid my Mom did that sort of thing. When I moved out of the house after college, I shared an apartment with my sister who did that sort of thing. So, everything I know about folding clothes I learned by watching Pam.

So, there we were at Glory Days after church having lunch and the conversation drifted into the dangerous waters of stuff my spouse does that annoys me. Like any self-respecting husband who knows what’s good for him, I couldn’t think of a single thing, at least nothing that I was dumb enough to bring up. It was then that I was stunned to learn of my towel-folding inadequacies. Pam says to my sister, “Yeah, he folds them right but then he always puts them in the linen closet wrong side out!! Can you believe it?”

Since that bombshell discovery, I have been hesitant to remind her of my past failures. Consequently, this has been sitting on the floor in our bedroom for several days now…

…mocking me. Today when I was home for lunch I made a command decision that I would dive right in there and get it right this time. So, I folded the towels and laid the finished product out on the bed and tried desperately to remember which side goes in first??!!

This way??

…Or this way?

Then as I looked at the two options it occurs to me that having the rounded edges outward would perhaps look better. Perhaps they would also be easier to grasp when removing them for use. But then I thought…there are only two human beings who will ever see how these towels were placed in this linen closet, and one of us could not possibly care any less. So, this is all for Pam’s benefit and the benefit of her advanced organizational mind.

Which brings me to today’s lesson. Gentlemen, it matters not whether you are a newlywed or a 50 year veteran, there is always something new to learn about your wife. The key is always…communication. Everybody remembers that Christmas years ago when instead of getting anything fun all you got was dumb stuff like…underwear. Well, even Santa and Mrs. Claus have had trouble communicating…

Men, don’t let this happen to you!

An Act of Kindness

My back is better, although still not 100%. I’ve been laying low, taking muscle relaxers and pain meds at night to help me sleep. The most frustrating part of having a bad back is when your wife stops you from attempted even the most common of household tasks with, “Get away from that! Don’t even think about lifting that until your back is all the way healed!!” But the absolute worst thing about these past six days has been the fact that I have not been able to do yard work, which has allowed the falling leaves to take over, making my yard look like nobody lives here!

So, there I was this morning around 10:15 sitting at my library desk when I heard the sound of a leaf blower next door. Immediately I was jealous that it wasn’t me. But then I noticed that the sound of the thing was getting louder and louder. That’s when I got up and walked over to the window. There was my next door neighbor, Stewart Garland doing this…

He had blown all the leaves onto the lawn and was now mulching them up with his mower and bagging up the clippings. This man is a married father of three high energy kids less than 12 years old. It’s not like he doesn’t already have enough to do, but there he was cleaning my front yard like a boss.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is why we love our neighborhood and our neighbors. Its also one of the reasons why we still live in the same house we had built 26 years ago. I suppose its also fair to say that this is what happens when you spend almost an entire decade spoiling the Garland kids to death. Their dad has pity on the old guy and takes care of his yard when he throws out his back. No matter the reason, I am so grateful and thankful that I get to live in a neighborhood like Wythe Trace.

Good News/Bad News

What follows is a good news/bad news story. First, the bad news.

Despite two solid months of diligent work done clearing my yard of fallen leaves cumulating in the pre-Thanksgiving sweep, the relentless downfall continued over the weekend. I was informed Sunday evening by my ever-vigilant wife that the County of Henrico was scheduled to visit our neighborhood to pick up bagged leaves this week. So, when I finished lunch yesterday afternoon I thought I would at least make a start. I decided to use the leaf blower to collect all the leaves in my driveway into a large pile first. After this uneventful task I turned my attention to the back yard, where I decided that I would simply pulverize the offending leaves with my lawn mower and dispose of the resulting mess into bags. This took a little less than an hour. At that point, I probably should have called it a day and gone back to the office. But for some reason I decided to bag up the leaves in the aforementioned pile in my driveway. Once the bag was in place I bent over to scoop up my first armful of leaves when I felt a sharp pain in my lower back. It was excruciating and quite familiar…almost one of those seeing stars moments which may or may not have resulted in a brief face-plant in the pile of leaves. Fortunately for my self-respect, there were no witnesses to this episode. Once back on my feet, I eventually managed to get inside the house where I spent the rest of the afternoon alternating between heat and ice compresses.

I know what some of you are wondering. So, you went to the doctor or Patient First or something, right? The answer to that question is a resounding “NO”. Could I use a few muscle-relaxers right now? A couple decent pain pills? Sure. But in order to obtain them I would have to go to a doctor’s office and sit next to germ-spewing, flu-besotted people for half an hour. That’s a hard pass. Besides, I know how this throwing out your back business works having experienced it many times before. It’s painful and annoying for three or four days before it eventually works its way out of trouble and back to normal. I would rather suffer through the next few days than risk coming down with the FLU. 

So today, despite taking almost ten minutes putting my shoes and socks on, I limped in to the office for a while and actually accomplished a couple of things that were on my list. I intend to keep a lunch appointment at noon with a friend. After that I will collapse into my recliner and set my vibrating heating pad to STUN for the rest of the day.

So, what’s the good news? Well, the good news is that this back thing didn’t happen the last day I was getting leaves out of my yard…Thanksgiving Day. What a bummer that would have been. There’s always a silver lining to every dark cloud. Mine was timing…and the fact that there wasn’t anyone with their cell phone camera filming me in that pile of leaves!

The Blank White Paper Protest

Well now. It would appear that the Chi-Com government is having a moment. It seems like only yesterday that Xi Jinping granted himself another five year term as supreme leader, looking for all the world like an autocrat at the peak of his power. Thomas Friedman’s man-crush had never been more fervent. The next thing you know, there are thousands of Chinese citizens in the streets holding up blank pieces of paper demanding freedom. What in the name of Mao Zedong is going on?

It appears that the teeming masses in China have about had it with their government’s Zero-Covid policy. Apparently, even a population that has lived under communism for nearly three generations now can tolerate only so much oppression. Lockdowns enforced by armed troops is proving to be a bridge too far for a people who have endured everything from the Rape of Nanjing to the Cultural Revolution. 

It has always been a subject of fascination to me how any totalitarian enterprise could exercise autocratic control over a population of 1.4 billion souls. Just think about how difficult a time America has governing a mere 330 million Americans. And yet, with the notable exception of the Tiananmen Square protests of 1989, the people of China have been amazingly docile under Communism’s heavy hand. Until this weekend.

Still, if history teaches us anything its the painful fact that he who has the guns makes the rules. It’s hard to imagine these protests ending well for those brave souls holding up blank white paper…

A Defense of Family Photographs

After each major holiday on the American calendar, social media platforms like Facebook and Instagram become filled with photographs of happy families enjoying the day. Then, like the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, come the denunciations of these platforms as phony, guilty of painting false narratives of American life and, worst of all, the sin of being…boring. I wish to offer a defense.

Long before the internet got invented by Al Gore, if you wanted to see family photographs you had to break out the moldy old picture album. This thing weighed ten pounds and had loose pictures falling out of it all over the place. You would sit on the sofa with ten other people all leaning in to catch a glimpse of old black and white shots of your glum looking grandparents dressed in wool suits in the middle of July. With each turn of the page the pictures looked less bedraggled and just a bit more clear, but still very few frivolous moments. Back then taking pictures looked to be deadly serious business, no time for tomfoolery. But then, somewhere around 1960, the photographs began to show signs of life. There were more shots of kids, dressed in more comfortable clothing doing more normal things. Less posing, more smiles. With each turn of the page and each subsequent decade the pictures became more entertaining. Then suddenly…color. All bets were now off. It became a free for all of goofiness. Thats when the ten people on the sofa began to laugh and point and say, “remember when?”

But nowhere in even the oldest family photo album will you find somber shots of your Aunt Ruth trudging across the courthouse parking lot, leaving her divorce hearing. Nobody ever took a candid picture of your Mom and Dad in a knock down drag out fight over the family finances. There aren’t any photographs of your sister sobbing in her bedroom after her boyfriend broke up with her. No one ever thought to bring a camera along when the family dog got hit by a car and had to be removed and buried in the back yard. There are several good reasons for these omissions from the official record. First, its none of anyone else’s business. For another thing, why on earth would any family wish to immortalize their dirty laundry for perpetuity on the public record?

So, families have been careful what images they allow outsiders to see long before Zuckerberg came along, and I for one am eternally grateful for this discretion. Nobody cares or desires to hear or see other people’s dysfunction for the simple reason that we have plenty of our own to work through. When I see thousands of photographs of happy people sitting around Thanksgiving tables, I smile and am glad to see them all together. At the same time, I am grateful that they weren’t stupid enough to publish the screaming, alcohol-fueled political debate between Uncle Ben and Aunt Betty.

When I often hear the phrase, keeping it real, my eyebrows raise a bit. Really? Do we really want people on social media to keep it real? A quick google search of social pathologies plaguing the American family will disabuse you of any desire to keep it real. I’ll take the pictures of three generations of Smith’s sitting on the front steps of the house any day of the week and twice on Sundays compared to some somber testimonial to despair.

So, keep those beautiful family shots coming people! I love them all.

A Memory Painting

Pam came home with this painting a couple of days ago. She’s into seasonal artwork, and this one spoke to her in a Thanksgiving/Christmas sort of way. Like any painting it is best appreciated when examined closely, something that a mere photograph cannot do. We’re not talking Rembrandt or Picasso here. This was probably brushed together in a sentimental art factory owned by some Chinese conglomerate by child artists working 16 hour shifts for all I know. Be that as it may, whoever painted this managed to capture something.

I look at this painting up close and I want to walk through that door. I already know what it looks like inside because I’ve been there before. There are old, scarred oak pews with straight backs and no cushions and a single aisle dissecting the room. Its cold inside and I’m the only one in the place. At the front there is a mahogany sacraments table with a large bible opened to the 23rd Psalm, with two brass candle sticks on either side. To the left is a black spinet piano with two or three dead keys. On the podium sits a beautiful polished wood pulpit with a cross carved in the front. Behind it to either side are two high back cushioned chairs. Behind the chairs there’s a recessed chamber that holds a baptismal pool. On the wall above the pool there is a painting of a receding river lit up by an oversized ray of sunshine, a white dove soaring in the air.

 I take a seat halfway up on the aisle. The place smells familiar. It is the smell of old men’s after shave, of dust and candles. A memory drifts by of animal crackers, kool-aid and vacation bible school. I am transported back to a simpler time when bald-headed men and white-haired women rustled my hair and tried to teach me important things. I remember all the squirming done in these pews, all the restlessness. But now, I am still. My eyes are closed and I feel an overwhelming gratefulness for this old building. I attempt a quick prayer of Thanksgiving but the words seem listless and ineffective. So I stop trying. Instead I open my eyes and look around again. This time the pews are filled with my family. All of them are there, even those long passed. I see friends I haven’t seen in years, every one I’ve ever been lucky enough to make. They are all here in the beautiful old church. I hear the piano come to life. We all stand to sing an old song…We gather together to ask the Lord’s blessing. Suddenly I feel the warmth generated by the crowd of witnesses.

Thanksgiving is nothing without memories. And this marvelous painting has brought them all back to me this morning.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

Walmart Tragedy

It is Thanksgiving Eve in 2022 America, and I wake up to news of seven dead in the break room of a Walmart less than two hours from my house, murdered execution style by one of the managers of the store.

So, while I spend my day preparing for the arrival of family for tomorrow’s festivities, there will be a cloud of sorrow for the workers and their families who will never celebrate another Thanksgiving without the crushing memory of this tragedy.

It’s Thanksgiving and I Have a New Job

This being the week of Thanksgiving, I have a new job—Pam’s Executive Assistant.

Here’s how we roll here at the Dunnevant house. 2022 is the year that we host the White family for Thanksgiving. In addition, Jon, Kaitlin and Jackson will be coming for several days. Patrick, Sarah and Frisco unfortunately will be Thanksgiving-ing in Nashville. This means that we will have somewhere between 12 and 14 souls here for the big meal.

My dear wife has taken the liberty of an entire week off from her day job to devote to this task. Why? A few reasons. First, she needs a break from sitting around a tiny table in a cramped room surrounded by phlegm-spewing elementary school students. Second, there is much to do to prepare for the festivities. If you have ever had the pleasure of attending a holiday get-together at my house you will know that Pam does it about as well as it is possible to do. She tends to the tiniest detail, leaves no stone unturned trying to make each day special. This is where I come in.

I am the sort of man who struggles with authority. Starting with my parents, then several unfortunate teachers, then professors, then bosses, I have consistently resisted taking orders. Ultimately all of this authority resistance resulted in me starting my own business. It suited my temperament. But there is one exception to this rule. I have never had a minute’s trouble completely submitting to my wife’s authority when it comes to the issue of…hospitality. The reason is simple. She is great at it. I have watched this woman plan and execute dinners, holiday parties and other special occasions for almost 40 years now. What I have learned over those years is that this woman is a beast who knows exactly what she is doing. In the early days of our marriage I might object to this order or that because it seemed..well…unnecessary or frivolous. Back in my ignorant days I might challenge her on one of her crazier requests.  Not any more. I have learned that if she wants something done a certain way at a certain time, there is a reason for it. When the results are consistently fabulous at some point you just shrug and say, “I’m all over it, sweetie.”

So, if she decides that since this year’s meal won’t begin until 4:00 it might be nice if we have all the outside Christmas lights put up so we can do a grand illumination after dinner, guess what I’m going to do? I’m putting up the lights. If she needs to clean bathrooms, vacuum the house, travel to Thailand to pick up some rare spice that she couldn’t find at Publix, I’ll get on a plane. The reason for my happy compliance to every request is simple—I know how great it will be, how much happiness and warmth she will be responsible for by the end of the day. And even though she does it all happily, I know what she really wishes she were doing…drinking hot chocolate while watching Hallmark movies with our daughter.

Tragedy Outside of Paris

What an awful experience. There I was sightseeing in a beautiful small town just outside of Paris when I heard a loud explosion. There was broken glass flying all around me. It was a miracle that I came out of it alive. But when I walked out into the street I realized that the explosion was at the cheese factory down the street. It bleu cheese everywhere, the Da Brie was scattered all up and down the street. Along with everyone else, I stumbled down the street in shock until I came across Alfredo who was unconscious. Someone shouted, “I havarti called emergency services!” But unfortunately Alfredo didn’t survive the blast.

As I walked through the rapidly melting streets, being especially careful to avoid the sharp cheddar, I took a whiff of the dairy air and wondered if this was a queso fire negligence. But a local then told me that there had been a string of cheese factory explosions. All I could think to say was, “Holey Crepe”. I will cheddar tear over this.

Three Disturbing News Stories

Three stories are competing for my attention this morning. I read about the latest dangerous escalation of the war in Ukraine, a missile of unknown origin having landed in Poland killing two. Then I learn more details about the murder of three football players at the University of Virginia by a former player, a resident of Henrico County. Lastly, I am informed that Donald Trump kicked off his campaign for President in 2024 last night. All three of these stories give me a queasy stomach and play hell with my confidence in humanity.

First, Ukraine. If it turns out that the missile in question was launched by the Russian military intentionally, there’s big trouble in River City. Poland is a NATO member, meaning that any attack on her must be treated as an attack on all member states, most notable—us. This is the worst case scenario for anyone hoping that this conflict will not conflate into a European-wide war. One is left hoping that the Russian high command will rise up and take Vladimir Putin out. Meanwhile we pray that the Poland missile was a stray anti-aircraft surface to air Ukrainian missile instead.

The killing at UVA involves yet another young man who appeared on UVA’s threat assessment team twice earlier this year. Signs of trouble were everywhere in this kid’s background, with the clear and bright benefit of hindsight. He was a victim of hazing, a participant in series of fights in schools in Henrico County, having endured his parent’s bitter divorce during high school which was so bad he had to relocate to Petersburg to live with his grandmother. So the news that he gets his hands on a firearm and starts shooting at his former teammates on a bus surprises absolutely no one—which is the worst part about the story, that we are not surprised.

The Trump announcement was expected. I suppose there is nothing to be said about him in this space that I have not said before. The fact that he thinks he has done anything to justify a second term is a monument to his colossal self regard. The only thing about the announcement which qualifies as good news from my perspective is the fact that it did NOT get top billing on Drudge. The minimal coverage and lack of breathless hype might be considered a sign that even conservative news aggregators are tired of him.

Sore Monday

Note to future self: It is not wise to spend two hours getting up leaves the day after running an 8k. This sort of thing would have been self-evident to any normal person, but for someone like me who still thinks he is indestructible it has been a painful lesson. 

Now that this thing is in the rear view mirror I can now turn my attentions to the final six weeks of 2022. This has not been a particularly enjoyable year from a business standpoint. Bear markets never are. Financial instability tends to make other areas of life unstable, which for a person of faith seems hypocritical. Shouldn’t my faith grant me a measure of confidence during times of great instability? Yes, it should. To the degree that I still struggle suggests a certain level of hypocrisy. But I am a work in progress, always have been.

These next six weeks are full of great joy and great anxiety. The joys of Thanksgiving and Christmas do fierce battle with the anxiety of preparing for both. But isn’t that the way life works? Everything of value and worth comes with challenges. Nothing is ever easy…except one thing. Lucy’s life…

Sore Monday

 Note to future self: It is not wise to spend two hours getting up leaves the day after running an 8k. This sort of thing would have been self-evident to any normal person, but for someone like me who still thinks he is indestructible it has been a painful lesson. 

Now that this thing is in the rear view mirror I can now turn my attentions to the final six weeks of 2022. This has not been a particularly enjoyable year from a business standpoint. Bear markets never are. Financial instability tends to make other areas of life unstable, which for a person of faith seems hypocritical. Shouldn’t my faith grant me a measure of confidence during times of great instability? Yes, it should. To the degree that I still struggle suggests a certain level of hypocrisy. But I am a work in progress, always have been.

These next six weeks are full of great joy and great anxiety. The joys of Thanksgiving and Christmas do fierce battle with the anxiety of preparing for both. But isn’t that the way life works? Everything of value and worth comes with challenges. Nothing is ever easy…except one thing. Lucy’s life…

Team Dunnevant at the 2022 Richmond Marathon

 Yesterday morning at precisely 7:00 am I found myself standing in the middle of the intersection of 8th and Broad Street surrounded on all sides by my fellow man. It was an unnerving feeling, the kind of which I have spent a lifetime trying to avoid. It occurs to you that you are as trapped as it is possible to be. At the point of maximum claustrophobia, an eleven year old girl began belting out the National Anthem through an on-again, off-again microphone. To take my mind off the uncomfortable presence of so many people, I began taking a video of all of them. At the exact moment that my panning cellphone camera caught my own face, the poor girl’s microphone stopped working for the first time. My expression pretty much sums up the level of my discomfort.

Soon after, my 8k race began. I stumbled along for several hundred yards trying not to trip or be tripped by the million other feet competing for pavement. About the time I passed Miller and Rhodes—less than a quarter of a mile in to a five mile race, I realized I had to pee. For the rest of my race, instead of visualizing the finish line, I was visualizing a porta-john. 

This was a first for me in many ways, not having to pee, but running in a race. Not only had I never run a race, I had never even run with a single other person before, running for me being a solitary exercise I have always done for the single purpose of not gaining a hundred pounds. But several months ago, my son talked me in to doing the 8k version of the 2022 Richmond Marathon. He was planning on flying in from Nashville for the half-marathon and thought it would be fun. Soon, my nephews Ryan and Isaac were on board. It would be Team Dunnevant.

So, I spent the past several months “training”, not an official training protocol devised by Runner’s World, but rather a hodgepodge of my own creation, since I have never liked anyone telling me what to do. During this very unscientific training the best time I had managed for five miles was 47 minutes and 28 seconds. But yesterday wasn’t training, it was the real thing…and I had to pee.

My Apple Watch informed me that my first mile came in at a brisk 9 minutes and 5 seconds. I was quite surprised since it felt like I spent that entire mile trying to find a less crowded piece of asphalt. When the second mile time was announced as 9 minutes and 8 seconds, I thought that I should probably slow down since this seemed an unsustainable pace. The next two miles were mid 9 minutes. But when I crossed the 4 mile marker, something happened to me. Although my hips and knees were loudly barking, I knew from the race map that I had studied carefully, that the last three quarters of a mile was straight down hill on 5th street all the way to the finish line on Brown’s Island. That’s when I made the decision to break into a full sprint, or what passed for a full sprint for a 64 year old man who had already run over 4 miles. I crossed the finish line with an all-time personal best time of 45 minutes and 44 seconds. Then I promptly threw up. But, by the time I saw the large row of porta-Johns in the distance, all was forgiven and forgotten!

Meanwhile, the younger members of Team Dunnevant were busy. I soon found Ryan, who had beaten me by 4 full minutes, walking around the post-race hospitality area looking fresh as a daisy. Youth is indeed, wasted on the young! Isaac, the baby of Team Dunnevant and easily the most fit was flying around his half marathon course like making us all look like slugs. “Youth”, again being served. My son, meanwhile, was at the 5 mile mark and on a terrific pace. I was tracking his progress on an app he had downloaded on my phone the day before. Seeing as how he and Isaac still had quite a ways to go, I decided to head back home, shower off then head back later to be at the finish line for Patrick. In a cruel ironic twist, I received a text from Patrick around mile 7 telling me he was fighting a couple of cramps. He hates running when its warm. His last half marathon was in Nashville last November when it was a crisp 28 degrees at the start of the race. The heat was giving him a lot of discomfort and he still had another 6 miles to go. What made this text cruel and ironic was the fact that I received it while I was soaking in my jacuzzi, giving me a big time case of “dad-Guilt.” The good news is that Patrick gutted it out like a boss and was running at the finish line. I was super proud of him for his toughness and determination. 

Since this was Team Dunnevant we are talking about, Pam and Paula had prepared an after race high carb brunch and photo-session for all the participants.

I was told after the race that the 8k had 86 runners in my age division, which was 60-64. I finished 17th. I’ll take it, even if it resulted in vomiting.

Patrick is already urging me to consider stepping up to a 10k with the not so subtle reminder that the Rock and Roll Nashville 10k is coming up soon. I’m going to wait until every joint from hips to ankles isn’t hurting before making him any promises.

Election Observations

My observations about the 2022 Midterm election results:

- Having secured his third consecutive ass-whipping electoral loss, Beto-O’Rourke has emerged as the leading candidate to manage the Texas Rangers.

- The voters of the state of Pennsylvania have proven their Islamophobic credentials by deciding that they would rather vote for an incapacitated stroke victim than elect the first Muslim senator in United States history. On the flip side, Pennsylvanians have saved all of us from potentially embarrassing lectures from Dr. Oz on the Senate floor about the benefits of monthly bowel-cleansing.

- Stacey Abrams has called a press conference for later today where she is expected to outline the reasons for her second loss to Governor Brian Kemp. Vegas bookmaker’s have set the odds for The Patriarchy at 3:1, Institutional Racism at 4:1, and her plan to fight inflation by making abortion available statewide at 5:1.

- Despite being on the ballot in every state, Democracy got no votes.

- Under the category If you thought this election was horrible—Donald Trump is expected to announce his Candidacy for President next week.

Three Pearls

A couple weeks ago I accidentally clicked on an iHeart radio station called Classic Country, while driving to an appointment. I’ve been listening ever since. Eventually I will tire of it, I’m sure. Some of the songs are horrible, honestly. But occasionally I hear songs that are so beautiful, so achingly tender, so filled with pain and truth they stagger me. I suppose that every genre of music is this way, great melodies with poetic lyrics sprinkled in with lots of hot garbage. Just in case you’re wondering, there are three songs that I fell in love with. I was familiar with all three from years ago, but it had been a long time since I’d heard them. 

I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry by Hank Williams

Making Believe by Emmylou Harris

She’s Got You by Patsy Cline

Do yourself a huge favor this week, Google these three and give a close listen. You’ll thank me later.

Leaf Wars

Every year its the same. Starting around the middle of October all the trees in my yard begin shedding their leaves. There are lots of trees and lots of leaves. Oh, and pine needles, lots of pine needles. So, I have a strategy that has always involved a leaf blower a lawn mower and a rake, along with a meticulous schedule. I remove every leaf from my yard twice a week, on Wednesdays and Saturdays. I gather them into four strategically located piles in the corners of my back yard. Then, once the battle has been won, I call my man Tim Robinson to come haul them away for me. Its a beautiful plan that has stood the test of time. The reason I use the bi-weekly schedule is a simple one. If I just waited weeks and weeks for every leaf to fall before getting them up, there would be so many the task would be beyond my strength. So, basically I break the job down into manageable pieces. Like I said, its a great system.

But then, yesterday happened.

Leaves were everywhere. It was nuts. I had just cleaned them up a mere three days ago for crying out loud! So I went to work. In just under two hours The yard was immaculate. It was around noon when I finished. I took a shower and settled in for a delightful afternoon nap. But when I woke up my yard was ankle deep in leaves and pine needles! I couldn’t believe it! It was as if my trees decided to lose all their leaves in one day. What in the Sam Hill was happening?

Well, there was no way I was going to let this outrage stand. Yes, I knew perfectly well that if my neighbors saw me heading out there getting leaves up for the second time in less than four hours they would be laughing behind my back. Yes, I knew how Don Quixote-ish it would all look, but it was the principle of the thing. So outside I went. This morning I woke up to this…

Seriously? I’m reminded of the old prophet’s warning—There is a way that seems right to a man, but in the end it leads to death.—or at the very least, more work!

Evil in Iowa

It was early in the morning. I had just taken my first sip of coffee, just barely awake. I saw the headline and was very close to ignoring it in favor of a story about the Federal Reserve, but I made the mistake of clicking. I have not been able to shake it out of my mind since.

There was a 16 year old high school student in Iowa who had just received a bad grade from his Spanish teacher. He scheduled a meeting with her to discuss her many deficiencies as a teacher. He left the meeting having not secured any accommodation. His poor grade would stand. Then, he recruited a friend, another 16 year old, to follow the teacher after school ended. They knew that she would stop at a nearby park after school to take a walk before driving home. They met her there and proceeded to beat her to a pulp with a baseball bat. Afterwards they dragged her body into the woods and covered it with a tarp and some railroad ties, then drove her van several miles away and abandoned it on a back road. It wasn’t hard for the police to track them down after they discovered her body since they had boasted about it on social media. When the police took the boy into custody and asked him for an explanation he replied, “the grade in my Spanish class was messing up my GPA.”

There were photographs with the story…

Here are the killers. The one on the right is the boy who’s GPA had been ruined by his poor grade in Spanish. The one on the left is his accomplice. But, there was another picture, this one of the victim…

Meet Nohema Graber, 66. It was when I saw this photograph that I was overcome with what I can only describe as deep sadness along with an emotion that I’m not sure I have ever experienced before…hopelessness. 

This is the kind of story that will live rent free in my head for several days. I will ponder it and try to make sense of such a death as this. There’s just something about her face, sturdy and proud. She could have been retired, probably still worked either out of economic necessity or of a love of teaching and devotion to her students. But now she’s dead, beaten beyond recognition and left under a tarp by two boys capable of unimaginable cruelty. I am left to think about the human race and our limitless capacity for evil.

I ask myself, why this case? What makes it special? The answer is—nothing. There is nothing noteworthy about two teenagers committing cold blooded murder anymore. This is America after all. We are especially adept at this sort of thing. At least they didn’t use a gun. If they did all anyone would be talking about is the scourge of gun violence. Good thing the killers weren’t black or illegal immigrants. Then the subject would be racism and our porous border. But since this didn’t involve any of those things, we are left simply to contemplate how such a thing could be possible? On the other hand, because it didn’t involve either of those things maybe we don’t even talk about it at all. I stumbled on this story almost by accident. Have any of you heard about it?

This murder took place almost a year ago. It was in the news because it is finally now going to trial, the two killers will be tried as adults.

In all honesty, I have never been the most empathetic person in the world. Especially when I was younger I was much more tough love than a shoulder to cry on type of guy. My default reaction to hearing someone’s tale of woe would eventually involve an eye-roll or two and the advice to stop belly aching and do better. In other words, I’ve never been a bleeding heart. But more recently I have discovered a surprising well of emotion living inside me that comes out at the oddest times. Here I was, alone downstairs in my house before dawn reading this awful story and coming across this photograph of 66 year old Nohema Graber and suddenly it was everything I could do to keep from crying. Why? Why this story and none of the thousand others even more brutal than this that have come before? I don’t know. I have no answer other than the fact that I am tired, tired of the manifestations of evil in our world. I’m tired of people murdering other people in cold blood with no remorse. I’m tired of the death of innocents. Hell, I’m even tired of the murder of bad people.

The more I think about this case the more it occurs to me that I don’t know the back stories here. Maybe these two boys have horrible, idiot parents. Maybe they come from unfathomable dysfunction. For that matter, maybe this teacher is no bargain either. Maybe she was abusive and dismissive of these boys, maybe she was a terrible teacher with a vendetta against the kids. But whatever those back stories might be, none of it would justify this outcome. Nothing would.

My church is in the midst of a sermon series on angels. A question has arisen about why it seems easier to believe in the existence of evil spirits than it is to believe in angels. After this story I am tempted to believe that the reason people believe more in demons than angels is that we see far more evidence of demonic work than we see of the angelic. No matter where we look, evidence for evil exists, now to the point where even a story like this one hardly makes a ripple in our consciousness. 

But, I am reminded of the words of the Apostle Paul in the Book of Romans where he tells us, “Be not overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”

I’m trying, Paul, honestly I’m trying. But some days are better than others.