Three Thoughts From This Memorial Day Weekend

Notes on this Memorial Day weekend:

- Yesterday morning I headed out for another long walk. While still within the confines of my neighborhood I came upon an inspiring sight. There was a young father pushing a stroller. There was a boy in the stroller maybe 2 or 3 years old with a death grip on one of those cheap 10 inch balls you always see in big wire cages at Walmart. Walking along with these two was an elderly man, maybe the younger man’s father. He was stooped shouldered and shuffled along with the help of a walker which was making a terrible racket on the rough surface of Aprilbud Drive. I nodded at them as I passed on the other side of the street as a smile came to my face. Watching the three of them together made my day, if you want to know the truth. There they were, three generations making accommodations for each other, like you do when you’re part of a family. I’m sure that Dad would have preferred walking along faster without the grating noise of his father’s walker. I feel certain that the old man wished he didn’t need the walker. He probably would have preferred sitting in his recliner taking a nap. The little boy wasn’t going anywhere without his ball, probably would have been perfectly happy kicking it around in the back yard. But there they all were taking a morning walk together. I thought about them for most of the remainder of my walk. I identified most with the Dad. It seemed like just yesterday when that was me. But truthfully, I’ve much more in common with the old man. I might not be hunched over and using a walker, but my day is coming. I wondered about the little boy. Did he have any idea how precious a thing it is to spend time with your father and grandfather? What will this little guy become? Maybe he will be the one who finds a cure for cancer. He might end up being an artist or a businessman. His future is sprawled out in front of him for the taking. I wondered what it must feel like for the old man, what emotions were at play as he walked beside his son—walking his son. I imagine a mixture of pride, gratitude, and bewilderment at how fast time flew by from his days as a boy. 

It brought to mind this photograph, the only one of its kind that I’m aware of, probably over 30 years old now…

-  Speaking of running, yesterday I determined that I would replicate the 7 mile walk from a week ago for which I took lots of heat on Facebook by the usual suspects, namely, my sister Paula who opined, “What is this compulsion you have to push yourself?!? Good grief. Chill out.” I should point out that this is nothing new from her. She always has something snarky to say whenever I do something fun or dangerous. But, I must admit that she asks a good question. The problem is that I have no satisfactory answer to the question of why I have always been thus, always pushing myself to do better, do more, go faster etc…But, yesterday my goal was a second 7 mile walk, only this time I would concentrate of walking as fast as I could possibly walk to discover how much time I could shave off. The original walk took an hour and 50 minutes which upon reflection seemed embarrassingly slow. So yesterday I finished in only an hour and  thirty nine minutes…eleven minutes faster, baby!

So, what was the point, you may fairly ask? I’ll tell you what the point was—I set a new personal best time for walking seven miles! That’s the point! I proved that I can do better. Until actually doing it, the possibility of improvement is only a theory. The proof is on this little scoreboard. I’m sure that this explanation will not satisfy my opinionated sister or any of the other naysayers and worry warts out there who will warn me of future replaced hips and knees. They may all be right. To which my response is, so what? YOU go out there and walk seven miles at a pace of 14:11 per mile! 

-  Last night our social calendar was full. First off was a baby shower held out in Hanover County, then a dinner out with three other couples to celebrate a birthday down in Chesterfield County on the western end of Midlothian. Both events were great fun. The baby shower thing featured one of my old Sunday School students from the Grove days, along with his older brother and sister, also kids I was close to back in those youth group days. To look at these three siblings now and see their lives flourishing despite the considerable headwinds they have faced is one of life’s greatest rewards. But despite their hard earned adulthood status, when I see them I still think of them as adorable, fun and mischievous kids. Always. I suppose that will never change and I’m fine with it.

Batting Cage Fail

Every once in a while in my profession I am presented with a vexing case which doesn’t lend itself to easy remedies. I spend hours and hours pouring over the details, trying to pick the right strategy. Which risk do I want to remove? Which risk am I willing to tolerate? Whenever this happens I feel the need to do something sporty to distract my mind. Sometimes I’ll go for a run or walk 18 holes while carrying my clubs, anything that will wear me out because when I’m exhausted I stop thinking obsessively about everything.

So this afternoon I threw my golf clubs in the back of the car and drove over to Bogey’s Sports Park to hit a bucket of balls. It was nice. I hit the ball well and the weather couldn’t possibly have been any finer. As I was preparing to leave I looked up the hill and noticed the batting cages.

I have a history with batting cages. Years ago when I was just starting out in business and well and truly broke, I used to use my lunch hour over at the batting cages just south of Ashland on Number One Highway. Back then they had a 90 mph cage and I used to wear that cage out until I was dripping wet with sweat. Of course, now that I’m 65 my days of putting a 90 mph fastball in play are over. Besides, nobody has a 90 MPH cage anymore. Anyway, before thinking my decision through properly, there I was buying two tokens, walking up to the cages with a too skinny, too light aluminum bat and one of those one size fits all helmets. Upon arriving I noticed that only two of the cages were open…70 MPH and 80 MPH. Gulp.

I dropped the first token in the 70 MPH machine and prepared for the worst. To my astonishment, I only swung and missed once in 20 pitches, fouled off maybe 4 or 5 and laced the rest of them right up the middle. For a brief and unrealistic moment I let myself believe I was a kid again.

One more token. Twenty more pitches. I determined that the 80 MPH cage was my destiny. How much harder could 10 lousy miles per hour be? But this was when I realized that I was out of breath and sweating profusely. Yep. Still 65 and not fooling anyone! So I sat down at one of the picnic tables to gather myself. I noticed that both of my hands were red and raw looking after only 20 swings. Better loosen the grip on the bat, I thought. Then it was time to step in against Mister 80 MPH heater.

When I finished, my hands were stinging and cramped with pain. My shirt was soaked through and thankfully there was no one up there to witness my pathetic performance. I managed to foul tip maybe four or five. I did put exactly six balls in play—all ground balls toward the second base side. The rest of the pitches were giant whiffs. Pretty humiliating, but my strategy had worked—I was no longer thinking about my troubling case.

When I arrived back home I cleaned up, then opened my computer to check the closing numbers on Wall Street. Thats when I saw the picture. It had popped up on my Facebook wall, a memory from 8 years ago, back when I could have done much better in the cage…

It’s probably my favorite picture of her. We were in the Cayman Islands, getting ready to go out for dinner. I took the photograph of her on the staircase in the front of the hotel. I studied it carefully and it brought back memories of that wonderful week. She is elegant, graceful and approachable. Her smile isn’t forced or tired. She is charming and fun, the kind of women who would never embarrass you. Her beauty is natural, never overdone or showy. She is tender hearted and kind, always thinks the best of people sometimes to a fault. The best thing is…that girl belongs to me.

My difficult case will take care of itself. Later tonight when my back starts to tighten up and my hands start pulsing with pain, she will look at me, knowing that I brought it all on myself and roll her eyes. 

But, she loves me anyway.

My Seven Mile Walk Through Short Pump

I have been discouraged from running for the time being. Until I am able to get this heart business resolved it has been suggested that I limit my cardio to walking. So, that’s exactly what I have done for the past couple of months. However, me being me, I have turned it into an internal competition whereby I come up with made up challenges which I have to overcome, including but not limited to—ridiculously long walks and attempts to break personal best times per mile with each event. This is the sort of thing that drives Pam nuts, especially when I forget to bring my phone along and she has no idea where I am are when I’m coming back. Take yesterday for example.

It started off as a peaceful family stroll, Pam, Lucy and me walking along uncompetitively, waiting for Lucy’s morning bowel movement, which was a doozy that involved a PBM (poop bag malfunction), never a good thing. But we recovered nicely and continued on until Pam made the decision to head back to the house while I continued on. This was a baffling and exceedingly unpopular choice with Miss Lucy, who always looses her mind when anyone breaks up the pack. Pam was able to eventually wrangle her home while my real competitive walk finally was able to begin. Thanks to Lucy’s shenanigans my time for that first mile was an abysmal 18 minutes and 26 seconds! This simply would not do so I had to pick up the pace.

Previously in my walking adventures the longest walk I had managed was a 6 miler about a week ago. Naturally, I decided that today I would go for a personal best…seven miles. If I had run this idea by the beautiful and talented Mrs. Dunnevant she might have said something along the lines of, “Um, aren’t you working at Thrift this afternoon? Do you think it wise to walk seven miles on a day where you will walk at least four more miles in the store?” This would have been an excellent point—which I would have breezily dismissed. The truth is, it never entered my mind until she said that very thing when I finally arrived back home almost two hours later. A dramatic eye roll might have been included. I can’t remember since I was delirious.

So, I thought I would share with you all some of the many sites I saw on my walk. Lots of you don’t live in Short Pump so you might be wondering what kind of scenery I enjoyed. First of all, here was my route, totally unplanned, spontaneous and uninspired:

I should point out that I resisted both Italian temptations, although Ray’s Italian Ice was touch and go for a moment.

Over in the Shoppes at Wellesley I happened upon a new Thai place that I had never noticed before. The name alone demands that I give this place a try very soon.

Speaking of Wellesley, although I would never choose to live there, I must admit its a pleasant and beautiful place to walk.

Eventually my route took me past this monstrosity. Its on a new road that I seldom use so the place surprised me. Where did this place come from?? Its one of those Over 55 Luxury Communities, exactly the kind of place I wouldn’t move to if they gave me a million bucks. This one had the perfect pretentious name…Everleigh. How about Neverleigh??

When I finally got back home some of my favorite members of the Under 55 crowd had turned the street in front of my house into a horse barn where they had parked their horses, “Pickles”, “Buckles” and “Firefly”.

So, I finished the seven mile walk in a respectable time of one hour, fifty minutes and sixteen seconds. My heart behaved beautifully throughout. 

I suppose some of you are wondering how I did at my afternoon shift at the Thrift Store. I did quite well, working circles around Tom Allen, I might add, which is admittedly a low bar. However, if truth be told, this morning my body has registered several complaints about yesterday’s agenda in the form of sore muscles, creaky joints and uncooperative fine motor skills. But I intend on remedying the situation with 500 MG of Naproxen and this breakfast of champions:

What a Depressing Morning

I just had one of the most disturbing thirty minutes of my news consuming life this morning. Before I share it with you I must offer a caveat. What follows is not about ideology. It’s not just another tired right vs. left thing. No, this is more a fundamental analysis of the consequences of the choices we make in a democracy.

In rapid fire succession I watched a series of videos of prominent politicians doing routine things extremely poorly.

First up was our President. There was a video of him being walked across the White House lawn by what looked to be a General, who had a firm grip on the President’s arm. He had that stumbling hesitant gate and slack jawed facial expression so familiar to me from the last months of my Dad’s life. The leader of our country is in a diminished physical state and to listen to him speak there is ample evidence that his cognitive abilities have been reduced. To see him finish a speech then wander around aimlessly on the stage having no clue what direction he should go is a sad thing to watch.

Then it was our Vice-President’s turn, she of the incoherent, word-salad speeches punctuated with awkward and inappropriate laughter. The fact that someone so unimpressive and unserious is a heartbeat away from the Presidency of a man with a limited number of heartbeats remaining is troubling, to say the very least.

Then it was a story about a Congresswoman from Colorado, one Lauren Boebert. After running for Congress as a family-values darling, she had served her husband of twenty years divorce papers. In her defense, she wouldn't be the first politician of either party to file for divorce and certainly won’t be the last. But what was disturbing about this particular story was the personal histories involved. In their twenty years together, the two of them had a rap sheet a mile long! everything from indecent exposure and public intoxication to drunk driving and destruction of public property. While I am not a resident of Colorado, I suppose its none of my business who they choose to elect but…merciful fathers, what in the hell is going on with democracy in our country when literally anyone can get themselves elected?

Then, there was video from a Senator from Pennsylvania, John Fetterman, in what was apparently the first live performance of him doing his duty post-stroke, questioning a bunch of bankers from his position on the banking over-site committee. Honestly, I couldn’t make it through the four minute video. I felt extreme pity for the man, who spoke on maybe a fifth grade level…and that’s being generous. The man is a United States Senator.

Finally, there was this…

89 year old Senator Diane Feinstein is finally back in the Senate after a three month health related absence. In an interview for Slate magazine it was abundantly clear that the Senator doesn’t even think she has been away. “Oh no…I haven’t been away. I’ve been working.” When asked by the incredulous reporter if she meant to say that she had been working from home, the Senator doubled down…”No, I’ve been here. You either know or you don’t know.”

I happen to be a man who has a deep respect and love for the elderly. I believe that they deserve our best when it comes to their care and dignity during their declining years. But that does not include the reins of power. I think that it is past time for a Constitutional Amendment that places a maximum age for service as elected officials, including the Federal bench. We need to lower the working age and raise the vitality both physical and cognitive of our elected leaders.

As far as electing unaccomplished, credential-free candidates? That’s all on us.  

What’s Happening…current-ly?

I have an appointment this afternoon with an electrophysiologist. So, yeah, I’ve got that going for me. The appointment was set almost a month ago, so the details are a bit fuzzy at this point, something having to do with the heart and its electrical system. I’m nervous even though its only a consultation. The purpose of the consultation is to determine whether I am a candidate for a procedure that involves the use of catheters…so here’s hoping that I am not. 

Meanwhile, as this appointment has gotten closer and closer I have used attempts at humor as my go-to coping mechanism. Specifically, what would be the perfect name for an electrophysiologist? So far I’ve come up with Buzz, Sparky, and Voltimore. As far as catchy descriptions for the business? How about, “map it and zap it” or “the way to a man’s heart is through his groin”. 

Attempts at very bad humor would have been a better description.

Lucy’s Birthday Present

So, a couple days ago was Lucy’s 9th birthday. It seems impossible that she’s that old. Especially when she still has the temperament of a puppy…a quite befuddled and perplexed puppy. To mark the occasion Pam came home from the grocery store with one of those bones that looks like a cow femur…

This thing still has ligaments attached and everything, and I must admit that if I were a dog I would be all over this thing like a fat kid on a box of donuts. Lucy’s initial reaction reminded us of just how strange she is. She picked the bone up and carried it around through practically every room in the house while whimpering and whining. Don’t as me why, its just something she does when we buy her something like this. Its like she feels the need to give it a tour of the house before she starts chewing. Anyway, for the past few nights she has been gnawing on this bone like nobody’s business. We first spread out a large towel on top of the rug so she doesn’t make a mess. But it isn’t long before she has shoved it towards the end of the towel. This is due to the bizarre fact that Lucy refuses to touch the bone with her paws for reasons that will never be revealed to mere humans. When this happens, she looks over at Pam and me with this huge dorky smile on her face, wagging her tail a hundred miles and hour. Clearly, she expects one of us to walk over and place the bone back in the center of the rug for her. Of course, we oblige. If we don’t she will entertain us with incessant barking. Yes, Miss Lucy is a hot mess.

So this morning, I headed upstairs after my morning routine like I always do. Once in our bedroom I first made the bed, a common occurrence. Then I jumped in the shower. By the time I finished my shower and walked back into the bedroom, Lucy had done this…

Yes, Lucy decided that her boney-bone needed a special place to hide. What better place than shoved only partially hidden amongst the pillows of our bed? I should point out that this is Pam’s side of the bed.

We gave up long ago trying to figure out what color the sky is in the world where Lucy lives. But, oh do we love that girl. 

Mouseketeers

I must confess that there are times when I can be a little…extra, and not in a good way. Take yesterday for example.

When I arrived at the office I noticed that we had finally caught the mouse we had set traps out for near the Keurig machine. I could very easily have picked up the trap and walked it out to the dumpster around the corner with no fanfare. I actually considered that option for maybe two minutes, but then I realized what a goldmine I had stumbled upon. At that point I went to work.

First, I went on a tour of the office, making special stops at the desks of Lindsey and Brenda to make sure they were aware of the catch. To say that they were not happy with this news would be to engage in a massive understatement. Several curse words and physical threats were hurled my way. Talk about shooting the messenger??!!

The next step was to take a couple mouse selfies…

Then it was time to put our high dollar digital printer to work. The resulting 8x10 portraits made for the perfect surprise gifts for the ladies at various locations around the office throughout the rest of the day.

Out of an abundance of caution I have decided to take a personal day…

Naming The Trip

As of this morning at 10:00 am, our 2023 Maine itinerary has been finalized. We already had secured the six week summer leg months ago, but this morning closed the deal on the three week Fall adventure. Here’s the plan…

We will arrive on gorgeous Quantabacook Lake on the 30th of June where we will spend two weeks at the lovely Summer Dreams:

Then, on the morning of 14th of July I will paddle all of our boats and gear south along the shoreline to our single favorite Maine cabin of all time, the unprecedented, never to be duplicated, Loon Landing:

Four weeks later we will be forced to pack everything up and head back to Short Pump, where I will be expected to work for a mere six weeks before we do it all over again. We will arrive at a new cabin (for us) called Vacationland:

We will be staying at this beauty for three weeks, from September 23rd until October 14th. This place is on a body of water we last stayed on in 2016 called Hobbs Pond.

So, there you have it. In case you’re keeping score at home that would be 9 weeks in Maine for the Dunnevant’s in 2023. Just in case you’re thinking that this seems a bit excessive, you are probably right. The only good thing I have to say about the amount of money this obsession is costing me, it is still cheaper than buying a place, and until the ridiculously inflated real estate valuations up here come back to earth, this will be an every year thing. At the end of the day, its only money. What good is money if it can’t be used to purchase joy? 

The only job left now is naming the trip. Pam has taken to naming each of these jaunts to Maine. In 2020 she named our fall trip the Loon Landing Leaf Peepers. In 2021 it was the Quantabacook Quintuple, while 2022 turned out to be known as Six Loon Summer. Her excuse is that she needs a name for the shared picture albums that she creates to hold the thousand photographs we take. I’ve come up with all kinds of suggestions over the years but she rejects them all…Catching Fish and Bouncing Checks, Recklessly Spending the Kid’s Inheritance, and my personal favorite…Pretending That Lucy is a Grandchild. 

“What is man that you are mindful of him…?”

I have always loved this photograph. It was taken in July of 2018 at Pemaquid Point Lighthouse on the Coast of Maine. It does a nice job of capturing the feel of this special place. You see the vegetation in the foreground, the great expanse of rock and the churning azure water. But what makes this particular shot so special is that man standing on the edge of the rocks on the far left. At first glance you might have missed him but without him its just another picture of The Point. With him, you realize how immense this majestic place really is, and just how small and insignificant is man.

The Psalmist asked the question of God, “What is man that you are mindful of him, the son of man that you care for him?” Good question. When I read news stories about men who shoot their neighbors in the head for running a leaf blower, it’s tempting to answer the question with, “Man is a piece of shit.” But we are more than just the worst among us. Each and everyone of us is much more than the worst mistake we’ve ever made. We are all mixed bags of wretchedness and nobility. Still, when contemplating the size and complexity of the world along with our smallness its hard to find your place. The poets tell us that we are nothing more than a mist, a vapor, and our life nothing more than a breath. This photograph would appear to be Exhibit A in this regard.

But my faith teaches me that there is something unique about human beings that separates us from all of the universe…we were created in the image of God and each of us has a living soul. We have intrinsic value. We are not lichen or rock or tree. Much more is expected of us, much more than killing each other because we ring the doorbell of the wrong house.

When I was younger I had a hard time finding my place in the world. I struggled to find an answer to the What’s the meaning of life question. Becoming a father is what caused the universe to make sense for me. From that point forward I knew exactly what the meaning of life was, to nurture these little creatures into loving, caring, contributing adults. But in doing so I discovered other purposes for my existence. It wasn’t enough for me to care only about my own children. I needed to help others with their children because I needed their help with mine. That meant that I needed to care about their schools. I needed to pay attention to the neighborhood. I needed to start helping out with Little League and volunteering at church. I discovered that life is not and was never meant to be a spectator sport. The one thing that needed to be guarded at all cost was the dignity of each and every human life. If everyone I meet bears the image of God, I can do no less.

Some years I have been better at this than others. Occasionally I have fallen into selfishness, turned a blind eye to suffering and even injustice because I was too busy protecting what was mine. Other times I have been overcome with the scope and scale of evil in the world, and turned inward, reasoning that the pathologies running rampant in the world were too much for one person to solve. But hope is far too valuable a thing to discard. Even if we can only save one from drowning, we must leap in the water, even if that water, like the beautiful ocean off Pemaquid Point seems too much.