The Very Best News

So, I’m going to be a Grandfather. We got the news over a month ago and have been sitting on it ever since waiting for Kaitlin and Jon to announce it to the world. It’s been a whirlwind, so many changes coming in our lives, first retirement and now this! The child is due on June 5th and we are counting the days.

For the last few weeks I have been Googling pregnancy sites and the expansive baby internet trying to educate myself, get the lay of the land, that sort of thing. What I’ve discovered is that the way Pam and I did things over three decades ago was all wrong. Not just wrong but criminal, and in some cases potentially deadly! Laying a child on their stomach in a crib? What were we thinking?! Did you know that car seats have an expiration date? Apparently my go-to make a kid laugh game—“ride a horse to Boston, ride a horse to Lynn, be careful little baby that you don’t fall in!!”—is a non-starter. It might do damage to their spinal column!

So, I’ve got a lot to learn about being a Grandfather. Luckily, for the past ten years or so I have been in training with the Garland kids next door. We have watched the three of them, ages 13, 11 and 9 grow up. We have fed them treats, bought them presents, terrorized them with my leaf-blower and watched them drive their parents crazy. It’s been a wonderful apprenticeship. But we are ready for the big leagues now.

We will discover the sex of the child this weekend. I don’t care whether it’s a boy or a girl. I was very much invested in this sort of thing back when we were having kids, back before I realized just how miraculous any new life is. I’ll be over the moon either way.

Everyone Should Be So Lucky

What a week this has been.

It was spent wrapping up the last remnants of my active participation in my 42 year occupation, several last minute investments had to be made. Ironically, my last actual appointment turned out to be a Zoom call, an unimaginable concept when I started four decades ago.

Our office Christmas party was held on Thursday night. As usual it was great fun as we all ate delicious food as the insults and jibes flew around the room. We held our gift exchange. I got a bag of full of candy, the kind that few people over the age of 12 like, which seemed appropriate somehow. I make no apologies for my love of Nerds and Airheads. You find a good thing you stick with it, right?

Then something amazing happened. A wonderful lady at my office presented me with a gift that astonished me to the point where I couldn’t form words to properly thank her. She had spent no telling how long making me a quilt filled with all the things I love—scenes from Maine, writing, and my dog Lucy.

The ironic thing about this lavish and beautiful gift was the giver. When she first came to work for us she seemed like the kind of person who might not get along well with my particular brand of hijinks. Of course that didn’t stop me from introducing her to my shtick the first day she arrived. To put it mildly, it was a hard sell. She wasn’t a morning person and that’s my favorite time to pester my victims. After a while I finally was able to coax a stray smile out of her with one of my Dad Jokes which only made me double down on my pestering. I do love a challenge. Then she suffered the sudden and unexpected loss of her husband. Through her grief she soldiered on at work, and although I probably should have lightened up on her—I didn’t. Every morning I was over at her office trying in my clumsy ham-fisted way to cheer her up. Some days were better than others. So…for her of all people to make this quilt for me seemed like some kind of miracle. You just never know.

The next day, as fate would have it, was the day that I had promised the girls that I would clear out my office. There’s a lot of shuffling offices to come after my exit and they wanted to get to it before the end of the year. I had not been looking forward to this part of the deal. But, I made it through without incident. I threw away lots of junk, but held on to other things that I really won’t need in the future, but didn’t have the heart to discard. At one point it became painfully obvious to me just how childlike and immature I can be. One would think that a man who survived and prospered for over 40 years in such a grown up and deadly serious business would have collected more adult memorabilia…

Unfortunately, Cluck my beloved rubber chicken who I used to randomly stuff in people’s filing cabinets, didn’t survive my entire career, having disintegrated from overuse during COVID. I might have observed a moment of silence…

Then Saturday morning came. I had asked a friend with a pickup truck to help me move some furniture out. When I arrived at the office there was a letter folded on the top of my empty desk. I sat down and read through it and for the second time in three days I had tears in my eyes and was again speechless. One of the sisters who are buying my business had typed the most heartfelt letter I have ever read. Reading such an emotional letter alone in your empty office might have been an occasion for great sadness. But for me it felt different. I was overcome with a wave of gratitude that I have been surrounded by so great a universe of people, people who understood me, people who got me, and somehow loved me too.

Everyone should be so lucky.

Advertising is the Worst

One of my favorite television shows over the past ten years or so was Mad Men. One of the reasons I liked it was because it confirmed something I had always believed—that the advertising business is a giant con filled with the worse people on the planet. This time of year is filled with tons of examples of the absolute worst of the worst. I am bombarded with them every time I open my computer, use my cellphone or go to the mailbox. Here’s one of my all-time favorites…

What in the name of Estée Lauder is going on here? I mean what the actual hell am I looking at?! No freaking wonder this stuff keeps selling out! This 50-something year old woman on the left apparently has been transformed into a 21 year old by rubbing some miracle wrinkle cream on her face, if this advertisement is to be believed. And it has to be true, right? They wouldn’t be able to claim this if it weren’t true, right? The inventor of this wrinkle cream must have won a Nobel prize for this, so how come I’m just now discovering this miracle?

With the obvious exception of political advertisements, this is probably the most audaciously dishonest ad I’ve seen in years. Now that a significant percentage of Americans seem to have endorsed the assassination of CEO’s of unpopular companies, I wonder how long it will be before some violently disappointed 60 year old Karen turns up on Madison Avenue waving a Glock around?

The Murder of a CEO

I saw the story first when opening the Drudge Report the other day. There was a grainy video surveillance camera photo of someone in a hoodie firing a handgun at another man in front of a swanky Manhattan hotel. The assassin then ran off and hasn’t been found as of this hour. The dead man was the CEO of a big company who is under investigation for insider trading of his own company stock . My first thought upon seeing the story was —Why is this the lead story on Drudge? I mean so far this year over 12,000 people have been killed via guns in the United States alone. What made this guy so special? Over the past few days my question has been answered.

I’ve learned some things about the deceased, a well compensated (10 million in 2023) Executive Officer of a particular company which is part of perhaps the most despised business in America—health insurance. While the murdered executive was only 52 years old with a wife and kids, the internet blew up as soon as word got out that he had been gunned down in cold blood. The vast majority of people were positively giddy with joy at the prospect that the top executive at a health insurance company was taken out so violently. One of the most popular posts was—“Sorry, but my sympathy is out of network.” Stories began pouring in of families being denied coverage for their dying parents, the tediousness of the claims process itself and how its very design has the purpose of making the claimant eventually give up in exasperation. There were many comments about the billions of dollars in profit made by his company and the perverse incentives inherent in a for-profit health care system. There were even videos of joyous public gatherings celebrating his death and the promotion of the as of yet still unnamed assassin to hero status. The public reaction seems to be overwhelmingly pro-killer at this point, helped along by the only other photograph we have of him, smiling coyly from underneath his hoodie at Starbucks before the attack. More than one internet observer has made much of his striking good looks—for what that’s worth. So, what to make of all this?

I am very much anti-death. I generally am against going to war. I’m not a fan of murder. I’m even against capital punishment since I trust no one with ultimate power over life and death. We reluctantly give the police a limited power to use deadly force, but no one else. However, are there exceptions? For example, if I were transported back in time and given a chance to put a bullet through Adolph Hitler’s melon back in 1938 knowing what I know now, would I have done it? The answer is Yes. So, I suppose that makes me a hypocrite. But very few rules in life are exception-free. If someone broke into my home and was set upon doing violence to me or my family, I wouldn’t hesitate to defend my family—even if it meant killing the intruder. So, every rule has exceptions. The question is—should an exception be granted for the public assassination of CEO’s of unpopular and even villainous companies? And if so, which businesses would be on the exception list? The murdered executive’s company raked in several billion dollars worth of premiums last year. I have no doubt in my mind that they unfairly denied a lot of claims, causing many of their customers untold suffering and grief. But a quick review of the public record also shows that the company paid out billions of dollars worth of claims as well. If it turns out that he was guilty of trading his 120 million dollars worth of company stock on news not made public at the time of his trades he would have gone .to jail. But did he deserve a public execution and were those celebrating his death no more that lawless vigilantes? We hear a lot about how fragile our democracy is these days. Nothing would spell the end of democracy more than an angry public who anoints themselves judge, jury and executioner of any public official they think “deserves” it. Who’s next?

But, I don’t think it’s that. I don’t think that all of a sudden people have turned cold of heart. I think that we are at a fraught time in history. People are angry, restless, and disappointed in how life works out sometimes. Nothing is more upsetting than watching a loved one die for lack of medicines or treatment by an insurance company whose CEO makes more money in one week than his average policy-holder makes in a year of back-breaking work. For many people like that, news that a 52 year old multi-millionaire big shot at the insurance company got popped brings a sliver of satisfaction, a temporary balancing of the far too lopsided scale of justice. And while I can have sympathy for that sentiment I universally denounce it for the very simple reason that I have no desire to live in a country where vigilante justice becomes the norm. History tells us what happens next…(see Revolution, French…Revolution Cultural, China).

Having said that, I’m not sure I would want to be a fat cat working in the health insurance business about now…

They Had a Party For Me Today

My work family threw a retirement celebration/open house for me today at the office. It was one of those three hour deals where people stopped by to congratulate me and say thanks. There was delicious food and desserts and lots of wonderful conversations and fond memories—and I had been dreading it from the day they told me to put it on my calendar. Let me attempt an explanation.

The people who came to the open house are all dear to me. These are men and women who I have worked with for decades. They have worked hard all their lives and when they became clients they took a leap of faith and trusted me with their life savings. I have watched many of them go through very difficult times over the years. Some have lost a husband or a wife. Others have endured health problems of their own. Many years ago these folks were transformed from being mere clients. Long ago they became friends, which changes the dynamic, not only of our business relationship, but also of a retirement open house gathering. They all told me how much they were going to miss me. They have no idea how much I will miss them.

One of the strange things about this event was seeing so many of my clients in one place at the same time. Normally when I meet with my clients it’s a set appointment for which I have prepared. For the previous couple of days I had looked over their accounts and checked my notes from the previous year’s meeting. I had pictured them in my mind. This was different. I had no idea who would show up at this open house. I would look up and there they would be at the door, one of them after another. A couple of times a wave of panic would come over me as I would look up and see a familiar face of a dear client and momentarily—forget their name!! Readers of a certain age will sympathize with this embarrassing predicament, commonly referred to as a senior moment. Now I’m worried that they may think I’m retiring because of cognitive decline!! 

Through the years these people trusted me through times of great uncertainty. Trust so dearly earned is hard to walk away from. A 40 year career is hard to leave. But to everything there is a season…and this season for me is over and a new one is about to begin. I’m just terrible at saying goodbye.

It Was a Good Day

Thanksgiving is over and it was a good one. We hosted Pam’s family here at our house. Everyone seemed to enjoy themselves. The food was delicious and the conversation agreeable. Once again our dining room table was beautiful…

The day after finds Pam and Kaitlin out shopping and having a three hour lunch with Paula at The Daily. Jon is off birding and I am at home taking care of two very exhausted dogs…

Last night the four of us went to Regal Cinema to see Wicked. It was our first trip to a movie theatre in forever and the experience reminded me of why we watch movies at home now. (One bucket of popcorn and two large bottled waters for $26) Geez!!

Now I’m drinking a cup of coffee in my library looking out the window at the giant burnt orange oak trees across the street as they cast more leaves all over my yard. I currently have five separate piles of the already gathered leaves in the corners of my back yard that all look like this one…

Tomorrow I will add to each pile.

Twenty-six days until Christmas.

Hard Lessons

On two separate times in my life I have attended a function at the Country Club of Virginia, both of which were occasions of great discomfort. The first was a business meeting, the second a wedding. Twenty five years separated the two but the vibe was exactly the same. The source of my discomfort probably says more about me than it does the Country Club of Virginia. I will readily admit to a long held bias and prejudice against institutions like CCV and the sort of people who are most likely to be members there. I have always held firmly to the views best expressed by Groucho Marx who famously said that he would never become a member of any club that would have him as a member. Groucho needn’t have worried with regards to CCV.  He was Jewish.

The source of my CCV problem dates back to my time as a student at the University of Richmond. I was a townie who drove his 1966 Volkswagen Beetle all the way from Elmont to class every morning, each day passing by the beautiful homes on Three Chopt Road with their finely trimmed lawns and dazzling cars parked in curved driveways. Once I got on campus it was even worse. My beat up Beetle stood out amongst the BMW’s and MG’s of many of my fellow students who lived on campus in one of the gorgeous dorms that grew out of the grounds like so many mushrooms after a week of rain. UR’s campus screamed old money with its Gothic architecture and brick walkways. My money was always brand new, doled out to me every other Friday in the form of a paycheck I earned building pallets in a warehouse in Ashland while my classmates partied. I graduated from The University of Richmond…but I was never really a student there. The resentment that I felt was palpable and grew over time into something of an obsessive dislike and distrust of wealthy people. To this day I struggle with the same dislike and distrust.

The Country Club of Virginia is ground zero for my biases. Actually any country club will do, but CCV is the poster child for Virginia’s generational wealth. One becomes a member by invitation only through a mysterious process governed by some sort of star chamber of elites who up until the early 1990’s had never admitted a black member. The first Jewish member came just a couple years before that. When I turned off of Three Chopt road onto Westhampton Drive I felt like I was going behind enemy lines. This time I wasn’t driving an exhaust-belching clunker. My Cadillac would fit in nicely. There was a masterpiece of a sunset in the distance…

The reception was lovely, the view over the grounds from the elevated clubhouse was breathtaking. Men and women dressed in their finery stood huddled around propane heaters as the temperature dropped with the setting sun. The open bar yielded cocktails while tuxedoed men and women roamed the crowds offering us trays of bacon-wrapped scallops and spinach-stuffed mushrooms. It didn’t escape me that each of the attendants who waited on us were black and heavily accented, exactly the sort of people who didn’t stand a chance of ever becoming a member.

Eventually the crowd was ushered inside to a ballroom filled with beautifully decorated tables with linen table cloths and fine china. There was a seven piece band performing for our entertainment. Dinner was delicious. We were placed at a table with several people we had never met. They were all delightful. As is usually the case, I had a difficult time staying seated. Several times I excused myself from the table and wandered around the place. I smiled when I found several worn spots in the carpeting. You would think that for $75,000 down and $1500 a month the members could expect decent carpeting. Eventually I found the gentlemen’s bathroom. It was everything I was expecting it to be. No paper towels, just hundreds of neatly rolled cloth towelettes. The thought came to me that there was probably a 60 year old black man in the laundry room who had been rolling these towelettes 8 hours a day for the past 40 years. Then I thought of another wedding we had attended recently where we ate barbecue off of paper plates. We could have used some towelettes.

This was one of those weddings that husbands are asked to attend by their wives. The bride was her friend. I only knew a handful of people. But you go with her because you love her and she looks amazing in her dress. It gives you an excuse to wear a suit. When you discovered that the reception would be at CCV you sighed and prepared for the worst. That old ugly chip on your shoulder reappeared. You spent much of the evening looking for confirmation of every uncharitable thought you’ve ever had about country club people. But then the father of the bride stood up to make a speech. He was nervous, he said. He had written his remarks down so he wouldn’t ramble. He looked familiar. It dawned on me that they were members of my church. We had shared a table with them at a marriage class last year. His speech was an amazing tribute to his daughter and new son-in-law. He was a man of faith and his powerful words bore witness to that faith. He spoke of grace and answered prayers. It was a humbling moment. 

It’s funny how blind we are to our own sins. I have spent almost 50 years harboring class resentment, assigning a host of malignant intentions to people from money and inherited privilege. I stand in judgment of institutions like CCV for their racist, exclusionary past. I blithely belittle them with the accusation that they “woke up on third base thinking they’ve hit a triple.” Then suddenly I find myself a member of a church filled with the very people I have always resented. Some of them have vindicated every stereotype that exists for them. But many, like the father of the bride, have proven to be humble, grace-filled people. It has caused me to examine my resentments. I am learning things I never knew about people I’ve never liked. They are flawed, like me. They are insecure, like me. They struggle with the idea that salvation is a free gift and they wonder if they deserve it…like me. I am learning that we, all of us, have more in common than I ever thought possible.

The Letter

I was finally able to write that retirement letter I was struggling with a couple of weeks ago. It was mailed out several days ago. I like the way it turned out…I think. No letter as important as this one feels perfect. There’s always something else to say, something you wish you had worded differently. But it’s done now and I’m ok with it.

Cleaning Out My Office

The attic in our house is one of those walk up things that leads to a cavernous open space that stretches from one end of the house to the other. When we built this place 28 years ago it looked like you could land a plane up there. Now it is packed to the gills with the detritus of a full life well lived. That’s a flowery way to say—it’s an unruly nightmare. One of the jobs that await me in my pending retirement is to bring order to the chaos up there. But, there’s a problem. Before I can do that I will first have to add stuff because very soon I will have to clean out my office.

When I retire at the end of this year, Allison will be moving in to my old office. She has told me this many times. “What furniture will you be taking with you?” She asks several times a week. Not that she is anxious for me to leave or anything. They all claim they will miss me terribly and I want to believe them, but sometimes when I catch them in there measuring for drapes, I wonder.

Anyway, so I know that eventually I will have to decide what I’m going to do with all the furniture, the artwork, and the accumulated memorabilia from a 42 year career. I will have to empty my desk and credenza, sort through all the important papers and files I will need to keep along with my collection of fidget spinners, fart machines, water pistols, magnetic beep-making devices that I have employed over the years, along with my collection of remote controlled cars. Honestly, I’m not looking forward to it. Packing up an office into cardboard boxes is an activity that lends itself to introspection and melancholy. I would rather not go there. But, it’s got to be done.

Victory Has a Thousand Fathers. Defeat is an Orphan.

Recently I have been texting with a friend of mine about the election. My friend’s preferred candidate lost and he has been trying to figure out what went wrong. He has offered up several theories, some his own and others he had run across on the internet. I’ve been no help to him since I don’t pretend to understand the American electorate. People vote the way they do for many and varied reasons, none of which are terribly predictable. But as I was texting back and forth this morning I suddenly remembered an old black and white clip from a John Kennedy press conference back in the day. He had only been President for three months and was facing the press after the embarrassing and disastrous Bay of Pigs fiasco had come to light. Even though the CIA plan had been conceived and approved prior to Kennedy taking office, he took to the microphones with this gem—“Victory has a thousand fathers but defeat is an orphan.”

This is self-evidently true on so many levels. Everyone takes credit for victories, but the blame for defeat is always assigned to someone else. It’s part of human nature—the selfish, prideful part. We see this in sports all the time. A relief pitcher comes in with the bases loaded and two outs and gives up a hit that loses the game. Afterwards, when he’s interviewed by the press he takes responsibility for the loss with, “I feel like I let my team down. This loss is on me.” But then, if he’s on a real team, one of the other players takes up for him by suggesting that if the rest of them had done their jobs earlier in the game the outcome wouldn’t even have been close. Of course the opposite is sometimes true. A quarterback throws a crucial interception and after the game points out an error his intended receiver made in running the route, throwing him under the bus. People grow to love the stand up relief pitcher and despise the selfish Quarterback.

Politics is no different than any other endeavor. It takes a whole lot of things to go right to win, and a bunch of things to go wrong to lose. It might be difficult to find the exact reasons things happen, but searching the facts out is essential for you to have any chance of correcting the problem. Step one of any postmortem is humility. Step two is unvarnished honesty. I have no idea what step three is but I’m thinking that if after any failure in life you are humble and honest, eventually you’ll figure it out.

Officially in the Fall-Zone

Falling as an adult is quite the humiliating experience. You are busy with your day walking along the sidewalk in front of your office when suddenly you find yourself on the ground wondering what the hell happened. All you’re sure of is the fact that your hand is bleeding, your sweater is dirty and your ribs are sore. Lucky for you, nobody witnessed the event. You got up quickly, took a casual inventory of the situation and proceeded to make your way into your office bathroom to clean up your hand. As falls go, this one was relatively harmless. However, it does beg the question—is this the first of many? Probably. The calendar doesn’t lie. At 66 I’m told that I am entering the fall zone, that charming season of life where socks become tripping hazards, where the smallest stone can send you face first into the gardenias, and excessive house dust might send you ass over tea kettle down the stairs.

This, being the first adult fall of my retirement years, caught me off guard and honestly kind of hurt my feelings. This is now how I perceive myself or my physical capabilities. Tripping over virtually nothing on a sidewalk isn’t the sort of thing that happens to me frequently or…ever. My wife famously took a dive while we were in Maine last year resulting in a broken wrist, but that was a one off, Pam being one of the most buttoned up non-fallers of all time. Matter of fact in our 40 years together I can only remember one other time when she fell. Now that I think about it, that fall should have been a harbinger of sorts for the both of us since we both fell that day. We were on a beautiful walk from Camden to Rockport along the rugged Maine coastline when suddenly Pam went sprawling on the ground in front of me. She came through the event embarrassed but unscathed. I was quite solititous of her well being in the moments afterwards but then couldn’t help but laugh. She scolded me for doing so, as I recall. But then, not fifteen minutes later it was my turn. I went flying in front of her but hopped straight up afterwards sending her into uncontrolled fits of laughter. There was no, “Honey are you alright??” Just a lot of pointing and hysterical belly laughs—-“I’m not laughing at you, but if you could have seen yourself!!!”

 So, I guess now I will have to place —Strive to remain upright while walking—on my to-do list every day. Fabulous…

The Miracle of Ice Cream

Yesterday the Hope Thrift store was hopping. Pam and I arrived just before 1:00 for our afternoon shift. There was a very long line at the cash register. Pam, as a cashier, was in for a long day. When I arrived at my post at the donation door in the back the place looked like a disaster, boxes of donations covered every inch of floor space, my buddy Bruce was busy serving the three cars in line by himself. I have no idea what the occasion for all of the hubbub was. It seemed a perfectly normal November Saturday to me, but for some reason business was booming.

About an hour later Bruce and I had managed to restore order and finally there were no cars at the back door. When this happens I usually do a walk through inside the store to see if my limited skills are needed in some other department. When I made it through the swinging doors which separate the back room from the store I noticed something I had never seen before at Hope Thrift. The line to the cash registers had backed up almost to the end of the clothing aisle!! If you have never been inside the store before this won’t mean very much to you so. I will try to explain with a football metaphor—the line was the equivalent of 1st and 15!!

I walked beside the line checking out the facial expressions on the customers and was not encouraged. There was a lot of frustration. I tried some garden variety apologizing, “So sorry you folks have had to wait. I’ve never seen so many customers in this line before! Ha!” My attempt at light-hearted banter fell flat. I then glanced up to the cash registers and saw Pam and Lynn and two other volunteers who had been taken off other duties to help with bagging. They looked totally overwhelmed, but all were smiling cheerfully. It was at this point when the idea popped in my head. I needed to come up with a way to make the people in line start smiling, instead of plotting an overthrow!

I ran to my car, retrieved a small cooler I had brought from home for just such a time as this, and then walked next door to the Food Lion. Just my luck, the ice cream sandwiches were on sale. I got four boxes of 12 for a grand total of $13.49!! I paid for them and proceeded to open up each box and stuff the proceeds into the cooler while the attendant looked at me with bewilderment. “What’s ya doin?” She asked after seeing my Hope Thrift volunteer badge. “You taking those to the thrift?” 

“Yes,” I answered. “But not all of them.” Then I handed her one and said “Wish me luck!”

Once I made it back to the store the first place I went was the very back of the line where I began offering everyone a free ice cream sandwich. The first guy looked very suspicious of my intentions. “How much?” He asked. “They’re free,” I explained. The man dismissed me with a two word response I heard no fewer than a half dozen times over the next 30 minutes—“I’m diabetic.”

But as I made my way through the line I began to have more success. A few ladies who had initially balked because of some diet they were on, eventually couldn’t resist the price or my roguish charms. As more and more people took the ice cream I noticed other shoppers trying to figure out what was going on. Soon I was handing out ice cream to smiling people like it was my job. In less than 30 minutes I had given away 48 ice cream sandwiches and a quick inspection of the still long checkout line revealed a total 180 change in attitude. People were smiling, talking to each other, proving once again the scientific fact that it is impossible to be in a bad mood and eat ice cream at the same time.

The lines never thinned all afternoon. Pam had virtually no time to visit with the other volunteers because of the sheer volume of customers in the store. We were both exhausted by the time the place closed. But what incredible fun it was to see the looks on people’s faces at the spectacle of being handed free ice cream from a weirdly aggressive and overly friendly man who probably looked like he was off his medication. But you know who didn’t give me the suspicious side eye? The kids. I would offer one to a Mom and she would say, “No, but that’s my son over there. He would love one!” When I offered the kids ice cream I always got an immediate smile and a huge Thanks!!, or No Way!! There’s a lesson there somewhere, I think.

Who is my Neighbor?

The election is finally over. Emotions are raw. One of the two predictions I made came true, Trump winning easily. My Trump friends are triumphant, my Harris friends are depressed. I am neither which brings with it an odd feeling of detached guilt—shouldn’t I be able to conjure some sort of more fitting emotional response? Yes…I believe I should. Perhaps the reason I can’t has something to do with what I have done for a living these past 40+ years. 

When you advise people about their money you spend a lot of time managing people’s emotions. This was the tenth Presidential election year of my career and in each of them I have had to deal with partisan clients who were heavily invested in one candidate or another. We would have conversations leading up to Election Day that sounded like this:

Client: Doug, if my candidate loses I’m going to pull all of my money out of the market because the other guy will be a disaster!!

Me: That would be unwise. History tells us that the markets are quite resilient to changes in politics. Please don’t do that.

It happened when Bill Clinton ran for office. It happened when George Bush ran. It happened when Obama ran and each time that Trump has run. Each new President terrifies the losing candidate’s partisans. My job is always to talk my scared clients down from the ledge. With the benefits of hindsight, virtually none of the dire predictions of calamity ended up being true, so my moderating advice was vindicated. While it is certainly true that Presidents have tons of influence and do make a difference, it is never as much as we are led to believe during the heat and panic of an election.

Some will say that this time it’s different. This time we are more divided. The influence of social media has exasperated the divides. Trump is uniquely evil etc etc.

Maybe. Maybe not. Time will tell.

Regardless of the outcome of the election I still operate under the two great mandates of my faith—to love God with all my heart mind and soul, and my neighbor as myself. That’s a lot on my plate. I find nothing in scripture in the form of dispensation from the loving my neighbor as myself part that allows me to exempt those who voted for Trump or Harris. Who is my neighbor? Pretty much everyone.

I’ll be busy trying my best to be faithful to that command.

A Timely Speech

Pam gave me this book for Valentine’s Day. And yes, leather bound, gold leaf classic books are very sexy. This one is a collection of every important speech given by anyone in this country's history, which is why it's so thick. It starts with John Hancock's On the Boston Massacre, and ends with Barack Obama's first innaugural address. For a history geek such as myself, this thing is like finding the Holy Grail.

Anyway, I've been making my way through this thing slowly, savoring every detail. There's the combative stem winder from Patrick Henry, Give Me Liberty or Give Me Death, and believe me...the dude meant it! There's Samuel Adams' bomb throwing classic, American Independence. You read enough of these founding father Patriots and you'll be ready to gather up all your Downton Abbey DVDs and feed them through a shredder!

Then I ran into the brick wall of George Washington's Farewell Address to the People of the United States. I feel like I had read this once before back in college when I was too ignorant to appreciate it, too clever to understand. Every word is a treasure. Every warning contained in it has proved prescient, each observation wise beyond comprehension. 

The great man starts by voluntarily relinquishing power, something unheard of in the age of kings. After demonstating for us the cornerstone of republican governance, he sets about saying good-bye to the nation he loves and has faithfully served for 45 years of his life. To read his words is to be humbled that such a man as this ever existed, to read his words is to be reminded of how far we have fallen. 

After a couple of pages of genuine humility where he begs the indulgence of his listeners for his many flaws, he sets out with warnings of what he sees as potential pitfalls for the American experiment in self government. First, he warns against anyone or anything that might come against the union. Regional and sectarian interests should be sacrificed for the greater good of unity. Then he rails against the danger of parties, that despicable notion of federalist and republicans, Whigs, and whatever other factions within government that had arisen in his time. Then, out of nowhere I read this:

"This spirit, unfortunately, is inseparable from our nature, having its root in the strongest passions of the human mind. The alternate domination of one faction over another, sharpened by the spirit of revenge natural to party dissension, which in different ages and countries has perpetuated the most horrid enormities, is itself a frightful despotism. The disorders and miseries which result gradually incline the minds of men to seek security and repose in the absolute power of an individual; and sooner or later the chief of some prevailing faction, more able or more fortunate than his competitors, turns this disposition to the purposes of his own elevation on the ruins of public Liberty."

Donald Trump, call your office.

About halfway through Washington's farewell address it starts to get spooky. It's as if you have stumbled onto something written by a time traveler. It's like old George somehow was teleported from Mount Vernon into  21st century America, took a look around, then teleported back to 1796 and started wearing out about five quills, furiously scribbling out this amazing speech. How else to explain the timeliness of his warnings?

After warning his future countrymen against enemies of the Union and the pernicious influence of factions, he then ventures into the issue of the bureaucratic state:

" It is important, likewise, that the habits of thinking in a free country should inspire caution in those entrusted with its administration to confine themselves within their respective constitutional spheres, avoiding in the exercise of the powers of one department to encroach upon another. The spirit of encroachment tends to consolidate the powers of all the departments in one and thus to create a real despotism."

Yeah, no kidding!!

Concerning the place of religion and morality among a free nation Washington offers this nugget:

" Let it be simply asked, where is the security for property, for reputation, for life, if the sense of religious obligation desert the oaths which are the instruments of investigation in courts of Justice? And let us with caution indulge the supposition that morality can be maintained without religion...reason and experience both forbid us to expect that national morality can prevail in exclusion of religious principles."

Then, our founding father begins to sound exactly like a regular old father when speaking about the subject of finances:

" As a very important source of strength and security, cherish public credit. One method of preserving it is to use it as sparingly as possible...avoiding the accumulation of debt, not only by shunning occasions of expense, but by vigorous exertions in time of peace to discharge the debts which unavoidable wars have occasioned."

Something tells me that the time traveling Washington never caught a glimpse of our debt clock, because surely the sum of 30 trillion would have literally killed him.

When he finally turns his attention to foreign policy, he begins to get quite worked up:

" Against the insidious wiles of foreign influence( I conjure you to believe me,fellow-citizens), the jealously of a free people ought to be constantly awake.

Whoa, settle down George! But, he wasn't finished. He proceeds to plead with us to avoid entangling alliances...especially with the Europeans:

" Europe has a set of primary interests, which to us have none or a very remote relation. Hence she must be engaged in frequent controversies. Hence therefore it must be unwise in us to implicate ourselves, by artificial ties, in the ordinary vicissitudes of her politics."

Vicissitudes, indeed Mr. President! Substitute Israel or any other Middle Eastern nation for "Europe" in the above paragraph and you've essential got Rand Paul's foreign policy!

George Washington was no saint. He was a slave owner, and as President sometimes failed to follow his own advice. But, he was a great man. One of the things that made him great was that rarest of traits in great public figures...genuine humility. When listening to the candidates for president speak on the campaign trail, I long to hear from anyone of them something approaching this:

" In reviewing the incidents of my administration, I am unconscious of intentional error, I am nevertheless too sensible of my defects not to think it probable that I may have committed many errors. Whatever they may be, I fervently beseech the Almighty to avert or mitigate the evils to which they may tend. I shall also carry with me the hope that my country will never cease to view them with indulgence and that, after forty-five years of my life dedicated to its service with upright zeal, the faults of incompetent abilities will be consigned to oblivion, as myself must soon be to the mansions of rest."

A true Patriot will find it difficult to read that paragraph without a lump in the throat. God bless you, Mr. President. May we be worthy of the nation born of your tireless efforts. And may those who aspire to lead us in this day learn from the matchless example of your character.

Election Prediction

Big election tomorrow. There are lots of polls out there saying conflicting things. Nobody really knows how it’s going to turn out. But none of this uncertainty is going to stop me from offering my decidedly unscientific prediction. So…after minutes of thought with heavy reliance on my gut instincts, trick knee, and a close inspection of the tea leaves, I have been able to narrow it down to two possible outcomes, which as far as predictions go, is better than nothing.

Outcome #1

In a stunning development that sends shock waves across the American political landscape, Donald Trump wins in a landslide, winning 58% of the vote and over 300 electoral votes, buoyed by a record turnout among white men. The New York Times headline on Wednesday morning screams, Revenge of the Angry White Male. Terrified at the prospect of the first female president and convinced that their country was being overtaken by transsexual illegal immigrants, white men turn out in record numbers, baffling pollsters and pundits alike. The Atlantic magazine publishes a story calling it The White Wave, while Time Magazine dubs the Angry White Male Person of the Year. 

Outcome #2

Despite being behind most of the night, Kamala Harris wins a narrow victory when a tide of Democratic votes come in after midnight, giving her 52% of the popular vote and a narrow electoral college victory. Donald Trump immediately declares the election rigged and demands that every election worker in states that he lost be arrested. Americans wake up on Wednesday morning to riots in most major cities, declarations of war from militia groups across the country, and the news that Donald Trump has set up a Government in Exile in Mar-a-Lago.

Although most of this blogpost is very much tongue-in-cheek, the fact that both of these outcomes seem totally believable to me—makes this post perhaps this most scandalous thing I’ve ever written.

No

We’re almost done with October. The days are getting shorter and after this weekend darkness will fall earlier, a sign of the approach of winter. My retirement looms, less than 60 days away. The closer it gets the greater the weight of expectation. What will it feel like? Adding to this growing sense of tension is next week’s Election Day. There was a time when the only question that accompanied this day was the identity of the winner. Those days are long gone. Now the larger question is—will the loser throw a petulant fit and call on half the country to deny the results? Will the loser accuse the winner of fraud and throw the country into the type of post-election chaos usually associated with banana republics? Your guess is as good as mine.

I recently received some blowback from my son on my decision to not cast a Presidential ballot. I always take his criticisms seriously because my boy is smart and often makes compelling points. Plus, this particular disagreement was done politely and with respect. He sent me a video clip of the latest example of Trump saying some outrageous thing on the Joe Rogan Podcast with the statement, “I’d like to think that this statement would be enough to persuade any libertarian-minded person to not sit on the sidelines, but to actively vote against this person.” I then pressed play and listened. It was Trump positively glowing with admiration for China’s Communist dictator and his “brilliance” for being able to rule over a billion people with such an iron fist. I agreed that it was outrageous, but no more outrageous than a dozen other inanities that have flown out of his mouth during this interminable campaign. What my son’s issue  is was this notion of why and how we vote—what exactly is our responsibility as citizens?

In America we have a two party system. Our choices on Election Day are confined to a Democrat and a Republican. Yes, there are occasionally other candidates on the ballot—Green Party, the Libertarians, but they are largely for decoration and have no impact on the outcome. So, what happens if you look at the two choices and think that neither should be allowed within a country mile of the Oval Office? Most people will say, “Well, you have to vote for the lesser of two evils, the one who will do the less harm.” The one issue voters out there essentially believe that as long as a candidate is sufficiently pro-life or Anti-gun or whatever their big issue is, they would vote for the devil himself. Still others will cast their vote because they are loyal party people…I’d vote for a rabid dog as long as he’a a democrat!

I take a different view. My personal opinion is that only one of the candidates in this race is dangerously unstable—Donald Trump. He has run for President three times now and I am proud of the fact that he has never once received my vote. However, voting for his opponent would mean I would be voting for someone with absolutely no qualifications to be President…of anything. This is a woman who a short four months ago was considered a drag on the Democratic ticket, a lightweight and accomplishment-free Vice-President who was an almost daily disappointment to Democrats every time she opened her mouth to speak. Then—suddenly—the day that Joe Biden pulled out of the race, the national media did the quickest and most dizzying about face in the history of politics. All of a sudden Kamala Harris became the reincarnation of Queen Elizabeth I. She was morphed over night from a cackling, word-salad spewing embarrassment into the Candidate of Joy. The non-stop fawning coverage felt Manchurian to this observer. While Donald Trump might be the candidate of the enraged right, Kamala Harris will owe her life to whatever group of party elites anointed her—an honest to God puppet of the Democratic Party ruling class— the same people who have ushered in so much of the current level of social issue foolishness plaguing the nation. Voting for her might be a repudiation of Trump, but it would also be a tacit acceptance of her and the process that produced her. 

When I enter a voting booth I am presented with often uninspired choices. This time I will be asked for my vote in several different races, President, Congress, Senate etc…In the past I have cast some votes with great conviction, convinced I was making a wise and informed choice. Other times I have held my nose and voted for the lesser disaster. No more. By voting for neither of the Presidential candidates I am exercising my right to vote No. NO. I refuse to accept that a nation of nearly 300 million people, a nation of such great goodness and accomplishment could possibly present us with so ridiculous a choice. It is simply unacceptable. I refuse to validate this state of affairs with anything other than a resounding…no.

Who to Vote For?

Yesterday morning I had just gotten back from a fast 5 mile walk and was trying to stretch out my sore back when I heard the doorbell ring. I was upstairs so I gazed down through the Palladian window at the top of the stairs and saw the earnest young woman loaded down with brochures. Lucy was doing her best to warn me of the grave, existential danger I was in because of this stranger’s presence on my front steps. I knew that there was no danger…just a pending awkward encounter with an eager political volunteer. Whenever this happens in the days leading up to an election I confront a mixed bag of emotions, parts annoyance and admiration. I quickly walked down the stairs and opened the door.

“Hello there,” my perky volunteer smiled. “May I speak with Kaitlin Dunnevant?”

It was at this point when my reply instantly formed in my head and forced its way through my lips without pausing, like some sort of hereditary involuntary impulse…

“You just missed her. She moved out 12 years ago!”

The perky volunteer blushed briefly while searching through her oversized cell phone to check, but recovered nicely with, “Well sir, are you planning to vote in the upcoming election?”

This was a question fraught with peril, since I had no interest in entering into a political debate with a total stranger, but I answered as honestly as I could.

“I won’t be voting for either Presidential candidate, but I will vote for a few of the other races, I suppose.”

“Excellent,” she pivoted, “I am here to urge you to consider voting for Leslie Mehta for Congress.” This was a name I had never encountered until this moment, an indictment of either my poor citizenship or this candidate’s ineffective campaign.

She then handed me a small flyer and added the reason that I should do so—“She is a smart, reasonable woman who cares about improving the lives of her constituents.” There was no mention of her opponent, no listing of credentials or qualifications that Ms. Mehta brings to the table, no word about her race, or marital status. Just the decidedly boring…reasonable modifier. Then she thanked me for speaking with her and as she started down the steps turned back toward me and said—“I’m sorry to hear about your Presidential vote but honestly, I completely understand. I’ve heard that from so many other people. It’s really sad, isn’t it?” There was no attempt to change my mind, no follow up question to dig deeper into my reasoning. Just a knowing acknowledgment of the truth.

I will explain the reasoning of my “No Vote” in an upcoming blogpost next week. But for now my reply to the volunteer was, “Yes…it is sad.”

Trying to Write a Letter

One of my tasks for this week is to write my official retirement communication, to be sent out to every client. It’s essentially my last letter to the three hundred or so people who I have served for the past 42 years. As someone who has written hundreds of letters, nearly 3000 blog posts, twenty-six short stories, and am about to wrap up my fifth novel, you would think that one more letter would be a cinch. But I have set down to write it several times over the past two weeks and have come up with…nothing.

As my last day approaches I am having no second thoughts. I am making the right decision at the right time. But there is a finality looming and that is the thing  that brings all the feels. Do anything in life for 42 years, you develop a fondness for its routines and rhythms. It’s 8:35 on a Tuesday morning—you know where you’re supposed to be—pouring yourself a cup of coffee and teasing Kristin Reihl about something. You will miss the little things. You will miss that client who always calls complaining that I haven’t updated the away message on my phone. You will miss getting harassed by the client who whenever I don’t answer right away takes delight in accusing me of being on the golf course—even when it’s snowing outside. You will miss a great many small things.

My Latest Obsession

It is an extraordinarily inconvenient thing to write a book. Inspiration comes when it will, morning noon and night. When you should be focused on any number of other more pressing concerns all you can think about is the latest plot point that keeps dancing around in your head. If you’re wondering why my blogposts have been fewer and farther between lately, this is the reason. This latest flurry of inspiration began almost as soon as I arrived in Maine in mid-September and hasn’t stopped since.

I began writing this one in May of 2023. The first 12 chapters or so flowed quickly but then, as is often the case with me, the story went cold for a couple months. I wrote some more during the Spring of this year before another cold period. Although being in Maine is great on many levels, I’ve never done a ton of writing while I’m there. This fall was different. At Loon Landing there’s a loft room with a spectacular view of the lake and the most comfortable chair in the house. I would climb up there on the ladder and sit in the chair and almost immediately the words would come. They have continued to come ever since.

The story centers around a young man whose life is turned upside down by a massive inheritance from his wealthy and eccentric uncle who he hardly even knows. As the story unfolds we see how the sudden and unexpected fortune changes his life and his relationships. Hint: It’s not good! The more he learns about his Uncle the worse it gets. Eventually he begins to question everything he thought he knew about his life. The rest of the story is essentially a voyage of personal discovery that takes him to Wyoming, the Cayman Islands and eventually back home to the mountains of Smyth County, Virginia….or not, I haven’t finished it yet so I’m not entirely sure how it will end.

So that’s what I’ve been up to lately. The story has been living rent-free in my head for over a year now. I have included the first paragraph of the story below for your consideration:

Stanley Randle Clyde had been on his death bed for seven months, as obstinate and unpredictable in death as he had been in life. It had started as a stubborn cough, turned into pneumonia, then morphed into a months long bout with dysentery. A lesser man might have succumbed to the pneumonia, but Clyde was no lesser man. Despite raging diarrhea and dehydration, the man had never lost his mental acuity. Up until the very end he had been able to communicate his various instructions to the nurses unlucky enough to have tended him with amazing specificity, regularly requesting particular brands of Irish whiskey to help settle his stomach. He recognized every face that had visited him during his interminable passing, being especially careful to insult each of them by bringing up their most embarrassing failure. And still they came, an unending stream of family members, to pay their respects to the great shrinking giant, hoping against hope to make one last favorable impression. This level of respect and devotion towards the dying is always reserved for one of two sorts of people—the beloved or the ridiculously wealthy. Stanley Randle Clyde was not beloved.

The Greatest Commandment

Woke up to a 39 degree morning on the lake on this our last full packing-free day in Maine for 2024. It has been a wonderful ten weeks, six over the summer and now these four in the fall. I cannot possibly express how grateful I am for the privilege I have to do this every year. Like nothing else, it restores my soul.

But as our time here draws to a close all of the troubles of the world that I have blocked out of my mind resurface— the devastation and suffering in North Carolina, the impending storm about to ravage central Florida, and the ongoing dysfunction and disinformation rampant in our politics. There are times up here where I can’t help feeling a bit guilty for my good fortune. When I consider the combination of comfort and contentment on display in this picture, it stands in sharp contrast to the catastrophic loss and suffering of so many.

But I have to remind myself that life is not a zero sum game. There isn’t a finite amount of sorrow or joy in the world where if I am joyful it means that there is less joy for others. It is quite possible to marvel at the beauty of a sunset while somewhere else in the world there are people looking at that same sun setting while hungry and besieged. The trick is retaining the empathy that allows you to look beyond your own blessings, to see the suffering of others and be moved to action. I have a cousin who has done just that. She’s a nurse who couldn’t bring herself to sit around reading about her brothers and sisters in western North Carolina without doing something. So, now she’s in the midst of the battle at an adhoc triage station somewhere in the mountains distributing supplies with a half dozen others nurses from all over the place. She and I don’t always agree on politics. We both have Dixon blood coursing through our veins, making us both impossibly opinionated. But Jennifer is by her actions putting into practice our Lord’s command to care for the least of these. When they asked Jesus which was the greatest of the Commandments his answer was beautiful in its simplicity…Love the Lord your God with all your heart soul and mind…and your neighbor as yourself. Beautiful words, for sure, but devilishly hard to put into practice.

When I get back to Short Pump there will be a lot on my plate. I have less than three months left in my business life, my forty-two year career is coming to a close. But no matter how hectic things get, I will have to find a way to contribute something to the ongoing effort to rebuild the lives torn apart by the storms. My church has already organized relief efforts. That’s where I will start.

Selective Clairvoyance

There’s a restaurant in Camden called Franny’s. The place is always packed and it gets rave reviews, but in all of our years here we had never eaten there…until last night, although it took a 5:00 reservation to pull it off and we had to eat in the outdoor tent. Our meal was wonderful…

I bring this up because several years ago I wrote a book called Saving Jack, and one of the scenes in the story takes place in this restaurant, even though I had never actually been inside the place at the time I wrote the book. The weird thing was—the inside of the place was exactly like I had imagined it in my mind. Strange.

Of course, this sort of thing has happened before with me, especially when we are watching baseball up here. I can’t tell you the number of times I have made a comment like, “This pitcher is going to throw this ball a foot outside in the dirt and this knucklehead is going to swing at it!” And then it happens. Take the Mets-Brewers game the other night. When they announced that Gary Sanchez was going to be the catcher for the Brewers I said, “That’s a mistake. He will make at least one error in this game.” Two innings in he lets a pitch through all the way to the back stop for a passed ball. In the 8th inning with one out and Pete Alonso coming to the plate for the Mets with two runners on base and the Mets behind 2-0 I announced my view that the Brewers should put him on base, set up the double play ball since Alonso was due to hit one out.” What happens? They choose to pitch to the guy, he clobbers a ball to right field for a three run homer. Then the next batter hits a ground ball to second base!!

It’s not like it’s an isolated case. On our way to town the other day we got behind a sewer pump truck on one of the ubiquitous two lane back roads almost ten miles from Camden. I made the following observation: “What do y'all want to bet that this guy is headed the same place we are?” When he finally made a different turn than us I thought I was wrong. But, ten miles later we pull into the Merry Spring Nature Center for a hike and there he is. 

Unfortunately this clairvoyance of mine does not extend to anything useful like picking lottery numbers. And if clairvoyance is the ability to perceive the future before it happens, what do you call the ability to forget important things from the past almost as soon as they happen? While I can tell you the starting lineup of the New York Mets in game five of the 1969 World Series, I can’t remember anything about the time I had shingles. I can quote a line of poetry I memorized in the 8th grade but can’t remember the name of our waitress even after she tells me the second time. I could drive from Loon Landing to any place I have ever been at least once without the aid of a GPS…but I cannot for the life of me remember where I left my keys… or my parent’s birthdays…or to take that one medicine I’m supposed to take every night. So, it’s very much a selective clairvoyance.

But the inside of that restaurant was strange—even for me!

Nothing Worse

The kids flew home today without incident. We throughly enjoyed our time with them. The weather has been wonderful. We ate marvelous food, had fun on the lake. Hated to see them leave. But now we have new guests—Ron and Paula Roop—and we are doing exactly what we always do in October here in Maine…

Playoff Baseball. It matters not who is playing. Everything is based on rooting for anything and everything that might conspire to eliminate the Yankees and/or Dodgers from advancing.

Meanwhile, Quantabacook’s mayor happens to be this guy…

He knows nothing of baseball. He only knows that his wings need some drying, and sometimes he needs to keep a sharp eye out for a certain sketchy southern fisherman who sometimes appears on his waters.

Of course, after yesterday’s performance I’m almost certain I heard the mayor snickering at my incompetence. “Is that the best you can do??” I heard him squawk. There’s nothing worse than a trash-talking eagle.

It Rained, it Poured, We Had Fun

After a 12 day no-rain streak, yesterday it poured all day. The lake desperately needed it and I can’t wait to see what the dam looks like today. But, if you think that a washout like yesterday ruined our day, think again. Here’s what we did.

We left camp around 8:30 and drove into town to the fabulous Buttermilk Kitchen for breakfast. After a breakfast that would extinguish our hunger for a full 8 hours, we putzed around shopping at The Smiling Cow and Once a Tree, two stores which we never leave without buying something. They seem to be the two browse-free zones in Camden. 

By the time we got back to camp it was really coming down, so the four of us settled down into an afternoon watching the rain pummel the lake, listening to the sounds of it pounding the metal roof, and engaging in a variety of activities. One of us worked remotely for a couple hours, another busied himself playing card games with his mother. I got in some writing. 

Later in the afternoon Pam began chopping up vegetables and gathering the ingredients for her incredible sausage and lentil soup with Red Lobster biscuits dinner. While she was doing that, I braved the elements to make the five minute drive into Searsmont to pick up four different pint-sized containers of ice cream at Fraternity. For those of you who are interested in that sort of thing, the four flavors were: butter pecan, cappuccino crunch, banana pudding, and mint moose tracks.

After dinner I lit a fire in the fireplace as the rain continued to pour. The kids then suggested we watch a movie. Thus began the most bizarre two and a half hours of my life as I experienced the indescribable Everything, Everywhere, All at Once. They tell me it won a boatload of Oscars. My brain may never recover!

So, there you have it, a rainy day at camp ended up being a relaxing, delicious and stimulating adventure.

Quiet Days

Woke up this morning to 44 degrees. I was able to catch the lake in the act of shedding its misty covering, as the slight northerly breezes ushered them down to the south end of the lake…

We might have to have our first fire in the fireplace tonight. We have entered the quiet phase of our time here. The last several days have been mostly cloudy with enough wind blowing to make spending time in a kayak or on a paddle board a bit choppy. Plus, I’ve been laying low trying to calm the muscles in my back down. It’s better this morning but still not 100%. On the other hand I can’t remember the last time my back was 100%. At least I can now put on my socks by myself. Two days ago I couldn’t!

So, my wife is semi-famous for two contradictory things, being an amazingly organized packer and forgetting the most obviously basic items. One year we arrived in Maine for 6 weeks in the summer and Pam discovered that she had left all of her bathing suits at home. Another year she forgot to bring her contact lenses. It’s a mystery. On the other hand, I am the type of packer that annoys meticulous packers like my wife. I breeze in a day before we are scheduled to leave, throw a bunch of stuff into a couple of bags and I’m done. The entire process takes me an hour or so, while Pam has been churning out spreadsheets for weeks, leaving posted-note reminders to herself all over our house. Consequently, I have endured many an eye-role over the years.

Well, this year it was me who forgot something very obvious and basic—a jacket. The next three weeks up here will have some nice days in the upper 60’s, but the trend is not our friend this time of year. Low to mid 40’s at night will be the rule rather than the exception from now on and we will have some highs in the 50’s before we are done. A few flannel shirts won’t cut it. So, today I will head into Camden and buy a jacket.

The very good news is that Patrick and Sarah will arrive in a couple more days. It has been two years since they have made it to Maine and we couldn’t be more excited to have them to ourselves in this beautiful place. We will do some sight seeing and have a field day sampling the amazing food to be had in Mid-Coast Maine with my two foodie kids. Can’t wait!

Ruckus

The back is a bit better this morning but still a ways away from normal. Fortunately, the weather is cooperating with my need to lay low for a couple of days—it’s gotten cloudy and the wind is up. Another day or so and I’ll be as good as new—or at least as good as a one owner, low-milage used!

Funny story. So yesterday morning I had just sat down after doing my morning chores when my phone beeped at me reminding me that I had a 7:30 appointment at Ruckus Donuts to pick up the “Fall Special Fourpack” that my wife had ordered before we even left Short Pump. A word of explanation seems in order. So, Ruckus is this incredible donut shop in Rockland, Maine, a 35 minute drive from camp. Their donuts are so popular you have to place your order at least 24 hours prior to your pick up date. When Pam saw the Fall Fourpack she didn’t hesitate. And Pam being Pam—of course she made sure to have a reminder sent to my phone. I got the message at precisely 7 am, so I was already running late. Although my back was a mess, up here if you want great donuts you have to play through the pain, so off I went…

Just in case you are wondering, yes, those are real mini-marshmallows and yes, they were toasted. Everything in this box was a delight. Here is the description which accompanied each creation:

The first thing an alert reader will notice is that we were shortchanged one maple shortbread cookie on Mapledrop (bottom right). I decided to not make a big stink about it because I’m not from New York, but I was bummed . On the off chance that someone at Ruckus Donuts is reading this here’s hoping that they will be overcome with regret and feel the need to offer us free donuts as recompense for their over site.

Day 6: The Good and the Bad

So here’s how our day went today…

1. Drove into Camden for an exquisite brunch at the Buttermilk Kitchen where we were mtreated to the absolute best seats in the house—the half booth for two with a view of the harbor…

2. Got back to camp in time for me to head out for some fishing in the kayak at 11:30. I had done my exercises around 7:00 this morning which included a relaxed 2.3 mile run/walk which left my sore back much worse for the wear. When attempting to exit the kayak at the dam, the pain was made much worse making the 1 mile paddle back to camp rather excruciating. It should be noted that despite the extreme discomfort of the kayak/fishing adventure, I did manage to catch three respectable fish in my shortened expedition. Once back at home I took a couple muscle relaxers and applied both heat and ice, neither of which did anything to ease the pain. An uncomfortable afternoon insured while Pam was in Belfast for grocery shopping trip number two.

3. But by 6:00 it was time for dinner. This was our dinner table and view…

4. By the time we finished dinner the sun had just slipped underneath the tree line across the way. This means that it was time for Pam to depart for her nightly sunset search paddle…

5. In no time at all she found one…

6. Meanwhile, my muscle relaxers were wearing off and Pam has promised when she gets out of the shower she will apply this remedy she found at Hannaford’s in Belfast…

7. The good news is that we have now been in Maine for 6 straight days without a single emergency room visit. My chronically ailing back will not require an ER visit, it just hurts 24/7 and is something I am learning to live with. For me this means a two day hiatus from kayak activity and hoping for the best.

Y’all…this weather!

We are starting to almost feel guilty about the weather we have had since we arrived 5 days ago. Each morning we wake up to a chilly low 50’s experience. We make sure to wear long sleeve shirts and long pants pajamas. At 6:00 am the lake is as smooth as glass. I brew some coffee and empty the tiny dish washer. Then I take my coffee out on the deck and the complete stillness of morning. The sun rises from behind me and I wait for it to light up the windows of the camps across the lake, which it does around 6:45.

By the time I’m ready to take the kayak out for some fishing around 9:30 or 10:00 its in the mid 60’s and the lake is sparkling with sunshine and a few ripples have started to appear. When I head back to camp a bit after 11:30 it’s a delightful 75 and a light breeze has started to blow. We eat our lunch at the table on the deck, then Pam goes down to read her book in one of those Adirondack chairs. I do some writing and then take a nap. 

The late afternoon temperatures reach the upper 70’s and yesterday touched 81. The only clouds that make an appearance are the oddly shaped whispy ones that look like the brush strokes of a skilled artist. There has been no rain of any kind, not even the suggestion of the possibility of rain in these five days. That can’t hold up and the lake is a bit low and could use some rain.

Then something wonderful happens. The evening sneaks up on you here in Maine this time of year. When we were here this summer it stayed light until nearly 9:00. But in the Fall, the sun lowers itself close to the tree line across the lake around 6:15. Last night I sat down on the dock about that time to take in the sunset. Forty minutes later it was over amidst splashes of pink, lavender and purple. In one short hour the temperature had dropped 10 degrees and once again it was time for long pants.

And that is what every single day has been like since we arrived last Friday. It’s an embarrassment of riches but not the monetary kind that so often leads to despair and disappointment. These riches are eternal and transcendent, the kind of experience that stays with you forever.