Room for Rent

It was a classic farmhouse, white with black shutters. A wide porch which ran across the front sheltered a double door and three windows on each side of the entrance. For years Eleanor would attach seasonal flags to the pole out front, ones she had made out of old scraps from worn out sails. Now there were no flags, just the rusted metal base that wept brown tears down the white column by the front steps. The shrubs around the porch had grown wild, long entangled branches reaching this way and that. The big house was over 150 years old and was finally showing its age, just three years of neglect having taken a toll on the place. But nobody in town blamed Elly. It wasn’t her fault that her husband had been taken from her so tragically. Nobody could have been expected to keep everything together after finding their husband dead on the kitchen floor from a massive heart attack the morning following his 60th birthday. Three years had passed since the morning that changed everything and now Elly had turned 60. Instead of a barbecue with fifty people, she had spent the night alone in the big house watching reruns of Foyle’s War, letting her cellphone go to voicemail.

She had become the talk of the town. Her withdrawal from public life, while at first understandable, had now become cause for great concern in town. One by one her friends had been shut out from her life and now seemingly everyone had an opinion as to the mental state of their beloved former friend. Some claimed that her and Will had one of those rare, magical connections from which it was impossible to recover once it is lost so abruptly. Others, less romantically inclined, worried that by walling herself inside that old house for so long, she was simply losing her mind from lack of human interaction. Still others fretted over the condition of her soul, having been shocked by her disappearance from church at precisely the time when the place and its people could have done her immeasurable good. But mostly, the good and decent people of Claremont missed Elly. She had been the unofficial mayor of the town for as long as anyone could remember. To lose someone so dear, so essential to the harmony of their associations, had cast a cloud over all of them.

A handful of her closest friends still paid her visits. They would bring flowers for her kitchen table and donuts from Vale’s. Elly would greet them unenthusiastically and try not to be rude, listening to the latest news and gossip. But each time she heard car tires in the driveway an internal clock would begin ticking. Twenty minutes was about as long as she could manage. As she awkwardly began inviting everyone to follow her outside to the driveway, she would thank them all for coming, hug them in the most perfunctory way possible, then wave at them as they disappeared in the pines by the road. Almost every visit found Elly in her pajamas, hair up in a bun, looking skinnier than ever. The friends would talk about nothing else for days…Elly looks like a ghost.

What Elly couldn't bear to say was that the mere sight of them made her sick to her stomach. Each of her friends brought to mind memories of Will, glimpses of his ghost smiling and laughing with them at some forgotten dinner. She simply couldn’t take on a single additional memory. Her heart was full enough. She felt as if she was drowning in faded visions of him, maybe just one more would finish her off. As each month passed she began to draw a strange and dangerous comfort from her loneliness. She knew it wasn’t good for her, she could feel herself slipping away from the world, but the thought of driving into town to have breakfast at Tilly’s felt like a fate far worse than loneliness. Walking through those doors would be to invite a thousand fresh visions of him to rain down on her, something close to suicide.

So she convinced herself that the old house was the safest place to be, the lesser evil of a series of imperfect choices that fate had foisted upon her. She had Netflix. She read book after book on her Kindle. She still found a measure of comfort from tending the garden. But Elly wasn’t accomplished at self-deception. After three years of grief and spiraling despair, she became aware of the role that she herself had played in that despair. By locking herself away in the fortress that had once been the most bustling exuberant house in town, she had denied herself almost all human contact out of a misguided self-preservation instinct which now had taken a toll. An accommodation would need to be made to preserve what was left of her sanity, but she still couldn’t agree to re-enter her old life in town. But, maybe a stranger. At least a stranger to her. She could rent one of the bedrooms upstairs, take on a tenant. One of the guest bedrooms had a full bath attached. It would be perfect for someone, as long as it wasn’t anyone she knew. Maybe having someone else in the house might bring greater perspective. They could exchange pleasantries in the morning, maybe share a cup of coffee. Just a few minutes a day of harmless human interaction would break through the heavy sadness that had gathered around her like a brewing storm. She would post several notices advertising the room for rent in every popular gathering spot in the three towns closest to Claremont. It would have been the perfect use for Facebook if she hadn’t deleted her account. But the condolence messages and crying emojis which had overrun the thing in the weeks after Will’s death had been too much to bear. Now, she regretted her impulsiveness. She would have to depend on homemade fliers on community bulletin boards…

“Looking for someone to rent out one of my guest bedrooms with a private en-suite bathroom in a large farmhouse sitting on twenty acres. Lots of peace and quiet, yet still close to the towns of Claremont, Richland, and Twin Forks. Rent negotiable. No cats. Call for directions. 804-616-6832.”

E. Taylor

She had labored over the paragraph for three days. This was the sort of thing that Will was good at. He would have known exactly what to say. But he wasn’t available anymore. She would have to post the thing and hope for the best. Two weeks went by without a single response. Unfortunately she had been forced to answer every call which came in to her cellphone, which meant she had endured close to a dozen painfully awkward conversations with all of the people she had been successfully ghosting for the past couple of years. Of course she could have avoided this too if she hadn’t cleared out all of the contacts on her phone on one of the darker days six months after Will’s death. Just about the time she decided that renting the room wasn’t going to work out, a knock came on the door on Thursday the 14th of May at 9:11 in the morning

She opened the front door and squinted through the screen. There stood a man carrying a back pack dropping a duffle bag on the porch at his feet. He held a folded piece of paper in his hand. He wore a clean pair of jeans and a long sleeve white t-shirt with a worn and faded Red Sox cap on his head.

She was careful to keep the screen door latched as she asked, “Yes? May I help you?”

He turned the sheet of paper and held it up for her to see. “I’m here about the room.”

His voice was deep with no discernible accent. She looked at the paper and recognized her words, her inadequacies as a writer of public notice bulletins laid bare. She had not specified that she was looking for female tenants only. And now he had asked a question which she would have to answer with a lie. The room had not been rented. He had been the first prospect. She opened her mouth to lie when he folded the paper and slid it his back pocket with the words, “I don’t have a cat.”

“You didn’t call for directions and I didn’t include an address on the flier.”

“Wasn’t hard to find. Lots of information in that flier.”

“And you’re…a man.”

“Yes. I am. Didn’t know if you were a man or a woman. It just said ‘E. Taylor’. Could have been Ed or Elizabeth. Is the fact that I’m a man a deal breaker?”

She started to feel silly for keeping the screen door locked and just a bit rude. Before Will’s death she would have invited the man inside and served him breakfast by now. Her old instincts began doing battle with her new fears. She should have been afraid and cautious for a million reasons, but the man standing on the porch appeared to have the most benign presence, a face with soft features that betrayed not the slightest suggestion of menace. She suddenly found herself unlatching the screen door and walking outside, offering him a seat at the tea table at the the far end of the porch.

“Would you like some coffee?”

“No.”

She found herself surprisingly at peace with a stranger sitting in a chair where her husband sat nearly every morning in the spring. Maybe it was his peaceful demeanor, or maybe the novelty of human interaction.

“I see where it says that the rent is ‘negotiable’. That’s a bit odd, that you were more emphatic about the no cats thing than the rent.”

“Not really,” she said. “Its just that I have never rented a room before so I don’t really know what the going rate is.”

“Do you live here alone?” His question seemed perfunctory, as if he already knew that she was alone, not creepy or calculated.

“Yes. For the past three years. Yes. Alone.”

“Awfully big house to live in all by yourself. Have you ever thought about selling? Downsizing?”

“I suppose I should, and I probably will at some point, but this is my home and I still love it, although it is a lot to keep up with.”

“So is this room you have for rent for a regular tenant or are you looking for a caretaker?”

“Oh no. Just a tenant. I can handle the chores myself.”

He stopped asking questions and began looking the porch over carefully, taking in every detail of the workmanship of its construction. He stood up to get a better look at some detail of the window casement. “Really nice work…” he said to nobody in particular.

She heard herself ask him if he wanted to see the room. He answered yes and followed her inside. She stopped at the bottom of a beautiful wooden staircase, pointed up and said, “Its the third door on the left.”

He smiled at her briefly then walked up the stairs and disappeared down the hallway. She went into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. She could hear him shuffling around. It was the way of old houses, each room spoke to every other room. He stayed up there by himself for what seemed a long time. She wondered what he was doing, whether inviting him inside was a mistake. The coffeemaker let out its synthetic beep just as he appeared at the entrance to the kitchen.

She poured herself a cup and sat down at the table grateful to have something to do with her hands, and not knowing what to say to this strangely observant man who was now staring at every angle of her huge chef’s kitchen. Before her husband had died, she had lived in the room. Nothing in all of her life gave her more joy than conceiving of, planning for and cooking a  meal for her friends. For the last three years she quickly passed through the kitchen on her way to somewhere else, anyplace else. Why had she chosen to sit at the kitchen table with him here? 

“You have a beautiful home. Old houses like this were built differently. I find them fascinating.” He slowly walked across from the entrance to the table where she sat then stopped abruptly and looked down at the floor. He extended his right hand slowly, with all of his fingers stretched out to their full length, pointed at the floor at his feet. “But, something very sad happened here…on this very spot, I think..something very, very sad.”

She looked at him, eyes closed, head tilted sideways slightly as if he was trying to hear the story. She should have been disturbed by the scene playing out before her, this complete stranger transfixed directly over the spot where she had found her dead husband, but a calm came over her as she asked, “Who are you?”

The stranger opened his eyes at the sound of her voice, and returned to the present.

“I’m just a guy looking for a place to live.”

“No, what’s your name?”

“Gabriel.”

“You sure you don’t want some coffee, Gabriel?”

“Maybe I will. It smells good.”

“Thank you.”

She walked over to the counter and poured him a cup, then handed it to him black. He pulled out a chair and sat down. She remained standing behind the chair at the opposite end of the table. 

“You’re right about the kitchen,” she said. “Something very sad did happen here.”

“Yes. I’m sure of it. But I’m sorry for bringing it up. I didn’t want to upset you.”

“Its ok. I found my husband collapsed on that very spot three years ago, dead from a heart attack. What I can’t figure out is how you knew?”

“I didn’t know about your husband. I just know things sometimes, things I have no business knowing. See, houses tell stories, especially old houses, if you’re paying attention. But, I’m very sorry about your husband. That must have been horrible for you.”

“Yes. It was. It still is.”

“But there’s something else about this room. Despite the sadness there’s also a lot of happiness here. It feels like a place of great laughter and gaiety. Ha, I know that’s an old word, but gaiety seems to fit.”

She pulled the chair out from the table and sat down. Then she took a long sip of her coffee.

“Before Will’s death, this was very much a happy room. Some of the happiest moments of my life have been spent here.”

“Nothing happy for three years? That’s a long time.”

“Honestly, this is probably the longest amount of time I’ve spent in this kitchen since that morning. There’s just too much regret and sorrow here. I suppose you’re right that rooms tell stories.”

He finished his coffee and sat the cup down softly on the placemat, looked at her with soft eyes and said, “I can understand your sorrow. I know a thing or two about sorrow. But why regret? Certainly you don’t blame yourself for your husband’s death. You said it was a heart attack.”

She looked across the table at the stranger. She desperately wanted him to leave but couldn’t bring herself to ask him. Instead, she surprised herself by thinking clearly about the night before her husband’s death for the first time. She felt the tears forming, shocked by the vulnerability she felt with the man with the ageless face and the odd name…Gabriel. She began.

“It was his 60th birthday, the night before he died. Will wasn’t crazy about parties, although he tolerated them for my benefit. He didn’t want a big deal made over his 60th so I had invited maybe ten of our best friends to the private room at Tilly’s for dinner. It wasn’t a surprise since he hated those, so he had agreed to the plan and to the guest list. It was a delightful evening really. Will seemed to enjoy himself, or at least I thought he did. But when we got home everything went all wrong. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive myself.”

Gabriel reached into his back pocket, removed a clean white cotton handkerchief and slid it across the table to her. She picked it up and held it tightly in her hands.

“Will and I didn’t argue a lot. I mean, we disagreed often enough but never really had big fusses. But as soon as we got inside the house he made an odd comment about one of the guests at dinner that night. We are both really friends with his wife more than him, but we’ve both known them since high school. Anyway he had been seated next to me all night and I had engaged him in conversation like I always do. I didn’t think it was more or less than usual, but Will said a few uncharitable things about how I had been flirting with the guy all night. I was shocked, I really was. It was so unlike Will. Then he went what I thought was entirely too far when he brought up the fact that this man and I had dated for a month or so back in high school. 45 years ago!! After that I don’t know what happened, I just lost it. I said some ugly things and he gave as good as he got and before I knew it I had stormed out of the bedroom and slammed the door behind me in that bedroom you just looked at earlier. We spent the night in separate rooms for the first time in ages and over something so ridiculous.”

Now the tears were flowing, the handkerchief pressed to her eyes, and her words became halting and barely audible.

“I didn’t hear him when he fell. I was down the hall, further away from the kitchen. If I had been in bed with him where I belonged, I would have heard him get up, then I would have heard him fall and I could have saved him. I know CPR, I could have stabilized him and called 911. Instead, I didn’t wake up until four hours after he passed.”

Gabriel got up slowly and pulled his chair around the table to get closer. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Taylor. I can see why you might feel like taking the blame, but you’re being awfully hard on yourself. Even if you had heard him fall, there’s no guarantee you could have…”

“NO!! You don’t get it..I was flirting with him!! That’s the thing I can’t forgive myself for! Will was right! I spent the night of his birthday flirting with an old flame while I should have been paying attention to my husband. That will forever be the last memory of me he had. 

Gabriel set back in his chair and let her collect herself. It was the most awkward of silences. He looked on as she regained her composure thinking of how best to proceed. Finally he thought to say, “And thats why you so seldom come in your kitchen, to avoid your last memory of him.”

She looked up at him for the first time since she began telling her story and felt a surprising comfort for having told it. She could never have admitted such a personal failure to anyone she knew, but out of nowhere Gabriel had showed up and given her the chance.

Gabriel stood up slowly and said, “Now this is why I don’t drink a lot of coffee. It makes me so hungry!”

She smiled for the first time in months and shocked herself by asking, “Could I fix you something?”

“I suppose its been a while since you made a meal in this kitchen, but if you’re offering, I’d love an omelette.”

She smiled again and looked away, “That’s strange. I used to be kind of known for my omelettes. But its been a long time and I’m almost certain I don’t have any eggs or even cheese.”

It was Gabriel’s turn to smile. “I think if you look you’ll discover that you do.”

She opened the refrigerator and saw the dozen eggs, the cheese and butter she hadn’t remembered buying. She looked back at him, bewildered by the events of the morning.

“This is one of those things I was talking about earlier that I have no business knowing.”

He stood by the counter and watched her artful touch with eggs and cheese. She melted a slab of butter in the skillet, cracked three eggs into a clear Pyrex bowl gracefully, adding salt and pepper before whisking with a fork. After pouring the eggs into the skillet she added the ground cheddar onto the light yellow surface, never touching the mixture with anything. Instead she twisted the handle of the skillet carefully with her wrist like she had done it her entire life. When the time was right she suddenly curved the eggs over onto themselves making a perfect crescent of omelette perfection then slid it onto a plate in one tidy motion. Gabriel cut it open with the side of his fork and watched the melted cheese flow slowly out of the middle onto the plate, then took a bite.

“I’m thinking that it would be a shame for a woman of your gifts to tiptoe around this kitchen like you don’t belong here. This is divine, Mrs. Taylor.”

“It’s Eleanor. My name is Eleanor. My friends call me Elly.”

“Then, I’ll call you Elly,” Gabriel answered after taking his last bite. “But I’m afraid I won’t be renting your room. It’s lovely and all but its not the right fit. But I appreciate you seeing me without an appointment and for this amazing breakfast.”

“I must say I’m a little disappointed,” she replied. “I think it might be nice to have someone to cook for around here again.” Then she let out a quiet laugh. “I had forgotten how much I missed it.”

Gabriel stood up from the table and walked towards the front door where he had left his back pack and duffle bag. “Elly, to tell the truth, I don’t think you lack people to cook for. I bet that this town is full of people who call you ‘Elly’.”

Then he put on his backpack and threw the duffle over his shoulder and walked off the front porch, down the drive way and disappeared. It wasn’t until later that night when she found the note he had left on the bed in the guest room. He had scribbled on the back of the flier, Your omelettes are new every morning, just like his mercies.

The next morning, Elly skipped her coffee and stayed out of the kitchen. After sitting at the tea table on the porch for an hour, she got into her car and drove into town. She heard the tingling of the bell ring out as she opened the door at Tilly’s, and that most familiar of sounds gave her a delightful appetite.

A Baker’s Dozen

Here’s a baker’s dozen Dad Jokes for your edification.

My friend tried to annoy me with bird puns when I realized…toucan play that game.

What’s the world’s best invention? Window blinds—without them it would be curtains for everyone.

Teacher: How much room is needed for fifteen grams of fungi to grow?

Student: As mushroom as possible.

Teacher: What did the completion of the $3 billion Palace of Versailles make King Louis XIV?

Student: Baroque.

A woman got on a bus with her baby. The bus driver says, “Why, that’s the ugliest baby I’ve ever seen!” The stunned woman went to the back of the bus fuming. She turns to the man sitting next to her and says, “I can’t believe it! That bus driver just insulted me!” The man replied, “You go right back up there and tell him off—go ahead, I’ll hold your dog for you.”

A defense attorney was speaking to his client, who was accused of murder. The attorney says, “I have some good news and some bad news.” “What’s the bad news?” Asked the accused. “The bad news is, your fingerprints are all over the crime scene, and the DNA tests prove you did it.” “What’s the good news?” “Well, your cholesterol is 130.”

One morning at a bank, a robber pulled out a gun, pointed it at the teller and says, “Give me your money or you’re…geography!!” The confused teller asks, “Did you mean to say, ‘or you’re history’?” The robber replied, “Don’t change the subject!”

A women was sitting at the funeral of her recently deceased husband. A man leaned toward her and asked, “Do you mind if I say a word?”

The woman replied, “No, go right ahead.”

The man then stands up and clears his throat and says, “PLETHORA.” Then sits back down.

“Thanks,” the woman says. “that means a lot.”

Professor Kirke: What are you doing in that wardrobe?

Lucy: Narnia business.

Florence: I was so unpopular in school that they used to call me “Batteries”.

Larry: Why was that?

Florence: Because I was never included…

A thief comes upon a well dressed man, jabs a pistol in his ribs and says, “Give me your money!”

The gentlemen says, “You can’t do this,. I’m a United States Congressman!”

The thief says, “Well, in that case, give me my money.”

Teacher: Did you copy this essay about the Black Death off of the internet?

Student: Yes. I’m sorry. I am a bubonic plague-a-rist….

My ex-wife still misses me…

But her aim is getting better.

I Love My Church

My church has been reading through the book of Proverbs all month and hearing sermons about wisdom. Our pastors have asked members over the age of 70 to share some of the wisdom they have acquired over the years. When I was working in the Cafe yesterday I noticed that they had started to display some of the submissions. Many of them were anonymous, but others had first names only at the bottom. Two of them caught my eye…

Retiring to something instead of from something is some of the best advice I’ve ever heard. I have witnessed the retirement of over 100 of my clients over the years and have found this idea to be definitively true. Those who have a planned Second Act thrive. Thanks, Keith.

Becoming a better listener has been a goal of mine for most of my life. It doesn’t come natural to me. It has taken some work and lots of practice. But I have gotten better at it over time to my great benefit. Thanks, Susan.

I love my church.

Story Time, Mediterranean Food and Earlobe Hair

Random observations on this Friday morning:

- My mother-in-law has been battling back from quadruple bypass surgery this week. She’s 80 and tough as nails. My father-in-law has been by her side throughout the fight while becoming the favorite person of all the nurses on the cardiac floor at St. Mary’s hospital. Neither of these things surprises me in the least.

- One of the sweetest guys I know at Hope Church died this week. Roger had been battling cancer for some time. The last time I saw him at Hope Thrift he looked frail and weak, but he greeted me with a broad and genuine smile like he always did. He was a bright light even while deathly ill.

- This morning at Hope Cafe there will be the first ever Story Time at 10:00. I will be a casual observer today, but next Friday I will be the designated reader. Mom’s will be bringing their pre-school aged kids to the Cafe to listen to grownups read them children’s books for an hour. I’m excited about it, but I am hoping that Jennifer doesn’t ask me to read any of those dreadful Bernstein Bear books. They are the absolute worst!!

- Pam has us both on a Mediterranean food kick since the first of the year. It isn’t a diet, its just eating food cooked and prepared in the Mediterranean style. She has found a bunch of new recipes and we have been loving it. The food is delicious and as a side benefit, we have both lost a little weight. The only problem is the cleanup after dinner. You wouldn’t believe how many measuring spoons, bowls, utensils and various and sundry kitchen tools required to make healthy meals. Emptying the dishwasher the next morning takes forever and I don’t know where half the stuff goes. But I’m not complaining. The meals have been amazing.

- This week has brought another list of new aches and pains of unknown origin which have been visited upon my 65 year old body. Out of nowhere both insteps are now painful to the touch, mysterious bruises have appeared on my left forearm without provocation, and I have sprouted new hair growth out of my left earlobe. Sweet.

- As we near the end of January I am well on my way to achieving my goal of 5000 sit-ups and pushups in 2024. Last year I had the same goal and only made it to 3800.

- My garage door opener broke this week for just the second time in 27 years. Called a guy to come fix it and he showed up on time and did the job in less than two hours. The bill came to $891. Nice work if you can get it. Just another reminder that everything in and around us is in a state of decay. Our job is to manage that decay with as little embarrassment and angst as possible. So far, so good.

What Kind of Writer Do I Want to Be?

Preparing my book for publication has been quite the experience. Throughout the editing and proofreading process I have been forced to examine the work in more detail than I thought possible. I have discovered that it is one thing to write something, it is entirely another to examine what you have written honestly. Over the past two months I have probably read back through the thing a half dozen times and each time I find something else I don’t like. I still love the story and still feel fondness for the characters, but close and painstaking examination of my work has revealed a few writer ticks I didn’t even know I had. There are expressions I use too often, unnecessary phrases that pop up here and there that add nothing except annoyance. There are numbers I use too often—how many times can anything last “30 minutes”? 

But the big question that I have been forced to address is this—what kind of writer do I want to be? Back in the day there was that great rivalry and debate between Faulkner and Hemingway, Faulkner with his big fancy words and flowery descriptions, and Hemingway with his short, tight sentences and unadorned style. I preferred Hemingway then and now. Today both styles are on display in just about everything written by Cormac McCarthy. While I will freely admit that Mr. McCarthy is ten times the writer I will ever be, do I really want to use 500 words to describe the proper technique for scalping a head? I challenge any of you to read Blood Meridian and come out the other side a better person. I think I have a firm enough grasp on the extent of human depravity without needing one of Cormac’s 200,000 word novels to remind me of the depths to which we are capable of falling.

As a writer I don’t feel angry. I am not depressed or apocalyptic in outlook. I don’t feel oppressed or very much like an oppressor. I believe that human beings are capable of both creating beauty and destroying it. We are as equally adept at grand ideas and noble thoughts as we are treachery and deceit. I think that the best stories are the ones where characters display both extremes of our nature, grapple with them, then stumble upon a way forward. I want to tell stories that at least attempt to suggest that the better angels of our character have a fighting chance, that it is possible to overcome darkness, especially the darkness that lives inside the human heart. 

I love all types of writing. A good crime novel is great fun. Historical fiction is amazing. An occasional escapist romp is fun to read at the beach. So far, the novels I have written center around the relational conflict between friends, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives, the old and the young. I write stories about how delicate a thing friendship is, how fragile love can be and how easily it can be destroyed. But I also examine whether it is possible for broken relationships to be restored. I suppose my underlying conviction as a writer is that if the restoration of broken relationships isn’t possible, then we are all doomed. And if the redemption of the human heart is possible, most likely it will be miraculous.

Lucy the Vigilant

Lucy is quite famous for her quirkiness, her colorful neuroses. Long time readers of this space are familiar with her idiosyncratic behavior and many of you have been kept entertained by her antics over the years. Well, here’s another to add to the list.

My dog has never been fond of delivery trucks. She has never been a big fan of the United States Postal Service and their little white trucks. She has had a contentious relationship with the FedEx truck and the Amazon vans as well. But nothing quite gets under her skin quite like the worst of the species in Lucy’s mind—the dreaded brown UPS truck.

To be fair, as Lucy has aged she has become something of a grumpus when it comes to any strange vehicle or pedestrian who commits the unforgivable sin of appearing on the road in front of our house. She sees it as her duty to warn us of the potential grave danger presented to us by the mere presence of someone taking their dogs for walks on her street. Lucy fails to see the irony in her absurd stance on dog walkers, since one of her favorite things in life is when she goes for a walk throughout the neighborhood with me. But somehow when other dogs do it, its as if the four horsemen of the apocalypse have been unleashed.

However, her annoyance with delivery drivers started in earnest several Christmas seasons ago during that COVID year when everybody did 100% of their Christmas shopping online, which caused delivery driver traffic in our neighborhood to increase 1000% year over year. Lucy has never fully recovered.

I bring this up because of something fascinating that happened this afternoon around 3:30 in the afternoon. I got home from the office and as is my custom sat down in my recliner upstairs where Lucy quickly curled up in a spot right next to the chair. In ten short minutes she was literally snoring. Out like a light. Then just a few minutes later I heard a low growl from her. I glanced down at her. She was still sound asleep, dead to the world. Then a bit later another low growl, this one a bit longer. Again I looked down at her. Not even the slightest movement. Then she let out one of her patented soft barks. This is when she half growls/half darks which comes out sounding very much like someone saying harrumph. At this point it occurred to me that she was probably dreaming and her dream involved a delivery truck of some sort. But then suddenly she lifted her head with droopy, sleepy eyes and let out another low growl and another harrumph. At this point she began the long tortured process of unwinding herself out of her sleep posture onto all four paws whereupon she uncorked a vicious full body shake and a forceful bark and out of the room she bolted, around the corner down the hall until she reached the Palladian window at the front upstairs of the house overlooking the street. It was only then that I heard the distinctive grinding of gears and high pitched whine of the UPS truck which was still two streets away!!!

Some of you may doubt this detail. It seems like an embellishment. It couldn’t be possible for a sleeping dog to sense the presence of a delivery truck which had barely turned off Pump Road into our neighborhood, at least 500 yards away. But as I live and breathe, Miss Lucy is nothing if not diligent when it comes to protecting her humans from the UPS man, this despite the fact that in his approximately 500 previous deliveries to this address managed to do so with exactly zero loss of life or property damage. These facts mean nothing to Lucy. She knows the hidden agenda of all men and women in uniforms who drive loud vans and trucks and they are up to no good. There is no way in hell she is letting one of these people do us any harm. Not on her watch!

Powerful Memories

Some weeks are different than others. This most recent one was filled with big momentous things. The appointments at work all felt pivotal, each of them imbued with crucial importance somehow. In the midst of all this heightened awareness, a family member falls ill and suddenly its all hands on deck. St. Mary’s hospital once again becomes central to our lives. Its the place where my children were born. Its the place where 20 years ago I had emergency open heart surgery. There are memories in that building, not all of them pleasant.

The events of the week have caused me to recall my experience there from April of 2004. Some of it I remember quite vividly, but much of it has become muddled with the passage of time. I have also discovered that Pam’s memories of it are much different than mine. Over dinner one night we were talking about my recovery from the surgery and how long it had taken. My memories were that after a couple of months I was back at work and as good as new. Pam disagreed with this startling comment, “It was at least a year before you were all the way back.” When I protested she explained, “It was like there was a light in your eyes that went out and it took a year before I saw it turn on again.”

She went on to describe how when I was recovering in the hospital I didn’t want her to leave the room. Even after leaving the hospital and going home, for weeks I didn’t want her to leave the house. As she was telling me this I felt embarrassed, ashamed for being such a wimp. Then she said, “It’s like you thought you were broken, damaged.” That memory then flooded back. Yes. That I remember, feeling broken. Each hiccup, each twitch, real and imagined, brought stifling apprehension. You constantly ponder the inner workings of your body. You turn inward and become completely self-obsessed. Its unavoidable I suppose. You’ve got an hideous 7 inch scar down the middle of your chest. Its impossible to ignore.

But eventually you discover that you aren’t broken. You might have a scar to remind you of your mortality, but you are not broken. Finally, you start ignoring the beating of your own heart like you did every second of your life before it all happened. Then, I guess, the light came back on.

My Dreaded Medicare Call

Made the dreaded call to Medicare yesterday. After being handed off to three different departments and being on hold for 18 minutes, finally Dave’s voice came on the line identifying himself as a member of the fraud team. I knew immediately that I was in competent hands…

Dave: Mr. Dunnevant, first of all thanks for your patience. Secondly, you will not be handed off to anyone else on this call. The buck stops with me.

Me: Uh..wait…thanks?

Dave: I have pulled up the bill in question for five months of “incontinence supplies” and something tells me that you have never had the need for, much less used 200 catheters every single month since May…am I right?

Me: Yes!

Dave: This will not make you feel any better but you are not the first person I have talked to about this particular scam. We have had a rash of incontinence bills of late and are slowly making our way through them. This particular provider is no longer approved by Medicare.

Me: Do 200 catheters really cost $2090?

Dave: I have no idea what they cost. Medicare fraud types care little about the niceties of pricing. They just make prices up. You’ll notice that we paid the first five months of these bills but caught it in October and declined it.

Me: Actually, I didn’t notice that. But what about the other five months? It says here that you paid for those and this latest bill I got says that my share is $1247.

Dave: Mr. Dunnevant, I can assure you that you will not pay for anything associated with this bill. After we finish the investigation you will receive a final bill showing all of these transactions being voided out.

Me: When will that happen?

Dave: In about six months.

Me: So this doctor in Bristol, Connecticut and his fake company have made off with over $10,000 of taxpayer money?

Dave: Just from this one case. Yes. I’m sure there are hundreds more. But we will eventually find and prosecute those responsible.

By this time, my admiration for Dave and his professionalism has peaked. I remembered what my Dad used to tell me when I was a kid—“Son, whenever you can be an encourager.”

Me: Look Dave, I’ve only been on Medicare since April of last year but before this unfortunate incident I have been thrilled with the program. You guys have saved me a lot of money and handled every single claim quickly. So, I’m grateful.

Dave: Thank you, Mr. Dunnevant. For every one compliment like yours I get nine complaints from people who think Medicare sucks because it won’t pay for their gym membership!

So, say a prayer for my man Dave as he tracks down our money that has been stolen by some asshole in Connecticut 

Are You Ready for Election 2024?

For most of my adult life I have been a political optimist. What I mean by this is I never get too excited or disappointed by the outcomes of elections. I have voted for my share of winners and losers over the past forty-five years, but never has an election outcome changed my life. Despite the dire warnings I hear from political partisans during the heat of campaigns, life goes on its merry way even when the bad guy wins. I have the genius of our Founding Fathers to thank for this happy fact. They designed a system of government which is almost impossible to commandeer by any single rouge politician, what with all of its balance of power mechanisms and competing branches of government. Even when someone wins a landslide election, he can’t just ram his agenda through the labyrinth of duplicity which is the United States Congress.(See: Franklin Delano Roosevelt). I remember quite well how many times I was warned by friends and clients of the impending end of the Republic which was guaranteed to happen if Bill Clinton, George W. Bush, Barack Obama, Donald Trump or Joe Biden was elected. The Republic survived.

However, with today’s Iowa Caucuses, the 2024 presidential election begins in earnest, and I am dreading it more than any election in my lifetime. 2024 is a busy year for me. I have a lot going on, many things to accomplish, all the while droning on in the background will be the persistent, annoying soundtrack of presidential politics. The leading candidates are 77 and 81 years of age. One shuffles along stumbling and fumbling with his words, his skin having taken on that high shiny gloss of advanced age. The other runs on a platform of revenge and payback for past insults real and imagined, while he’s not appearing in court fending off what seems like 150 lawsuits. If these two ever meet on a debate stage it might be the most embarrassing moment in the history of both television and democracy. If the debate commission opened the broadcast to advertisers, the biggest players would be Viagra and Depends Undergarments.

But…it isn’t funny. None of this is funny. It only seems funny when humor is our only defense against it. No matter where we might stand on the political spectrum, if 2024 gives us a choice between Trump and Biden, we are all losers. Democracy will look like a spent fighter in the fifteenth round trying to hang on to the bell. Our friends will be watching the fiasco unfold and wonder what ever happened to America? Our enemies will be emboldened by the spectacle of two doddering fools vying for control of the world’s biggest and most powerful democracy. The American people will have no one to blame since it will have been us who asked for this matchup.

Although I’m still optimistic by nature and temperament, I am finding less tangible reasons to be so. The 2024 election cycle feels to me like the end of something, and the beginning of something else.

Not Looking Forward to THIS Phone Call

I will be the first to admit that my memory isn’t what it used to be. Oh, my brain is still jammed full of useless information that I can recall in a nanosecond, like the starting lineup of the 1962 New York Mets or the lyrics to every Beatle song ever written or every word of dialogue from Blazing Saddles. However, when it comes to things that would be useful to remember, my memory seems to be getting worse every day. I’ll be working on something at the office, spin around to the computer on my credenza and forget what I needed on that computer the second my fingers are poised on the keyboard. I’ll walk downstairs to ask Pam something only to have forgotten the question as soon as I find her. Readers of a certain age will understand this condition referred to in medical circles as temporary adult recall delay syndrome, but best known by senior citizens as GFS*.

I bring this up in relationship to an incident from yesterday which began with a trip to the mailbox. I should say that practically nothing good results from a trip to my mailbox anymore. When I was a kid the delivery of the afternoon mail was an exciting time full of possibilities. Back then I was constantly sending in box tops from cereal boxes or dashing off requests for autographed 8x10 photographs of my favorite baseball players. There was no telling what wonders awaited me in that rusted old mailbox. Now its only bills, sale flyers from stores I’ve never heard of, or political ads. But yesterday there was a rather thick 5x7 envelope from Anthem/Medicare.

I have been on Medicare since April 1st of 2023 and have been singing their praises to anyone who would listen ever since. The money that I have saved since that happy day in April is staggering. The total bill for all the heart related testing and procedures I endured during 2023 finally came in at the princely sum of $75,000. My cost after Medicare? $1247.00 What a deal!

So, imagine my surprise when I found this information inside the Anthem/Medicare envelope…

Although the part that said, Total You Pay: $0.00, was quite the relief, I stared at the column on the far left for several minutes trying to shake off an unusually severe case of GFS. Try as I might I could not recall ever being treated for incontinence, so therefore couldn’t possibly imagine what supplies I would have needed for such treatment. Additionally, I couldn’t fathom why such supplies would have cost anyone $2090 a month. Moreover, why would Medicare have paid for such ludicrously expensive treatment? Making matters much worse was the revelation that I had been under such treatment for 6 months. Now, having admitted to having an increasingly faulty memory, I would think that if I had been treated for incontinence for six consecutive months—I would have remembered it.

So tomorrow I will call the patient complaint line at Anthem/Medicare to discuss this problem and I’m not looking forward to it…

Me: I just received a bill for six months of incontinence treatments, but I have never been treated for incontinence.

Anthem/Medicare Customer Care Professional: Yes, Mr. Dunnevant. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions for our files?

Me: Sure.

Anthem/Medicare Customer Care Professional: What is today’s date and who is the President of the United States?

* Geezers Forgetting Stuff

An Awful Lot Like Work

Ok. So, the book publishing thing has ceased to be fun and now has become stressful. Much progress has been made, but with each completed task comes a new, more demanding one. In the next week I am to make a final decision on the cover art as well as picking out an interior scheme. Then I have a meeting with some guy in charge of author websites and something called my book’s digital presence. After that it will be marketing plans and pricing etc…Suddenly this seems an awful lot like work.

Its still exciting, although I much prefer the actual writing part, everything else has been a challenge, dragging me kicking and screaming into things I’m not at all comfortable with. But maybe this is all a good thing. It is natural for people as they get older to become fixed and rigid, a little too comfortable in our routines. Its what leads to the grumpy old man syndrome. I would like to avoid going any deeper into that abyss than I already am. I’ve been told that taking on new challenges is a good way to fight complacency. Consider me challenged.

I’ve shared the two cover art finalists with several people and gotten all of their opinions. I’m pretty sure that I will choose this one…

I like this one for several reasons. First, my protagonist has a miraculous gift that allows him to win games of chance, so the roulette wheel eyeball is cool.  Secondly, dreams play a huge part in the story so there is a tension throughout between reality and dreams which makes the droopy eyelid very cool.

Results of My Tech-Fast

Yes, I did survive my 24 hour technology boycott, but not without a few hiccups along the way. I did carve out a few exceptions to facilitate my business requirements. After arriving at the office I tried to log in to my broker-dealer site and was reminded to type in the 6-digit authentication code, which was available only on the Authentication app on my smartphone, which was facedown on the desk in my home library! After driving all the way home then all the way back (luckily for me a ten minute round trip), I retrieved the code then promptly turned off the phone and never used it again. All day long I never once checked Facebook or Instagram, my emails and texts, or even the stock market. When I discovered the next morning that while I was unplugged the markets had their best day by far of the year, I couldn’t help but smile. A friend of mine suggested that maybe I should go off the grid so he could retire next year!

When I broke my techno-fast I had 47 emails, 16 texts and quite a few Facebook notifications—none of which really mattered. During the 4-plus hours a day that I normally would have been online in some capacity, I was putting a puzzle together, and reading two of the physical books I got for Christmas, finishing them both. I’m kind of a fast reader.

So, what conclusions did I draw from this experiment? For one, I was surprised at the almost physical discomfort I experienced in the first part of the day simply from the fear that I was missing out on something. FOMO is a thing, I’m told. Of course I wasn’t missing out on anything important in hind-site, but I might have been. Maybe Pam got side swiped by a drunk in a pickup truck on her way to school and was desperate to speak with me. Maybe my house was on fire and Jamie was trying to call. In either of those cases my decision to forego the modern convenience of instant and portable communication would have been a tragic error in judgment, not to mention the doghouse that I would have been in as a result. But, it turned out to be a normal day. No harm, no foul.

By the end of the day I felt like I had accomplished something, although I’m not exactly sure what. I suppose what I learned was something I already knew and that is that I spend too much time on social media. Without resorting to a boycott, I could improve my overall mental health by cutting my usage in half—without missing a single thing of lasting importance.

Also, during my boycott day I had some extra time to explore more closely the many Christmas presents I received. I had almost forgotten this one. I can’t remember who gave it to me—it was either my sister-in-law Sharon or my son-in-law Jon—since it fits their unusual humor profiles…

This baby is going into the office tomorrow!!

24 Hours Without the Internet?

For the record, I have not seen the film Leave the World Behind, and I don’t intend to. I have enough to worry about without having to endure artificial hysteria from Hollywood. Although the film’s premise is something I have long worried about, I’m thinking that watching a two hour movie about the sudden destruction of the internet which leaves most of the western world helpless would do absolutely nothing to help me sleep better at night. So, I’ll pass on Barack and Michelle Obama’s latest vanity project.

But, I will freely admit that modern technology worries me. Yes, I have benefitted greatly from the digital revolution and so have you, but every time my Apple Watch tells me that my screen time increased 22% last week, I worry. I have become totally dependent on a functioning internet. If somebody bombed the United States Postal Service out of existence tomorrow, I would hardly bat an eye. But if my email box went dark I would be lost. How would I even get paid? Right now when I see money in my brokerage account I click a key on my laptop and the money appears in my checking account within 24 hours. How would I actually buy anything? Research anything? Communicate with my kids? Find Dad Jokes? Thanks to me uncanny sense of direction I could at least remember how to drive to Maine, but since my car is essentially a computer on wheels, it probably wouldn't even start. But, enough doom and gloom.

It has started me to thinking—something I’m not always comfortable with. Instead of contemplating the collapse of the internet and the chaos it would bring, I have been asking myself a more mundane question. Could I go one day, 24 hours, without it? Could I intentionally leave my cellphone on my nightstand, park my Apple Watch in the charging stand and close my laptop and iPad for 24 hours? I mean, after I finish writing this blog. Actually, I don’t think I could, not because I couldn’t muster the necessary discipline but because I couldn’t function at work…

Kristin: I need the password to Riskalyze.

Me: I don’t have it.

Kristin: Look on your phone. They just texted it to you.

Me: Maybe so, but I’m not using technology today.

Kristin: You’re an idiot.

Who am I kidding? Even if I could manage to get through a day at the office without the internet, could I really go all day long without checking the markets, checking my social media feeds or checking how many page-views this post got? Of course I could. Couldn’t I? I wonder. If I were to carve out an exception for business-specific requirements like the aforementioned Riskalyze password in order to avoid Kristin’s epic eye-roll, could I lay the rest of it down for 24 hours?

Meet me here tomorrow morning and let’s all find out!

Where Am I?

A friend of mine sent me an email recently to inform me that he was reading a book that I just had to read—immediately! It was written by Dave Barry about his ten year old dog and carried the title: Lessons From Lucy: The Simple Joys of an Old, Happy Dog. Barry was a guy I used to read all the time back in the day, and since his dog’s name was “Lucy”, it seemed a perfect book for me. My Lucy is also ten years old. I downloaded it that same afternoon.

Mr. Barry was something of a hero to me years ago, he of the sharp wit and Beatles haircut. His sarcastic and hilarious observations about, well everything, suited my tastes back then. Eventually I tired of him. As a writer he was very much a one trick pony and since I stopped taking the Times-Dispatch two decades ago, we lost touch. It’s been wonderful to get reacquainted.

I bring this up not to talk about the book, which by the way was wonderful, but because after I finished reading it I found myself in quite the sentimental mood. The fact is that Lucy is getting old. In dog years she is 70. Her face has taken on that white glow. She is on the back nine of her life. She has probably two or three more years with us, then we will have to say goodbye. Its how it works with dogs. They are not life-long companions. They blaze into our lives like a meteorite, light us up in a thousand ways and then go back where they came from…most likely, heaven.

Which brings me to a Christmas present I received this year that I haven’t been able to stop staring at…

Perfect. Its just perfect. Lucy, standing at the end of a dock, gazing in wonder at the lake and the hills across the way, waiting for someone to come sit down next to her. Waiting for me. But where am I? What is keeping me? What could I possibly be doing that’s more important than sitting in that chair having a conversation with Lucy? For me, this photograph is two things. An invitation and a rebuke. And thanks to Mr. Dave Barry a reminder that time is short.

Reminiscing

My wife likes to have the television on when she’s busy on the sofa with some project or another. Sometimes she actually watches what’s on but mostly its just background noise. Occasionally I will come downstairs and she will have some impossibly gorgeous snowy cabin scene up on the screen, the sounds of an unseen roaring fire in the background. Other times it will be an endless scrolling slideshow of every photograph we’ve taken in the digital era, all 10,000+ of them. She was in the kitchen the other night making dinner when I walked through the living room and saw a photograph of my Dad with my nieces Jenny and Christina around him, all smiling brightly. It was taken at the beach many years ago. The girls looked so young and carefree. Dad looked proud and contented.

I sat down on the loveseat and watched a series of random pictures scroll by, no two of them having any connection to what came before or after. There was one of Pam and me along with Patrick and Sarah in front of a restaurant in Nashville. It was the night we met her for the first time. There was another of Lucy when she was a six month old puppy. Her fur was short and blonde and she was smiling at the camera. I watched those pictures roll by for maybe ten minutes, each of them evoking a memory, each of them a snapshot in time, a glimpse into my past.

It is an odd sensation, the reminiscing that photographs produces in me. On the one hand it warms the heart to be reminded of the joys you have experienced in life, on the other it ushers in a surprising melancholy, a longing for a simpler time, only it wasn’t simpler back then. Each year of our lives has its own difficulties. Its only after we survive and look back that we tell ourselves that life was simpler back then. But mostly its an overwhelming sense of the relentlessness of time. It stops for no one and reminds us that as each day passes into history we will never get them back. We get one shot. The most important day of our lives, the one with the most opportunity is always…this one.

Speaking of Great Books…

 New Year’s day, I spent three hours alone in my office cleaning out the clutter. I’m the kind of person who doesn’t like to leave anything on my desk when I go home each day so throughout the year, lots of stuff accumulates in every drawer of my desk and credenza. This year it was three tall kitchen bags full since I haven’t purged in several years. In the middle of this project I came across something that’s been with me in that office for nearly 30 years. For some reason I dropped everything and sat there staring at it wondering where the years have gone…

My daughter was five years old when she made this for me for Father’s Day. Her Mom helped her with the words since she could hardly write legibly at that point. But the story and the drawings were all her. The plot was simple enough. She was out to prove the title of this book with examples of my awesomeness…

I can attest to the accuracy of her account. I, in fact, did play the guitar for them often during bath time. Back in those days, this amounted to the sum total of quality time I had with them. I was working my tail off trying to provide for them the best I could in a business that offered zero guarantees, so I wasn’t with them very much. Bath time was wonderful.

Yes, I did. This probably explains the chronic back pain I suffer from to this day. But, what fun this was!

You might be wondering why I have kept this little book close to me all these years. Maybe in the darkest corner of my mind I think, Well, when I die and if it turns out that salvation comes from works after all, I’ll hand this to Saint Peter! 

Correct. I always gave them treats when they visited me at the office, because it was always the highlight of my day and cause for celebration.

I’m sure this particular aspect of the story will be troubling to my younger readers. I must confess that I did tell my kids some pretty terrifying stories. Some of them might have been a tad too graphic for five year olds. But, the moral of the stories was always the same—the world is full of danger, bad people and things, and the best way to live your life is with both eyes wide open…and never stray too far from your Dad because he and he alone can save the day. 

This might be the only embellishment in her account. The word always there is doing some serious heavy lifting in that sentence.

This is my favorite part of her story. My Dad told me once that the best thing I could ever do for my children was to love their mother. He was right.

But that doesn’t mean you have to share everything with Mom. These special treats of which she speaks were often just between the two of us!

So, there you have it. One of the finest works of literature you will ever read. Only one copy known to exist and it belongs to me.