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.

First Report From Maine

The two day journey went off without incident. There were no major backups (except for the accursed Connecticut Bury’s—a blogpost for another day), no accidents and no speeding tickets. Although, each time Pam and I got out of the car for a break we looked like two octogenarians on leave from the nursing home. It was like trying to unfold a card table with rusty legs. Of course, driving over ten hours in one day with only two stops might be a travel strategy I need to revisit at this stage of life. But, the bottom line is, it was a pleasant trip.

Yesterday, I astonished my wife by eagerly agreeing to her suggestion of a side trip into Kennebunkport for lunch and some sightseeing. This, despite the fact that Kennebunkport was not on the way and in fact added over an hour to the trip. I tried to explain to her that this was me rehearsing for my soon to be roll of being retired, a chance for me to reinvent myself by trying new things, and nothing for me could be any newer than being diverted from my goal of conquering the trip!! I’ve never bought in to the its the journey, not the destination malarkey, but although I am certainly an old dog, I can learn new tricks.

This unassuming place is none other than one of the most celebrated eateries in all of Maine, Mabel’s Lobster Claw, one of Barbara Bush’s favorite hangouts back in the day. The reviews were off the charts so we gave it a shot. I got the clam chowder and Pam got a lobster roll. This citation was deservered…

It is my intention to order clam chowder at every place we go on this trip and rate them to see who has the best. It’s going to be hard to beat Mabel’s.

Just down the street from Mabel’s was this adorable little beach. The sky was clear, a soft breeze blowing and 78 degrees. Very much worth the hour diversion.

But then finally we arrived at this place…

It’s difficult for me to explain the feeling that comes over us when we arrive at this place. Despite many visits it never changes. There is magic here, a mystical vibe that’s impossible to define. We spent most of the afternoon unpacking and organizing the place to suit us. Then we ordered pizza from Fraternity and a half gallon of Cappuccino Crunch ice cream—the diet of two people who aren’t counting calories and proud of it. 

This morning I walked into the living room at 5:45. The sun was just starting to light up the lake. There were a few puffs of mist rolling across the surface of the water. It was 54 degrees. As I stood on the deck taking it all in I was overcome with a profound sense of gratitude, that I get to do this. What on earth have I ever done to deserve it? 

Nothing, that’s what…proof positive that God is merciful.

Best. Photograph. Ever.

Heading out for Maine this morning. My wife has been working like a slave to get everything ready for the journey. She has cleaned the house, packed with the meticulous attention to detail of a surgeon, as well as attending to all of the extra details associated with leaving Lucy here with a full-time pet sitter. Yes, Lucy will not be coming along with us for the Fall trip, a fact that she has not yet become aware of as I write this. There are lots of reasons for this. When we are here in the Fall we spend less time on and in the lake and much more time on excursions in and around Mid-Coast Maine. Lucy, not being a huge fan of excursions spends a lot of time alone at the house. Plus, she is getting older and is probably not up to two Maine trips in one year anymore. I will miss her terribly, but it’s the right decision.

Anyway, when we arrive at Loon Landing on Friday afternoon and after a day or so of unpacking and gettin the place set up to our liking, this woman will magically appear on the deck…

This is my favorite photograph of my wife. I took it 7 years ago during a Fall trip. I don’t think she was happy about me taking her picture without fair warning which might explain the fist on her hip stance. But she couldn’t help looking fabulous. Nobody looks better than Pam Dunnevant with Quantabacook in the background. And that apron…well that just puts this one over the top, don’t you think?

Debate Change Any Minds?

I didn’t watch the debate last night. Pam did because she’s braver than me. I spent the time finishing up a difficult chapter in the book I’m currently writing. It took me nearly two hours to write 750 words. It was excruciating…but nowhere near as excruciating as watching that debate would have been.

But, this morning my Facebook feed is full of people lamenting the bias of the ABC moderator. This can only mean one thing—Trump must have gotten his ass kicked. Not that it matters one way or the other. I’m not sure anyone’s mind was changed. Was yours? I’m truly curious to hear from anyone out there who watched the debate with an open mind, someone who was undecided or on the fence going in and came away having made a decision of who to vote for. What did it for you? What did either one of them say that changed your mind? What was it that clinched the deal for you? I would be fascinated to hear your story. In fact, I might even devote a future blog post to the topic: I watched the debate and have decided that I’m voting for _________.

Calm Before the Storm

This will be a busy week, lots of loose ends to tie up before we leave for Maine. I know what you’re probably thinking…Didn’t they just get back from Maine? Yes, we spent six weeks up there for our summer trip. This one is our Fall trip. Same place, different season…and that makes all the difference.

We arrive on the 13th of September and leave on the 12th of October. We will get to watch the season unfold on the lake. By the last week the leaves will be at their peak. When we get home we’ll get to watch it all over again in Short Pump.

There are many things we do during the Fall that we can’t do in the summer.

This, for one thing.

The coziness of Loon Landing in the Fall is one of its many virtues. But the best part of Maine in Autumn is that these type of photographs are routine…

By the time the calendar flips into October the temperatures drop up here. The sweaters come out. We go for walking tours of this place and that. We do more touring in the Fall, especially if the wind picks up on Quantabacook. We eat out more often. It’s a different vibe altogether, and we love every minute of it.

This year Patrick and Sarah will be up for a week. It’s been two years since they’ve been with us in Maine, and it will be their first time in the Fall. Can’t wait to show the place off. Of course, Paula and Ron will be up for a week too.

When we arrive back home life will accelerate rapidly for both of us. Pam’s school job starts up again the first day back, and I will be launched into the last couple of months of my business career, all while preparing for the holidays. So these four weeks at Loon Landing will truly represent the calm before the storm.

Always Bring an Extra Bag

The other day I was out perambulating Miss Lucy. I started out in the culdesac near my house and Lucy obliged with a truly prodigious pile of excrement which I gathered up in the poop bag I had brought with me. I temporarily deposited the bag next to my mailbox, as is my common practice, and continued our walk. As we made our way down Aprilbud Drive the thought entered my head that I had not brought a second bag for the trip. For a minute a sense of dread passed through my mind, as memories of previous “one poop bag” walks had been attempted with disastrous results. But, surely after the mountain of feces I had just collected from her, I would be safe this time, I told myself.

But, as is often the case where Lucy is concerned, the worst case scenario usually prevails. So there we were walking past the Oley’s beautifully maintained, meticulously groomed yard, when Lucy decides it’s time for round two. A one sided conversation ensued:

Me: Seriously, Lucy? Are you kidding me right now? 

Lucy: …..crickets……

Me: So now I’m gonna have to go all the way back to the house to get another poop bag, then come all the way back here to clean up after you?? How rude?!

Lucy:….low growl after big stretch….

Lucky for me, a sweet neighbor had just left her house next door to walk her dog and offered me a spare bag, saving me the trouble of the return trip. After dropping the completely purged Lucy back home I continued on my 6 mile walk without further embarrassment…except for one thing. On two other occasions I nearly stepped in even more canine bowel movements. As someone who walks this neighborhood religiously this is a relatively new phenomenon. We Wythe-Traceians have a pretty good record of cleaning up after our pups. As someone who has walked through several of our surrounding neighborhoods I can attest to the fact that we compare favorably with most in this regard! The sudden appearance of un-bagged doggie number twos can only mean one of two things…either dogs are roaming the neighborhood unleashed or one or more dog owners have temporarily taken leave of their senses, forgetting the number one rule of dog ownership in the suburbs—never leave your dog’s dumps in the streets! (Alert readers will note the great lengths I have gone to in this post trying to avoid the word shit). 

So, just a heads up to all of our fantastic neighbors, always bring at least two poop bags when walking your dogs. I could tell you about the time Lucy went through three bags in one thirty minute walk, but that’s a story for another day!

Happy walking, everyone!

To Whom Much is Given

Tomorrow is Labor Day, my last official one while still an active member of the working world. Since my first full-time, non-summer job was one I took during my freshman year at University of Richmond, it turns out that my working life encompassed the years from 1977-2024. Any inspection of those years will conclude that I had it much better than most of my ancestors, and maybe slightly worse than a much smaller number. I was fortunate not to have been of soldiering age during any major or minor wars. I never had to experience anything approaching the difficulties of the Great Depression. My working career coincided with no significant illnesses or debilitating diseases. In my 47 years of working I cashed exactly one unemployment check. I have never been fired. I have never once asked anyone for a raise. I have never had to plead for paid vacation because it has never been available to me. For the last 32 years of my career I have not been provided with any benefits like health insurance, a 401-k, or pension plan of any kind, a secretary, assistant or office. All of these things I was responsible for providing myself. In addition, as a self-employed business owner I was responsible for both the employee and employer contributions to Social Security. But this was the life I chose. I wanted to be my own boss, and it wasn’t cheap.

If I had it to do all over again… I would. I didn’t have the personality type required to work for anyone else. I was too stubborn, too unwilling to give away any of my autonomy to someone who may or may not have had my best interest at heart. For my way of thinking…benefits and a guaranteed paycheck didn’t seem worth it. I fully understand why so many chose differently than I did. I feel no sense of superiority to them. To be honest, over the years there were many, many times when I envied those guarantees. Having no guaranteed income while raising kids can be a gut-wrenching experience. But again, I was either too stubborn or too stupid to do it any other way.

I am profoundly grateful for the many opportunities I was given to succeed. I feel lucky to have been born where and when I was and to have lived in a country that allowed me to make my own way as I saw fit. I am thankful for the public schools that educated me. I am thankful for the great and good neighbors who encouraged me along the way. I thank God every day for the family I was blessed to be born into, the mother and father who taught me how to care about somebody besides myself, to look out for people less fortunate then me. 

Kids entering the work force today have many advantages that I didn’t have. The technology available to them is too staggering for me to even comprehend. But I feel sorry for them in a way too. No kid can get a job working 30 hours a week and hope to put themselves through college like I did at University of Richmond years ago. The cost of higher education has ballooned to such ridiculous heights that nobody can work themselves through anymore. It was hard enough back then. Today it’s impossible.

But every generation makes their own way. My Dad survived not only the Great Depression but also a stint in the South Pacific in WWII. He graduated from U of R on the GI-Bill as a father of four while working the graveyard shift at Reynold’s Metals. My struggles look like child’s play next to his. All of us, everyone…stands on the shoulders of those who came before us. I hope that my shoulders hold up for my kids and their kids. It’s the very least I can do. Its like my Mom used to say, “To whom much is given, much is required.”

Helpless

For men of a certain age what I am about to share will sound familiar. Or, maybe not. Maybe it’s just me demonstrating my penchant for selective incompetence. Although I have developed many fine skills over the years, there are certain things involving the care and maintenance of my health where I seem cursed. I taught myself how to play the classical guitar when I was fourteen. On three occasions in my life I have broken 80 on the golf course. I have run a successful business for three decades. I have written four novels. And yet…when it comes to keeping up with all things medical, I am a colossal failure. In the last thirty days alone I have discovered that I had been taking a medicine that the doctor had told me to discontinue, I have lost an entire bottle of meds and had to have an exception made from the insurance company to have it replaced, and finally yesterday completely botched getting a shingles vaccine!!

So, it is shingles vaccine season around here since Pam got hers last week. This week was my turn. Pam sent me a text suggesting that it was…easy. “Just go to the app”, she says, “and click vaccines. My reply might sound pathetic to some of you, but considering my track record, not unpredictable. “Are you sure I can do this?” I asked. What I was hoping for was something along the lines of, “Oh, never mind, I’ll do it!!” But no, there was a glitch in the app that would not allow anyone else but me do the honors. So, I forged ahead on my own, giant, gangly opposable thumbs doing their best. After several false starts I managed to secure a 3:00 appointment for yesterday afternoon. I actually picked up on the instruction found in the fine print that asked me to remember to show up 5 minutes prior to my scheduled appointment and check in via the app from the parking lot before entering the store. At this point I was feeling quite confident.

I presented myself to Emma, the purple-haired technician who is somewhere in the midst of transitioning between the sexes and who happens to be the only competent employee in the Pharmacy at my CVS. I gave he/her my name with a surprising amount of confidence. But then Emma says that there is no record of my appointment. I smugly handed her my cell phone with the confirmation of said appointment on the display. She looked at me with all the empathy of a DMV clerk and said, “Mr. Dunnevant, your appointment is with the CVS inside the Target on Broad Street.”

“There’s a CVS inside the Target on Broad Street??” I asked. 

“Yes Sir,” Emma replied.

“But why would I set an appointment there when this is the pharmacy I’ve used for 30 years?”

“Did you set the appointment using the app?”

“Yes…” I mumbled, a sinking feeling stirring somewhere in my intestines.

“Yeah, well, sometimes the app brings up the wrong location as the default instead of sending you to the one you normally use. You have to be careful when using it.”

So, once again my uncanny knack of screwing up all things medical strikes again. Instead of being 5 minutes early, now I had to fight broad street traffic and find this stealth CVS inside of Target. I walk in ten minutes late and the whole thing is over in five minutes. When I informed Pam of my travails she texted this reply…

“Dang…you are helpless without me!!!”

Speaking of shingles…I have already had them, several years ago, I’m told. Although I have no memory of it. When I told Pam this she looked at me like I had two heads. “What do you mean you don’t remember having shingles?” But it’s the truth…I have no memory of it at all. It couldn’t have been but so bad, right? Now, I can remember the starting lineup for the New York Mets in game six of the 1969 World Series, but having shingles? total blank. She tells me it was on my back. Maybe thats why I don’t remember because I never saw it. Whatever the reason, this is par for the course. 

And she is right…I am helpless without her.

Time For What’s Next

On December 31, 2024 I will be retiring from the investment business after 42 years. I made the decision over a year ago and am now making that decision public. I will be selling my business to Blaire Greenwood and Allison Lane of Greenwood Financial Group, people who happen to be two of my dearest friends in this world. I’ve known them both since they were annoying toddlers. Now they are annoying grownups who I love dearly. Knowing that they will be the ones taking care of my clients in the future has made the decision to retire much easier to make.

So, why now? Lots of reasons, really. First of all, it’s very hard to do anything for 42 years, but even harder to stop doing it. It becomes ingrained into who you are. But my line of work is the sort that you can’t do just a little of. You have to be all in, all the time. The business is fast moving, constantly changing—an ever evolving and chaotic enterprise. The regulatory regime that has risen up around the business has become oppressive, keeping up with the mountains of compliance edicts have become a full time endeavor in and of itself. There isn’t a place for part-timers. At the end of the day, I would just rather be at the lake in Maine.

2023 wasn’t my best health year. Had a scare or two that required several tests and medications, and also caused me to ask myself some questions like, “why the heck are you still working?!” My cardiologist informed me that the way that the human body handles stress at age 66 is far different than the way it handles that same stress at 36. He suggested politely that maybe my body was trying to tell me something. I have listened.

It’s ironic that I have made a living helping other people prepare for retirement but now that it’s my turn I feel apprehension. It’s not the money part that brings anxiety. It’s more like how do you replace a 42 year career? The answer is that you don’t. You transition to something less consuming, less burdensome, more relaxing. You find ways to embrace your new freedom. I’m confident that I will, mostly because I’m absolutely sure that this is the right decision for me. That doesn’t mean it will be easy. It also doesn’t mean that it isn’t a little scary.

Here’s the part about retirement that I don’t like. First of all, I hate the word. To retire from something is to withdraw, to quit, to disengage. All of those words sound like surrender to me, like giving up. That’s not me, it’s not who I am. But, there it is, staring you in the face. You spend four decades building something with your bare hands, making something valuable out of nothing, then you realize you can’t do it anymore. You turn over the duties and responsibilities to others, younger people with more energy, more drive. There’s no other way to spin it…you’re quitting. But quitting isn’t always bad, right? I mean, after the first bowl you quit eating ice cream. No matter how much you might want a second bowl, you quit because eating a second bowl would make you a pig and you would regret it the next morning when you step on the scale.

The worst part about this notion of “retirement” is the idea that naturally flows from it…that your best days are behind you. Suppose retirement really means that you have already done the best work of your life? That there are no more dragons to slay? If I ever get to the point where I believe that there is nothing great left for me to accomplish, I’m going to be in trouble. The task on the morning of January 1st, 2025 will be to find it.

I will not miss the constant, never ending, relentless pressure of the equity markets. I will not miss the sometimes crushing burden of responsibility that comes with being a trusted advisor to nearly 300 people. But, I will miss the people I work with, their friendship, the feeling of camaraderie, being part of the shared struggle.  I will miss my clients, many of whom I consider like friends and family. But, it is time. Time for what’s next.

A Morning at the Hospital

Hospitals hold a special place in our hearts. They are at once a place of life and death. They are places filled with highly skilled doctors, nurses and technicians who have the power to perform miracles, to literally rescue us from the grip of death. But they also stand aside helplessly when their skills can’t overcome the relentless power of disease. These talented men and women break the wonderful news to us that we have given birth to beautiful healthy babies. They also tell anguished wives and husbands that there was nothing they could do. No wonder they keep making television shows about hospitals. It’s the place where our stories begin and end.

My hospital story wasn’t nearly so dramatic. I arrived at 6:00 am and left at 10:00am, but those four hours produced quite a few life long memories. The first one concerned an elderly black man who was rolled in to the registration office by a van driver. The man was quite old and obviously didn’t know where he was. The conversation between the driver and the admissions clerk played out for all to hear. The old man was from a nearby nursing home. The driver’s only job was to deliver him for an unknown procedure. There was no family with him, no friends, just a confused old man who could hardly speak above a whisper. I watched this unfold with my wife sitting close beside me, knowing that there were literally dozens of people out in the world praying for me, people from all over the place who know and love me. The old man had no one. It was one of the saddest things I had ever witnessed. To be old and sick is one thing and plenty bad enough. But to be old, sick and alone is far worse and about as tragic as the end of life gets. Even as I sit here writing this ten hours later I can’t get the man out of my head.

Eventually I was wheeled back into a room where a cheerful, smiling nurse spent 45 minutes getting me prepared for my Cardiac catheterization. This involved lots of patches, wires and needles and she never stopped talking while she worked, telling me every detail about what it was she was up to. It was kind of like a radio play-by-play man at a baseball game. I found the information soothing, if not very helpful by way of explanation, it was the sound of her voice that was the important part. She exuded confidence. Confidence is good, especially when one of things she was up to involved shaving particularly private sections of the human anatomy. That’s another peculiar thing about hospitals. There is absolutely no place or reason for modesty.

I was then whisked around several hallways and one elevator ride to an extremely cold operating room where three cheerful women sat about setting me up for my procedure, all the while completely ignoring me. Their ongoing banter concerned the status of a friend’s recent disastrous first date with some guy he had met on Grindr. One of them managed to introduce herself to me with the line, “Mr. Dunnevant, I will be your bartender today.” She smiled and I think I did too, but shortly after this brief exchange my level of consciousness started waffling back and forth between detached and dead to the world. Time ceased to exist in this nebulous state of semi-awareness. I saw a gigantic screen with circles and streaks of white. I heard the murmur of voices speaking some unknown tongue. I saw an image of the old black man slumped in his wheelchair, then the muffled voice of the doctor, his mask-covered face close to mine telling me that everything went well. 

Then it was back to the prep room and my play-by-play nurse who spent the next two hours interrupting my sleep every fifteen minutes to make some kind of adjustment to the small incision on my wrist. The next thing I know she’s wheeling me out to the circular driveway where Pam is waiting for me in my red Cadillac.

The outcome was very good. There were no blockages, no need for stents. I can now officially stop worrying about my heart, a huge blessing for which I am extremely grateful. I come out of this experience grateful for a great many things—healthcare workers, nurses, doctors, and the miracle of modern medicine. And yes…for hospitals.

But the last thing I will think about before I fall asleep tonight will be that old black man in the wheelchair. I need to give him a name. I feel like he needs to be known, that somebody needs to give a damn about him. His name will be…Emmett. It was all a terrible miscommunication. His family—wife, sons and daughters were told the wrong hospital. They showed up at St. Mary’s. As soon as the mistake was caught, they all showed up in the waiting room and gathered around him before he went for his treatment. 

That’s the story I choose to believe, and when I pray for him tonight I will also pray for his family.