Two Months of Retirement and a New Story

I can’t remember where I was when it happened. I don’t recall exactly what day it was or what I was doing at the time. All I know is at some point between 8-12 days ago, an entire story popped into my head almost completely and fully formed. I’ve been writing fiction for most of my life and this has never happened before. Never.

Here’s how it usually works. I will stumble on an interesting idea, sometimes it’s a particularly interesting character, other times it’s a fascinating plot device or an overall story line that I find interesting. Then I ponder this newly discovered idea for several days/weeks, after which I do one of two things—get bored with it, or start writing. Once I start, most of the time the ideas become short stories. Sometimes, blog posts. More rarely, they become novels. But this thing was different. The only thing that I can imagine might have prompted it is the fact that lately I’ve been thinking a lot about a debate that philosophers have been having for 3000 years or so—Do the ends justify the means? Or, put another way, is it acceptable to achieve noble things via ignoble methods?

Anyway…this story pops in to my head, fully formed. I knew who the characters were, I knew what the conflict was and I knew exactly how it would end. Poof!! But writing the thing was brutal. Hard things, terrible things, impossible conflicts, tragic people. (Think: Flannery O’Connor in a really bad mood). But when I finished, I read back over it and was proud of the thing—and convinced that most people would hate it so I probably shouldn’t share it with anyone. As a compromise, I sent it to two buddies of mine whose opinion I respect and value and asked them to give it a test read. They both liked it, although one of them said he was disappointed it was only a short story. But what do they know? They’re both dudes. I currently have it out with two women for their opinions (one of whom is my wife). We’ll see what they have to say. Stay tuned!

Tomorrow will mark two full months of retirement. I’m loving every minute. I’m getting in shape, losing a bit of weight and so far have not driven Pam crazy. I’ve also worked out the ideal retirement shaving protocol. I’ve discovered that shaving just twice a week—Wednesday and Sunday mornings—is sufficient for my needs. The semi-permanent 5 o’clock shadow which accompanies me most days seems appropriate to someone with no active employment obligations. I’ve also discovered that the Hope Cafe is an excellent place to grab a bagel and a cup of coffee around 10:30ish on weekdays. It comes with the added benefit of giving me lots of opportunities to annoy a bunch of great people who are all trying to get some work done. Always a plus.

“Evil Found Them”

Over the weekend two Va. Beach police officers pulled over a blue Hyundai for having expired plates. The driver at first refused to exit the vehicle when asked. He finally complied only to end up in a tussle with one of the officers. Then he pulled a handgun out of his jacket and shot them both. As they lay dying on the ground,  he calmly walked up to each and shot them point blank in the head. The killer, a convicted felon, was later found dead of an apparent self inflicted gunshot wound. The details of the story come from the cameras worn by the slain officers.

I first learned of this tragedy when the pastor of my church announced it Sunday morning. Apparently one of the officers killed had family members who attend our church.

How many jobs are there where part of the calculus every morning is This is the day I might get killed? The starting salary for police officers in Va. Beach is around $47,000 a year. Not horrible, but ask yourself this question: If you were applying for a job which paid $47,000, asked you to work late at night and on weekends, and oh by the way, there’s a pretty decent chance that at some point you’re going to get shot. Would you take that job? I wouldn’t—for any amount of money.

Thank God for men like Cameron Girvin and Christopher Reece, who were willing to take on that risk and have now paid the ultimate price.

“Where Have All Your Opinions Gone?”

In the year 2025 I have only written two blogpost which it can be said fairly to have been even remotely about politics. One was about the wildfires in Pacific Palisades when I mentioned two California politicians by name. The other was a brief history of my relationship with Inauguration Day and my general lack of interest as the years have passed. That’s it. This despite the most target-rich environment for politics-driven writing that has ever existed. My social media feeds are chocked full of lamentations and celebrations. I see arguments almost every day between people I have known for years about the Trump/Musk administration’s actions. Many people I know are terrified and outraged by what they see. Others are thrilled and couldn’t be happier with events in Washington DC. I have people from both camps at my church, in my neighborhood and even in my own large and opinionated family. In that way I suppose I am typically American at the moment. But, my lack of posts about politics is no accident, it has been a conscious choice.

Sometimes it is difficult. I will be scrolling on Facebook or Instagram and run across a particularly duplicitous statement by someone presenting himself as an expert. I think to myself, “What a moron!” Then I put my finger on the leave a message prompt, preparing my sarcastic rebuttal. But I stop, take a breath, and move along with my life. It was a hard lesson for me to learn—that not every idea, notion or opinion that appears in my head needs to be shared with the world. It’s not my job to correct all of the world’s asshattery. If it were, I would literally be at my laptop 24/7. So, I’ve learned to let things go. Let others argue until their fingers are raw. But it’s not just the sheer volume of Tomfoolery out there, it’s also the very salient point that I have never seen anyone’s opinion change after a Facebook debate. Never once. It is ultimately a fool’s errand to engage in political debates with highly partisan people—who happen to be the kinds of people who are most likely to want to engage in political debates. You will not change their minds and they will not change yours. In most cases you will walk away from such online encounters angrier and more divided than you were when it started.

On the positive side of the ledger is the undeniable fact that I have found myself much happier having learned to disengage myself from the barricades. I’ve discovered that I can live around people with whom I profoundly disagree about politics. I have no doubt that I have friends and family who must look at me at times and wonder, “What is wrong with him?! Meanwhile, I often think about some people and wonder, “How in the world can they possibly support THAT?!” I’m learning just how difficult it is to give grace to others. But I’m also learning how absolutely vital it is to human flourishing to receive that same grace. It is the lubicating oil of human society. The more grace I am able to extend to others, the more I’m finding that I get back. It’s a beautiful thing.

So, in case you’re wondering where all my bitterly caustic political put downs have gone, well…they’re still in my head. I still read the news and think that our politics can’t possibly get any dumber. But I’ve had this blog for over 14 years now, most of you already know my views anyway. So, I’m taking a hard pass on all things pointless. I’d rather do some joy cultivation for a change. 

The Hugely Boys

It was not flesh and blood. More like a spirit, or a dream set adrift into the world. Now it just drifted this way and that until it found something to attached itself to. Then it went to work, bringing dormant memories back to life. These visitations always came at night to its owner, now an old man who had trouble sleeping. The old man called it the conjuror, this relentless spirit of his. All of the images that played out in his dreams were true. He would lay asleep in his bed and watch the scenes play out in perfect fidelity. Some of the scenes were a delight, others occasions of great regret and shame. The spirit was unsparing of his feelings. The spirit kept its own schedule.

The old man was still in full possession of all of his faculties, sound of mind and body. He lived independently in a fine house that he had helped build as a boy. His father had been a wealthy man, owner of a series of gas stations located conveniently at several exit ramps off of Interstate 64. He was rich enough to build his dream house when his son was only ten years old. The boy remembered with great fondness every minute of the time they had spent working on the house together. Soon after the house’s completion, his father had suffered a heart attack walking up the grand brick steps of the entrance, collapsing just short of the front door. The boy had been the one to find him, a ghastly spectacle that the old man could still recall with crystalline accuracy. It was after this family tragedy that the boy’s mother turned to religion, uniting herself and her family with a nearby church. In it she found comfort and the agreeable fellowship of new friends. Her oldest son at first had objected to being forced to give up every Sunday of his life, along with every other Wednesday night for family night suppers, but eventually discovered agreeable new friends of his own. By the time the boy was sixteen he was a fixture at the church, having become quite popular in the large and growing youth group. 

The old man had now been a member of the church for over sixty years and one of its most generous benefactors. He sat across the desk of the young man, the ninth senior pastor from whom the old man had drawn council over the years, asking the question of the hour.

“I have begun to have dreams for the first time in my life, Pastor.”

“What kind of dreams?”

“Vivid dreams, not of fantasies, but of real experiences from my life. Every detail of them is as fresh as if they happened yesterday. What do you think it could mean?”

The young pastor fumbled nervously with an oversized paper clip which he was in the process of twisting into a useless shape. “I’m afraid that interpreting dreams died out with Old Testament Daniel. If not, its beyond my pay grade. Do these dreams scare you or are they pleasurable?”

“Both. Some are quite lovely. Others are deeply troubling because they remind me of some of my worst failures.”

It had proven to be a mistake, visiting the young man. If his most recent dream hadn’t been so disturbing he wouldn’t have come…

The old man was sixteen and standing in line at a Wednesday night covered dish supper. The line had snaked out of the all-purpose room into the hall past the entrances to the men’s and women’s bathrooms. He was standing in front and behind the two prettiest girls in the church and was fully engaging with their infatuation when he felt the cold wind rushing in the building from the open doors. There stood the three of them, the oddest looking, most ridiculous siblings to ever darken the doors of Grace United Methodist church. The infamous Hugely brothers.

They had showed up one Sunday night out of nowhere months earlier, no one quite knew where from exactly, only that they claimed to be brothers. The oldest was an Ichabod Crane looking bastard, tall and gangly, slightly hunched forward, who always carried a briefcase with him. He claimed to be sixteen, but looked at least 35, with a scraggly 5 o’clock shadow and spiked greasy hair. Next to him and half his height stood the twins, Roy and Troy, wearing dirty sports jackets two sizes too big for them with long stringy hair covering their faces. He smelled them as they walked past headed for the rear of the line, the aroma of filth and woodsmoke. 

He made it through the line, past the string beans, turnip greens and mashed potatoes. He found the homemade rolls and fried chicken breasts and the orange jello salad. He grabbed a glass of sweet tea and made his way to the youth group table near the back of the hall and saved his two girlfriends a seat. One of them had forgotten to get herself a drink so she batted her eyes at him and asked if he would go get her one.

As he made his way past several full tables he noticed that the Hugely boys had made it to the food and the twins were busy cramming handfuls of rolls into the pockets of their tent-like jackets, while Ichabod was busy sliding chicken breasts into his briefcase, all while holding a conversation with the lady serving up the mashed potatoes, as slick as could be, like he had done it all of his life. The boy’s sixteen year old heart felt a rare moment of heaviness as things slowed down in the large hall. In the flickering fluorescent lighting of the fellowship hall it dawned on the boy for the first time that in addition to being odd and smelling odd, the Hugely boys were…hungry, perhaps desperately so. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t noticed it before. But there it was, right in front of him.

He walked slowly to the drink table to pick up sweet tea. As he turned to go back to his table he saw the taut little man in the gray suit and wire rim glasses approach the Hugely boys. The noise of a hundred murmuring voices and tingling utensils drowned out the words but the message was clear enough. The deadly serious man in the gray suit had seen enough thievery for one night and was having none of it. He roughly removed the rolls from Roy and Troy’s pockets, spilling several on the tile floor. The boys looked at him through their stringy hair with stupid, clueless grins. Ichabod quickly slid his briefcase under the table and said something to the man, after which the four of them made their way out into the hallway.

It was at this point when the boy’s sixteen year old heart pleaded with him to do something, to say something to the man in the gray suit. Was it really necessary to embarrass them like that? This was a church pot luck, not S&W Cafeteria. Who cares if they stuffed their coats with rolls? 

But just as abruptly as the noble intention had introduced itself…it vanished. He found himself back at the table. A cute girl was taking the iced tea from his hand and the moment was gone.

The spirit then blended into the air and the scene was gone, the voices quieted, the utensils stilled. Now the old man found his 32 year old self sitting in the back of a hay wagon with forty other young parents in the thrall of chaotic toddlers. They were at a strawberry patch in the country on an early summer day, the air filled with the buzz of children and the smell of wet grass and manure. 

His three little boys sat between him and their mother, three blond haired, dimple-pocked dynamos, not a care in the world. Life was good, had been for as long as he could remember. Then a tall, straggly man came walking out of the barn, climbed up on the tractor and introduced himself as their driver for the morning. Once again, the scene slowed to a crawl. Once again the heaviness returned. Ichabod Hugely, alive and kicking. They had all wondered whatever happened to them. They had never returned to church, no one had seen them since that Wednesday night supper. But here he was sitting atop the tractor wearing a straw hat and looking dumber than a box of hammers. The front of the straw hat had a green eye shade built in to the rim that drooped down to cover most of his unshaven face. They hadn’t made eye contact. 

“I should say something,” he thought. “He probably doesn’t even remember me. I wonder how the twins are doing?” 

Once they reached the strawberry fields the kids took off running. He hung behind trying to work up the courage to speak while battling himself over what he would even say. Hugely stayed perched in his seat, surveying the strawberry fields out from under his straw hat, while  eating a Slim Jim. Each time he thought of something to say a parent would come over looking for a diaper bag or some screaming child would interrupt the moment. Before he knew it, they were all back at the barn choking on the dust the hay wagon had kicked up on the return trip. He looked up and Hugely was gone. 

As they were packing the kids in their car seats he turned around and found himself face to face with Hugely. He still smelled the same. Still roughly assembled. His eyes still too close together, the expression on his face still unintentionally ridiculous. Then he spoke, “You know, that night at the church, I went back in later and got my briefcase. Them chicken breasts was still in there. They was good eating.” Then he lifted his right hand with the stained and ragged briefcase intact. “Still got her!”

The scene melted in an instant and the old man set bolt upright in bed, shaken by a memory so long suppressed. It had driven him to the pastor’s brightly lit and cheerful office seeking answers from a young man more enamored with the love of God than his wrath.

“Why would God send me such vivid dreams of my worst moments?”

“Have you considered the possibility that these dreams aren’t sent from God at all? Maybe they are randomly firing electrons…or something you ate? Not every dream need be a message.”

It was true enough, but hardly convincing for the old man who returned home to ponder the efficacy of firing electrons in his house full of memories.

Young at Heart

Believe it or not, most of the time I don’t feel old. I can read a calendar. I know that I will soon turn 67. But in my heart I don’t feel terribly different about myself and the world than I did when I was 40. If I want to be totally honest about this I would admit that there are many times when my reactions to the world are virtually identical to what they were when I was 17. I still react to violent thunderstorms with the same mixture of wonder and fear. Pretty women—especially my wife—still turn my head. I still have to fight the impulse to punch rude people in the face. None of this is to say that I never feel old. On the contrary, anyone out there around my age will understand the most common triggers.

- When you see a picture of a really old man on Facebook, then realize that you graduated high school with him.

- That very first time you discover that you can no longer eat spicy food after 8 o’clock.

- When you see one of your favorite baseball players who has been out of the public eye for a long time and you wonder what the hell happened to him because he looks awful—only to discover that he’s younger than you.

- Those melancholy moments when you’d like to ask your Mom a question, but you realize that she has been dead for 13 years.

- That first moment after a 4 hour drive when you attempt to exit your vehicle only to discover that your bones, muscles and joints now belong to an alien from outer space

However, these moments of confronting the reality of growing old pale in comparison to the single most, “God, I’m old” moment of all time…watching the Super Bowl halftime show.

My wife and my sister texted each other about this last night, where my wife confessed to the fact that this was the very first such halftime extravaganza where she had never heard of the artist, Mr. Kendrick Lamar. Neither had I. My sister shared that she had never felt older in her entire life. I watched without comment or reaction, realizing that I was not the target audience, so my opinion was unnecessary.

But, despite last night’s brutal reminder that I’m not getting any younger, I still intend to live the rest of my life looking forward and not backward. I will strive to nurture as much youthful optimism as I possibly can. I will search for the positives and avoid the temptation to pine for what is passed. The kids who are following us will need all the help we can give them.

I am reminded of the lyrics of an old song which seems appropriate…

Fairytales can come true, it can happen to you

If you’re young at heart

For it’s hard, you will find, to be narrow of mind

If you’re young at heart

And if you should survive to a hundred and five

Look at all you’ll derive out of being alive

And here is the best part, you have a head start

If you are among the very young at heart

Stop Looking Through the Rear View Mirror

I read somewhere recently that there was a survey sent to teachers in 100 different schools all over the country over 70 years ago asking them to list the biggest obstacles they faced in the classroom. Then much more recently someone got the idea to send the exact same survey out to the same 100 schools, asking them the same questions. Of course not all 100 of the schools were still in existence, but the results of the two surveys listed side by side was one of the most depressing things I had seen in a very long time.

The results from the 1950’s survey were as follows:

-Students chewing gum in class.

-Students talking in class.

-Students being too loud and running in the halls.

-Students not doing their homework in a timely manner.

-Students keeping a disorganized and messy desk.

The results from the 2015 survey were:

-Fighting at school

-Drug use at school

-Drug dealing at school

-Gang related violence

-Student assaults on teachers

-Sexual violence

Obviously, much has changed over the past 70 years. But then the author of the piece made an extrapolation from the data suggesting that civilization was on an irreversibly downward spiral, that drug use and violence would continue to become more prevalent by degrees and would ultimately destroy the world.

Ok. Slow down.

I don’t deny the validity of these survey results. Nobody would deny that we live in a much more violent world than we did in the 1950’s. But this notion that civilization is experiencing unprecedented degradation does not square with the facts of history. Has anyone ever heard of…Genghis Khan? Would you rather be alive in 2025 or the Middle Ages? You think health care sucks now, how would you like to have been in your prime in 1776 when the number one cause of death was simple diarrhea? For the vast majority of human history schooling was for only around 10% of the population. And as recently as the 1950’s referenced above the quality of education was massively inferior for African American students. Even today the pathologies described by teachers answering the 2015 survey are vastly different from one school to the next. 

I guess what bothers me about these type of stories is the assumption that we are experiencing uniquely challenging hurdles in a rapidly approaching dystopia that we are powerless to reverse. This is nonsense on stilts. Would I rather have been a teacher in a suburban school in 1955 or a teacher in an inner city school with a 40% truancy rate today? No contest. But I’ve got news for all you doomsayers out there…utopia has never existed. Don’t fall for the tired old saw that everything good in life is in the rear view mirror. Opportunities exist today that were never dreamed of 70 years ago. Yes, much of society seems to have lost its way, but there is nothing new under the sun. There are no obstacles in our way that have not been common to man going back centuries—greed, envy, hatred, lust, pride. We can and we will do better. I look at my two children and I must admit that they are smarter than I was at their age, certainly more empathetic, not nearly as obsessed with making money as I was in my 30’s. From this fact I take comfort.

Greater is he who is in us than he who is in the world.

No Country For Old Men

I never wrote this down on any retirement to-do list because it just stood to reason that I would get around to reading books that I somehow missed when they came out. When you run a business, pleasure reading isn’t always at the top of your priority list. Such was the case in 2005 when Cormac McCarthy’s No Country For Old Men came out. When the highly acclaimed movie came out a few years later I passed on it because I didn’t want to watch the movie without reading the novel. So, a couple days ago I downloaded the Kindle version. Mercy…

My previous experience with Cormac McCarthy was with All the Pretty Horses, and Blood Meridian. But nothing could have prepared me for this monster of a tale. There’s no point in detailing the plot because the plot isn’t nearly as important as his relentless commitment to illustrating the hopelessness and inevitability of death and violence and how the pervasiveness of pitiless violence will eventually destroy us all. Along the way he drops breadcrumbs of hope by sharing the wisdom of old men and the occasional act of kindness. Every now and then there will be a sentence that speaks to you as if through a megaphone: …It’s a life’s work to see yourself for what you really are and even then you might be wrong….It’s takes very little to govern good people. Bad people can’t be governed at all. Or if they could, I never heard of it.

Writers like McCarthy are hard to read for several reasons. First, The dude uses very little punctuation, and sometimes it’s hard to follow his dialogue because of his allergy to quotation marks. (How ironic that he won a Pulitzer!!) There is a sparse quality to his work, which I love, but it can be challenging. The hardest part of his work is his brutal honesty about the human condition. While there’s a part of you that nods in agreement at the disappointing conclusions he comes to in his work, there’s also a part of your heart that desperately wants none of it to be true. You want to believe that humanity is better than this, despite the overwhelming evidence that McCarthy might be right. 

As a writer, McCarthy isn’t my style. I am much more optimistic about the future, much more convinced of the possibility for redemption, the miracles that forgiveness and grace can bring into being. But as a writer, when I read this guy part of me wants to never write another word. What’s the point? I will never be that good. Ever.

Mission Accomplished

Last night around 8 o’clock I received a text from my wife where she gave me my assignment for today…

This recipe was from the famed Chelsea’s Messy Apron website, the place where every recipe is amazing and never ever fails. So, no pressure at all. As the name suggests, this was a crockpot meal, which meant that I had to put everything together in the morning, before my doctor’s appointment at 10:30. As I read through the narrative online I began to worry that perhaps Pam had bitten off a bit more than I had the capacity to chew. The prose on these cooking websites is full of befuddling jargon that non cooks like me find difficult to comprehend. But even after I felt I understood enough to get started, the ingredient layout was a bit overwhelming…

As you can see, this was a meat-heavy dish. There was bacon, ground beef, ground chuck, and Italian sausage. Then there were the seven spices that needed to be introduced at various strategic moments in the process. I was warned—rather ominously—against going overboard on the chili pepper and to consider removing the inside “membranes” and seeds from the jalapeño. I was also given the completely worthless suggestion to “take care to not overdo the sugar” without tasting it first. While the recipe made the claim that the preparation time for this dish was 30 minutes, by the time I had everything stirred in to the crockpot, a manic hour had passed and the kitchen looked like there had been an explosion and I had been the only survivor.

Now it was just a matter of waiting eight hours for all the ingredients to get to know one another, to meld their unique flavors and textures into one cohesive edible dish that would not send us rushing to Urgent Care.

To my great relief, my mission was accomplished. The chili was sensational.

Dogs vs. Cats

I have noticed recently that most of my friends and I have something in common—more than just bad judgement in choosing friends—we are dog-owners. This is not to say that I have no cat-owning friends, just that the vast majority of my friends and acquaintances have dogs. As I write this, I think of my sister and one of my nieces who own cats and I’m sure they will take exception to what I am about to write. Indeed, one of the hot button topics that probably should be avoided at family gatherings in addition to politics and religion is the whole dog vs. cat thing. People are pretty dialed in with regards to their opinions where this topic is concerned, so there’s no way to write about it without running afoul of someone’s tender feelings. But that sort of thing has never stopped me before.

I had lunch with one of my rare cat-owner friends the other day. We got to talking about this topic and he shared that one of his objections to dogs is the fact that their owners are expected to follow them around picking up their feces and placing it in small, paper-thin plastic bags—a ritual that he found disgusting beyond measure. I looked at him with the incredulous face of someone encountering the worst argument ever made against dogs and for cats. I looked at him for a second and then replied, “Ok, so you prefer cats—who defecate and urinate—in your house??  Thus began a spirited back and forth:

Friend: Yes, but they are trained to do so in the litter box which is stowed away in the utility room!

Me: Who in the name of all that is holy came up with the term LITTER BOX?? A cat owner, that’s who. It’s not litter that gets thrown in there. Your cat doesn’t throw soda cans and gum wrappers in there. He poops and pees in there, in a box full of God knows what kind of carcinogenic particles that make your entire house smell like cat poop and pee tinged vaguely with lilac.

Friend: Maybe. But at least I don’t have to pick up after him.

Me: Are you kidding? Who cleans out the litter box?

Friend: That’s what wives are for dude!

I almost resorted to my dog vs. cat ending argument, but decided that he had suffered enough, especially after he described the feline in question. It’s basically his wife’s cat. He tolerates it. He described the animal to me in the sort of way one describes a particularly wayward child. “He means well…” he began. “He was quite cute as a kitten. But then his eyes opened and all hell broke loose. He loves my wife. I say this due to the fact that he has never tried to gouge her eyes out, and he only hisses menacingly at her if she is late with breakfast or dinner.” So after that, I let it go. No need to rub salt in the wound.

But here’s the thing. I have never understood the basic value proposition that a cat brings to the table. With dogs it is self evident. To your dog, you are the greatest person in the entire universe. You hang the moon and the stars. When you leave in the morning they count the minutes until your return where they greet you like a conquering hero. Cats are emotional, spiritual and physical free agents. Your value to them is utilitarian. If you feed them promptly, they allow you to live. If you annoy them in even the slightest way they will hold a grudge for weeks. A dog doesn’t even know what a grudge is.

And then there’s the undeniable fact that cats will not be allowed in heaven.

I can hear the plaintiff cries from all of you cat lovers out there in the Blogosphere as you rend your garments at my words. Let me explain.

From the time you bring your adorable puppy home from the breeder/pound/rescue shelter, that little fur ball comes to believe that you are God. You are the source of all good and great blessings in his world. In much the same way as we worship God, dogs worship us. Cats, on the other hand, very early on in their tenure as the new owners of your house, come to the realization that they are God. And as we all know, the sin of pride is number one on any list of things that God cannot abide. Since no blasphemy can enter heaven, the cats will be left to their own devices.

I’m not trying to make the case that all cats are maniacal creatures and all dogs are benevolent angels. But do the math, people. How many people have been saved from burning houses by…cats? How many burglars have been foiled by the bone chilling sound of a…hissing cat? How many drowning children have been pulled out of raging rivers by heroic…cats? How many times have people been pulled out of collapsed buildings by the tenacious and fearless ethic of life saving…cats? When is the last time you saw a bomb-sniffing cat at the airport? On the other hand, what percentage of allergy-related deaths are caused by cat dander? 

I rest my case.

Now it’s time for me to sit perfectly still and quiet so Lucy will feel safe enough to eat her dinner. That is—if the ghosts flying around the living room ceiling fan will stop distracting the poor thing.

Retirement Status Update

My first full month of retirement is now in the books. Almost everyone I know when they see me they ask, “How’s retirement?” My answer is always some version of “Great!”. Of course, it’s only been one month, so no definitive answer is available at this point. I should also point out that retiring in the middle of winter isn’t optimal. If I had a do-over I might have retired the end of March or something when I could have celebrated by playing golf or going to an opening day baseball game. But, that ship has sailed. Still, January has been, despite the cold and snowy nonsense, quite fun. Here are a few of the highlights.

I got to attend my daughter’s 20 week sonogram. I found out his name, which is at this point still very much top secret. I have managed to remove three carloads of junk from our attic, which represents approximately 7% of the junk in our attic. This means that in a mere eleven more months I will be done! I have had six shifts at Hope Cafe plus at least that many paying customer visits which I spent mostly writing and engaging in harmless mischief. I might have made a couple videos to cheer up a sick friend, which featured me disparaging the already suspect reputation of my friend, Tom Allen. Speaking of writing, I wrote my first post-retirement work of fiction, a short story called Clara and Vincent. I distributed a dozen hamburgers to the volunteers at Hope Thrift and some Krispi Kreme doughnuts to the teachers at River’s Edge Elementary. Pam and I went to an awesome baptism at my church on a random Tuesday night. I gave Lucy a bath. We picked out and purchased all new exterior lights for our house and I hired real honest-to-God electricians to install them. I shared a fair number of top quality Dad Jokes to my many breathless fans. I met all of my siblings for lunch at Cracker Barrel in Fredericksburg. I fielded numerous phone calls and answered many texts from the new owners of my business who needed clarification on this thing or that. Most of these calls and texts began with the phrase, “Doug, I mean…what the hell?” I logged 48 miles on the stationary bike and another 10 miles walking the neighborhood when it wasn’t too danged cold. I also managed to do 705 pushups, curls and lateral raises (Yes, I keep records of such things). All of these healthy activities has resulted in me losing 2.8 pounds. I read two books. I have not shaved the beard yet but probably will the end of February. I have prepared only one dinner. 

There are several things I have not done since I’ve been retired. I have not checked on the travails of the stock market 100 times a day. I have not felt the weight of responsibility for the financial health of 300 people. My total “screen time” has decreased 42%…or so I am told by my cell phone’s analytics. 

All in all, a wonderful month.