Sunday, July 12, 2026

Lincolnville Strawberry Festival. A Review

 Yesterday was our busiest day yet. It all started when we made the snap decision to attend the Lincolnville Strawberry Festival, about a fifteen minute drive from the lake. This is a delightful event which we have attended three years in a row now. It was a picture perfect day, upper 70’s with abundant sunshine. But this being Maine, there were several oddities. How to explain the appearance of Rocky, for example. Although the fifteen foot long crustacean is certainly a show-stopper, one wonders what he’s doing crashing a strawberry festival. I mean the sign says Maine Lobster Festival, and Rockland is thirty minutes away! Old Tex here was no help, offering no explanation for the appearance of a lobster from a rival town showing up in Lincolnville. Tex did however take great pride in doing his job of traffic control, barking out loud exhortations to any stray visitors who happened to be standing in harm’s way, with no drawl whatsoever.

Then there was the photo op with the Strawberry Festival Clown. When I first suggested this to Silas’ father his response was decidedly negative, something like, “Wait, there’s a clown here? This is Maine. I’ve read IT. Hard pass!!” But eventually I persuaded him that the clown in question could be trusted. Silas wasn’t entirely sure and maintained an appropriate distance.

The event started with the much ballyhooed “Parade”. The two lane road which connects Lincolnville with the rest of the world was commandeered for the event by experts from local law enforcement. We heard a band playing then saw the huge tractor trailer that was pulling them arrive, all twelve members of the band playing a rousing rendition of some song I couldn’t recognize above the sounds of sirens. Then a gaggle of strawberry decorated kids on bicycles raced by, followed by several impressive antique cars. About the time I was really getting into the vibe, Rocky shows up, after which I had a hard time shaking the cognitive dissonance. Then the local shiny red fire trucks from the town fire department pulled up the rear of the parade, which ended ten minutes after it began—exactly the amount of time it took for the entire July 4th fireworks show in Camden. Must be some sort of local fun time limit ordinance at play.

All in all it was a glorious event, with delicious ice cream, lots of nice people and even a couple miniature ponies for the kids. I’m just puzzled by the lobster thing.

Maybe it was because he was red. Strawberries are red. Maybe the city fathers thought, “What the hell? He’s just sitting over there in the warehouse collected dust. Rockland owes us!”


Thursday, July 9, 2026

A Day With Pictures

 Yeah, I know. Lots of stuff has happened over the past couple of weeks, political stuff that I should care about but don’t. Instead of offering up my performative outrage online like everyone else I have been distracted by the transcendent gift that is the State of Maine and the miracle that is my grandson.

Today began at 5:47 with another dependably comforting sunrise. I drank my coffee on the dock and caught a nice bass before heading back up to the house around 6:00. After a breakfast which consisted of one giant pumpkin muffin stuffed with some sort of white fluff I headed out for my morning fishing trip. Over an hour and a half later I returned to the dock having caught eight large mouth bass, all about the same size (pound to pound and an half) and full of fight. Somehow in the rush of leaving the dock I managed to drop my cell phone into the water at the where it sat for all one and a half hours of my fishing adventure. When I finally found it and retrieved it from the water it still worked and now, nine hours after its lake bath, the thing still works. Considering how much I have earned off of Apple stock over my lifetime, the outfit owes me nothing. Still, I’m impressed and grateful.

Around lunch time we all piled into the car and made the 25 minute drive in to Camden Hills State park where we introduced Silas to the glorious views to be had of stunning Penobscot Bay from the tree-lined coast of the park and Shoreline Trail. Along the walk we found wild raspberries, which taste nothing like the raspberries you buy at the grocery store. Wild ones that grow in Maine are sweet and juicy and come with a reminder that nothing mass produced is nearly as good as the gifts you find on a walk through the woods in Maine.

Silas’ parents took the afternoon off to discover Lincolnville Beach and Ducktrap, where they searched for and found a delightful coffee shop. Meanwhile, Pam and I took care of the little boy while preparing dinner. When they got back from their adventure we sat down on the screened in porch to eat dinner while a thunderstorm passed by. Listening to the sound of the rain pouring down while we ate was magical—right up until a massive lightening strike hit less than a mile away, sending a crackling jolt of electricity through the trees, introducing little Silas to the violence of creation. He was not a fan. Scared the little guy half to death, along with the rest of us! Luckily, we all quickly recovered, finished our delicious dinner and spent some time with Silas playing with all his toys on the floor. When it was time for his bath we both had a little trouble getting up off the floor—yet another reason our daughter should have made us grandparents when we weren’t quite as—-mature—-as we currently are. Nevertheless we are so thrilled to have this little boy in our lives. 

Oh…one more milestone from this day. The boy learned how to make fart sounds with his mouth. I mean, does it get any better??

Friday, July 3, 2026

The Perfect Vacation Photograph

Like all families who go on vacations we have a “shared photo file.” That’s the twenty first century gift bequeathed to us by our digital overlords that offers a way for all vacation participants to send their favorite pictures to one common depository where everyone else can make comments. So far there are over 120 pictures in Fernwood Fun 2026…and we’ve only been here six days. It will come as no surprise to any of you that the vast majority of the total feature either Silas or Frisco in some form of adorability. However, the photograph that I have included with this post is not one of the 120. I took it at 6:20 this morning because as I opened the screen door to walk down to the dock it struck me as the perfect vacation photograph. Let me explain.

This particular shot featured no human beings and no animals. There was no staging involved. No one complained about it being unflattering. Nevertheless you will rarely see a photograph that communicates better than this one. If I had to give it a title I would say—proper use of a lake house deck. This picture tells lots of stories and all of them speak well of the inhabitants of this camp.

Hanging over the railing you see evidence of yesterday’s adventures. There are two adult swim towels, one toddler swim towel and two exhausted and drying adult male swim trunks. Here’s a pro-tip—if your lake house deck railings are not similarly festooned with these items at the end of the day you are not doing vacation correctly.

Moving on we notice the grill. We see that one emptied propane tank covered with sauce stains has already been used up and set aside. The plastic cover that covered this grill when we arrived is in a heap behind the spent tank where it will remain until we leave.This is a working grill, not a store display. We have so far worn this guy out with four triumphant meals featuring three different kinds of meat, grill baskets full of vegetables, naan and pineapples. It has all winter to rest.

You will notice the lovely red Adirondack chair with the matching side table. If I had taken the opportunity to better stage this picture I would have dragged the second chair in to the shot to make it feel more symmetrical. But, currently chair number two is serving the higher purpose of blocking the stairway down to the lake so Frisco doesn’t go rogue on us and make a break for it. However, the contents on the top of the side table are instructive.

First, you notice a can of sunscreen. SPF 30–which translated means, the number of years until you die of skin cancer. To the right of this can-o-death alert viewers will notice the battery operated swim float inflator. That giant blue syringe is the hand-operated version, for those of us who are concerned with the environmental impact of all those used D batteries. Frankly, this device seems for decorative purposes only since I have seen nobody using it.

Finally, you will notice the small red tennis-racket looking thing. This is a battery operated bug zapper to protect the grill master from the most common predator in the State of Maine…the black fly, or stinging fly, sometimes referred to as that f&^%**ing piece of s*#@!!!! Last night was a particularly rough night for the grill master. The meal took 50 minutes and dinner was served later in the evening—their feeding hour apparently. The sound that this device makes on the rare occasion when it actually connects with one of these monsters is quite satisfying..ZZAAPPPPPPPP!!!!

So, there you have it, the perfect vacation photograph that tells you every single thing you need to know about how the vacation is going.

Go thou and do likewise.

Monday, June 29, 2026

Full Hearts

 Yesterday was our first full day in Maine. In every conceivable way it checked all the boxes. I took pictures and they’re nice but as always they fail to tell the story.

The first thing we did when we arrived on Saturday was to open all the windows in the house. Although Fernwood has AC it is only used in emergencies. Yesterday was no emergency. Waking up at 5:45 to a 58 degree house was a wonderful reminder that we weren’t in Short Pump anymore. I took my morning coffee on the dock and watched the lake wake up. About 8:30 or so Pam and I had breakfast on the screened porch listening to the birds serenading us.

Just before I took the kayak out for some fishing I had to listen to Pam make the reasonable suggestion that seeing as how I had just spent two days driving from Virginia I should probably limit my fishing expedition to no more than an hour or so on account of my famously temperamental back. I nodded politely, having no intention to do anything of the sort. I have been waiting since last Fall to do some fishing on this lake and I wasn’t about to let a lousy back stop me. The first catch of the summer will not soon be forgotten—down by the dam I pulled in not one but two bass—on the same cast! I have attached photographic evidence to this post lest any of you suspect me of exaggeration. 

Lunch was taken on the porch by which time the high temperature had crept up to a sizzling 78 degrees. Today they are saying we might reach 80. I am aware that most of you reading this blog are enduring a 100+ heat wave with staggering levels of humidity. For a brief moment I thought about not mentioning our gorgeous weather situation here on Quantabacook out of respect and courtesy. But then I snapped out of it. After all, what’s a vacation if you can’t Facebrag about it!

By the time I was due for my afternoon nap Patrick and Sarah arrived, their wonderful golden retriever Frisco in tow. There was much unpacking to do and getting situated. Then Pam and I made the first of many dinners from the grill—sausage and shrimp, roasted potatoes and fresh sweet corn. Then, of course this being Maine, we simply had to hop in the car and drive up to Super Scoops for some ice cream. The selfie that Pam took captured the moment quite nicely.

Last night I slept like a man who feels like he’s gotten away with something. That’s because I kinda have. Tomorrow Kaitlin, Jon and Silas arrive. Pam and I will drive down to Portland to pick them up at the airport. Then the house will be full…along with our hearts.

Monday, June 22, 2026

The Fog

 Most days in this life aren’t a whole lot different than yesterday was or what tomorrow will be. Much of life is repetition and that’s ok because most things that you do over and over again you get better at, right? But every once in a while a day comes along where your brain functions at a different level. When the day is over you find yourself wondering what the heck happened? Was it something you ate? 

Take today for example. 

What follows is an attempt to explain what it was like to be me today, to give you a sneak peak into my thought processes for the day. Thankfully this isn’t what I would call a normal day, far from it. However, this sort of thing happens to me more often than I would like to admit. The problem I will have will be finding a way to describe this phenomenon without the reader coming to the conclusion that there is something wrong with me, which is a chance I will have to take.

The day started with me taking Patrick and Sarah to the airport so they could catch a plane to New York City for business. Once I dropped them off I planned on driving to the Cafe at Hope  for my morning ritual of coffee, breakfast and making a pest of myself to anyone who was unlucky enough to walk by. Instead I drove all the way to the entrance to my neighborhood before I realized that I was not, in fact, at the Cafe at Hope. I chalked it up to a brain freeze and although a bit irritated, I made the course correction and made it to the Cafe. Next on my agenda was a trip to Short Pump mall to buy a birthday present for Pam whose birthday always comes while we are in Maine. After completing this task, the plan was to run by CVS to pick up a couple prescriptions. Instead I discovered that I had driven home instead. Lucky for me Pam was happy to see me since she needed me to drive her over to the Hyundai  dealership to get her car which had been inspected and was ready for pickup. I accomplished this task with no trouble after which it was my intention to head over to CVS. Unfortunately, while on my way a really cool plot idea for the book I am currently writing popped into my head. So, I detoured back home so I could write the idea down before I forgot it. On my way home it occurred to me that I didn’t have my sunglasses with me. The sun was super bright and I remember having them on when I drove to the airport. First I thought maybe I left them at the Cafe. I sent a quick text to a friend there but got no response. Then I was sure I had left them at the store where I had bought Pam’s birthday present. I drove all the way to the mall only to discover that there were no sun glasses to be found. This time I was pissed because this makes the second pair of sun glasses I have lost in the past month. I drove home in a foul mood but on the way I remembered that a friend was closing on a house and was feeling a lot of anxiety about it so I sent a text to encourage her. Then I got a Marco Polo video of my grandson playing with a toy we had bought him for his birthday. Adorable. But as soon as the video was finished I remembered a dear friend I had lunch with last week who shared with me that he had four grandchildren he had never met because he was estranged from his daughter. I was overcome with sadness for my friend which reminded me that another friend had just been made a grandparent for the first time in the wee hours of last night. That cheered me up. But then I remembered that my former assistant had become a grandparent for the first time two days ago but she wasn’t going to know the little girl’s name until they arrived in Boston for a visit. That was two days ago and she still hadn’t text me the child’s name! When I arrived home I realized that I had forgotten to pick up the prescriptions at CVS—again. The good news? My sunglasses were on the kitchen counter. 

Smack dab in the middle of the day I had a very important appointment concerning very serious financial matters, the kind of thing that requires you to have your wits about you. My recollection of that meeting was that I was on top of my game and that it went quite well…except for the fact that half way through the appointment a former colleague popped his head into the room to say that he needed to speak with me before I left. I totally forgot about it until I picked up my sunglasses on the kitchen counter, approximately three hours later.

Other than that, it was a great day.

I have often complained about how old our recent Presidents have been, but I think I may have stumbled on an overlooked benefit of octogenarian leaders. If I was President and I wanted to go to war with some country for some reason—all that country would have to do is chill out for a couple days and by that time I will have forgotten why I wanted to go to war with them in the first place!



Friday, June 19, 2026

Passing the Torch

 The great one week countdown has begun. In exactly one week from this very moment Pam and I will be AIS, leaving Short Pump in our rear view mirror, heading for the big green bridge. In a first, this time we will be accompanied by my son and his wife who will also be driving up to Maine. It’s a long story but they will be driving their cool new EV car with their pup Frisco onboard. We will probably leave at roughly the same time but since their stops will take longer and be more frequent than ours we won’t be convoying or anything. However, it will be so cool to have them with us that first week at the lake.

A few days after we arrive, my daughter, son-in-law and grandson will touch down at the Portland Airport and for six wonderful days the house will be full of all seven of us for the very fist time. We will be introducing Silas, along with Frisco, to lake living in Maine. 

This will be a summer in Maine like nothing before it in our experience. We haven’t spent any time in Maine with a toddler in—I don’t know—since our kids were toddlers over three decades ago. This fact is almost impossible to believe. It can’t have been that long ago, could it? Nevertheless Pam and I both understand that this year will feel different. Hosting an energetic Golden Retriever with no lake life experience can be challenging. Having a 13 month old child there will change the dynamic in a thousand ways. There won’t be as many lazy moments, we won’t be able to succumb to whatever spontaneous impulse pops into our heads. If we are feeling an ice cream run over to Super Scoops we can’t just hop in the car and go. We will have to work around nap schedules…and this time not just mine.

But I’m not sure I’ve ever looked forward to Maine more than I have this particular adventure precisely because it will be so completely new. Having the opportunity to watch Frisco’s first time reaction to the lake will remind me of Lucy. Getting to watch Silas’ first moment in the water, his first lunch on the dock. His first walk on the footbridge at Riverducks will take me back to when I watched my two kids eating fluffernutters on the sandy beach at Dummer’s Beach all those years ago. For us it will feel like passing a torch of sorts, a torch of shared memories and experiences that have defined our family for the past forty two years…a very good thing.


Wednesday, June 17, 2026

What’s Going on at The Tempest?

 I have had more than one person ask me why I’m writing fewer posts in this blog than I used to. They have pointed out that in past years I routinely churned out over 20 posts per month and lately it’s half of that. Am I running out of things to say? Am I planning on winding The Tempest down? My answer is, no and no. 

No, I have not run out of things to say. If I wanted to I could write something here every day. There is always something to say. But over the past several years I have become more selective. Part of it is the fact that this isn’t the only thing I write. Over the past decade or so I have managed to write six novels, number seven is currently in the works. That soaks up a lot of imagination and mental bandwidth. 

But I have also become less self-indulgent when it comes to this blog. In the ten years between 2013 and 2022 I was cranking out on average 250 posts a year, much of it amounted to me venting my frustration on the subject of politics. The Presidential elections of 2016 and 2020 ignited a million opinions on the internet, most of them unhinged and counterproductive. I was no exception. Once you realize that you are part of the problem you complain about, it humbles you. Since 2022 my production here has averaged 125 posts annually. Most of that is the result of me asking myself a few questions: Is this piece helpful? Is it fair? Is it kind? Is it sufficiently informed? Under those rules many of my political rants didn’t make the cut. It’s not that I no longer care about political things, it’s more like a feeling that I can’t escape—the absolute last thing this world needs is another blogpost about politics.

I am not planning on winding down The Tempest. I love this forum. I’m proud of much of the content I’ve produced, embarrassed by some of it, and grateful that so many of you keep reading. Which brings me to another concern.

It took me 13 years to reach one million views in this space. It only took the last 12 months to reach two million. I don’t believe any of it. I have a growing suspicion that the internet has more bots than people. Especially over the past two or three years, the readership numbers here have exploded beyond believability. There is an environment of algorithmic bullshit that pervades the internet. The false and the fake are close cousins. I look at the numbers here and wonder, who the heck are these people in Singapore who read The Tempest? I have no idea but I am 100% convinced that they are not flesh and blood human beings. This knowledge leaves me cold and frustrated.

But what I do publish in this space are the things I truly want to write about…my family, my dog, my grandson, things that I think are funny and fun about being a 68 year old man. 

Sunday, June 14, 2026

Birthday Week Thoughts…

 Second birthday party for Silas is in the books. The Toddler Era has officially begun. The party was attended by the Dunnevant side of his family along with Jon’s sister, her husband and two adorable kids who came down from Maryland. A good time was had by all. It is safe to say that Lolli and Pops are birthdayed out but delighted that we got to experience such a milestone. 

In the middle of the festivities yesterday the thought occurred to me that this little boy will have no excuse for failure in this world. He has two parents who love him and each other. He is surrounded by loving family on every side who adore him. He has a community of dear friends and a church family in Columbia who have his back, including one particular family who would move heaven and hell for him—I’m looking at you, Wolfers. Of course none of these things guarantee a great life. The world can be a brutal place, enemies of peace and virtue are everywhere. But being blessed with such an array of people who love you cannot be underestimated. Much is made of the concept of privilege these days, most of the time the word is slung around as a pejorative. I am proud of this little boy’s privilege. It has been hard won, this supportive foundation he stands on. Luck had nothing to do with it. 

At the same time, I think about the thousands of children out there the same age as Silas who have been abandoned by the world, parents succumbed to addiction, extended family eviscerated by divorce and neglect. Through no fault of their own those children—created in the image of God just like Silas—will struggle to find their way. Some will. Many will not. The thought breaks my heart.

So, I am grateful for everyone who celebrated this first birthday with us. Everyone of you are a blessing beyond measure.

Friday, June 12, 2026

Lucy’s Last Trip to Maine

 Two weeks left before we leave for Maine. The 100 degree heat is a dead giveaway that the time is near. We have a thousand loose ends to tie up before we leave, but it’s always that way whenever you go somewhere for six weeks. But this year there will be some extra room in the car, the place that has always been occupied by Lucy and all her things. I try not to think about it because it will be disconcerting to look in the rear view mirror and not see her back there curled up in a ball sound asleep. 

This year will be a year of many firsts, our first trip without Lucy since 2015, and our first ever trip with a toddler as we introduce Silas to the lake. It is also rare when we get to have all of our kids up here at the same time, but this year that happy condition will exist for 6 days in July. Jon, Kaitlin and Silas will fly up and Patrick and Sarah will drive up with their Golden, Frisco—his first trip to the lake. I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to know that at least for that one week I’ll have a dog here with us. It will take a bit of the sting out of Lucy’s absence.

We have her ashes in a lovely jar along with an impression of her paw print in a little display box. The plan is to take her ashes to the lake. We figured it to be her perfect final resting place. So in a sense this will be her last trip to Maine.

This might appear overly sentimental to some, to feel such grief over a dog’s loss months after her passing, and maybe it is. But watching Lucy’s eyes light up whenever she climbed into the back of the car when she knew we were heading to Maine was a joy like no other. Watching her dive into the water following Pam everywhere she went on her paddle board always brought a profound peace to my heart. Having her stand by my side on the dock impatiently waiting for me to catch a fish was one of the most delightful experiences I have been lucky enough to enjoy. More than any of us Maine was always Lucy’s place. So, we will take her there one final time, adding her ashes to the very special waters of Quantabacook.

Sunday, June 7, 2026

Silas Has His First Birthday Party

 Young parents, along with new grandparents, are quite familiar with the books by famed children’s author Eric Carle, specifically his The Very Hungry Caterpillar series. The plot of these stories centers around a tiny caterpillar with a voracious appetite who devours everything in its path during one unrestrained binge-eating session after another. Although the specter of childhood obesity hangs over each of these books like the sword of Damocles, somehow they have become classics of children’s literature. They also happen to be among Silas’ favorite books and became the theme of his first birthday party. Lolli spent the past month scouring the interwebs for all things caterpillar. The results are displayed in the pictures which accompany this post.

The amount of planning and labor that went into this party are off the charts. But a child only has a first birthday one time so you’ve got to make it count. This one was in Columbia and was attended by all of his home town buddies and their parents. The kids had a blast. Their parents had a blast. There were homemade cupcakes, an ice cream bar and a smash cake. Silas picked at the smash cake, never once putting any of it in his mouth, preferring to fling the icing on the wall behind him instead. Later, when Lolli offered to feed him the cake with a fork (like civilized people do), he devoured it with great glee and enthusiasm.

By the time everyone left the party, the grownups were wiped out. The four all-stars included Lolli and Pops, and Grandma & Grandpa who flew in from Ohio and were indispensable in the three days of preparation required to throw such a grand soirée.

I cannot begin to describe how wonderful it is to know that my grandson is loved by so many. He is lucky beyond knowing, and I am grateful beyond telling.

Now, we head back to Short Pump to prepare for part two of his first birthday party—the Dunnevant family version next weekend. Everybody does this right? Two birthday parties at two different locations—right?

Tuesday, June 2, 2026

I Win at Life!!!!

 Ok, one thing nobody tells you about retirement is that there are some things you miss from your working days. For a guy with my particular wiring its the charge of adrenaline that accompanied a big payday. Yes, I know that might sound a bit superficial, but the feeling that came over you when you landed a big case was pretty cool. It was a moment of victory in a sometimes unforgiving season of loss and it felt incredible.

Well…let me tell you about an experience I just had that was even better.

The first part of this will sound dumb to most of you because basically it is kinda dumb. Pam and I are leaving for South Carolina in the morning for my grandson’s first birthday Lalapalooza and it just so happens that both of our key fobs for the Hyundai were on the fritz. So Pam sends me this video of some random woman giving a two minute talk about what to do when your key fob goes on the fritz which amounted to A. Replacing the battery or B. Buy a new one. I didn’t find this woman particularly helpful especially since there was not an accompanying video showing just how to replace the battery in a 2016 Hyundai key fob! So, I went straight to YouTube and dialed up a helpful video of some guy with a southern drawl doing the deed. I followed his instructions to the letter and discovered that I would need two 2032 disc batteries. To my great astonishment my giant hard plastic battery organizing mini-briefcase thing had the exact two batteries I needed—something that has never once happened in my 68 years. I popped those babies in and marched myself out to the garage and pressed the appropriate buttons and was thrilled to discover that they worked!! Look, I have many talents but nobody has ever accused me of being…handy. So, this was something of a triumph.

So, that was the dump part. But this next thing that happened is the greatest thing in the world. I hear a blip from my cell phone and it’s a text that my daughter sent to Pam and me. She said:

“I’m just gonna leave this little clip right here…”

I clicked on the video and it was Silas getting ready for bed. His mom asked him, “Silas, who are you looking forward to seeing tomorrow?”

The boy immediately says, “Pop!”

I win at life.


Sunday, May 31, 2026

SUMMER KICK OFF PARTY!!

 It’s easy at this moment in time to become depressed about the state of our country. If you watch the news it’s easy to conclude that we are hopelessly divided over politics, religion, race and basically everything else. But watching the news doesn’t tell you the whole story. It never has but especially now. It’s like when someone visits the United States for the first time and only goes to New York City. Yes, that’s part of America but it’s nowhere near the whole story. If you want to see the best of America, I suggest attending a—“SUMMER KICK OFF PARTY” in my neighborhood.

We got the email a week or so ago. Jinu Patel, the social committee chair of our HOA pitched it this way:

⭐🇺🇸⭐

Hello Neighbors!

This year, America celebrates a milestone — her 250th birthday! To mark the occasion, watch for festive patriotic decorations going up at the neighborhood entrance. If you have flags or patriotic décor at home, now is the perfect time to display them and help make our neighborhood shine this summer!


The HOA would provide pizza and each neighbor was asked to bring either a side dish or a dessert depending on whether your address was an even or odd number. Oh, and there was to be a red white and blue tye-dye station set up for anyone who wanted to bring a white t-shirt, and a giant inflatable frog that the kids could run through to get wet.

All of these neighborhood social events take place right in front of my house. For one thing, our place is on a not so quiet culdesac, but more importantly we have folding tables and 16 metal chairs. The last words Pam said to me before the party started was, “Please don’t throw out your back playing with the kids like you did last time.”

It lasted around three hours or so, the street jammed with young couples, older couples and kids darting this way and that in wet bathing suits. There was Greek salad, pizza, an Indian street food station and a whole host of amazing desserts. I tried a bit of everything and it was all delicious.

We got to catch up on all the neighborhood gossip, all the latest from the kids who were off to college somewhere. There were parents there, grandparents and folks with no kids. There were  white families, black families, Indian families, native Virginians like us and transplants from all over the country.

Funny thing—Pam and I moved here when the very road we were partying on hadn’t yet been paved. We are the only people who have ever lived in our house. Some of the folks at the party have been here just a couple years. I have no earthly idea who any of these people voted for in the last election or any elections before that. I have no idea where they go to church or even if they go to church. None of that matters because…these people are my neighbors. And that friends is what it means to be an American.

Oh…and although I was sorely tempted to take a run at that sprinkler frog thing, I resisted the temptation. 

Thursday, May 28, 2026

Sights, Sounds and Smells

 I can’t remember how long ago it was when I first walked down this path. Probably fifteen years ago? This is a place called Owl’s Head, Maine. It looks like a thousand other hiking paths in Maine that invite you in, making it virtually impossible to resist. The woods in Maine are deep, dark and mysterious. For someone who writes and tells stories like me, this path is practically begging me to enter. You just know that there’s a story in these woods. But this is Maine, a place where you never can be sure of anything.

After maybe a couple hundred yards, the canopy of trees clears and there you are standing on a rocky beach of Penobscot Bay, a protected sanctuary of the Atlantic Ocean, a towering cliff of rocks jutting out from the wilderness. You shake your head in disbelief. This isn’t how the ocean introduces itself if you’re a southern boy from Virginia, so your first time seeing it brings wonder. How could you be in a thick forest one minute and at the ocean the next?There’s a lighthouse at the top of that cliff. From the beach it’s hidden, but it’s up there as it has been for 200 years. There’s no charge to visit this place. It is one of 65 lighthouses along the rugged coast of Maine. We visit it every year. It’s a fifty minute drive from the lake. It never changes. It always delights.

Owl’s Head Lighthouse if just one of a thousand places that beguile us in Maine, the sights sounds and smells too many to list.

But, who’s counting?

Monday, May 25, 2026

A Big Day

 It’s a rare thing when one day on the calendar contains three significant events. Such is the case with today, the 25th of May, 2026. 

Memorial Day for me is the first of the Big Three days devoted to patriotism, the other two being Independence Day and Veterans Day. This year being the 250th birthday of our Republic, these days hold special meaning. Of the three, Memorial Day is the most moving, since it asks us to remember the countless fallen, the lives sacrificed on the field of battle. every Memorial Day I think of the words of General Patton. Like everything with George Patton you take the good with the bad, but he said, “It is foolish and wrong to mourn the men who die in battle. Rather we should thank God that such men lived.

My Son’s Birthday. 37 years ago today, Patrick was born, my one and only son. Super smart, super talented, witty and wise. Most of his finer qualities he inherited from his mother, but he picked up a few traits from me, like…his love of baseball, Golden retrievers and his choice of a wife. So, happy birthday to my boy.

On May 25th, 2026 we are 30 days from Maine, always a day of celebration. It has been over 7 months since last we crossed the great green bridge. But now it’s so close we can smell it. There’s lots to do between now and then, but mostly fun stuff.

So, today might be gloomy and overcast, but there’s a lot to celebrate.

Wednesday, May 20, 2026

Our Devious Plans

 Last night Pam and I got to do something we seldom get to do. We celebrated our anniversary with Patrick and Sarah. We had dinner at the Boathouse down at Rocket’s Landing and it was wonderful. 

A week and a half ago they drove up from Nashville to drop off their dog Frisco with us so they could go on a long-planned vacation to London. They returned this past Sunday and since this was our anniversary week and since they both work remotely they have stayed here this week. We have enjoyed spending time with them (and Frisco!). The other night after dinner we sat down in the living room and watched over an hour’s worth of pictures from their London trip, listening to their stories. So much fun!

When your adult kids live far away you don’t have many opportunities to just hang with them for no particular reason! This week has just been a normal week. After breakfast they go upstairs, get on their computers and go to work. They break for a homemade lunch with us, then when they are done working for the day we have dinner together. The only downside is I’ve been denied my favorite afternoon napping station (my ancient recliner in the den upstairs) which has been commandeered by Patrick as his work station. Small price to pay to have my kids here all week.

The problem with my kids is that they are too smart. They are both probably on to our devious plan. There we were driving them around Shockoe Bottom, then the canal walk, then Rocket’s Landing, speaking glowingly of how Richmond has become a very popular place for younger couples to live. This morning I may or may not have sent them a link to a delightful condo which came up for sale a stone’s throw from the Boathouse. Maybe one night before they return to Nashville we’ll have a meal at one of the hip and trendy eateries in the up and coming Scott’s Addition neighborhood. 

You can’t blame a guy for trying, right?

Thursday, May 14, 2026

The Benefits of Getting Older

 Getting older is a mysterious business. In some ways it doesn’t seem real, as if it’s not even happening. You wake up, go about your day feeling no different than you ever have. Other days every step feels labored. But as soon as you start to worry about decline a new day dawns and you roll out of bed with a thousand ideas. Life starts to feel like there’s a cycle to it, days of growth and days of regression, and each comes without warning and each feels like a surprise.

There are great benefits to be had from getting older. You start to come to some final conclusions about things that have baffled you most of your life. When you were 40 you weren't sure how you felt about politics, now you’re absolutely sure you hate it. You used to worry about what people thought about you, how you were perceived, but now you’ve stop worrying because it’s too late to change anybody’s mind—a monumental relief.

I was fortunate to have inherited a quite reliable bullshit detector from my mother, she being famous for her ability to see through human disguises. I have noticed that this particular inheritance has, if anything, gotten sharper and more powerful with time to the point where I am now much better able to spot my own bullshit. It is often said that it is the young who challenge the status quo and the old who defend it and I think this is generally true. But in my case I have discovered a growing tendency to question my own long-held assumptions. It has been a wonderful thing to discover that so many things I believed as a young man are still solid and true. But, I have also found that I have been wrong about some things, which is humbling.

Everything decays. We are about to get a new roof for our house. The old one has worn out due to a hailstorm and 28 years of weather. Our two vehicles, both of the low mileage variety, are showing signs of wear. They will eventually need to be replaced. I’m decaying and so are you. It started the day we were born, this decaying. You know what doesn’t decay or wear out or grow old? The beauty of a sunset. Seeing the face of a friend across the way. Having a dog jump up beside you on the sofa to take a nap. Hearing someone you love tell you that they are proud of you. The smell of balsam that greets you when you get out of the car after a two day drive to Maine. Being out somewhere and seeing a Mom and Dad walk into a restaurant with their two little boys—wearing their Little League uniforms.

Here’s one thing I’ve noticed since I retired. Most of the things that have the most life in them, the things that give me the most joy, are things that I don’t own.


Monday, May 11, 2026

Forever Neighbors

 It’s funny how life works out. Whether you believe in cosmic chance or divine appointments, there are times in your life where you find yourself in the right place at the right time. Such was the case around 13 years ago when the house next door became vacant close to the time when we were about to become empty-nesters. When you live in the suburbs you don’t get to choose your neighbors so when someone moves out there’s always the possibility that the people who move in wind up being a family full of tuba-playing narcissists. So when the house went up for sale Pam and I were nervous.

We both hoped that a young family with kids would move in rather than an older couple…er, like us. I mean, I’ve got nothing against the elderly, in fact I hope to be one some day. It’s just that having children around brings life. It also brings noise, chaos and a yard full of toys, but that’s part of the grand bargain. So we prayed that God would send us a young family with kids who could help us deal with having just spent the last 25 years of our lives raising our own, then watching them grow up and move away. We got exactly what we prayed for…and last night the doorbell rang and there they all were standing on our walk telling us that they had just put a contract in on a house and would be moving a few miles away. The Mom told us that the three kids would only sign on to the move if their parents promised to have us over for dinner at least once a month! 

When they moved in they had a a toddler and Mom was pregnant. Now that toddler is damn near as tall as I am and he has two sisters. We have watched them grow up. It has been a joy and an adventure. One of them fell out of a second story window, there have been multiple broken bones and tons of noise. We went through COVID as neighbors. They looked after Lucy a thousand times for us over the years. We have filled their house with trinkets from Maine, bought every single thing the kids have sold over the years from lemonade to raffle tickets. We’ve watched each of the kids change over the years both physically and emotionally. Each of them have developed unique personalities. We’ve also watched their parents navigate the impossible job of parenthood, from wide-eyed terror to fierce confidence. The fact that they are moving is perfectly predictable and proper. They need space not just for their kids but for their friends. Mom very much wants to be that house where everybody hangs out, just like we had for years before they all grew up and disappeared.

Before I became an actual grandparent last June, I had been honing my Pop-skills with the three goofballs who lived next door. I have enjoyed every minute of it. But now they will be moving out soon and Pam and I will be bracing for whoever replaces them. But on some level nobody ever could. 

I’ve always loved the expression used to describe when a family adopts a pet from an animal shelter. It is said that the dog or cat has found their “forever home.” Well, when The Garlands moved in 13 years ago we didn’t know it at the time but we found our “forever neighbors.” 

The address doesn’t matter…

Saturday, May 9, 2026

My Encounter With a Gas Pump

 I have spoken many times in this space about my cluelessness about how much things cost. For one thing most of the buying of things required for daily life in the Dunnevant household is done by Pam. But I do my share of grocery shopping while she is away and I never notice the price of anything. I just put it in the cart and pay for it at the register. End of story.

But the other day I had a moment. I had not bought gas since returning from the Columbia trip and my dashboard was hitting me with lots of flashing red lights and pictures of near empty tanks with the words WARNING: LOW FUEL LEVELS. So I pulled in to a Shell station on Patterson Avenue. I flashed my debit card and selected regular. Then, as is my custom, I busied myself with cleaning the windshield and gathering up trash to throw away. Then I heard the familiar click informing me that the fueling was over. It was then that I removed the nozzle and put it back in place. I almost missed it, but something made me glance up at the meter where I was confronted with the picture which accompanies this post.

First of all, you will notice that I pushed this particular tank to the brink. It’s never wise to drive around with less than a half gallon of gas in your tank! But the top number grabbed my attention. $83.41…for gas. If you do the math that comes out to $4.25 per gallon. Yes, I’m aware that the price is currently inflated due to Straight of Hormuz difficulties, and could just as suddenly drop back down to previous levels when an end to hostilities can be found. But…man-o-man.

I can remember like it was yesterday the very first time I drove my 1966 VW beetle to the Gulf station across the street from the ball field at Hunton Baptist church to fill up the tank myself, with my own money. I was 16 years old or so and feeling free as a bird in the heady days of first responsibilities. My old Beetle had a 10 gallon tank and it was close to stomp empty (clearly an inbred character flaw). I filled it up to the brim, put the nozzle back in place and walked into the store, reached into my wallet and gave Mr. Higgins a fresh, clean five dollar bill. He gave me change back. It was .36 a gallon.

Before we get all nostalgic, I should point out that 1972 was the last year of the cheap gas era since 1973 would produce the Arab Oil Embargo and the rest is horrifying history. Still, if you were to adjust that .36 per gallon price for 52 years of inflation, in today’s money that would be $2.60 a gallon—which, I should point out isn’t far from where gas was priced before the current war with Iran. So…not bad.

Still, it was a bit shocking to see that $83.41 price staring back to me. I looked at that number and thought about a young couple with a kid or two just getting started and wondered how this would hit them? Then I thought about older folks less fortunate than me. What other necessities will they have to forego to fill up their tanks?

While the cost of things might be an irritant to me, it’s make or break for a lot of other folks. We all need to keep that in mind as we go about our daily routines. Keep your eyes open for people who might be struggling. If you are in a position to help, do so with wisdom and discretion.

Wednesday, May 6, 2026

A Rough Ten Days

 The last ten days have been a lot.

Last week Pam and I went down to spend a week with our grandson and his parents. While we were there we had to take him to the Pediatrician three times. He began breaking out with what first looked like a rash, then perhaps chicken pox, mostly on his back and the top of his head. While none of this is life threatening, it is still a helpless feeling when one so small and innocent has any kind of health concern. Since this is the first time it has happened to him and me, it kind of breaks my heart.

To add insult to injury, towards the end of the week three of the four adults in the house came down with strep throat. For cosmic reasons that defy all notions of fairness, I somehow dodged the bullet. We drove back home last Saturday and “rested” for 48 hours, then Pam headed back down on Monday to keep him at home this week until he turns the corner and these rashes get under control. I am here in Short Pump, holding down the fort preparing for the arrival of Patrick and Sarah from Tennessee this Saturday for one night, hand off their sweet pup Frisco and then fly to London for an long-planned vacation. Pam hopes to arrive back home before they arrive.

The only good thing about Silas’ situation is that so far these rashes have not changed his behavior and outlook on life. The boy has been his adorable, laughing, adventurous, playful self through it all, gobbling up everything on his plate, crawling everywhere, and babbling on like nothing whatsoever is wrong. Still, I can hardly stand to look at the photographs of the rash on his back. I want to take them away. I want them to be on my back and not his.

It’s the exact same feeling I used to get whenever Kaitlin or Patrick got sick when they were little. I always feel like it is monstrously unfair when children get sick. They don’t understand what’s happening and you can’t explain it to them. You just have to die inside a bit while giving them their medicine…and you do a lot of praying.

I have been a Christian for over 50 years and in all that time I have always struggled praying for myself. Asking God for help with personal issues always felt too much like whining, especially since what I was praying about was usually the result of my own stupidity or hubris. But whenever one of my kids got sick I had no problem storming heaven’s gate. With Silas it’s at a totally different level. Let’s just say that over the last 48 hours or so, God and I have been on a first name basis.

Wednesday, April 29, 2026

Update From Columbia

 Update from Columbia:

Pam and I have survived the first two full days of Silas-Care without major incident, although I just took my first muscle-relaxer of the week. A bad back does not mix well with a 21 pound child who has mastered crawling. Other than that it has been a wonderful couple of days. Among the highlights was our first appointment with the Pediatrician.

When we first arrived on Monday afternoon we were informed that Silas had a minor but worrisome issue that Kaitlin wanted the doctor to take a look at. The appointment had been set for Tuesday at 10 am and neither parent could make it—so next man up. The little man was as good as gold until the nurse whipped out a thermometer. Ever since his recent bout with hand, foot, and mouth,—DON”T ASK—he has turned on anything that resembles a thermometer or syringe. He let the nurse know about it in no uncertain terms. But other than that, the boy was a prince.

Today we took him to Chick-Fil-A for lunch. As usual he loved being around crowds of people. He smiled at everyone and chowed down on nuggets and waffle fries like it was his job.

But the best moment of the week so far has been me introducing Silas to the concept of rough-housing. The guest bedroom has a bed which comes festooned with far too many decorative pillows, a common affliction among Dunnevant women. But for once all of that unnecessary softness came in handy. I began tossing the little guy into the middle of all those pillows and he would giggle his head off, to the point where he eventually figured out how to throw himself into the pillows with admirable recklessness. By the end of our first session his face was red from the exertion and his Pops was out of breath. Later on in the evening I demonstrated this new skill to his mother and she laughed nervously as she watched her son flying through the air and landing in a pile of pillows. She seemed to feel better when I reminded her that this was one of her favorite activities when she was his age.

Pam and I have both noticed how much harder it is to take care of a crawler than it was taking care of a baby. Definitely takes two and even then, you get distracted for thirty seconds and the next thing you know he’s ripping the first page out of Ralph Waldo Emerson. Makes me respect single mothers and single fathers who do this every day.

Monday, April 27, 2026

On the Road Again

 If our retirement had a sound track it would be dominated by the Willie Nelson classic, On the Road Again. We leave this morning for Columbia, SC to spend a week taking care of our grandson and his hard working parents. This will be the sixth or seventh time we have done so since he was born nearly 11 months ago. Including one stop for gas and lunch it is a six hour drive, one of the shorter ones we make these days. Going to see Patrick and Sarah takes nine hours. Maine requires 14 hours and a hotel reservation. So, six hours is a piece of cake.

If your adult children choose to move to other states, as parents you have to become road warriors assuming that A. Your kids still want you to visit and B. You still love spending time with them. I consider it the finest achievement of our lives that both A and B are still true. In fact, two weeks from now, Patrick and Sarah will arrive to hand off their dog Frisco with us while they head off to London for a week together. Pam will then head back down to Columbia to assist our daughter while husband Jon navigates the almost 24/7 demands of Firefly Season at Congeree National Park, leaving me here to take care of Frisco, one of the most adorable and sweet Golden Retrievers of all time. The rest of the month of May features birthdays, planning early June birthdays, our wedding anniversary and several other events that have slipped my mind.

Retirement is not for the faint of heart.

Thursday, April 23, 2026

For the Record…

I have a terrible memory when it comes to my health history. If you don’t believe me just ask Pam. She claims that I had shingles once and for the life of me I don’t remember it. It is a constant source of frustration for her, these giant lapses of memory when it comes to my health. She thinks I have selective amnesia. Maybe. I prefer to think that I forget specifics about my various past illnesses and medical issues as a defense mechanism. If I forget about stuff, did they really happen? I’m told by my wife and all the other smart people in my life that this is foolishness. Whatever…

So, after yesterday’s procedure, I thought it might be wise to chronicle the highlights in this space so the next time I am asked to submit to the thing (in 3-5 years) I will have a record of exactly what happened. I will include no gory details, just the basics.

I should begin with the worst part. It is truly an amazing time to be alive. We just sent four really cool people to the moon and back. Technological advances exist that make our lives infinitely easier than at any time in the history of this planet. And yet—to prepare for my colonoscopy, (there! I said it!!), I had to drink 16 8 ounce glasses of a clear liquid that tasted like salt water with a hint of lemon. I had to accomplish this feat in four hours, which required me to drink a glass every fifteen minutes. Whoever came up with this hellish plan must have realized that no human being could accomplish such a vile thing without a break so they split it into two shifts, the first from 6 pm to 8 pm and the second from 4 am to 6 am. That’s right, I had to set my alarm for 3:50 in the freaking morning the day of the procedure for a two hour torture-fest after having endured a night of…well, you know. Diabolical.

Once sufficiently cleansed, I became aware of just how hungry I was. By the time I arrived at the medical facility I hadn’t had any solid food for nearly 40 hours and I was beyond hangry and already fanaticizing about my post procedure meal. I make no apologies that I chose Waffle House.   

I should say that the actual procedure was a breeze. The nurses and doctors performed brilliantly and the chemicals injected into my bloodstream were golden. The last words I heard were, “Give me five deep breaths.” Then in what seemed like ten seconds later I was back in the holding room where a cheerful nurse was informing me that it was over and I hadn’t given them any trouble.. Next thing I know they are wheeling me outside where Pam was waiting to drive me to Waffle House.

The only residual effect from yesterday’s events are my newly strained relationship with the Tervis Tumbler I got the one and only time I played Pebble Beach 15 years ago—where I shot 89, I’ll have you know. This was the vessel I chose for the 16 8 ounce glasses of salt water agony. Now, although it has been through the dishwasher, it will be a while before I chose it for any further use. PTSD is real.


Tuesday, April 21, 2026

Just Asking Questions

 I am in a contemplative mood today. Some days you just wake up with questions. I will freely admit that most days I fly through from dawn until dusk without a serious thought ever passing through my mind. I am driven solely by instinct and the genetic code bequeathed to me by my ancestors. But other days, everything is open to challenge and I question all of it. I have no idea why this is. Might be something I ate. Who knows?

This is a day that has been circled on my calendar for quite some time for all the wrong reasons. It’s “prep day” for a certain procedure which people of a certain age have to endure once a decade. Its a lovely experience that involves the two words that no human being likes to hear…liquid diet.Yes, all day I will be subsisting on Fresca, black coffee, water, jello, Italian ice, and —the highlight of my day—chicken broth. The show-stopper of this day will come in the evening when I will be tasked with drinking an entire gallon of what might be fairly described as Kool-aid with an ulterior motive. It’s the sort of day where active physical activity is to be avoided, you spend the entire day trying to pretend you’re not starving, and you begin to ask questions. Lots of questions.

Like…who was the first person to look at a lobster and think, “I bet this might be good to eat.”

We’re almost 25 games into the baseball season and I am chock full of questions. 

Like…my Nationals are first in the big league in errors and last in pitching. How is it possible that they have actually won 10 games?

Like…the Cincinnati Reds have won 15 games despite hitting just .203 as a team.

And another thing: How is it that nobody washes their hands with regular old soap anymore? When I was growing up if you wished to wash up before dinner you went to the bathroom and there was a bar of soap. It was usually Ivory or sometimes, when my father was in a certain mood, it would be something called Lava, which was kind of like washing your hands with a live porcupine. But now, no matter where I go in my house to wash my hands I am presented with these pump bottles filled with cleaning foam with bizarre names like “Honeycrisp Hayride.” Ok, I know what a honeycrisp apple tastes like and I know vaguely what a hayride smells like, but neither of them have any relationship to this product. But there are plenty others around here to choose from. I can go with “balsam breeze” or “lavender sunrise.” But do I really want my hands to smell like anything? Back in the day if we were going through a “Lava” phase I was lucky to even have hands! I suppose this is what passes for progress these days.

Sunday, April 19, 2026

Human Beings are Great at Complaining

 There is one thing about human beings that is beyond doubt. We are genetically predisposed to complain. We all do it. I suppose it is one of our instincts because complaining has at least a strained relationship with progress. If enough of us complain about something long and loud enough, eventually a product or service is born to placate our dissatisfaction. But make no mistake, complaining is here to stay. This blog, now in its 14th year, stands as a testament to the enduring power and often the entertaining nature of complaining. However, there are times when complaining annoys me, whether it comes from me or someone else, and that is when it comes to church.

Churches are first and foremost a private association we enter into with other mostly like minded individuals. There are no membership dues, not many enforceable rules, not even attendance requirements. To join requires only an acknowledgment and a passing fealty to a set of core beliefs. After that, you’re in. While every church hopes that all its members will attach themselves to any number of volunteer opportunities that make up the church’s mission, there is no requirement to do so. You can have as much or as little church as you wish. 

I am a member of what most people would call a large congregation church. Our main auditorium only holds around 700 people, but we fill it up for 3-4 services every Sunday. A separate building on the campus intended for youth ministry has been added as a site for two addition services each Sunday. That building holds probably 100-150 people at each service. So on any given Sunday roughly 2500-3000 people will have attended services at our church. Every single Sunday that I have attended in the 8 years I have been a member has been a parking and logistical problem, for which there is currently no affordable and practical solution.

Then there is Easter and Christmas.

Ah yes—the two days on the church calendar that bring out that hearty perennial—the Holly and Lilly Crowd. Anyone who has even the most vague attachment to the church feels an obligation to nostalgia and guilt which drives them to attend services, swelling the normal crowd by 20-25%. At our church this means going online to “reserve your spot.” Although you don’t buy a ticket—church attendance is still very FREE—but knowing how many people are coming to each service helps the staff to prepare accordingly. No matter how much preparation is done, it’s always a madhouse. There are a hundred chairs set up in the foyer. People are jammed in to the cafe to watch on life stream. Finding a parking space is the kind of thing that ranks high on most people’s list of things that make one “lose your religion.”

For many years our church rented out the Carpenter Center for two services. Both of them were nearly full. But because of scheduling issues we scrapped that strategy and are now back to multiple services on our own campus which is not designed to accommodate so many people.

All of this produces much complaining. It goes something like this:

When we used the Carpenter Center people would complain about having to drive downtown, park in a parking deck which it took forever to get out of afterwards. They complained about the long lines of traffic, of how impersonal it was not being in our own building.

Now that we are having services in our own building the complaints are with the online registration process—how no matter what service you sign up for it doesn’t mean you’ll get your normal seat. You might end up in the concourse or in the cafe! The traffic gets backed up all the way to 288 on Patterson Avenue! It takes forever to find a parking space! 

Each of these complaints are true. All of these inconveniences are totally accurate. To which I can only say, Yeah…ain’t it GREAT??

Do we have any idea what an honor, blessing and privilege it is to be part of a church which has this type of problem? Look at the numbers for church attendance in this country over the past twenty years or so. It’s fallen off a cliff!! To be a part of a fellowship that is thriving is a gift to every one of us.

When we attend a sporting event or a concert we sit in long lines of traffic, scramble around forever trying to to find a parking spot and it takes forever to get back home afterwards—and we don’t bat an eye. It’s what we expect. Why then is it different for church? Our leadership has explored every expansion possibility that exists and are still doing so. Some of them are outrageously expensive others unworkable for one reason or another. Still, the church continues to grow.

I don’t want anyone to think that I’m some fan boy apologist for my church. I’m not. I’ve been a member for over 8 years. There are plenty of things that happen of which I am not a huge fan. There are other things that I wish we didn’t do. I have approached no one on the leadership team about any of my objections. Why? Its simple. I have no solution to offer with the complaint. See…most of my objections, upon closer scrutiny, amount to personal preferences. I simply don’t care for this type of music or that sort of presentation. Any solution that would satisfy me would most likely annoy others. So unless the issue at hand has a workable solution that would benefit and improve the entire church, my job is basically to shut the hell up. Especially if my complaint revolves around something that is causing me an inconvenience—like winding up in the concourse instead of my usual seat on Easter Sunday. Shouldn’t the members volunteer to take the worst seats on those two special days anyway? Shouldn’t we be going out of our way to make the visitor experience as good as it can possibly be? 

In any organization on earth that human beings are a part of, each of us have to decide who we want to be. Do we want to be part of the problem or part of the solution? Got a complaint and a workable solution? Great, let’s hear it. Just a complaint? Not interested.


Friday, April 10, 2026

The Most Beautiful City in America

Pam and I spent yesterday being introduced to the most beautiful city we’ve ever seen, Savannah, Georgia.

I purchased two tickets for the Old Town Trolley Tours, the best $100 I’ve ever spent. We boarded around 10:30 or so. It’s advertised as a 90 minute tour but that’s only if you don’t get off and walk around, which you are free to do because there’s always another trolley waiting to pick you up. Honestly, we could have gotten off at each of the 16 stops on the tour because every one of them was fascinating and beautiful. Instead we only got off the trolley three or four times. Still, it took us almost five hours and we hardly scratched the surface.

We took a bunch of pictures but this was the sort of experience that photography doesn’t really capture. Savannah claims to be the first planned city in all of America, its dimensions laid out in 1734 by its founder, General James Oglethorpe, an Englishman who designed the place with a military man’s eye for detail and utility. The standout feature of the city layout were the 24 “squares” placed throughout the middle of the place, of which 22 survive to this day, un stained by “progress”. Each of them feature gigantic live oak trees strewn with Spanish moss, which create the strange sight of the downtown of a city overrun with 400 year old trees, statues and memorials, all of them a feast for the eyes, all of them shrouding the city in a rich towering canopy of shade and filtered sunlight. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen.

Oglethorpe insisted on his new city abiding by his four “rules.” There was to be no slavery, no hard liquor, no lawyers, and no Catholics…no slavery because it was wicked, no hard liquor because it made people lazy, no lawyers because lawyering led to unfair persecution, and no Catholics because of the Spanish army down in Florida and Oglethorpe’s fear that if he allowed Catholics in his city and the Spanish were to attack, his Catholic citizens might side with the Spanish. Our guide pointed out the fact that Georgia has been trying to keep Floridians out ever since!

The primary reason that Savannah is so beautiful after nearly three hundred years of “progress” is due to the indefatigable efforts of six little old ladies who back in the mid 1700’s established the Savannah historical society—essentially the first and most robust home owners association ever formed in America. These hearty women and their predecessors have guarded downtown Savannah’s unique aesthetic with a tenacity that would have made General Oglethorpe proud. As a result, every where you look there is one gorgeous home/building after another. Perhaps the centerpiece of the place is the famous “Jones Street”, the beauty of which is overwhelming to the point of being where we get the expression “keeping up with the Jones’” from.

We stopped for some shopping and a delightful lunch at an Irish Pub. We took a gorgeous walk through Forsyth Park, where we staggered around with our mouths hanging open like a couple of spellbound tourists. We were consistently entertained by a series of Trolley drivers who educated us with history and hilarious stories told with top shelf humor mixed with a Georgia low country drawl.

So, if you ever find your self within a hundred miles of Savannah, Georgia, make the detour into town. Worth. Every. Penny.

Wednesday, April 8, 2026

Silas Time

 As it turns out, we chose a bad week to spend on Tybee Island. The weather has been cloudy with 35 mile an hour winds, making beach time scarce. Consequently we have spent much of our time watching Silas crawl around the condo leaving giant messes in his wake and looking adorable doing it. We have also taken him to two restaurants, one coffee shop and an ice cream joint called “Sugar Shack.” At each venue he conducted himself with admirable poise, demonstrating world class manners, except on a couple of occasions where he revealed a few unfortunate habits he picked up at day care, no doubt. One of them involves the recent discovery of the sheer power and thrill of hearing his own voice in full primal scream mode. Each blood curdling outburst is proceeded and followed by a mischievous grin, assuring everyone that he is not gravely ill or in serious distress. He just digs the sound of it.

All of the adults at the table for this particular demonstration began attempting behavior modification in the form of a group SSHHHHHH, with our index fingers on our lips. This had a positive effect at first. A less successful strategy was attempted by Lolli when she attempted to explain the concept of inside vs. outside voices, to which Silas replied, GLLAACKKKARGGGGOOO!!!

But, for the most part the little guy has been a delight. He will be heading home today and we will miss him terribly, be are very grateful for having spent this time with him. Last night we sent Kaitlin and Jon out for a date night. Before they left we got Silas into his jammies and read him books on their bed. As I was reading he suddenly laid his little head on my chest and patted me with his hand. At that point he could have asked me for anything in the world and I would have given it to him…or died trying.

Thursday, April 2, 2026

33 Days. WAY Too Long

 Pam and I have discovered that there is a limit to how long we can go without seeing our grandson…and we have reached that limit.

With the exception of the six weeks we spent in Maine last July/August, we are currently in the longest stretch of going Silas-less. 33 days. This is an outrage which we intend to remedy next week when we spend a week on Tybee Island, where we will introduce the little guy to the ocean, swimming pools and the city of Savannah, Georgia.

In preparation, Pam has been busy spending our kid’s inheritance on any and everything that catches her eye at Carter’s. For those of you who haven’t been introduced to Carter’s, think a cross between a Baby Walmart and a Las Vegas casino for grandparents—places where we go to hemorrhage money.

I don’t care about the money part, all I care about is ending this interminable grandson drought. 33 days is way too dang long and neither of us intend on letting it happen again!

Friday, March 27, 2026

When Were The Good Old Days?

 I suppose it’s only natural for human beings to look back on the past with fondness and longing. All of us, no matter what trauma may have afflicted us in life, have at least a few comforting memories from the past. There is a common phrase we give for this nostalgic impulse—The Good Old Days. While I may have gotten annoyed when my parents talked about the past so glowingly, I find myself just as guilty now that I’m older. It’s in the water, part of the air we breathe. But there’s something about this nostalgia business that frustrates me.

I grew up in the 1960’s. Everything about that experience helped shape me, the political upheaval, black and white television, the fashion, sports, music, the food, everything. To this day I prefer the early 1970’s version of baseball with its base stealing, bunting, and starting pitchers that pitched complete games. I believe that nothing that has come on the music scene since The Beatles compares. I think that the way I grew up is better than the way we are raising kids today. Spending endless hours outside is so superior to the cloistered existence of video gaming, it’s laughable. However, these preferences of mine are not hard and fast absolutes, and even if they were, they don’t tell the whole story. There was plenty about the 1960’s that was terrible, the political violence, Vietnam, the horrific pollution.

So I guess the problem I have with The Good Old days is the obvious question—when were The Good Old Days?

There can never be a consensus on this issue, since every generation will offer a different answer. But let me try to offer my answer which has two parts. The first part of the answer is: We are living in them! The second part of my answer is: The Good Old Days are the days yet to come.

I can practically hear some of you yelling into your computer screens at my assertion that we are living in the good old days right now. “Have you seen that moron in the White House?? We are one hiccup away from nuclear war!! AI will kill us all!!” Ok. In the 1960’s 50,000 American soldiers were in the process of being slaughtered in Southeast Asia, our major cities were burning and Presidents and Presidential candidates were being shot and my elementary school was doing duck and cover nuclear attack drills. And yet, I look back on those days with warmth and longing. Guess what. Someday, the 2020’s will be someone else’s good old days.

We all suffer from recency bias, the things we experience in the moment seem the worst or best of “all time.” But by practically every measurable standard of human life quality we are indeed living in the very best of times. The fact is that the middle class in America live better than any king during the Middle Ages. A mere 100 years ago, no human being had ever enjoyed the simple pleasure of a…hot shower. My father grew up without indoor plumbing. Air conditioning was a pipe dream. The leading cause of death in America was…the flu.

But what really excites me are the good old days that are to come. This requires an imagination and an attitude informed by history that acknowledges the irrefutable fact that every generation generally has it better than the ones before. This is not true in every conceivable measurement, of course. Sometimes, civilization regresses. But the verdict of history is clear that over the vast majority of human existence, life has stubbornly gotten better with the passage of time. 

Confidence is a fragile thing. Our 24/7 news cycle conspires against it. The human spirit is easily crushed. But that spirit always endures. Those who chose to look for the best in people, those who don’t fear the future, those who eagerly await innovations will indeed look back on the heady days of the 2040’s with pride.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that when many people look at younger generations and despair, I look at those same people and become optimistic. For one thing, my kids are part of these new generations, along with their friends. I watch how they live their lives and come to the conclusion that in many ways they are better humans than I was at their age. They are smart, tech savvy, and hard working, and not nearly as consumer-obsessed as my generation was. I would be willing to trade every single United States Senator and Representative over the age of 70 with any fifty random kids working two jobs paying back their college loans and trying to raise a family.

So, my Good Old Days are today, right now…and the wonderful days to come.

Wednesday, March 25, 2026

Hard to Believe

 Next week is the week of my birthday. I will turn 68. Time is flying.

This past summer when I was in Maine I wrote about how time has no real meaning at the lake. It loses its power as a reliable measure. The names we give to the days of the week no longer matter at the lake. All of this is true. But when I come back to Short Pump time speeds up. I am completely baffled at the prospect of being 68 years old. I have a hard time believing that it’s true.

I battle daily against the greatest risk of growing old which is a retreat into rigid thinking, of becoming the angry guy yelling for the kids to get off his lawn. I also battle against the natural deterioration of the body which comes with age. I still relentlessly exercise five days a week. I refuse to go down without a fight.

But, there’s something else to this aging business. Yes, I want to stay open to new ideas, new experiences. Yes, I want to stay in shape. But I have no interest in trying to be younger. My hair is starting to be flecked with gray. My face has new wrinkles, but you know what? I’ve earned every one of them! I’ve got lots of scars because I’ve endured some battles. Those battles have made me who I am.

In many ways I feel just like I did when I was 30. Too often I forget that my body isn’t able to do the things it could do when I was 30 and I pay the price for forgetting. But I don’t want to be 30 again. I don’t wish I was 50 either. I was dumber then. I was in the middle of a valley of stress then. No…I’m fine with 68. It’s just hard to believe, that’s all.


Monday, March 16, 2026

Grandparenting Love

 There is a very popular meme on social media platforms that starts with the premise that Grandparents love their grandchildren much more than they ever loved their own kids. There are varying versions of this theme, many of them hysterically funny. There’s the scenes where grandparents arrive at the kid’s house and nearly run them over on their way inside to see the grandbaby. I get it. Then there’s the often heard complaint by adult children that their parents let the grandchildren get away with everything that would have brought down their fury back in the day. It’s all true.

But it’s not what you think. There’s much more to a grandparent’s love than meets the eye. I’m certain that I am not the first grandparent to stumble upon this idea, so bear with me.

We do not love our grandchildren more than we loved our own children. Nothing could be further from the truth. Its like this…

When we hold little Silas in our arms we experience all of the feels. There’s an almost indescribable love. There’s joy, wonder, amazement, pride and an inexhaustible gratitude. In other words, the exact same things we felt when we held Kaitlin and Patrick. 

But when Kaitlin and Patrick came into this world there was much more in the mix. There was fear, inadequacy, anxiety about how in the world I was going to provide for them, protect them, care for them. Would I make bad decisions where their care was concerned? What if I didn’t have what it took to be a proper parent? What in the hell were we thinking…that we could care for a brand new life?

But when we hold Silas there’s none of that.

So what happens is we feel all the wonderful thrill of new life without any of the pressures and responsibilities. In other words God has given us the opportunity to remember what it was like to love our children. We get to love our children all over again through this beautiful little child.

It is the greatest gift we have ever received.


Sunday, March 15, 2026

United States v. Dominican Republic

 There’s a baseball game tonight which very well may have the most talented players ever assembled on a baseball diamond. Of course, since I’m talking about baseball, that’s up for debate. But even if you aren’t a fan of the game, if you want to be I would suggest you watch this game tonight. It will be like nothing else you’ve ever seen. I’m talking about the semi-final match up between the United States and the Dominican Republic in the World Baseball Classic. Two great lineups. Two completely different approaches to the game.

Baseball is an American game. The best players in the world play in the major leagues. The giants of the game’s long and storied history are mostly American. But our country is huge and our sporting interests are diverse. Right now baseball is probably the third or fourth most popular sport. In the Dominican Republic baseball is the only game.

Over the past thirty or forty years many of the best players in the world have come from the DR. Their brand of baseball includes aggressive base running and flamboyant displays of bravado. They play the game with their emotions on their sleeves—like all of us used to play the game when we were kids.

There has been pushback from many American baseball fans of a certain age—guys like me—to the excessive bat flipping and over the top self congratulating chest-pounding going on in the big leagues in recent years. I must confess to being frequently annoyed by it at times. On the other hand, sometimes American players seem like corporate robots, more interested in their portfolios than the game. It’s hard to warm up to guys making 30 million dollars a year, I suppose. But many of these Dominican players make tons of money too…and you would never know it watching the way they play. There’s something about them that is glaringly absent in today’s game. Joy.

A friend of mine pointed out another difference he’s noticed. The Italian team that is currently undefeated in this tournament is known mostly as the guys who drink espresso shots in the dugout after home runs. The Dominicans are known for the crazy ways they find to hype each other up. Our guys listened to an ex Navy Seal talk about the mission to kill Osama Bin Laden to get hyped before playing against…Canada.

Still, tonight I will be rooting for the USA. They are my guys. Many of them are terrific human beings, and I always feel pride watching my fellow Americans doing excellent things against the very best competition. But if I’m being honest I’ll have to admit to a bit of jealousy. I envy the DR their love of the game and each other. I envy them their joy.

Tuesday, March 10, 2026

Stupid People in Large Groups

 There’s a magnet on the refrigerator at Loon Landing with these wise words, “Never underestimate the stupidity of people in large groups.” The lake is a place designed by a merciful God to discourage such large groups, thereby lowering the probability of the introduction of stupidity. It is important to point out that not all people who find themselves in a large group are stupid. It’s just that the larger the group the easier it is to get “caught up in the moment.” This explains why riots are a common occurrence wherever large groups are found. It explains why fights break out at heavily attended sporting events. It explains the asshattery associated with Spring Break beach gatherings of college students, and political conventions.

What I have recently become aware of is the fact that this pithy little magnet-meme on the refrigerator at Loon Landing is a perfect encapsulation of one of the guiding principles of my life. I have always been suspicious of conspicuously large things. I can’t help being wary of how exactly they got that way. I see a magnificent cathedral built 800 years ago and wonder—How many peasants fell to their deaths building this baby? I look at the pyramids in Egypt and marvel at the massive egos of the pharaohs and the thousands of dead slaves sacrificed for their vanity.

In today’s world this aversion to large things extends to giant corporations, huge labor unions and the Federal government, all unwieldy, way too powerful and impossibly corrupt. It’s the reason I could never live in a big city. Heck, my suburb is starting to feel too crowded. I should point out that all the craziness taking place in Minnesota isn’t happening near any of their magnificent lakes! It’s all confined to Minneapolis which shouldn’t surprise anyone. 

But the largest group of human beings ever assembled in the history of the world is brand new, not even possible a mere generation ago. If it is true that the existence of stupidity can be dependably found in large groups, then the daily gathering of 300 million Americans on the internet at any one particular time might be the single largest stupidity producer of all time.

Since the algorithms that drive content to us on the internet generally send us things we basically agree with/like, it has the effect of herding us into big silos with other people just like us. Spend enough time scrolling and you would be excused from believing that your point of view on any topic is the only reasonable position. This is where I get suspicious of the largeness of the medium. If I see a huge group of my friends all agreeing on some issue, especially when I ALSO agree, I start feeling slightly duped. Then I start going to corners of the internet that I disagree with. Most of what I see there is just as triumphantly confident in the righteousness of their position as my side is, but at least I get to hear some version of the other side of the argument…plus it has the added benefit of playing hell with my algorithm. They don’t what the heck to send me now! Ha.

Now, introduce AI into the mix and you have stupidity construction in overdrive. Suddenly, nearly half of the images I see on social media are not only stupid, they’re not even real. So, what started out as a really cool way to keep up with the trials and tribulations of friends and family has become a propaganda machine that would have made Joseph Goebbels drool. Algorithms can be designed to divide, stoke anger and resentment, confuse, agitate, and eventually…pacify.

Maybe one day there will be a real, existential crisis to befall humanity so grave that accurate and instant communication will be the only way to save the day—something for which the internet would be essential. But, just like the boy who cried “WOLF!”, nobody will believe anything they see.

Sunday, March 8, 2026

Keeping a Sharp Eye Out

 March always feels like a Godsend. All of the cold, gray darkness of February gives way to warmth, green and extended daylight. Spring training is in full swing. You find yourself trying on your shorts and t-shirts for the first time since last fall, hoping they all still fit. And for us, the arrival of March starts the countdown until Maine. 109 days and counting.

This year our time in Maine will be very different for two reasons. The first is the absence of Lucy. The second will be the presence of Silas. God gives and takes away.

I’m not looking forward to arriving at the lake without sweet Lucy. For me she was the one who made the place so magical. Everything we do, everywhere we go, every time we launch out in a kayak or paddle board we will feel the void of her absence.

But this sadness will be more than offset by the arrival of our grandson for his first ever trip to Maine, his introduction to the lake. He will be a little over a year old when he arrives. He will be newly graced with the ability to walk, probably babbling on and on with enough discernible words to make it adorable. We will fill the cloud with a barrage of pictures of his every encounter with Maine in such a volume that an entire new data center will be required to process it all. I will feel no guilt.

But there’s a lot to do before Maine. One set of our kids are planning a London trip and they need us to take care of our GrandPup Frisco. Can’t wait for that sweet dog to get here. I’ve planned a birthday trip to Tybee Island for the first week of April. Our other set of kids hope to be able to come down and stay with us at least part of the time. Then there’s firefly season at Congaree. Kaitlin will need some help that week since Jon will be working late hours every night at the park. That’s what Pam and I are for! The month of May is celebration month, lots of birthdays and our 42nd wedding anniversary.

Of course, it’s March the 8th. I am slowly but surely getting sucked in to a false sense of security by the evil machinations of winter and its diabolical agent—February. I know full well that there might be one more blind side storm afoot, that worst of all meteorological events—the late March snow storm. You all know what I’m talking about. There’s two weeks of sunny and 75 and just about the time you’re about to break out the sunscreen, BAMM!!!!

 I’m keeping a sharp eye out for trouble on the horizon via the long range forecasts. I am a little nervous at the recent appearance of a high temperature on Tuesday, March the 17th of 45 degrees with a low of 28. Nothing good happens under such circumstances. But that’s nine days from now, in weather circles also known as an eternity, or put another way, nine days is the over/under on the lifespan of the latest Supreme Leader of Iran.

I remain cautiously optimistic.

Thursday, March 5, 2026

Where Do Dogs Go When They Die?

It’s been difficult living in such a quiet house this week. The other night someone rang the doorbell and for the first time in over a decade there was no excited barking warning us that there was a potential killer on our front porch. Same with the several delivery vehicles which have shown up on our cul-de-sac without Lucy’s stage five catastrophe siren. So far, we have survived. 

Each morning I have managed to perform my exercise regimen without Lucy’s judgments. Each afternoon she hasn’t interrupted my writing with her insistence that I pet her. I haven’t had to take her for a walk or let her out for her interminable potty breaks. I haven’t had to listen to her soft snoring. When I wake up in the morning I don’t have to watch where I’m stepping for fear of stumbling over her on the way to the bathroom. None of Pam’s socks have disappeared. We may not have to buy a new jar of peanut butter for weeks.

The kids have texted us asking how we’re doing. It’s the first thing my friends have asked when they see me. My answer is always, “I’m not ok, but I will be.” We are suddenly at war with Iran, we are now being told that eggs aren’t the heart-damaging killer we had been warned about for decades, and Britney Spears has been arrested for DUI. Clearly there are far more serious problems to be concerned about than the loss of a family pet. On the other hand, Lucy never went to war with anyone, she never lied to me, and as far as I know never broke any laws.

I was asked one time by a kid, “Will there be dogs in heaven?” Without spending a lot of time delving into scripture, I answered straight from my heart—“If not dogs…who?” I look at the evidence right in front of my eyes and conclude that dogs are sent to us from God, so naturally when their time on earth is done they return from whence they came, their mission of mercy accomplished.

I stand by my answer.