Becoming a Helper

 Over the past few months I have become much more aware that I am no longer a young man. I know what some of you are thinking right now—what took you so long? I mean, I know how old I am. I can do the math. But I have always possessed the confidence that I was different, that I had been able to somehow mitigate the normal ravages of getting old through a combination of exercise, determination, superior genetics and several Jedi mind tricks. But I have recently learned that doing a thousand pushups and walking 60 miles every month doesn’t change the fact that you soon will enter your seventh decade. The warranty has long ago expired.

Life is harder now. I can still do almost everything I’ve always done, but now things hurt. Cutting the grass and picking up fallen pine cones in my yard makes me sore for a couple days. It’s annoying. Suddenly it seems like I have an awful lot of doctor’s appointments on my calendar. I own a blood pressure taking machine, for crying out loud.

Then there are the surprising ambushes that life throws your way, little reminders of how fast time rushes by. Like last night, for instance. 

I found myself in a crowd of wonderful people at my niece’s house where we had gathered to celebrate her son’s 16th birthday. My great nephew. I remember when he was born. I remember when he was an annoying toddler. Now he’s mostly no longer annoying. Instead he’s tall, handsome and smart. When did all of this happen? How is it possible that I even have great nephews and nieces, one of which is heading off to college in five days, another of which suddenly has obtained a…boyfriend? I am now the grand uncle of…grown adults. How is this even possible? I watched them all eating ice cream cake. I looked at my grown nieces and tried to remember what it felt like to hold them when they were babies and thought how quickly life races along.

I’m a grandfather now, aging’s fabulous consolation. I’m also retired, finally free from the pressures of earning a living. Waking up each day to a new ache or pain is annoying as hell, but there are benefits to having not yet assumed room temperature. I get to watch my grandson grow up. I get to help my kids however they need me to help them. I get to be generous whenever an opportunity to be so presents itself. I get to be the person Mr. Rogers used to tell my kids to look for.

I get to be a helper.

The Purpose of Life

 Just finished reading a book by one of my favorite writers, Dean Koontz. It wasn’t one of his best, probably wouldn’t crack my top ten of Koontz books. But like all of his work the narrative asked me to ponder an interesting question—what is my life’s purpose? Of course, Koontz isn’t the only novelist to explore this theme. It has been a staple of fiction writing since the first letters were chiseled onto stone tablets. But Dean Koontz is great at it. In this novel, A Friend of the Family, he offers the suggestion that the highest human calling is sacrificial love, spending your life’s energy pursuing the love and care of others. The author has succeeded in making me consider the question.

I am fortunate to have been born into a loving family. My life came fully loaded with people who loved and cared for me and whom I learned to love and care for in return. I did nothing to earn this great good fortune. It was simply the hand I was dealt. I could very easily have been born into chaos, hatred, violence and resentment…or even worse, great wealth, all of which would have doomed the story of my life or at the very least made a normal life nearly impossible to achieve. I was lucky, if you believe in luck, which I do not. There is no such thing as bad luck, only bad decisions. Good luck is a fiction pushed by the envious. It has been my experience in life that the harder I work the luckier I get, but that is a discussion for another day.

What of this business of life’s purpose?

As beautiful and fulfilling as familial love is, and as crucial as it is for human flourishing, there’s something else, equally crucial and fulfilling—finding other human beings in the world to love and care for. I am not here speaking of romantic love, finding your life partner. I’m talking about random people who were once strangers but become dear friends. For many of us these people arrive in our lives in the form of a college roommate, someone we meet at work, a neighbor, someone we meet at church or while standing in line at Starbucks. We never know when it will happen. Sometimes during the loneliest days of life we wonder if it will ever happen. Too often we become so jaded and scarred by life’s cruelties we are unable to even manage toleration, much less love, for our fellow human beings. If this happens to enough people the world can quickly grow dark.

As I read Koontz, his biases began creeping into the text. Soon there was an adorable dog in the middle of the story, then a creepy psychopath that made your skin crawl. Then his deep Catholic faith began to insinuate itself as he pointed out a couple of things that Jesus had to say on the subject of sacrificial love from the 15th chapter of John’s gospel—Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends. He didn’t, but he could have added what Jesus said to his disciples two chapters earlier—By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.

But there’s the rub. IF. 

He could have said that you love one another, as if it was the assumed outcome. But he said if which suggests to me that this whole loving each other business is our choice. We get to make the decision to be open to finding people to love and taking advantage of the gift.

Something happened to me about a year ago that came to mind while pondering Koontz’s question. I was in the cafe one morning. My daughter was four months pregnant with her first child and our first grandchild. We were all thrilled by this state of affairs but on this morning I was worried about her. I can’t remember why, maybe she had not been feeling well or maybe there had been a strange movement or lack of movement that had troubled her. Whatever the reason, that morning as I drank my coffee there was a pit of worry in my stomach. Then I saw a young woman walk past my table. She looked to be in her mid-twenties and slightly further along than Kaitlin. I had never seen her before, didn’t know her from Adam. 

It is a risky thing to approach a woman and inquire about her pregnant condition. There is the real risk that she will get creeped out by the strange man standing at her table asking how far along she is, trying to explain that his daughter is also pregnant and he just wanted to congratulate her when in fact what he wanted was reassurance that whatever his daughter was going through was completely normal. Without thinking through all the ways approaching her could go wrong, there I was, hoping for the best.

Turned out that this was her first pregnancy too. She was one month further along than Kaitlin. Almost everything Kaitlin was going through, she had also gone through and survived! Her stories comforted me. She started asking all about Kaitlin. I loved having someone to brag to about my daughter. Soon I started noticing that she came into the cafe almost as often as I did. In the weeks and months after that first encounter, we kept each other up to date on the progress of each new life and soon became friends. Now when I see her or she sees me she asks about Kaitlin and Silas and I ask her about little Chip. I see pictures of him on Facebook and smile. She is always eager to see my latest pictures of Silas. We each found someone at the Cafe who was once a stranger, but because of a random and awkward introduction became someone new that each of us could love and care for. It’s a beautiful thing.

There isn’t really a simple answer to Koontz’s question. Life has many purposes, I suppose. But you could do a lot worse than loving and caring for as many people as possible during the short whisper of wind that is our life on this planet

Back Home

 We made it home safe and sound to our beloved steam bath of Short Pump on Saturday afternoon. The battery in my Cadillac was dead. While removing the many sticks and pine cones which covered my yard while we were away, sweat dropped from the end of my nose like a leaky faucet. When we arrived at the Lodge yesterday morning for church, we were told—cheerfully—that the AC was “struggling a bit.” Now, this morning at 6:40, there are five men stomping atop our house ripping our 28 year old roof apart. There are gigantic tarpaulins draped over the shrubs and large hulking pieces of shingles raining down from the sky. Each of these five men are wearing long pants with long sleeved hooded sweatshirts. In a few hours it will be a 94 degree sauna out there.

Why did we come home again??

I’ll tell you why we came home. Because we love this place. We have been the only people to ever live in this house. This is where we put down roots in the world. This is where we raised our kids. Our lives have been planted in this soil for nearly three decades. 

And then there’s the matter of our neighbors. The photograph attached to this post is what greeted us after Saturday’s 9 hour drive. I can picture Jamie and the girls on their knees in their back yard driveway painting the letters. It’s happened many times over the years…we arrive home after 6 weeks in Maine and they have plastered some sort of creative welcome home message somewhere on the property. At some point this week we will go next door and give the kids their Maine presents. Years ago they were easy to shop for, now they are all so damned grown up it’s much more difficult. Next year there will be a new family living there. I’m sure they will be lovely, but I’d rather not think about that right now.

Later this morning I will be making my way over to the Cafe at Hope. That’s another thing I’ve missed, that place and those people.

So, as much as we love Maine, as important as our time there is to us each year, home is always here, waiting for us. We slip back into it like a silk glove.

Early Departure

 For the first time ever Pam and I voluntarily agreed to cut short our Maine trip by 24 hours. We were scheduled to leave this morning for Short Pump but yesterday there arrived a perfect storm of misery which we interpreted as a direct message from the State of Maine that we were no longer welcomed. For yesterday was the hottest day of our wonderful 6 weeks, a blistering 90 degrees with humidity unaccustomed to this place—in a lake house with no air conditioning! Since it was packing day we were traipsing around the place sweating like pigs. Around 3:00 in the afternoon I read the room and the tea leaves and concluded that there was no chance that my wife was going to make it through a night without AC. So we made the decision to throw everything in the car and hit the road a day early, drive as far as we could and sleep in an air-conditioned hotel—which explains what I’m doing typing the post in a Hampton Inn in Sturbridge, Massachusetts at 5:30 in the morning. This morning, Saturday the 8th of August we have a 10 hour drive ahead of us before we can sleep in our own bed. Piece of cake.

One last thing about our Maine summer. I travelled here with Lucy’s remains. This was our first trip without her in nearly ten years since she passed away earlier this year. The idea was that since this was her favorite place on earth, the lake would be her final resting place. 

But, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

I know it’s silly. It’s her ashes in a jar. But each time I thought about sprinkling them in the lake she loved so much I just couldn’t do it, I couldn’t bear to part with her. So I will bring the jar back home.

I’ve had dogs all my life. I have loved them all. But Lucy was different in ways I can’t entirely explain. I think I will miss her for the rest of my life.

The Last Week Vibe

 This is our last week in Maine for the summer. Just writing that made my stomach turn over a little. For only the third time in the last 38 days…it’s raining. Great news for this drought-ridden state, but not great for the feng shui when it’s already your last week. 

Yesterday we decided to take a road trip to a part of Maine we had never been before. We don’t do this very often because it involves actually getting in a car and driving away from the lake. So when we do it’s usually on a day where the weather is sub-optimal. Yesterday was to be one such day with heavy fog and low clouds. 

Our destination was an island in the Penobscot Bay called Deer Isle, and the primary coastal town at the southernmost tip called Stonington. As the crow flies it is only 20 miles across the bay from Camden. But you can get nowhere in Maine as the crow flies.Instead it was a 66 mile drive which took an hour and a half and took us through a fair share of gorgeous scenery and several communities that seemed locked in a battle to determine who could construct the largest pile of junk in their front yard. I mean I’m talking some world class junkyardery. I chose this particular island to visit because I have seen many homes come up for sale here over the years nestled romantically in emerald green coves. And the town of Stonington looked quaint and charming in all the pictures, and while Stonington was indeed quite charming, we now know that buying a house on this island won’t be happening anytime soon. For one thing, if either one of us had a stroke on that island they would have to medevac us onto the mainland via floatplane! Although Stonington might not have adequate life-saving capabilities, it has a killer Opera House! And in its defense I had one of the finest bowls of clam chowder I have ever eaten at a place called 27 Fathoms. 

But life is about more than clam chowder. It’s also about more than sardines, although had we not made the trip yesterday we would have been unaware that Maine was more than just Vacationland, but Sardineland as well. We know this courtesy of the 20 foot tall fisherman guy holding up a massive roadside sign informing us of this fact. I have attached the picture for your edification.

So today it is pouring rain and that danged puzzle is over there on the dinner table mocking my incompetence. I have my work cut out for me.

Becoming a Puzzler

 I have never been a puzzler. Every year since forever there’s always a puzzle table on vacation. I always stand there for a couple minutes watching others sorting through the pile of chopped up pieces of art astonished at their patience. Every once in a while I would spot a piece and snap it in to place just to let them know that I was capable, then I would slip away and leave them to it. But lately—“lately” meaning this year—I have found myself the designated puzzler in this house and for the life of me I can’t figure out why. 

For one thing it is at once satisfying and excruciating, this puzzling business. Finding a piece and slipping it into place brings a brief but visceral thrill. But the searching process feels a bit like sorting through a dumpster looking for something decent to eat. The longer it takes the more frustrated I become. Just about the time I’m about to give up I will stumble upon a couple of pieces that fit together which leads to an embarrassing fist pump and a devious giggle.

What makes this new puzzling experience so strange is the fact that it requires something that I have always struggled with—sitting for extended periods of time. And yet, there I have been at the puzzling table night after night, mumbling to myself as my backside starts to cramp up and my back tightens, telling myself about how ridiculous it all is but somehow not being able to stand up and walk away.

So far I’ve completed one 1000 piece puzzle and one 500 piece puzzle. I am currently engaged in mortal combat with yet another 1000 piece puzzle which, at the rate I am going, might not got finished by the time we roll out of here in eight days.

So, I suppose I’m a puzzler now. Pam comes over every once in a while to offer encouragement, “Oh look at you. You finished the dog’s face! Good job, honey.” I can’t decide whether or not she’s seriously paying me a compliment or being sarcastic. Ron and Bill would have put this particular puzzle together in four or five hours. I’m on day four!

Maybe it’s an aging thing? Don’t get me wrong, I’m still plenty busy up here. I’ve gone fishing every day, I’ve put probably 50 miles on the kayak, I’ve played a couple rounds of golf and stayed faithful to my exercise regimen. But at night after dinner I find myself hunched over at the puzzle table like a man possessed. Part of it is the fact that the internet up here must be powered by a half dozen field mice racing around a tread wheel somewhere. To call it slow would be an insult to turtles. So scrolling is not an option, and watching television is very hit or miss.

So…I guess I’m a puzzler now.

Missing My Hope Peeps

 I love everything about being in Maine for six weeks every summer. The rhythms we fall into up here are comforting, the pace of living here rejuvenates. The views we are greeted with are new every morning and make you think that anything is possible.

But today is Sunday, and every Sunday I miss my church and the family of people who make it special. Actually it’s one of the few things about home that I miss. Every year when we get home we realize how much we missed our house, our neighbors and our trusted routines, but we never think of any of them while we’re here. It’s different with my church. Each Sunday I think of them and miss the familiar faces. 

This is 2026. I can livestream the service…and I do, but it’s not the same. The music sounds tinny and off a beat. There are no cookies. The cameras don’t show me the faces of the people I love the most at that place because all of them are busy on the other side of the cameras. I don’t hear their voices, I can’t shake their hands or hug them. The rest of the world learned during COVID what I have always known. There is no substitute for the gathering, no replacement for the assembly.

I will listen to the sermon. Last week it was Pete, the week before that Kyle, before that David.  No telling who it will be today. Summer plays havoc with the speaker roster. Those guys take vacations too. This particular sermon series hasn’t been my favorite, but there are 3,000 people who show up every Sunday at Hope. I’m sure that there are some in that crowd for which the current series has been a godsend. That’s the way it works in a community as large and diverse as ours. We all hear the sermons differently, but each is a blessing. But watching it on a computer screen isn’t the same as being there in the midst of it. It is possible to hear a sermon but not feel it.

But I am grateful for the technology. After a day on this gorgeous lake I will settle down sometime this evening and check it out. Meanwhile, I’ll be thinking of my Hope Peeps…and missing them.

Only in Maine!!

 Last year I showed up at Rockland Golf Club at 6:00am without a tee time or any golf clubs. This is not an unusual circumstance for me while I’m in Maine. Usually I play three times while I’m here, each time in the wee hours of the morning, with rented clubs and usually by myself where it only takes me two and a half hours to walk 18 holes. But last year on July 27th I was paired with two random guys, Al and Chris. Had a blast playing with them. Apparently they met five years ago when the two of them got paired together and have been playing together in Maine ever since. Well, after last year I was added to their group. I got a text a few days ago from them asking if I wanted to meet them this morning at 6:40 for a round at Rockland. Of course I said yes!

It’s profoundly embarrassing that here I am in my seventeenth month of retirement and it had been an entire year since I last played golf—with these same two dudes on this same golf course. All I had with me was a zip-lock bag full of golf balls. The course has no driving range so my first swing was on the first tee box, a 520 yard par five, which I laced right down the middle. Such a weird game.

Three hours later I lipped out from five feet for what would have been a par to shoot 88. I walked the entire way, a six mile hike up and down lots of hills. My playing partners, being a lot smarter than me, rode in a golf cart like reasonable people do.  We are playing again next Wednesday at a new course they will be introducing me to somewhere up near Augusta, a 45 minute drive from the lake.

After golf, since I was only a few minutes away from Ruckus Donuts, I dropped by and picked up two boxes of four donuts, one box for the hard working people at On The Water in Maine, and the other box for us. It’s currently 5:00 in the afternoon and there isn’t much left. However, I have discovered yet another fun fact about the aging process. Walking 18 holes of golf does not mix with fishing from a kayak. Apparently you can do one or the other on the same day…but not both. 

On another front, my cell phone beeped me earlier today, a “weather warning” for our area of Maine. I’m thinking, Wait…it’s 75 degrees and sunny. What could possibly constitute a warning?? —Please DO NOT enjoy yourself TOO MUCH. Then I saw the problem—apparently, the delightfully warm temperatures might have the effect of making people think that the water isn’t actually a freezing cold 55 degrees!! I have attached Photographic evidence, or you probably wouldn’t ‘t believe me. 

Only in Maine!!

Breaking My Silence on a HUGE Issue

 Despite the fact that I am currently on vacation and in general avoiding the news, sometimes a story comes along that demands my attention. Vacation or not, some things are so important, so potentially disruptive to our lives, a blogger like myself feels a certain responsibility, an obligation to address the issue that is utmost in the minds of my fellow Americans at this moment in time. Which issue am I referring to? Let me quote the Center for Disease Control:

A multistate outbreak of cyclosporiasis—a parasitic infection causing, EXPLOSIVE WATERY DIARRHEA* and stomach cramps.

Needless to say, this story got my attention. I mean, the very last thing I want to experience while on vacation is a case of EWD. My first response to this scary story was to ask the obvious question—“Was Taco Bell involved?” Upon a deeper dive into the story my fears were justified when I discovered that many of the cases were in fact connected to the historically bowel-stewing fast food franchise which I have successfully avoided for the past 30 years. The culprit, according to the CDC, was lettuce imported from—where else? Mexico.—and processed by an American company, Taylor Farms. Over the weekend, the CDC linked what has become known as raging diarrhea in the press, to the company who immediately placed a recall on all suspect lettuce. Of course, in a turn of events which should have come as a surprise to absolutely no one, the CDC then backtracked on their previous conclusion about Taylor farms and contaminated lettuce, saying that the test that had precipitated the recall turned out to be a false positive. Stinks for Taylor Farms. But as the government scientists proved back during the COVID fiasco, nothing has a shorter lifespan than a CDC press release.

Still, the very thought that there could be thousands of people out there about to be overcome with days of EWD, up to two weeks after a trip to Taco Bell sounds positively horrifying. Usually the symptoms of a meal at that place present in less than 24 hours, occasionally before you even make it back home! Now if you were stupid enough to toss back three tacos at midnight after setting through The Odyssey, you’re on the clock for 14 days?? What kind of fresh hell is this? It’s 100 degrees outside all over the country. We’ve been forced to watch soccer for the past 30 days. Donald Trump is in the White House and the Mayor of New York is a Communist. Haven’t we all suffered enough at this point?

* Is there any other kind? I mean, isn’t diarrhea, by definition…watery? 

Whatever Happened to the Pioneer Spirit?

 I am taking a huge risk with the post I am about to write. There is the very real possibility that it will not land well with some of you. I mean, I am in the midst of a six week vacation on a beautiful lake in Maine where the temperatures and humidity levels have been near perfect. By writing this I risk coming across like the guy on his private yacht off the shores of some Greek Island in the Adriatic complaining that the crackers on his seven meat, eight cheese charcuterie tray are too stale…or even worse, like that annoying Dodger fan who whines about  how many injuries his 400 million dollar roster has suffered. Nevertheless, I forge ahead.

Roughly 48 hours ago, a freaky storm cut a path through Maine’s mid-coast region. The entire thing lasted maybe 15 minutes or so, very little rain, no lightening and no thunder.  When it was over a ton of people were without power—including us. What this storm did have was tornado style winds. All of the furniture on our dock was swept away. Other people’s docks were lifted off their foundations. Trees were snapped in two bringing down power lines all over the place. Thirty minutes after the storm passed it was gorgeous outside, 75 and sunny, sky the crystal clear blue of Paul Newman’s eyes. 

We immediately alerted Tif, the all-powerful, all-knowing superstar of the rental market around here and also a wonderful friend. She assured us that all would be well soon. Then we texted our homeowner buddies on the lake to get their take on the situation. “No worries,” was the general consensus. “Happens all the time up here, it’s part of the Maine experience”, they all agreed. This all happened around 2:00 pm Thursday afternoon. All of our homeowner buddies had their power restored almost right away since they are all on the eastern shore of Quantabacook. All of us chumps on the west side were not so lucky.

The following 48 hours were instructive of several things, not the least of which is the fact that  neither Pam nor I would have made very good pioneers. As fate would have it, Pam and Kaitlin had started watching a remake of Little House on the Prairie week or so ago. Compared to the Engle clan, we look like a couple of helpless babies—although I should add that I was able to retrieve all of the deck furniture from the depths of the lake without a trip to the ER, so I’ve got that going for me.

Luckily, Paula and Ron are staying twenty minutes away from us on another lake, and they never lost power, so we were able to go over there the past two nights for dinner and a shower. Also, we were fortunate enough to have spectacular weather Friday, so the house never got hot. Still, it was embarrassing how annoyed we were that our phones and iPads were constantly running out of battery life. Aside from the annoyance of life without electricity, life has continued on its merry way. I caught the biggest bass I’ve ever caught up here a couple nights ago, and Pam persevered through the pitch black darkness of the house at night by continuing her cross stitching efforts with the aid of a battery operated light that drapes around her neck, shining light directly on the project at hand. I swear that women always finds a way to get it done.

All the while we kept getting updates from Tif via text—“should be back on by 8:00!” Then once 8:00 came and went—“Lying bastards! Now they’re saying 2:00! But today was going to be the day, no question about it—“Noon. Power will be on by noon!” Then, bless her heart, she starts apologizing all over the place like an act of God was somehow her fault. At one point she even offers to pay for us to replenish the fridge once the power was restored! Sometimes, she’s a little crazy.

But then, around noon today the power suddenly came on and we were so grateful…until five minutes later it went dark again. That head fake was painful. Despite overcast skies and windy conditions I headed out on the lake to take my frustrations out on the fish. A little over 3 hours later it finally came on for good. Pam is now in Belfast buying new groceries. I have finally taken a proper shower, shaved, and am now telling my whiny story to people who are probably rolling their eyes as they read. Well…sure, its not famine, pestilence or bloodshed…but you try going 48 hours without your back-massaging heating pad!

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!”

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??

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.

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.

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!

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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?

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.

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. 

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?

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.

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?

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.

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…

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.