Abundance, Poverty, and Home

I was driving home from Pawley’s Island a couple days ago, in that circuitous way that one must drive away from any South Carolina beach if you live in Short Pump, Virginia…that is to say, from gaudy abundance, through ugly poverty, then finally to the comfort and familiarity of home.

The gaudy abundance was provided by the grand strand of Myrtle Beach. Staying in the quiet serenity of elegance which is Pawley’s Island spoils you. You are surrounded by gorgeous homes with tree-lined streets connecting them with each other. Every tree seems laden with Spanish moss. Azalea bushes bloom on every corner. Wisteria fills the air with the smell of springtime on your short walk to the beach. But when you begin your drive north you must first get through Myrtle Beach, then North Myrtle Beach. That’s when you realize just how homogenized America has become. At each of the 15-20 stoplights on the 17 bypass there are the same gas stations, the same fast food, the same banks. In what used to be empty fields of hay and scrub pines, now there are Home Depot, Lowe’s and Hobby Lobby. In the distance there are Ferris wheels and high rise hotels side by side like LEGO towers. Millions of people travel here every summer when its hot as hell for their 12 square feet of sand at the base of these towers, then wait in line at Olive Garden for an hour every night for dinner.

But finally you clear out from all the excess and begin a slow meander on the only roads away from here—the back roads of rural South and North Carolina—which brings us to the the ugly, grinding poverty part of the journey home. We had just crossed the state line between the Carolinas when we happened to drive through the town of Chadbourn, North Carolina, population 1,564. There was a bumpy railroad crossing in the middle of town, on either side of which was evidence of what was once old tobacco warehouses. Now they are abandoned and overgrown with weeds. On either side of the long, dusty Maine Street we found one dilapidated house after another, some without roofs, others without doors or windows. Many of the worst houses were still inhabited by human beings, who set on barely serviceable porches looking out at their yards covered with old furniture, and old cars half shrouded by azaleas. By the time we got to the center of town we saw the husks of old brick buildings that probably once held drug stores, barber shops and hardware stores, now empty except for a thrift store and a tattoo parlor. The one fresh and thriving building held the seat of government for Chadbourn, the police station and the mayor’s office. Everywhere we looked in this sad little town we found the one thing that nearly every piece of real estate had in common. Trash. Mountains of it strewn this way and that in every direction. Just outside of town on the far side of an empty field we saw a long line of old beat up cars and washing machines at least the length of a football field. Driving through a town like this at 35 miles per hour does something to you. It’s the kind of experience that makes you Google the town when you get home to find an answer to the question, “what the hell happened to this place?” I didn’t find an answer except for the fact that 50 years ago Chadbourn was a growing town, busy and prosperous, a place where tobacco farmers sold and shipped their crops in the big train cars that stopped there. Ever since the 1990 Census, the town’s population has been declining. It’s a living ghost town.

Eventually, we made it back to Short Pump. We too have the same gas stations, same fast food and same banks. No trash though. The nicest buildings here don’t hold the government. I think the Henrico County Government Center was built in the late 1970’s. 

But I wonder what will become of Short Pump fifty years from now when I’m long gone. Will the businesses that built this place be gone by then? Will new businesses have taken their places or will Short Pump be filled with run down houses, tattoo parlors and thrift stores?

You Win Some, You Lose Some

Today is April Fool’s Day. This year is the first time in forever that everyone at my office could relax because I’m retired and out of town. Everyone else who has known me for any length of time will be suspicious of any blog post written on this day. But I can assure you that I have nothing up my sleeve this year. I have been introduced to a new enemy since early Friday morning and it has gotten and completely dominated my attention. Sciatica pain is no joke. After hobbling around on one leg all weekend at Kaitlin’s house, now I’m hobbling around at the beach in Pawley’s Island, unable to do much of anything. My best friends are Tylenol, ice packs and heating pads. Although I have been effectively sidelined, one thing remains true and steadfast…

Last night I was up probably 4-5 times from the discomfort. Each time, this girl followed me down the hall to the bathroom. Each time I walked into the kitchen to take some medicine, she followed me. Instead of sleeping on the soft sofa with her trusty blankets, she slept on the hard floor beside the bed. Now, while I sit on this loveseat with an ice pack on my hamstring, she hopped up next to me and immediately fell asleep.

We will head out for breakfast later, and this afternoon try to make it to the beach. It’s supposed to be sunny and 70 after lunch. But, we will probably cut this trip short and head back home. It will be far easier hobbling around at home in familiar surroundings. You win some and you lose some. I feel bad for Pam since this is her spring break. I’ll have to make it up to her when I’m well.

Billboards, Diapers, and Hamstrings

I have learned three things this weekend. Columbia, South Carolina is the trial lawyer billboard capital of the world. There is such a thing as a luxury diaper, and pulling a hamstring is not how to start off your Spring Break vacation.

This morning, as I drove the 5.7 miles between my daughter’s house and the Urgent Care, I counted a total of seven very large billboards, each extolling the virtues of various members of the trial lawyers profession, one of which featured the tacit approval of a NASCAR driver…

I am left with two conclusions by this phenomenon, either the residents of the city are especially accident-prone, or this is one helluva litigious town. But more perplexing is the existence of ginormous billboards in the middle of a random intersection, no interstate for miles. I try to imagine the firestorm that would erupt from a billboard being erected anywhere in Short Pump, especially one featuring a NASCAR driver! Home owner associations would raise such holy hell, the billboard company would be the ones needing a lawyer!

The occasion that brought us to Columbia this weekend was my daughter’s first baby shower. She received a ton of wonderful gifts from her many friends down here. One of them caught my eye…

It has been a long time since Pam and I were bringing life into the world. I am learning just how little I know about the baby business anymore. But nothing could have prepared me for the existence of something called Millie Moon Luxury Diapers. Apparently these things are the bomb. I am still unsure what exactly makes these diapers—luxury, but it is a new day. Says right there on the box that they are “beautifully crafted”, which seems a shame considered what will ultimately be deposited within its “feather softness”, although I am encouraged by the fact that these diapers have 0% lotions, fragrances or latex, not to mention the fact that these babies are “unisex”, which will certainly come in handy in this day and age!

Lastly, Friday morning at 4 am I was rudely awakened by a troublesome pain in the area between my left hip and my left hamstring down to behind my left kneecap. I had done nothing the previous day that I could think of that could possibly have produced such an outcome. I took a hot shower, drank some strong  coffee and downed three 500 mg’s tablets of Tylenol. When I got in the car to make the drive to Columbia and put the heated seat on high and hoped for the best. A day and a half later it is killing me and now I’m limping like an old man. Wait…hold on. Now that I think about it, I have been injured. Maybe this Morgan and Morgan outfit can be of service. I mean, if they’re good enough for Kyle Busch, they’re good enough for me!

Busy Week

Busy week ahead.

Tonight I will be speaking to the Ashland Women’s Club about my book, A Life of Dreams. I will be interviewed by an old friend from high school. I won’t be nervous until ten minutes before it starts.

Tuesday, Pam and I meet with the people who will be doing our kitchen re-do to determine a start date for the de-construction to begin. I wrote them a check to begin this process over six weeks ago and nothing has happened, a confounding frustration that has not been adequately explained to my satisfaction. Nevertheless, I have maintained my composure with them so far, sparing my wife the embarrassment of my sometimes bad manners when dealing with poor customer service. I will attempt to continue my remarkable restraint.

I will be opening the Cafe Wednesday and Friday morning this week.

I will be giving Miss Lucy a much needed bath in preparation for our trip to Columbia to attend a baby shower for Kaitlin. Lucy will be making the trip with us, because on Monday morning we will be heading to Pawley’s Island for the week of Pam’s Spring Break. She is going to love the beach and the ocean. The last time she went she was a puppy. Pictures will follow.

Two friends lost loved ones this past week. I will need to find a way to do something or send something to them to let them know that they are loved.

There will be four workouts thrown into the mix over the next five days, four sessions in the steam room, at least one trip to the dump, and one final massage for my troublesome back before we hit the road mid-morning on Friday.

Also…today is the first day of squirrel season in my backyard. The Daisy Powerline 35 is fully loaded and lubed. The free rein that the tree rats have been given all winter will be coming to an end beginning today. May God have mercy on their souls.

What Day Is It Again?

I was warned by many of my retired friends and clients that once I was retired I would soon start forgetting what day it was. I always scoffed at such suggestions since I have always been very attuned to the calendar and the schedule that goes along with it. But then…this week happened. There were two incidents to report. The first one happened Thursday evening, the second, forty minutes ago.

A couple weeks ago, the pastor in charge of high schoolers at my church (saints preserve him) texted me to ask if I would be willing to speak to a group of 25-30 high school seniors on the subject of finance/budgeting etc. It’s a part of a year long special program for graduating seniors. Although it’s been a while since I taught a gaggle of teenagers, I jumped at the chance and marked the event on my calendar. This past Thursday night, after making a delicious dinner for my wife the two of us were lounging on the couch when my watch buzzed with a text from the aforementioned pastor—“Hey Doug! Just checking in to see if there is anything you need for tonight.”

For a second I thought the text was meant for someone else. But then a tightness in my stomach made its presence felt, along with a gurgling of acid in my esophagus. I bolted up from the sofa and hustled into the library, grabbed my calendar and was relieved to see that my session with the kids was for Thursday the 27th. But then I thought to double check his original text and there saw to my dismay that no…I was due to speak to a room full of teenagers in exactly 25 minutes. Lucky for me I had prepared my remarks ahead of time. All I had to do was put appropriate clothes on. “I’ll be there in 20 minutes,” I texted him back. Pam later suspected that the entire stunt was a deliberate ploy to get out of cleaning up the kitchen. But no, the scheduling error was all me. The good news is that the talk went quite well. Great group of kids and I enjoyed myself.

That brings us to this morning. After my morning routines were completed and Pam had come downstairs, I excused myself, informing my wife that I was going to hop in the shower. I did so. There I was standing in front of the little mirror I have attached to the shower wall, performing my twice weekly shaving protocol when it occurred to me that my beard wasn’t quite as robust as it normally is when I shave each Wednesday and Sunday morning. Odd…I thought. Then another odd thought popped into my head—“This was maybe the fastest weekend ever…seems like only yesterday it was Friday” 

Then, it hit me. Today wasn’t Sunday at all. Why the heck was I in the shower on a Saturday morning, when all I was going to do is get filthy working in the yard all morning? So, here I am, ridiculously and needlessly clean, freshly shaved for absolutely no reason and coming to terms with my second calendar mishap in less than 3 days. So, if you’re looking for me, I’ll be the cleanest, freshest smelling, perfectly coifed yard worker in all of Wythe Trace.

Lucy’s New Routines

One of the biggest beneficiaries of my retirement has been Miss Lucy. Having me at home more often has transformed her schedule and after a couple weeks of her staring at me while panting heavily, clearly confused by my presence, she is now fully on board with having me around. She hangs out in the yard with me when I’m picking up sticks and getting up the leaves. She faithfully leads me to each deposit of her poops when it’s time to get them up, then happily starts rolling around in the grass on her back like a puppy.

When I come downstairs in the morning she comes with me now—a new phenomenon. As I roam the internet she sits on the sofa next to me until she gets hungry, then she jumps down and lets out a mournful howl and then an indignant sneeze, which is my cue to feed the poor thing. Once that’s done, I have to sit back down so she can eat her breakfast, since she refuses to eat while I am standing. Then the real fun starts. When she has eaten the last kibble she comes over to the sofa and begins huffing and puffing in a peculiar way—half hurumph, half sneeze—then she prances across the room on her tippy-toes. She performs this ritual each and every morning after breakfast to communicate her need for—peanut butter. Neither Pam nor I are quite sure how this tradition began. But it is one of Lucy’s true non-negotiables. She demands that either Pam or I smear a bit of peanut butter on the edge of her food bowl. It’s just how she rolls.

Then she follows me upstairs and sits on her sofa while I do my pushups and other exercises. She seems disinterested for the most part, but that all ends when it’s time for me to do my back stretches. At this point she is all about making sure I’m doing things right. She jumps down from her sofa and inspects me close-up, sniffing all the things that apparently need sniffing, making sure that I am cutting no corners. It’s quite annoying trying to stretch in competition with a 70 pound dog, but I make it through. Then it’s time for my shower. Lucy follows me and deposits herself at the entrance to the bathroom until I’m finished.

In other words, Lucy follows me everywhere I go. She does not insist on me engaging with her, she seems content just to be there with me in anything I happen to be doing. When I am at my desk in the library she will turn around three revolutions then collapse herself on the floor at my feet with a mighty groan—her hips aren’t as nimble as they used to be. By the end of her day she is more tired than she used to be. Lucky for her she has many favorite snoozle locations throughout the house…

I am convinced that God is somehow involved with the existence of dogs, that they were created specifically to be a comfort to human beings. They give us everything they have without judgement, they forgive us all of our deficiencies, they demonstrate love and loyalty to people who need help with both.  In exchange for all of that we are asked to put up with the occasional scatological hiccup, large quantities of dog hair and having to let them outside in driving rainstorms for their morning and evening constitutionals.

What a bargain.

Must Have Been Something I Ate

Had a dream in the early morning, one of the worst kinds where you find yourself in a loop of frustration. In this particular case I was attempting to protect my sister-in-law from making a terrible financial decision. She had inherited a bit of money and wanted my opinion on a presentation she had been pitched by an advisor who bore a striking resemblance to a young Keith Richards of The Rolling Stones. So, I look this thing over and it’s about the worst thing I’ve ever seen, chocked full of lies, deception and outrageous fees. I was furious and spent the rest of the dream trying to reason with my sister-in-law who was hell-bent on investing her money with an ancient rocker who spent the entire presentation drinking whiskey straight from the bottle. Every point I made about how much of a disaster his recommendations were was met with Keith slurring to my sister-in-law, “Never mind all that…what do YOU think, love?” 

Anyway, I jolted awake, sat up in bed and squinted across the room at the digital clock next to the TV…5:23. Without hesitation or fear of contradiction I can honestly say that I’ve never been happier to be retired than I was this morning at 5:23 am. I think that today I will wear my favorite pair of socks—the ones that say, not my job, not my problem.