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.

The Most Beautiful City in America

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silas Time

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

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

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

33 Days. WAY Too Long

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

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

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

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

When Were The Good Old Days?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hard to Believe

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

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

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

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

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

Grandparenting Love

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is the greatest gift we have ever received.

United States v. Dominican Republic

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stupid People in Large Groups

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keeping a Sharp Eye Out

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I remain cautiously optimistic.

Where Do Dogs Go When They Die?

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

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

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

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

I stand by my answer.

Lucy—2014-2026

 We lost our sweet Lucy yesterday. We are heartbroken.

We were eating breakfast with Kaitlin and Jon when my neighbor’s name popped up on my phone. My heart sank when I saw his name. Why would he be calling if not with bad news? When he came over to feed her yesterday morning her breathing was unsteady and she had lost use of her back legs. He FaceTimed me an image of her which I will never be able to get out of my mind. We made the decision to take her to the emergency Vet. We immediately began packing, hoping and praying that we would make it home in time to be with her, comfort her. We soon got a call from the Vet explaining her dire prognosis. They would make her comfortable until we arrived. About an hour into the trip home I suddenly had an overwhelming feeling that she wouldn’t make it. We were still four and a half hours away. A couple minutes later the Vet called with the news that Lucy had passed.

Twelve days ago I wrote a blog about Lucy. I had an encounter with her that made me keenly aware of how much she had aged. When I wrote it I didn’t think she wouldn’t survive the month of February, I was just feeling nostalgic for her earlier, more active days when she was a puppy, driving us absolutely crazy with her antics. Now, she’s gone. We are guaranteed nothing in this life.

After getting the call from the Vet we spent the rest of the trip trying to decide if we would go to the ER to say goodbye. Part of me didn’t want to. I didn’t want her dead body to be my last memory of her, neither did Pam. But we wanted to pick up her collar. Once we got there we both decided to sit with her for a minute or two. At this point I need to say what amazing care the Vet’s took with her. Their sensitivity and compassion will never be forgotten. Lucy looked so peaceful. We were able to tell her how much we loved her and what a very good girl she had always been.

Our neighbors also deserve a word at this point. The Garland’s have known Lucy since she was a puppy. All of them have taken care of her on countless trips Pam and I made over the years when we couldn’t take Lucy with us. Kennedy, their middle child especially loved her. Thankfully, she was playing in a basketball tournament yesterday morning and wasn’t the one who found Lucy. Her dad Stu was the one who called me with the news. His steadiness and kind heart calmed me.

Last night I spent the better part of three hours combing through the hundreds of pictures we have taken of Lucy over the years. I’m not sure they helped or hurt, but I couldn’t stop looking. The photos I posted of her on Facebook were from last July, her final trip to Maine. She was so happy, full of delight in her favorite place with her favorite people. We will take her ashes up when we go this summer. The lake will be her final resting place.

My sweet neighbor Jamie told me that when she lost her dog last year it was so devastating. She couldn’t believe that this was the third time we had endured the loss of a golden. I thought about that observation for a moment and then answered. I had heard Pam talking with my sister earlier when she brought over a meal for us. (That’s what Paula does, and we are so grateful). She said words to the effect of—In this life we only shed tears over people we love. When you love someone it comes with a price, that one day they will pass and break your heart. But it’s a price I would pay over and over again because of what these loved ones bring to your life. It is worth every penny.

Rest in Peace, sweet girl.

Grandparenting 101

It’s Wednesday evening. We have spent the last two days taking care of our grandson from around 8:30 in the morning until Jon and Kaitlin get home from work around 5:00. Pam makes everyone dinner, I clean up the kitchen, then we hand him over to his parents for the rest of the night. So, what do we do all day with an 8 month old?

We feed him three bottles, plus a variety of disgusting whirled, mashed, and puréed vegetables and fruits in combinations which defy reason—mango, carrots and kiwi. Regardless of how foul the presentation, the boy devours them with great enthusiasm, leaving pieces of each offering strewn everywhere within a ten foot radius around his highchair. I am tempted to perform cleanup with a power washer.

After mealtime it’s time for play. He has an arsenal of toys, books and play stations to choose from. There are two bouncy contraptions which emit computerized music at the slightest movement. He loves them both. He has favorite toys—a rumbling dump truck with a wisecracking driver who shouts arbitrary commands willy nilly and every once in a while breaks into song—“When you have a job to do, do it right! When you have a job to do, do the best that you can do, when you have a job to do, do it right!” Clearly, the manufacturer of this particular dump truck is part of the misogynistic patriarchy, since the aforementioned wisecracking driver is male, and clearly not a member of a union. 

Silas is quite fond of his Old McDonald’s farmhouse and animals. When he opens the roof of the barn  he reaches inside and retrieves one of four animals, each of which makes the appropriate animal sound when squeezed—except for mister duck who, for reasons which escape us, seems to be mute. Despite this glaring defect, Silas is still enamored with the Old McDonald shtick, joining countless generations before him.

After play time Pam and I take turns giving him his bottle and then reading him stories before putting him down for his nap. Sometimes this nap lasts a mere 30 minutes. Once a day we might get lucky and he will sleep for an hour and half. When he wakes up we like to mix things up. Tuesday we took him for a walk in his stroller around the neighborhood. Today we went on an adventure to his Mom’s favorite coffee shop in Columbia. He was a perfect angel. Everyone in the coffee shop seemed delighted by his presence except for the man at the table right next to ours who had been working on his computer and found it difficult to do so once Silas began serenading the shop with his version of Old McDonald’s Farm which sounding like this…HaaaaaHHHHaaaaaaaa!

I should add that these two days have also included quite a few diaper changes and so far one bath. The most difficult part of each day has been picking out the “outfit of the day.” I’m not involved in the selection process. Pam stands at the entrance to the child’s voluminous clothes closet and ponders just the right combination of style, comfort, practicality and color. In so doing she is basically choosing from among the truck load of outfits that she has filled this closet with. Eventually she picks a winner and I must admit—the kid is styling.

We have two more days of this responsibility left. Once Saturday comes, Jon and Kaitlin will morph back into the boy’s primary care givers—and Pam and I will sleep for three days.

The Triangle Tour

I suppose I should let everyone know what I’ve been doing since last week. Pam and I departed Short Pump on our triangle tour Friday morning at 8 am sharp. We will not return until this coming Sunday afternoon. By the time we arrive home we will have logged 1500 miles. What is a triangle tour, you ask? It’s a roadtrip where we visit all of our kids in two different cities before returning home spent and exhausted, but hopefully in one piece.

The first phase of the TT was the 604 miles, 9 hour drive from Short Pump to Nashville, Tennessee, which I was able to finish with only one gas/lunch stop in Abingdon, Virginia. This was a bad decision based upon pride and hubris—me trying to prove to myself that I haven’t lost a step with the ravages of time. Although I did manage to make the trip with only one stop, my back is filing a complaint with the Labor Department, and my bladder has hired a lawyer. 

Our weekend with Patrick, Sarah and Frisco was delightful. They were both busy with an all-day recording session for Vocal Arts Nashville which was followed with a concert Saturday night. It had been a while since we had heard choir music and it was astonishingly beautiful. Then we had a couple of incredible meals at their favorite restaurants.We got to spend some time with sweet Frisco, their Golden pup. Before we left Pam and I attended a rehearsal of another great choir that they have both been members of for many years. Sarah made us a “snack dinner” of this amazing homemade pasta dish that was delicious. Every time we get the chance to visit with them we leave so proud and grateful that they found each other and are building such a wonderful life together.

Monday morning we left Nashville and drove 445 miles over the mountains to Columbia, South Carolina. This time I stopped twice. Both times it was insanely cold and snowy. Along the way both Pam and I have noticed several mental lapses which I am told are to be expected in retirement. When we stopped for lunch yesterday I got off the exit to stop at our go-to road restaurant of choice—Bojangles. First, I turned the wrong way off the exit. Then upon arriving at Bojangles, I promptly pulled into the McDonald’s next door! This was just one of many questionable brain farts to befall team Dunnevant on this trip. Perhaps the best one was when Pam and I entered our hotel elevator and after what seemed an awfully long time Pam remarked on how slow the elevator was—only to finally notice that she had never pressed a button!

Now we are in Columbia. Last night Kaitlin made us a fabulous sausage-y dinner. After Silas went to bed Pam and I were entertained by one of the kid’s rituals with their best friends, Matt and Bailey. They watch a show called Murder in the Building simultaneously by syncing up via group text. Then, as they watch the show they make snide comments back and forth about the show. Although this might seem odd on the surface, its even odder the deeper you dive into the phenomenon. Somehow the word “Ask” has been transformed to the word “Ass” because of a spell check mistake months earlier…or something like that. Simply stated, the language on this group text was startling to say the least! Lots of inside jokes. I blame any negative outcomes on Matt and Jon since Kaitlin and Bailey cannot do any wrong.

I have attached pictures of highlights so far. More to come later