Our New Consulting Job

 It’s been three weeks since we’ve seen our grandson. We both agree that’s long enough. So we asked Kaitlin and Jon if we could come down Monday and take care of him for a week, fix them dinner every night and then leave the following Sunday. They said, “Yes.” I mean, what’s the point of being retired if you can’t inject yourself into your grandson’s life at a moment’s notice?

Lest any of you think that we are going a bit overboard with the grand parenting, I should point out the fact that it’s not entirely our fault. When you are being bombarded with pictures like these practically every day, what would you do?

What would you have us do? Ignore all of this cuteness? I think not. Of course, there are practical reasons why we are making this particular trip. There were several Christmas presents that had to be left here at the house because they couldn’t fit everything in their car when they left three weeks ago. We can’t keep putting that off. Then there’s the other issue having to do with Aunt Bailey…

Not gonna lie…a little jealous that she gets to hang out with him more than us.

I like to think of this grand parent thing as sort of like our post-career consulting job. Pam and I go down for a week at a time to consult with the new parents where we discuss the latest best practices of child rearing—like scrapping crib naps for contacted naps, doing wheelies on walks with the stroller, and bringing cultural awareness to the boy with the use of ethnically diverse tickle monster voices. You know what they say—it takes a village idiot to raise a child—or something like that.

Calm Down…

 I know people, some of them friends, who can’t go 24 hours without posting about politics on social media, our present cauldron of troubles having overtaken their entire lives to the exclusion of practically everything else. They feel some deep and primal need to make sure that the entire world knows of their hatred for one side or the other…like anyone alive still might be unsure of their position. I mean, they’ve been telling us every day for years now. I think we get it.

However annoying they can be I must admit that I do envy them their certainty. These rabid partisans might be super cringy but they are totally convinced of the righteousness of their cause. My trouble with politics is that basically I don’t give a shit. Some of you are appalled at the level of my disinterest. Others will find it impossible to understand—“How can you be so nonchalant about the most dangerous moment of our lives?” Still others will write off my lack of interest as some kind of proof of privilege of one kind or another. Whatever.

I suppose what’s at the root of my apathy is the fact that I can’t trust the story tellers, the various media companies who report the news to me. Each of them have agendas. None of them are in the business of reporting facts, but rather the framing of facts to suit their preferred narratives. Consequently none of them can be trusted.

But it’s not just that. There’s also the undeniable truth that is irrefutable if you have been consuming news for the last 50 plus years and that is this—nothing, and I mean NOTHING is as bad as we are told it will be. I challenge each and everyone of you reading this post to read the reporting of practically every potential “crisis” reported on in this country and show me one that has ever been as bad or even worse than advertised. Good luck. There’s a simple explanation for this. Measured, serious reporting doesn’t attract eyeballs. Hyperbole does. The more dire the headline, the more people will read or watch. It’s terribly difficult to write a fundraising letter without first having a terrifying story to tell.

So yeah…a couple of weeks ago weeks ago we attacked Venezuela and the initial breathless reporting featured a lot of hand wringing about WORLD WAR III about to start. Now, that story is on page four. It’s quite possible that within the next 24 hours we are going to pull another nation-building/regime change stunt in Iran. Although I have no idea what we can do militarily to keep the Iranian government from killing protesters and am pretty sure whatever we do might very well make things worse, I’m not losing any sleep over this one either. Not a single thing I can do about it, for one thing, and for another, the world is a screwed up place. Bad things happen, and when they do people freak out. But seriously people, would any of you prefer to live 200 years ago? How about 100 years ago? How about this…would you rather it was 1976 instead of 2026?  

The answer is a resounding “No”. Be honest. Yes, the world is a dangerous place. But it has always been, and comparatively speaking, to 99% of our ancestors we’ve got it made.

Take a two week break from news consumption. You will be happier and no where near as boring.

How Good of a Deal is Owning Your Own Home?

 How good of a deal is owning your own home? Great right? It’s the American Dream. I’m certainly happy to have paid off my home, to own it free and clear. Only, I don’t. Not really. And while I have certainly benefitted from owning my home, the folks who have benefitted the most are the bank and Henrico County. Let me explain.

Pam and I purchased our home somewhere around 1998. It was new construction and we paid $258,000, $218,000 of which was in the form of a 30 year loan from our bank. It was the most expensive purchase of our lives and we were at once terrified and thrilled at the prospect.

Over the years we managed to never miss a payment. We also refinanced a couple times along the way. Of course, in the years since we moved in, lots of money has been spent on upkeep and repairs. Own anything for nearly 30 years and maintenance is a fact of life. Luckily, the place never caught on fire, it never got flooded by a hurricane, so we’ve been lucky.

Then, three years ago that magical day came when I made the very last payment to Wells Fargo bank after which I was presented with the deed of trust. The house was finally…mine!

After the celebrations died down, in a more reflective mood I began to ponder just how much interest I had paid to the bank over all the years. It took a while but I finally determined that the bank had earned $227,000 in interest. But that’s not the half of it. I also paid roughly $40000 in home owners insurance premiums. Had my house burned to the ground that would have come in handy, but so far my insurance company has done well. And although I don’t owe any more money to the bank, I will be paying for home owners insurance premiums until I have assumed room temperature. But…even THAT is not all. There’s the question of real estate property taxes. This is a tax owed to your local government if you own a house. It is a progressive tax since it is based on the assessed value of your home which—thankfully—goes up most years. As a consequence, my real estate tax bill has grown through the years. How much have I paid since 1998? Well, that took some time to find out but the answer is a hair under $90,000.

So, when you tally it all up it looks something like this:

Down payment        $40,000

Loan principle         $218,000

Interest                    $227,000

Real Estate Tax       $90,000

Home Owners         $40,000

Total                      $615,000

I’m told by people who claim to know these sort of things that if I sold my house today it would fetch something in the neighborhood of…..$625,000…not exactly Warren Buffet.

But here’s the sketchy part. Besides having to pay home owners premiums forever, there’s another continuing cost that will be due each and every year—my Henrico County real estate tax, which as fate would have it is currently higher than it has ever been—roughly $5,000 a year. So, lets say I live another twenty years in this house and for the sake of being charitable lets say that my real estate bill never again gets increased. Under these circumstances I will pay an additional $100,000 to Henrico County…for the privilege of owning my home. Oh…and one more thing. If I get senile and forget to pay my real estate taxes for a couple three years, the county can confiscate the home from me because they are always the paramount lien on all property in their jurisdiction. Lovely.

Here’s a suggestion. How about if someone manages against all odds to purchase a home, and pays a thirty year mortgage off in full and on time, never haven’t missed a tax payment for an entire generation—how’s about the County stop collecting taxes from that homeowner on that property? Doesn’t that sound fair and equitable? It’s not like the County will have to wait very long to start collecting again. Eventually I’ll kick the bucket and somebody else will buy the house and the gravy train to the County will start all over again. But, shouldn’t 30 years be enough per person?

Thanks for attending my TED Talk.

What Does it Mean to be a Man?

 I should probably warn the reader that what follows might be more of an essay than a blog post. This subject has been living rent free in my mind for quite some time now but I have never attempted to organize my thoughts into something coherent. The reader will have to decide whether or not I have succeeded.

If you spend any time scrolling through forums like Instagram, Facebook or any number of hugely popular podcasts you will encounter many loud voices selling one thing or another. Some of the most popular voices come from a corner of the web that has been dubbed the manoshere. These guys are usually jacked, loud, often quite funny, and always confident that they know exactly what a real man is. In their view civilization wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for “toxic masculinity”. All of western civilization’s problems are caused by the feminization of society, the wussification of our businesses, our government and our institutions—especially the church.

I don’t spend too much time listening to Joe Rogan or any of the thousand others. About five minutes is enough to get the gist of their argument and like all wildly popular opinions out there in the world there is a grain of truth to be found. When I hear the hysterical voices of some feminists out there declaring that society doesn’t need men anymore I roll my eyes and try to imagine a regiment of women storming the beaches of Normandy, building the Golden Gate Bridge or replacing my roof when its 100 degrees outside. Before you scold me for being misogynistic—Yes, I am aware that there might be individual women capable of all of these things—but generally it has been the male of our species which has shouldered the responsibilities of the most physically demanding and dangerous jobs throughout all of human history.

But aside from that silliness, much of what I hear from these alleged alpha males sounds off to me, or at the very least incomplete. Too often their masculinity seems heavy on brutishness, rudeness and aggression.

All of which has gotten me thinking a lot about what it is to be a man. If I’m not comfortable with how manhood is portrayed in these spaces, what is my alternative definition? Good question, and one I’m not totally sure I have all the answers to. I’m a flawed example, for one thing. But that hasn’t stopped me from thinking. To facilitate this discussion I will explore two men who could not be more different. 

When I was a boy I had my own father as an example. In this it could easily be said that I won the lottery. He was in many ways the best man I’ve ever known. But honestly, my Dad was long on leading by example and short on communication, much like most men of his generation, so he will not be one of the two men I will examine. From my early years the man I looked up to and admired the most wasn’t even real. It was this guy…

We didn’t get our first television until I was 5 or 6, I’m told. But one of my first memories was this towering yet quiet character—Sheriff Andy Taylor of Mayberry, North Carolina, single father of Opie, nephew of Aunt Bea and boss of Barney Fife, and the chief law enforcement officer of this early 1960’s town who never carried a gun. Luckily, Mayberry was not a hotbed of crime, violent or otherwise, but it had its share of conmen, hucksters and the occasional escaped convict, all of whom Andy was able to dispatch with a combination of his wisdom, intuition and the power of his presence and his unfailing character. Seldom did Sheriff Taylor escalate a situation. He nearly always was the master of deescalation. One scene still stands out in my mind. A charming drifter, played by Buddy Epson came through town and struck up a friendship with Opie who was mesmerized by his lifestyle with its romantic freedom and his willingness to “bend the law” on occasion, like stealing a chicken from a local farmer so the two of them could have a fine meal after an afternoon of fishing. Andy became alarmed at the influence the drifter was having on his son with his libertine obscuring of the line between right and wrong. So, Andy pays him a visit. The charming drifter says in effect, “Maybe your boy would chose my way of living if you let him decide for himself.” Andy looks at him and says words to this effect—“That’s not how it works. You can’t let a kid ‘decide for himself’ because he’s liable to choose the first shiny thing that comes along. By the time he finds out that its got a hook in it, its too late.” Andy the protector.

The first thing I think is required of us as men is the duty to protect. In Andy’s case it was protecting his young and inexperienced son against a false vision of life where rules are always for someone else. But Sheriff Taylor also brought his protection duties to his community. Even though he never carried a gun he had the power of a clear vision of right and wrong and an unwavering commitment to justice. More often than not it was this vision, rather than might which brought about justice.

In the formative years of our development as a species it was the “strong man” around which communities were organized. Might makes right. The most powerful alpha male got whatever he wanted in exchange for his protection of the village against other strong men. But the arc of history has curved towards the value and dignity of every man and woman, not just the most powerful. The Enlightenment and the rise of ideas like the universal rights of man elevated all humanity. Now our laws and culture generally agree that there are those among us that require protection. In this regard the teachings of Jesus represent a radical departure from the old way with his elevation of and benevolence towards the “poor, the widow and the orphan.” It seems to me then that one of the responsibilities of men, especially men of wealth and influence is to be one of the primary protectors of the weak among us. I hear very little of this responsibility in the manosphere. 

When I was a teenager there was a movie that came out that was a huge hit among teenage boys. It was called Billy Jack and it was filled with terrible dialogue and atrocious acting but the title character was a goofy looking half breed Indian who always showed up to defend the defenseless, first a group of wild stallions rounded up to be slaughtered for dog food and then a runaway girl. Each time he employed his Vietnam war Green Beret trained fighting skills to dispatch the bad guys we teenage boys cheered him on. But as I watched that movie at the Westhampton theatre I was struck by how reluctant Billy Jack was to use his lethal skill. He tried everything to avoid a fight, giving his victims lots of opportunities to back off before he lowered the boom. For me there was something admirable about his restraint. It was like he knew that if he was forced to use his lethal skills it represented a failure of some kind, a failure to work things out, to make reasonable accommodations, to compromise. With great privilege comes great responsibility. For me a real man is one who keeps a sharp eye out for the “least of these”, ready and willing to protect them from anyone who would do them harm.

The second person I would like to discuss is Elon Musk, perhaps the most polarizing figure in the entire world. On the one hand there can be no denying the fact of his genius. From electric cars to his Space X innovations, the man has been an entrepreneurial powerhouse unlike anyone else in history. He will shortly be worth an astounding 1 Trillion dollars. In some spaces Musk is revered as an icon. In other places he is reviled as a symbol of everything that is wrong with capitalism and the influence and worship of money and success. Some are appalled that one person could allow himself to amass so obscene an amount of personal wealth. Others are mesmerized by the very same accomplishment and suggest it as evidence of his superior intellect and audacity, even to the point of holding him up as an example for others to follow.

But what about Elon Musk as an…example for young men? I happen to hold the view that someone can admire the creativity and innovative genius of his mind while at the same time believing him to be perhaps the worst possible example of manhood to come along since…since, I don’t know since the Marquis de Sade!

As of this writing despite being only 54 years of age, Elon Musk has fathered 14 children that he admits to although accounts vary. He has been married either four or five times and now lives some kind of polyamorous existence with several women—one of whom is in the process of suing him for full custody of their child. He is also by all accounts a drug addict, a regular user of ketamine, LSD, cocaine and God knows what else. In most of the over 4000 years of recorded history, this sort of behavior would normally have been a harsh indictment, something which would have disqualified him as a respected member of society. In today’s more lenient environment most of those holding him up as someone to be emulated have chosen to ignore his private life. Not me. I have never been able to seperate anyone’s private character from their public performance when they are in a position of great power and influence. If my neighbor wants to have a harem that’s his business. But if a president or the wealthiest and most powerful private citizen perhaps of all time turns out to be morally bankrupt, that’s a deal breaker for me.

What of Mr. Musk’s duty to protect? How has he used his nearly incalculable wealth to protect the most vulnerable? His favorite charity is his own foundation, to which he makes quite large gifts of stock, which then invests the money in tech innovation projects which benefit…his companies. Yes, he has donated money and know-how through his Starlink enterprise to bring internet access to rural communities. But when a man is worth a trillion dollars, his total charitable giving amounts to a rounding error on his balance sheet. Of course, he is under no legal obligation to donate a dime of his wealth. None of us are. But we all have a moral obligation to do what we can to look after those who are less fortunate. It is a tenant of the Christian faith but also an accepted obligation of the non-religious as well. The duty to protect never leaves us. As men it is one of our highest callings.

Try to imagine a meeting between Elon Musk and Andy Taylor. Neither of them would have a clue of what to make of the other. But if I was going to pattern my life after one of them it would be an easy choice.

So, I suppose that what I have come up with is two defining characteristics each and every man should possess Every man needs to be a protector and someone who deescalates by the power of his presence and the honor of his character.

Maybe you can think of better qualities than these. Perhaps you disagree entirely with my conclusions, and that’s ok. But I believe that this topic is important enough to think hard about. We all can do better. Men must do better.

 

Sunday Observations

 In our 41 years of marriage my wife has never once cut the grass. In fact I feel confident in asserting that 95% of the hardest physical tasks associated with owning a home and raising children (outside of actually giving birth) have been done by me. That’s because I’m a man and I’m physically stronger than she is. Of course to suggest such a thing today might rain down on me condemnation from certain quarters, but sorry…its just true. However, physical strength and toughness are not the same thing. Case in point…

Last week, with a house full of kids, Pam came down with a cold. Each day, as colds often do, it got worse, sore throat, cough, exhaustion. Immediately she stopped holding Silas as the only reasonable precaution she could take under the circumstances. But other than that, she continued as full time host of the family, cooking meals etc..etc..The only outward indication that she was ill was the fact that she didn’t talk as much. Other than that she went about her business.

Two days ago I got a sore throat, which was her first symptom. Then all the other miserable symptoms followed making it clear that I inherited her cold. Yesterday was pretty rough. Last night we sat down to eat dinner and I looked at her and said, “I can’t believe that you managed to cook meals for us feeling this horrible.” She just shrugged and made no reply like it was no big deal. It was then that it occurred to me (not for the first time) that Pam is just tougher than me. This fact doesn’t damage my ego. It’s just a fact of life that I have observed in 67 years on the planet that women, particularly mothers are among the toughest people on earth. They show up for their people every day whether they feel like crap or not. While they’re at it they never talk about how crappy they feel. They just plow through. Amazing.

Day Two of this Venezuela business has brought more details about the operation. While I still remain skeptical about the efficacy of the policy, I must here pause to make a couple observations about the actual operation. Regardless of the politics of the thing you just have to tip the cap to the United States military. You give those people six months to plan and there is literally nothing they can’t do. Those Delta Force dudes are epic examples of lethal bad-assery. To run that complicated a mission with zero casualties is nothing short of miraculous. I am grateful that those monsters are on our side. I worry just a little less knowing that we possess so deadly and skilled a team of warriors. I pray for a world where we never feel the need to use them.

Finally, my daughter sent me this picture yesterday…

Try as I might, I just kind find words equal to the task of explaining how much love I have for this little boy.

Venezuela??

 I’ve got a cold. Pam got it last week right after Christmas. Now it’s my turn. It’s not horrible but for the past two nights sleep has been rough. This morning I woke up around 4:30, stumbled downstairs with a killer sore throat, then opened my computer to news that my country had attacked Venezuela and captured its leader. What the actual hell? 

I should point out that it is a terrible idea to read the news when you feel like crap. You need to be at the top of your game to tackle the news anymore. I probably should have waited until I had a good breakfast, took a shower and done my exercises…but that ship has sailed. Instead, I was confronted with this bizarre news after only one sip of coffee with a throat that felt like it was lined with cayenne pepper.

What do I even know about Venezuela? Let’s see…I know that it used to be one of the richest countries in Central and South America before they decided to try a Cuba-styled communist/authoriarian government under Hugo Chavez. To the surprise of absolutely no one who isn’t a tenured professor or a journalist, Venezuela is now a financial and human rights basket case despite the fact that they have the largest known oil reserves on the planet. That’s really really hard to do! The current dictator is Nicolas Maduro, a dude who somehow has managed to be even more incompetent and anti-democratic than Chavez. 

Also…Venezuela produces a ton of really great baseball players.

Like most other South American and Central American nations, Venezuela produces tons of drugs. The climate is perfect for it, I’m told. Most of the drugs are smuggled into and consumed by us…the United States of America, since we can’t seem to get enough drugs no matter where they come from.

So now we have apparently attacked the capital with aircraft and managed to snatch Maduro and his wife, who have been flown here to stand trial for a 2020 narco-terrorism charge filed in New York. Details on just how our military managed this remarkable feat remain hidden at this hour. What also remains unclear is what vital national interests of the United States is in play here which would justify a military intervention. I mean if its drugs…we could have done the same thing to Mexico, Columbia, Nicaragua etc etc…

But our President is Donald Trump. Trying to figure out his motivations is like trying to assemble a jigsaw puzzle in the dark. It might just be the baseball thing. Maybe Trump is fed up with the ever increasing number of Venezuelans in the big leagues? Or it could be another in a long line of wag the dog military operations that presidents with sagging approval numbers have engaged in for the past hundred years or so.

But…it’s early. As I type these words this particular adventure is mere hours old. By the time most of you read this there will have been several more social media posts from the President with more details. No matter what the reasoning proves to be—we are once again involving ourselves in what used to be called..war…with another country. This is almost always bad news for everyone.

The Battle Begins…

 

So, I got Pam the BirdBuddy for Christmas. We’ve had the same bird feeder on our deck for the past fifteen years or so and we love it because squirrels cannot get to the birdseed no matter how hard they try, often with hilarious results. This new fangled solar powered gizmo has the advantage of being connected to the internet and comes equipped with a camera and microphone which captures up close and personal photographs of the little guys. She hung this thing after dark last night and this morning we were notified by the device that we had our first customer who is pictured above. When he first landed he gave it many side eyes, making sure it wasn’t some sort of sadistic trap, but once satisfied of its benign intent, began engorging himself with not one but seven seeds before flying off.

But there’s a problem. I can see it plain as day. What I can’t believe is that the manufacturers of the BirdBuddy didn’t notice. This thing might as well have a giant sign hanging off it screaming—All Squirrels Welcomed Here!! It might as well have been named SquirrelBuddy.

I am now on the horns of a dilemma. Should I try to rig up some kind of anti-squirrel contraption to add to the thing ala Wiley Coyote? Or do I rely on my trusty BB gun to punish any tree rat who comes near? I mean thats all well and good but I can’t sit upstairs at the back window all day like that sniper in the church tower in Saving Private Ryan, quoting scripture while picking them off one by one. I’ve got a life to live. But the thought that a tribe of filthy squirrels will be feasting on the ill-designed BirdBuddy, robbing our beautiful birds of their rightful rewards infuriates me. 

I will keep you all posted on developements in what I’m sure will be the ongoing battle of 2026.

No Resolutions

 About this time of year you start to see people posting about everything they accomplished throughout the year and what their New Year’s Resolutions are. I suppose it’s natural and proper to do so. After all, it’s not every day when you go to bed in one year and wake up in another. It feels like a good a time as any to think about such things. My trouble is I hate the word resolution. It’s a name you give for something that most likely will never happen. Congress makes resolutions. The language of Washington is filled with proclamations that use some form of the word resolve, “Resolved, the 119th Congress of the United States does hereby declare that….followed by some lofty promise they have no intention of keeping. So, I never make resolutions. Instead I set goals. What’s the difference? Resolutions are basically positive thoughts. Goals are real and measurable. Here’s an example:

Resolution: I want to be a better listener in 2026.

Goal: Lose fifteen pounds…on January 1st 2025 I weighed 205 pounds. On December 31st 2025 I weighed 190. Killed it!!!

How’d you do with that “better listener” thing?

I’ve been setting goals since my freshman year at UofR. I’ve hit a bunch of them and missed a bunch too, but every goal I set had one thing in common—they were all getable. I never set ridiculous goals. I never write something down like—learn four foreign languages before the end of the year. First of all, I would have no chance and second of all, not something I really want to do in the first place. 

So, what were my goals for 2025? I won’t list them all here because most of them are none of anyone else’s business. Each year I have fitness goals, relationship goals, writing goals, project goals and giving goals. My biggest “get” from 2025 was that I hit my 12,000 pushups goal. Matter of fact I hit all my fitness goals except my weight goal which remains stubbornly unchanged despite all the fitness heroics. But, the point is every goal I set last year was measurable. I nailed two of my giving goals and missed on the third. I totally whiffed on one of my project goals, but hit the other three.

Why set goals at all? Why can’t you just take life as it comes, live life one day at a time, go with the flow? Because sometimes “the flow” drifts towards disaster. Most of the time the proper course in life is against the current. Without a plan, without great intentionality, virtually nothing of value gets done in this world. I would rather attempt great things and fail than drift through living an unexamined and unchallenged life.

Silas’ First Christmas

 Patrick and Sarah left this morning headed home to Nashville. Jon, Kaitlin and Silas will stay for a couple more days before heading back to Columbia. But, Christmas is over for this year. While the memories are fresh, a few observations…

The entire experience is different with a baby in the house, more hectic, more moving parts to deal with. But aside from the more strenuous logistics, having a six month old in the house brings back the magic. It helps that Silas is such a happy, contented and flexible child. He takes very short naps during the day which isn’t optimal…but sleeps 11 hours straight at night which amounts to a godsend for his parents. In the five days he has been here he has endured one 18 person gathering, another 25 person gathering, plus an evening with a babysitter (Bernadette). In each case the little boy was as good as gold. At Aunt Linda’s house we discovered that Silas loves trains! Uncle Bill’s annual train display was the subject of endless fascination.

Watching your grown children parenting like seasoned veterans is an amazing experience. Knowing that this child will always be surrounded by scores of uncles, aunts, and cousins who love him is an invaluable gift he has been given, one that we will never take for granted.

The six of us went to see A Christmas Carol at the Virginia Repertory theater. That timeless story was brought to life beautifully by that company and worth the trip. 

Ready for Christmas

 The week of Christmas is finally here and we are pretty much exhausted. Actually, a more accurate way of expressing this would be…I am tired…Pam is exhausted. 

Over the past two weeks our house has been transformed from one thing to entirely another. The Christmas decorations have gone up, for one thing, and for us that means seven Christmas trees, several garlands, twenty-five snow village houses/stores with all the people and animals who live there, plus scores of wrapped presents under three of the aforementioned seven Christmas trees. But that’s not the half of it…

This will be our grandson’s first Christmas at Lolli and Pops’ house. Accordingly, Pam decided that he would need one of the rooms upstairs converted to an exclusive nursery for him. In addition, his parents would need to be relocated to the bedroom next to this new nursery. In order to accommodate this, Patrick and Sarah’s old room would need to be moved to where my old den used to be, while my den would be relocated to where Kaitlin and Jon’s old room used to be. Somehow Pam had this whole thing pictured in her mind so there was no point in me objecting to any of it. 

The first thing to go was what used to be Pam’s craft room/office. In one afternoon we managed to move all the furniture from all these rooms, reshuffling the decks of what they have all been for the past 28 years. It should be mentioned here that we are both in our 60’s. We still haven’t fully recovered. But when my wife gets a vision in her head, it’s my job to make it happen. The finished product was well worth the effort. We think that everyone will be happy with their new digs. But there is one problem…

Lucy is not amused.

Like all dogs, Miss Lucy is a creature of entrenched habits. One of them is her preferred sleeping spot/hangout spot during the day—what was my old den, and her favorite sofa. Well…when she took the tour after all the changes and discovered that her old spot had been moved she absolutely refused to get on that sofa! She looked at me as if I was guilty of some grave betrayal.

Four days…yes, it took her four full days of sniffing it and lots of heavy sighing before she finally hopped up on her own initiative. Even then, her facial expression was, “Ok…but I’m ready to make a break for the rug at the slightest provocation!!”

RIP, Meathead

 Rob Reiner and his wife had their throats slashed by their son yesterday, at least that’s what the news report said when I saw it last night. To hear news like this fifty years ago would have been shocking—Desi Arnaz and wife Lucille Ball were found bludgeoned to death by their son, little Ricky. That headline would have stopped all of America in its tracks. Now we hardly raise our eyebrows. Now it’s just another dysfunctional Hollywood couple with a disturbed son who snapped in the most violent nation on the face of the earth, the United States of America.

For people of a certain age, Rob Reiner will forever be Meathead, the radical hippy son-in-law of Archie Bunker in All in the Family. But he was much more than that. He gave us A Few Good Men, When Harry Met Sally, and The Princess Bride. For these three films alone he has left a terrific legacy. But now he’s dead and will most likely be remembered more for how he died than how he lived.

I’m one of those people who basically can’t stand Hollywood and Hollywood people. The way I see it, Hollywood is populated by self-obsessed narcissistic weirdos. The only thing worse than a room full of actors and directors is being in a room full of the children produced by these people. These people have basically nothing in common with everybody outside of Hollywood, ie…their customers. In fact, they despise us. See, they are the only people on earth who believe the “right” things, and every time one of them wins an award (at one of their 63 different award shows they throw for themselves) they simply can’t resist lecturing us rubes in the heartland about all of our shortcomings. As far as Rob Reiner goes, much has been made of his politics in the last 24 hours. I simply take it as a fact that any lifelong show business dude will have the political views of a leftist. Who cares? When I think of Rob Reiner I think of those three movies I mentioned and…Meathead. I have nothing against the man. At this moment, after his violent and tragic death at the hands of his own son, the man’s politics is about as irrelevant as it gets.

Of course, because this is 2025 and Donald Trump is in the White House and simply can’t resist inserting his thoughts into everything, the President of the United States offered up this nugget:

I just can’t process what could possibly have been running through his mind when he not only wrote this…but pressed “send”. Can anyone reading this imagine any other President saying anything like this…ever? I mean…even if he truly loathed the guy, why in the name of everything that is holy would he try to make this tragedy all about him?

But, I ask questions that I already know the answers to. At the end of the day there isn’t a thing I can do about it besides being patient waiting for the day when there’s someone in the White House that has enough self awareness to know that not every thought that enters your mind needs a public airing.

Looking for Opportunities

 Last night Pam and I decorated our family Christmas tree. Like always it was a nostalgic journey. There are ornaments from every trip we’ve ever taken together, many from Maine, others that marked accomplishments of one kind or another. We still hang the occasional ornament that the kids made when they were little. Then there are the ones given to us by dear friends. It’s quite the magical experience and brings with it a profound thankfulness for the blessings of life.

Then I wake up this morning and read of a mass killing in Australia and another at Brown University in Rhode Island. The juxtaposition of the two is life as we know it in the 21st century. Honestly life has always been shot through with contradiction from the beginning, where good fortune is mixed with tragedy. It’s just that in 2025 we know about every horrible thing that takes place anywhere on earth minutes after it happens. For me, reading of some horror somewhere makes me at once more thankful for my life and more burdened for others.

At Christmas this burden seems deeper. It’s hard for me to stay in the moment of happiness and gratitude when I imagine what other families are enduring at this hour. Imagine receiving a phone call telling you that your son has been shot dead walking across campus, the pain and anguish you would be thrust into for the rest of your life.

But, that’s someone else’s burden this morning. Today as the snow falls around me I will go to church, enjoy lunch with friends, take a nap and start wrapping presents. But everywhere I go over these next couple of weeks I will pay close attention to those around me. I will look for opportunities to be a blessing to someone. I hope everyone who reads this will do the same.

My Annual Christmas Letter

 Several years ago I wrote a blog about how annoying I found that lively perennial the Family Christmas Letter. You know the one I’m talking about because by now you’ve probably already gotten a half dozen of them thru the mail and you’re planning on writing yours any day now. Well, ever since then, as a protest to this lowest form of written communication, I’ve been writing my own Christmas letter, only mine doesn’t seek to paint a Pinterest/Hallmark picture of the previous year but an honest one. It includes noteworthy events from each month of 2025, the good, the bad, and the ugly. My year went something like this:

January: My first month of retirement was uneventful. The weather was lousy. I continued my 12 year boycott of the Inauguration show. I wrote a short story that maybe 175 people read. I established a new weekday morning routine of going to the Hope Cafe for coffee and a bagel.

February: I wrote a couple more short stories that even fewer people read. I was briefly scandalized when some scumbag murdered two Va. Beach police officers during a routine traffic stop. But that was ten months ago and it hasn’t crossed my mind since. My hunch is you’ve forgotten about it too.

March: Wrote two more short stories…The Reaping and Terrible Swift Sword which several hundred of you read. Started killing my daily walking/exercising commitment for 2025–not that I had neglected it for the first two months, but with the warmer weather I really amped it up.

April: This month was consumed with a complete overhaul of our kitchen. Thousands of dollars fled the safety and comfort of my checking account to give Pam the kitchen of her dreams and me a massive source of frustration. Wrote a fourth short story called High Tide. Visited my son and his wife in Nashville. 

May: Started getting geeked up about the impending summer trip to Maine. Set all time record of being pissed off at contractors for 46 consecutive days. Started work on a new story that kept growing more complex every time I started writing. Spoiler alert: It ends up being novel #6 and I don't finish it until December 9th.

June: Pam retired from 18 years of being vastly underpaid as a reading specialist at River’s Edge Elementary School joining her husband in a new life of joblessness. Then we drove down to Columbia, South Carolina to be there for the birth of our first grandchild, who turned out to be a boy. Everything that happened in 2025 prior to his birth is hardly even worth mentioning. We are in love with him and so unspeakably proud of his parents.

July: Went to Maine. The weather was sensational, probably the best six weeks of weather we have ever had in our summers there. Lucy once again was in her happy place.

August: We returned from Maine and literally two days later packed up and went to be with Silas for a week. Got to briefly walk through our new kitchen for about fifteen minutes before we left.

September: By September 1st I had really hit my stride with this retirement thing. I discovered that I LOVED it and still do. Then some kid shot and killed Charlie Kirk. Actually got to see it in stunning HD. I felt kinda sick for the rest of the month.

October: Started getting up leaves. At my house this is a two month ordeal. During one day devoted to bagging the first load up into 42 gallon trashbags I threw out my back for the 28th time or so, but who’s counting? This was after I had gotten Sciatica. Not a great month for the old guy.

November: Thanksgiving was great except for the fact that Silas and his parents got sick and couldn’t make the trip up. So of course Pam and I just had to pack up and spend a week taking care of them after Thanksgiving was over.

Since December is only a third of the way through at this point I’m just gonna assume that nothing terribly noteworthy will happen over the next three weeks. All in all, 2025 has been outstanding. Health has been acceptable. Loving retirement. Loving volunteering at my church. Really love being a grandparent. Once again (and I think this is three years in a row now) 2025 was vomit-free. I curated probably somewhere between 500 and a thousand dad jokes, largely because Sherri Matthews just can’t get enough of them. I finished that novel I told you about earlier which was great fun. So yeah, a good year.

Cottonwood

 Back on May the first of this year I started writing a story about a man who is found naked and unconscious in a ditch near Waynesboro, Virginia on August 14th 1939. He is taken to a hospital in Charlottesville where he remains unconscious for two weeks, finally waking up on September 1st, the day that German tanks are pouring into Poland marking the beginning of WWII. When he wakes up he has no memory of who he is, what year it is or where he is.

At the time I had no idea what would happen to this character. All I had on May the first was this setup. Two days ago I finished the story, 100,000 words later. It turned out to be my sixth novel. It is also the sixth time I have started telling a story on the slimmest pretext of an idea only to have the idea mutate into a novel. I have no idea how this happens. It is seldom planned—“I think I’ll begin writing a novel today”—they always take me 8-9 months to complete and they are always crazy fun to write. And…when I finish them I battle two competing emotions. Relief and sadness. I will miss these people.

Not to give anything away but, it turns out that the man in the ditch got there by way of a time travel mishap from the year 2078. Although he has no memory he is endowed with a variety of abilities that serve him well in his new environment and a few which baffle him. The story is basically the story of how he finds his way building a life for himself and the people he encounters along the way, some who he grows to love and others who have come to “take him back”.

Now I’ve started the process of going back to page one to proofread and make some changes that a few of my designated readers have suggested. Then sometime next year I will attempt to get it published. What’s the title, you ask? I’m not sure. Working title has been John Doe, but I’m thinking about calling it either Cottonwood or The Cottonwood Tree.

I’ll keep you posted.

Our Week With Silas

 Let me set the scene before I get into this particular post since it might provide context and give Pam and me at least the slimmest cover from accusations of being helicopter grandparents.

The week of Thanksgiving was to be a cozy event featuring all seven members of the family being together with Silas, and notably the little guy’s first Thanksgiving. As many of you know all of our plans were torpedoed by a raging stomach bug that ran roughshod through the Manchester household in the days leading up to Thanksgiving. To make matters worse, this was followed by colds that afflicted all three of them. In the midst of the angst felt by everyone on account of such a lost opportunity for memory making Pam made the off the cuff suggestion to Kaitlin that maybe we could come down the following week and look after Silas while they went back to work, keeping him out of the Petri dish convention that is the day care industry. Notice that Pam didn’t first run this idea by me to see if I was on board with the idea for the perfectly understandable reason that she knew that I would say “YES”.

So, we piled in the car and went down to Columbia, South Carolina last Sunday morning and arrived back home Saturday afternoon. As soon as we pulled out of their driveway Pam looks at me and said, “Its December 6th and I have not bought one single Christmas present.” She thought that since she was retired this Christmas would be a leisurely frolic through Christmas websites as she did her shopping on her laptop in her pajamas while sipping hot cocoa, unencumbered by the pressure and constraints of the calendar. But those fanciful dreams were before the arrival of Silas Nathaniel Manchester. 

Our week with them was no picnic. Being in charge of a six month old baby experiencing sleep difficulties ie…when he should sleep he disagrees after the first 30 minutes…is not for the faint of heart. Moreover, listening to a baby crying for ten minutes while they attempt to fall asleep makes you feel like a monster, deliberately withholding love and comfort from the sweetest little human on Planet Earth. But, other than his aversion to taking naps—something I should point out he will love when he gets to be his Pops’ age—he was about as perfect a six month old as was ever born on God’s green earth.

The schedule was relentless. He wakes up in the morning. We get his parents out the door to work. We give him bottle #1. He destroys it like he hasn’t eaten in a week. We change his diaper. We play with him for 2 hours at a variety of very cool play-stations strewn throughout their home which before his arrival was already smallish, but now resembles an obstacle course designed by Willy Wonka. There’s a standing play circle, two activity centers that feature various dazzling attractions hanging just out of reach—a diabolical scheme which I don’t fully comprehend but the little guy is intrigued. Then there’s story time where Pam and I read him a selection of truly wonderful books for little ones, many of which feature animals making noises. These books never grow old for him or us. 

Then its time to pick out his outfit of the day since up to this point he is still in his adorable pajamas from last night that Pam can’t bring herself to remove since it was one that she bought for him. But, we finally find a stunning new Carter’s special that was all the rage on the Gerber catwalks last fall, one which my wife could not possibly resist buying back when he was two days old. He looks like a million bucks and I make a mental note to see if Carter’s is a publicly traded company. 

After the new outfit is in place its time for his first nap of the day. In this tricky exercise we are aided in no small way by modern technology. First there is this clever night light/noise machine which turns on and off with a mere wave of the hand. Then, of course, there’s the surveillance camera above the crib that sends live pictures and sound to our cell phones (and God knows where else). That way not only can we hear him crying, we get to have the fully immersive experience of watching him in agony. I am told that this represents progress.

Anywhere from 30 minutes to an hour and 45 minutes later, he wakes up and gives us a ridiculously irresistible smile…and it starts all over again until mercifully between 5:00 and 6:00 in the evening his parents get home from work to find me trapped on the floor playing with little man since I have no choice because I can’t get up without assistance and Pam is busy making dinner! We had five days of this. Was it hard? Yes. Does it sound exhausting? Sure. But it was also quite surprisingly energizing. In five short days I wrote the last three entire chapters of the novel I’ve been working on since May the first. Somewhere between sleep training, diapers, and teaching Silas to throw left handed, I had enough creative energy to write the hardest 12,000 words of the story.

At this point I should say that Silas’ parents are killing it. Everything is brand new for them and they are rolling with the punches like seasoned vets. When they look at him you can see it in their eyes, this deep and abiding love. They overwhelm him with this love because it’s the only thing that feels equal to the moment.

Before we left I told my daughter that there was no place Pam and I could have been, nothing that we could have been doing this week that was more important than this. I meant every word.

Feels Like Christmas

 We got here around 5:15 yesterday afternoon. Pam had called Kaitlin over Thanksgiving suggesting that maybe all of them could stand a break from daycare for a week. Would she be ok with us coming down and keeping Silas for a week, cooking dinner for them and allowing him to fully recover from his cold before going back to daycare? It took her around five seconds to say, Yes please!

So, here we are. We hadn’t seen him in a month. He’s gotten so big and can do so many more things. At first his response to us was tentative, like maybe we looked familiar but he couldn’t quite place us. But it didn’t take long before he was smiling and being adorable. Last night I got to read him books right before he went to bed. I was sitting in the rocking chair in his room and Pam was kneeling down beside him. As I read he kept looking at Pam and then twisting his head around to look up at me as if to say, Lolli and Pops are both here reading to me! How great is this?

Kaitlin and Jon left for work around an hour ago. It’s just the three of us now. Pam is putting him down for his morning nap. Every time I look at him my heart feels like it’s going to burst. 

We will be here for a week. By the time we head home on Saturday we will both be worn out. But somehow having this whole week with him feels like Christmas. 

Missing The Little One

 We didn’t get to see him. But I wore everyone out showing them pictures of the boy. Christmas is coming and hopefully nobody will get sick and have to stay home in Columbia. Even though it was a wonderful day together with my big beautiful family, I missed him so much. And yes, of course I missed his Mom and Dad too. 

Preventative maintenance

 On the surface this Thanksgiving is a big disappointment. Pam and I had been looking forward to it for weeks, all of our kids would be here and it would be our first Thanksgiving as grandparents. I planned on spending most of my time playing with him, reading to him, watching him sleep etc etc..But then we got the news that Little Silas had gotten his first cold about the same time that his Mom and Dad came down with a stomach bug. The timing could not have been more sinister. So the whole first Thanksgiving thing isn’t going to happen.

But, life goes on and Thanksgiving is a time to celebrate the blessings of life and by any measure I have much to celebrate. Patrick and Sarah arrived this past Sunday evening and we have thoroughly enjoyed their company all week. Their Golden, Frisco, has been his customarily delightful self. Lucy has loved having guests. As I write this they are downstairs preparing three different varieties of baklava to bring to Linda’s house tomorrow where my side of the family will be together for the afternoon.

This is my first Thanksgiving Day as a retiree, which reminds me of yet another reason I have to be grateful. I was rehearsing all of my many blessings the other day on the drive to my doctor’s office for my annual check-up, its usually the way I hype myself up for what I have always considered a morbid exercise. “Hello Mr. Dunnevant. Hop up on that bed and let’s see how much damage you’ve managed to do to yourself since this time last year!

This was my first “Medicare Wellness Exam”. I was not prepared for all of the mental aquity questions—Can you recite the months of the year in reverse order? What year is it? Have you contemplated suicide in the past six months?

Me: No…but these questions are making me consider it.

Anyway, all was well except for the fact that my doctor was not impressed with my plan for living a long and healthy life in retirement—My plan is to stop going to doctors because thats where all the sick people are. Her reaction to this logic was very similar to Pam’s, and she proceeded to chastise me for neglecting things like dental appointments, colonoscopies and whatnot. She gave me a list of four different doctors I needed to schedule appointments with ASAP. Then she said something like…Mr. Dunnevant, are you listening to me? While you’re at it, maybe you should get a hearing test! My doctor is kinda badass which makes her a lot easier to tolerate.

So, I did as I was told and set all the required appointments. Pam was 100% on my doctor’s side, explaining that these appointments were the equivalent of normal upkeep on a house or a car. This is preventative maintenance, Honey. 

Of course it is. Makes total sense. Or…it might also be a sinister shakedown conspiracy hatched by a consortium of local physicians to boost their revenue so they can buy their sixth vacation home.

Just kidding about that last part…sorta

Last Words

 About two weeks ago I wrote a scene in the novel I’ve been working on since May that has stayed with me ever since. It involved a character who was dying and had the rare opportunity that few dying people have—to gather the kids around and pass along final thoughts. Ever since I wrote it I’ve thought about what on Earth I would say if I were afforded such a forum. What a daunting task, one final chance to give them something infinitely meaningful. For the rest of their lives they would say to each other, “You remember what Dad told us at the end?”

The hardest part of this project would be deciding which of the accumulated knowledge of a lifetime would be included. I’ve learned many things that while helpful to me weren’t exactly life changing. I wouldn’t want to waste my final words on inconsequential things. There are also things I’ve learned that my kids learned long before I ever did. Of course there’s always the chance that in the moment you might go on and on about something that you are convinced is beneficial but might end up being terrible advice. So, the whole bedside blessing thing is fraught with peril.

My character killed it, by the way…left them moved and inspired. I’m not sure I could do as well because…well, because I’m not a fictional character. Nevertheless I have spent quite a bit of time thinking about this and have distilled those thoughts down to just a few, unrelated thoughts as follows:

“I believe there are three types of people in the world, those who always think that they are capable of greater things than they actually are, those who always think they aren’t good enough to do great things, and those who never even think about great things.”

I would rather you be the first type of person, always attempting, always reaching for great things. But whatever you do, don’t be the person who never thinks about grand things. That’s an unexamined, unchallenged life.

Now, I know what some of you might be thinking..isn’t that setting them up for disappointment? After all, not everyone is great. My answer to that objection is simple. What’s so horrible about disappointment? Some of the best things I’ve ever accomplished in my life grew out of the soil of failure and disappointment. And, what is this “everyone isn’t great” balderdash? The trouble with that mindset is that it is based on a flawed concept of greatness. Its the Tom Brady, Elon Musk brand of greatest which is always measured with numbers.

How do I define greatness? Let me tell you by giving you some examples from my own life.

Even though I worked 30 hours a week for the four and a half years it took me to graduate from University of Richmond I still graduated with a debt that it took ten years to pay off which I did in full and on time. Does that qualify as great? I think so.

I married a woman who was much more than merely beautiful, she was raised right by parents who taught her about love, kindness and generosity. We have stayed married through good and bad for the past 41 years. Great? I think so.

We managed to bring two humans into this world, struggled mightily not only to provide for them but to protect them from harm while trying desperately to teach them right from wrong. They are now grown adults who have built beautiful lives for themselves and have never once embarrassed us. I believe this to be my greatest single achievement.

For me this is where the “greatness” ends. I’m not sure anything else qualifies. Yes, I built a business from scratch and had a reasonably successful career. That was good fortune, not greatness. Yes, I’ve written this reasonably entertaining blog for 14 years along with a bunch of other short stories and novels. That doesn’t qualify as “greatness”. That’s just a really fun and fulfilling hobby.

“Never stop learning. Always pursue improvement. Never wave off bad behavior in yourself as something you were born with. Bullshit. I was born with an aggressive, naturally occurring bluntness that morphed into rudeness by the time I was a working adult. I had to learn the kindness and thoughtfulness that seemed to come naturally to people like my wife. It took work and learning how to apologize. The fruits of the spirit in my faith are traits that have to be practiced and even if it is a lifelong project it will be worth the struggle.”

This one comes with a caveat. As a Christian I benefit from a liberal dose of grace in my pursuit of improvement.

“Finally, I would say…if there’s one passage of scripture that it would behoove you to memorize and apply to your life its this one found in Ephesians 4:32:

“Be kind one to another, tender hearted, forgiving one another, even as God, for Christ’s sake hath forgiven you.”

I have nothing to add to this truth.

So, that’s what I’ve come up with over the last two weeks of pondering this “last words” thing. Unlike my character, whose blessing was beautifully rendered with grace and brevity, I would probably have expired halfway through this screed. 

Hopefully I’ll have many, many years to work on it.

Always, forever learning….

A Question For the Church

 About 25 years ago I was approached by a minister at my church who had a proposal for me to consider. He said that he thought I would make a great Sunday School teacher for a class of rambunctious 9th grade boys. I looked at him like he had two heads and tried not to laugh. To his credit he was honest with me about the challenges that this particular group of delinquents would present since they had run off their two previous teachers. I then offered what I believed to be a mic drop, conversation ender—Gary, you’ve got the wrong guy. I really don’t like teenagers.

Gary didn’t bat an eye. His response was…That’s ok. Would you at least take a couple days to pray about it? And if you don’t have any love for teenagers, just ask God to give you some.

I told him I would—with no intention of actually praying about it—because that’s what you do when a really nice guy asks you to. The problem was that after that conversation I couldn’t get the thing out of my mind. So, against my better judgment, I prayed about it.

To make a long and pretty cool story short, That conversation led to a ten year run of working with teenagers and another four years with college students at my church, one of the most gratifying experiences of my life. So, what’s the point of telling you all this? Its simple.

Be careful what you pray for.

I went from a guy who couldn’t stand humans in the 13-19 year old range to a guy who began to understand them, and have tremendous empathy for them…almost overnight. It was truly a miraculous thing. Now…to be transparent here, as soon as my 14 year run was over I kinda went back to not being crazy about them again, although at least now I don’t dislike them. It’s hard to explain.

But I’ve been thinking about this experience a lot lately because of something that’s been bothering me for the past five years or so. No matter how I try to word this, it will run the risk of landing poorly with many of the people who read this blog, but when I look around me these days I see a giant empty space in the church where love used to be.

I have always been in the habit of asking myself difficult questions. I always question my motives and attitudes about things, trying to find dishonesty and hypocrisy. When I do I often find plenty of both. I don’t make this admission glibly…it is a serious defect in my character that needs constant work.

So, one of the questions I wish the church would ask itself is this: What are we known for? In other words, when people outside the church think about us, what would they say is our defining characteristic?

Jesus gives us the answer in John chapter13 verses 34-35 when he says:

A new commandment I give unto you, That you love one another; as I have loved you, that you also love one another. By this shall all men know that you are my disciples, If you have love one to another.

Many of you are members of churches where love is often on display. My church is full of very loving people who demonstrate their love in countless ways. Are we perfect in this regard? Absolutely not. We all have weak spots, people who are difficult to love. But to belong to a church where people love you is a tremendous blessing.

But is this what the church is known for? Any fair minded person would have to admit that no, this is not the first word that pops into most people’s minds when the topic of church comes up. I would suggest that we are mostly known for:

- judgment

- politics

- scandal

- What we’re against

If one were to travel back in time, say 150 years or so, and ask this same question—What is the church known for—You might have gotten answers like these:

- founding universities 

- building hospitals 

- establishing the YMCA and the Salvation Army

This is not to say that the church in other eras was without serious issues. Many churches were staunch supporters of slavery, in other times many churches were more supportive of Bull Conner than Martin Luther King. The church, made up as it is of flawed human beings is never an accurate reflection of the teachings of our founder. Far from it, but I believe that today might be the farthest that we have strayed from the words of Jesus found in the Gospel of John.

This is also not some kind of milk toast call for watering down the clear commands of scripture when it comes to how we live our lives. Yes, there are things that the church needs to stand against and unapologetically so. But it is possible to love people even when you don’t love everything they do. Jesus loved us in spite of our rebellion and disobedience, despite our self centered pursuits. Surely, we can learn to love people who don’t agree with us, right? If a 42 year old man who couldn't stand teenagers could be given a deep and abiding love for them just because he asked God for it, anything is possible.

Right?