Of Course You Know...This Means War

If you look carefully at this bird feeder you will notice a series of scratches on either side of the feeding hole. They were put there by a tribe of squirrels which have descended upon it of late. Since the despicable tree rats are too heavy for the spring loaded rest which is designed to prevent such theft, whenever a squirrel latches on, the holes shut tightly in their rat-like faces. At which point, the fuzzy-tailed rodents are left with gnawing on the housing of the feeder, hoping to create a new hole. Thus has the gauntlet been thrown down. This intrusion cannot stand. 

Unfortunately, my trusted Daisy 35 finally gave up the ghost last winter, but before I had a chance to replace it, my friend, Chip Hewette, came to my rescue by loaning me a far superior weapon...this much heavier and manlier death machine...

Each morning, every lunch hour that I am available, and every evening, I can be found cutting a wide path of death and destruction through the squirrel community. For the most part, my aim has been true and the resulting slaughter has been highly effective in reducing the annoyance of their relentless thievery. But, tonight as I was waiting for dinner I happened to glance out onto the deck and noticed a disturbing sight. There, splayed out spreadeagle, like a sunbather at a nudist colony was a large and grizzled veteran squirrel. All four paws stretched to their full length, tail drooped lazily across the railing of the deck, his beedy little eyes half closed as if he were about to doze off for a nap. Talk about humiliation? What have I been fighting all these weeks for if not to create a climate of fear and trembling in their midst? How, after all the hellfire that Chip’s pellet gun has belched forth, could such an elderly squirrel make such a mockery of my efforts? It was as if this arrogant punk was making a statement...You think we’re afraid of you, gun man? We laugh at your air gun!!

Of course, by the time I grabbed the gun and opened the door to the deck, old gramps had hightailed it into one of the thick oak trees and was protected from my wrath. I could practically hear the lot of them giggling with their high-pitched squirrel voices. I retreated back inside to hatch a new strategy. But, despite this little display of defiance, I will not be deterred from my mission to rid my back yard of these flea-bitten rats. I will redouble my 
efforts to protect our birds, I will steel myself for whatever it takes to protect My tomatoes and Pam’s herbs from the sniveling gray menace.

To quote one of America’s greatest revenge tacticians...Bugs Bunny...Of course you know...this means war!!

Nothing New Under The Sun

Question of the day: What was your first significant memory as a child?

Early memories are difficult for me. It’s as if I made it through the first six or seven years of my life with none of them. For someone who has the ability to remember encyclopedias full of meaningless minutiae, this has always been a frustration. Why were my formative years so uneventful? At least there weren’t bad memories, right? There’s always something  to be thankful for.

But, everyone has a first memory, and I am no exception. I was five years old. I was playing outside in the middle of the day when I was surprised to see Linda and Donnie walking up the driveway, oddly home from school early. It was November 22, 1963. President John F. Kennedy had been shot and killed in Dallas, Texas. Chesterfield County schools had decided to send everyone home for the day.

Of course, as a five year old, I didn’t comprehend much, but I did sense that whatever it was, it was important. I remember my mother running out of the house to hug them tight. I remember going inside and Mom making sandwiches for us...everyone talking in hushed tones. We had no TV, but the radio was on WRVA and even their voices sounded strange, clipped and shaky. Thats about all I can recall from that day. Something big had happened and I could feel it.

Five years later, brother Bobby would be killed in a hotel in Los Angeles. I watched it live as a ten year old, seated on the floor of my grandmother’s trailer, on a black and white television with rabbit ear antennas sprouting upwards forming a V...for violence. Earlier that same summer, Martin Luther King had been shot. I didn’t see it on television but I remember everyone talking about it. The grownups seemed worried, distraught at the direction the country was headed. There were riots, black kids throwing rocks, white kids carrying signs, angry about one thing or another. I had no profound insights about it all as a ten year old kid who’s primary passion, despite social upheaval, remained...baseball. But, I do remember feeling unsettled. The world was suddenly a strangely unpredictable place. Everyone seemed furious and fever-pitched.

Which goes to show you just how wise King Solomon actually was when he said, There is nothing new under the sun.

Something Beautiful

It was starting to get dark and I was getting stiff from the six hour drive to Columbia as we sat eating our Firehouse subs at a picnic table in Congeree National Park. It was our first time seeing the famous synchronized fireflies that our son-in-law had been so instrumental in promoting. Tonight, Jon was not a ranger. He was just my daughter’s husband in street clothes, leading his church small group on an outing at the park. But, in uniform or not, he was busy answering our questions and telling us what to expect once it got dark. Thousands of what I have always called lightening bugs were about to come together, and for reasons that are not entirely understood, start flashing their lights...all at the same time. He explained the rules...no cell phone usage, no cameras...they wouldn’t do us any good anyhow since their shutter speeds aren’t fast enough to capture the sight. 

People began to show up and stream through the entrance to the special viewing trail that Jon had devised and help cut through the low lying and heavy thickets. At the gate, people who had flashlights were given strips of red cellophane and tiny rubber bands to cover them and told to only use them pointed down at the ground, that unnatural light would throw off the synchronization. The trail itself was lit by cellophane covered lamps along the ground on either side of the trail, and cordoned off by glow in the dark rope. The early arrivals had staked out spots for themselves at the chairs and picnic tables that had been set up in random spots along the trail, most of them with huge special cameras atop tripods, waiting for the perfect shot.

I was getting impatient, a frequent affliction of mine, waiting for something to happen. This was Columbia, after all...in late May. It was hot and getting more humid by the minute. I was waiting not only for the fireflies to arrive, but their distant cousins...mosquitoes... to make an appearance. As more and more people began to arrive, I felt that familiar sensation that comes over me at times like this. Whenever I am waiting for some long awaited event, or some over-hyped big thing that people have been telling me I just have to see, I become detached and cynical, sometimes to the point of becoming determined not to be impressed. It’s part of my nature, I suppose, and not a very attractive part, this contrarianism.

When we finally got in line and made our way to Jon’s suggested vantage point, it was still dusk, not quite dark. The fireflies were visible now but not an impressive number of them and not yet snyched up. I could feel the jaded cockiness coming to the surface. I remember thinking, Are you kidding me? I came all the way out here for this?

Then, around a quarter to nine, about the time that the last glow of the setting sun was disappearing from the horizon, something clicked. Suddenly their numbers swelled, and the darkening woods began to pulse with white light. These were not the lightening bugs of my youth, which blinked slowly and whose color was more a greenish yellow. These fireflies were bright white, almost like LED lights and their flash was like Quicksilver. I was mesmerized. And then I noticed it...the silence.

There aren’t many places in this world anymore that involve large numbers of human beings...and silence. Even in churches, where people used to gather to be quiet, there is always some sort of buzz. Libraries are still quiet I guess, but who goes to libraries anymore? But, here I was, in the middle of the woods...in a swamp, surrounded by hundreds of strangers in tight quarters in now total darkness...and suddenly everyone was hushed by the moment. Suddenly, no one felt it appropriate to speak above a whisper. Why? No one had warned us that loud noises would make the fireflies go away or get out of synch. Still, everyone seemed to somehow know that silence was the proper response for this moment.

After a time of gawking, we decided to move along the trail. By that time it was pitch black, the almost complete lack of man-made light had cast a black blanket over the world. We inched along, holding on to one another, glancing down only to find the cellophane covered trail lights and the dim red glow that assured us that we weren’t wandering into the swamp. The fireflies were on both sides of us now, blinking, blinking, blinking. The only disturbance was some girl who tried to take a picture with her cellphone. The flash of it exploded like a bolt of lightening and a murmur of disapproval rippled through the crowd. It never happened again. There’s always at least one idiot.

As we stumbled along in the darkness, carried along by each other and trust in what we could not see, it occurred to me that the assembled crowd had absolutely nothing in common except our humility in the presence of this mysterious beauty. There were Christians, non-Christians, several different races, democrats and republicans, meat-eaters and vegetarians...all of us brought down from our high horses for a while, humbled and silenced by something that no one can quite explain...synchronized fireflies. If you believe in God, it was if he was saying to us...Here, slow down for a minute. Rest with me for a while. Let me show you something beautiful.

Getting Ready

Back to work. After a week away, it’s time to find out all I’ve missed at Dunnevant Financial. Thanks to my intrepid assistant, I already know plenty...enough to know that I’ve got a lot to do over these next two weeks. Pam and I will be (finally) celebrating our 35th wedding anniversary from the 12th thru the 16th of June down on Isle of Palms. Then it will be back for two more weeks of work, then my reward for spending 36 years in this business—I take the month of July off—first, a week on Hatteras Island with my large, unruly family, then MAINE.

Speaking of Maine, yesterday, the owner of Loon Landing (who I am shamelessly ingratiating myself with for the purposes of convincing her to eventually sell me the place) sent me a photo of the dock they had just put back in the water...with the enticing tag line..getting ready. They always open the place on Memorial Day weekend. I drooled over this picture the rest of the day...

In no time at all, I will be a semi-permanent fixture on the end of that dock, interrupted only by the occasional kayak trip to my favorite fishing spot or a jaunt into Camden for pancakes and shopping.

Counting the days...

A 30 Year Old Son

Today is my boy’s 30th birthday. He is, of course, no longer a boy, having become a man years ago without my permission or consent. This is the way of the world, the current of life, ever forward, always grasping around the bend for the next thing, making what came before harder and harder to remember, eventually even to comprehend. This is altogether proper. The excitement of life is always in what is to come, never what was before. And yet...when it comes to my kids, no matter how far they progress or how much they accomplish, my heart’s image of them remains frozen in time. In Patrick’s case it’s this...

All those years ago he depended on us for everything. He had very little choice when it came to what he wore or what he ate. His plans for the day were what we said they were...and he was, for the most part, cooperative and compliant. Now, he wears what he wants, eats what he wants and makes his own plans. More importantly, he’s doing it all by his own devices and with his own money. I am overwhelmingly proud of him.

But, am I the only parent out there who secretly wishes he could go back in time for just one day? Am I the only one who wishes he could sit with him on that bench in Maine watching him drink his hot cocoa one more time? Am I the only one who wishes he could lift him up to put the angel on the tree again, or watch him racing his sister on the beach in Nags Head at sunset one last time? Of course, there are many things about the old days that I’m glad are dead and gone...the constant financial pressures, the relentless anxiety about their developement, the nagging fear that we were doing it all wrong and that they would grow up to be worthless, ungrateful brats. That pit in your stomach every time you watched them walk up the sidewalk into school...

So, today, I celebrate my son, and the amazing man he has become with great pride and no regrets...

...but I would give anything to be able to hold him in that Tigger suit one more time.

Columbia. Day 2

Second day in Columbia was a triumph. I slept in until just before 7 am, by which time my daughter was long gone, Jon soon to follow, leaving Pam and I alone in their house for the rest of the day. Before she left, Kaitlin thought to send us a text with a list of things we might want to do to busy ourself while...”missing our delightful company.” The first thing on her list was the Riverbanks Zoo.

My last zoo experience was many, many years ago and not altogether pleasant. My limited and quite dated experience with zoos is that they always made me feel sad. The animals all look so depressed and unnatural. But this zoo was a million miles from any zoo I have ever visited. It was beautifully designed and maintained. Great care was taken in creating the environment. The animals looked equal parts comfortable and menacing. 

Although it was warm and humid out, the place was designed with an abundance of natural shade, and just enough air conditioned displays to escape the heat. The prescence of a steady breeze also helped. The three plus hours we spent there flew by.

We got back to the house around 2 or so, just in time for a power nap. Jon left work early for the first time in three weeks (which is also the amount of consecutive days he has worked without a day off—firefly season ). I sent him to his room for a shower and a nap! Then...we waited, and waited, and waited some more, for my firstborn and only daughter to return from work. It is at this point when I began to get riled up, agitated, pissed off, and all up in the pictures. Kaitlin had left the house somewhere around 6 to 6:30 in the morning. It was now 6:00 in the evening and she still wasn’t home. What does she do for a living, you ask? Is she an important government official? Is she the CEO of a large corporation with far flung responsibilities and 10,000 employees? Is she a highly compensated celebrity whose day is packed with public appearances? Is she the only person in South Carolina who knows how to keep everyone’s air conditioning working? Oh no...she is a Middle School English Teacher, with only two weeks of classes left and final grades due this Friday, who was being kept late at school doing some asshat busy work which had absolutely nothing to do with her students or their grades! And this was the second straight day that this time-killing, soul crushing outrage had been foisted on her. And yet, when she finally opened the door to the wild delight of Jackson, she looked fresh, relaxed and had a beautiful smile on her face. I was astonished. I would have thought after two 12 hour days back to back she would at least have been...bemused. Instead, she was like...Whatever, this is my life. I’m starved. Let’s eat!!

I will resist the caustic lecture from a private sector business owner who would never in a million years tolerate the jackassery that teachers endure on a daily basis. I will simply say that my daughter is a hard working genius who, if paid by the hour, would be making less than the minimum wage...in the Sudan. This is an outrage, and the State of South Carolina is very fortunate that Kaitlin’s lunatic father lives safely 6 hours away...grrrrrrr.

Then, the kids treated us to a magnificent dinner at a lovely Italian restaurant for our 35th anniversary. Afterwards, we met their best friends at a local ice cream spot down town...

These wonderful people are Matthew and Bailey Wolfer and their son, Milo. They are the answers to every parent’s prayers when their kids move away to a new city...Lord, please help them find some new friends who will love and care for them like we would if we were there. Unfortunately, these are also the people who will make it hard for Kaitlin and Jon to ever leave this place to move closer to home. They are the sort of people who are frankly, irreplaceable. Love them to pieces.

Our Road Dog

Usually, the 24 hours before Pam and I leave for a trip are quite...tense. My wife is a meticulous planner and packs like a fiend. She remembers...everything. Me, on the other hand, tend to throw stuff in a suitcase at the last minute and often forget crucial stuff...like medications. My lackadaisical approach to packing causes much eye-rolling and heavy sighs from my wife. But this trip has been different. She has been as cool as a cucumber, flitting around the house without the usual manic drive. Last night it hit us...there is a reason for this newfound chill, and it comes from a surprising place...Lucy is coming with us.

Most of the time, Lucy stays home, which means that our super star dog-whispering house sitter, Becca, moves in. This is great for Lucy, who loves Becca. But, it requires a whole other level of preparation. The house must be cleaned, beds made, food must be in the fridge. But, if Lucy is coming with us, we can leave the house in a shambles and no one will know the difference!! The discovery hopefully has been a revelation for my wife, and as we decide whether or not to bring Lucy to Maine this year, I hope she will remember the relative tranquility of the last 24 hours.

Meanwhile, Lucy knows that we are getting ready to leave and has been quite lovey-dovey, hoping that this time we will take her along. After dinner the past couple of nights she has hopped up on the sofa and made a big production of snuggling up to Pam, the one she always needs to convince. It has been quite shameless...

So, this morning when I pack the car, I will be sure to cover all of the scary bags with a blanket so they won’t frighten Lucy. I will carve out a sleeping spot for her along one side of the car. As soon as she realizes that she is coming with us, she will jump in, walk around in a circle three times, then lay down and sleep like a baby the entire trip to Columbia...the best traveling dog of all time!