Going Away For a Month

Today is my last day of work for the month of July. I will celebrate the 4th, then head to Hatteras Island with the family for a while, then make the drive to Maine. It’s what I have worked for all year. What am I saying...I have been working for this for 36 years. 

One of the reasons I decided years ago to go into business for myself was the fact that I hated having to ask for time off. I have no idea why it bothered me so much. Basically I found it degrading to have to seek permission from someone to go on a vacation. It wasn’t the only reason I decided to become my own boss, but it was a major factor. Fast forward 36 years and I can now go on vacation anytime, anywhere and for as long as I want. However...and life is always about the howevers...in order to finance such freedom, it takes lots of patience, planning and manipulation. I will finish up this manipulation today. 

The Dunnevant Family Beach Week will come first, and it will be the polar opposite experience from what follows in Maine. They are two different things entirely. The DFBW is a family togetherness thing. It’s 19 people in a gigantic house. It’s noisy and chaotic. It’s hot and muggy with lots of sand and sweat. There’s a pool and floats and squirt guns and all of the tomfoolery that comes with that combination. There are practical jokes which feature all manner of crude gags and slimy things. There’s a huge snack table. There will be many feasts around large tables with delicious food made even more so because we have spent all day on the beach. There will be lots of laughter and horseplay, teasing and playful ridicule between siblings. There will be a thousand memories from past trips. We will all think about Mom and Dad every five minutes. By the time the seven days are over we will be exhausted, completely spent from all the fun and...all the work. I will be with all of my kids, an entire week where all six of us are together under the same roof, something that only happens once or twice a year. That alone makes the week a win.

Then we pack up and drive back to Short Pump long enough to rearrange the packing of the car, and pick up Lucy, and head back on the road for as long as I can stay awake. I’m hoping to make it to Connecticut and the safety of a dog-friendly hotel. The next day we will finally make the .8 mile trip down the dirt road that deadends into Loon Landing. The sigh that will escape from our lips will probably be audible in New Hampshire when we see this for the first time...

The time we spend at this place will not be noisy or chaotic. It will be neither hot or muggy, with very little sand or sweat. There’s no pool...unless this counts as one:

Meals will be taken not at large sprawling tables, but at a little round one out on the deck:

My kids will not be with us this year. We will be alone, just the two of us. This is simultaneously sad and delightful, for reasons that require no explanation. 

Maine will be slower, the kind of pace that lends itself to reading and other contemplative arts. We will spend lots of time gliding across the still waters of Quantabacook in kayaks, lost in our private thoughts. I will spend time standing on the edge of this dam, the cold water rushing over my bare feet, fishing...

But, despite the much calmer pace of life that Maine affords us, by the end of the day we will both be exhausted...just like we were on Hatteras Island, its different somehow and yet the same. Nights at Loon Landing are darker than dark, the skies filled with a million stars. We will sleep hard and deep and wake up rejuvenated...

So, two different places, two different experiences. It’s not a matter of which one is better. They are both unique. They both serve a purpose in our lives.

I am eternally grateful for both of them...and the decision I made all those years ago to go into business for myself.

Sandy vs Max

In June of 1962, Sandy Koufax had the best month of his career. He went 4-2, struck out 73 batters, pitched a no-hitter and posted an ERA of 1.23. I was four years old and completely unaware. Four years later, at the insistence of my brother, I had become a fan. My first two heros were Mickey Mantle and Sandy Koufax. In the fifty some odd years since, a lot of players have come and gone, and I have loved many of them. But, no players have even been able to surpass Mantle and Koufax in my imagination...until now.

What I loved about Koufax was the mystique that surrounded the man. It’s like he landed in the world of baseball from outer space, dominated the game like nobody ever has before or since for six glorious years...and then vanished, his career shortened by an arthritic arm. Here he was, this lefty who threw 98mph and had a curveball like nobody had ever seen...

Unlike most pitchers, Koufax threw straight over the top, an odd arm angle which probably contributed to the development of his arthritis. Of course, back then great pitchers like Koufax didn’t have a pitch count. In perhaps his greatest year ever (his next to last year of 1965), the man threw 27 complete games. To put that in perspective, the best left handed pitcher in the game today, Clayton Kershaw, has 25 complete games...for his entire career.

My favorite Koufax story though is what happened to him at the end of spring training in March of 1965. After throwing another complete game in a March 31th game, he woke up the next morning to find his left arm black and blue from his wrist to his shoulder. Team doctors examined him and gave the diagnosis that he would have to be limited to pitching only once a month, with the strong suggestion that he should probably hang up his cleats. Instead, Koufax endured the most painful year of his magnificent career on a regimen of nightly codeine, powerful anti inflammatory drugs and essentially horse liniment rubdowns on game day along with another round of codeine in the 5th inning of every start. It was the only way he could get through the games. After each game he would sit with his pitching arm in a tub of ice water for over an hour. With the pain that he was under, Koufax began to tip his pitches. Players on the opposing team could tell whether he was going to throw a fastball or a change up or a curve by the way he held his arm before the pitch. The great Willie Mays said...”I knew exactly what Sandy was gonna throw me every pitch...and I still couldn’t hit the guy!” So, how did he do that painful year 54 years ago? Let’s see...he went 27-8 with a 2.04 ERA. Amazingly, he somehow managed to pitch a mind-boggling 335 innings in which he struck out 385 batters. Sadly, the next year would be his last, his career cut short at age 31.

But, someone has finally come along to dislodge the great man from the throne chair of my baseball heart...Max Scherzer.

He’s a righty, throws almost sidearm. He doesn’t complete many games because he pitches in the era of pitch counts and high octane bullpens. But if they would let him, he would finish every single game he starts. This guy is the toughest competitor in today’s game with the most dominant stuff and the most intimidating persona...he with the one blue eye, one brown eye scowl...

He’s the guy I would spend $100 for a ticket to watch. In June of this year, Max had the best month of his career. He went 6-0, struck out 68 guys and had an ERA of 1.00. Oh, and during June he happened to break his nose during batting practice. Never missed a start.

While, it is my opinion that Sandy Koufax is the greatest pitcher to ever play the game of baseball, Max Scherzer is the greatest pitcher playing the game...today. That’s enough to insure that I will never miss one of his starts.

A Reunion

Yesterday, Pam and I got to spend some time with this handsome couple. We had not broken bread with them in over 13 years...and yet it felt like they had never left. Isn’t it funny how it’s always that way with the best people from your life. They move away for years, then you’re reunited for brunch at Tarrant’s and you pick up right where you left off.

Bryan and Kay McMath were dear friends from what feels in many ways like a lifetime ago. We met as young married couples 30 years ago. We attended the same church and found ourselves in the same Sunday School class where he was the teacher, and I was his opening act. We were kids...newly married, brand new parents, freshly minted adults trying to find our way in a strange and scary world. The class was filled with other equally terrified and clueless young couples. The combined life ignorance of that group would have filled an entire new edition of encyclopedias. But Bryan, who was no smarter than the rest of us, nevertheless had a teaching gift that to this day I have not been able to find an equal, has an ability to present the transcendent truths of the Gospel in an accessible and compelling way. The class became a place where we were all free to be honest with each other, where no topic was off limits. Soon, a community was formed. The ten or so couples in that class began doing everything together, trudging through the pain and pleasures of life in equal measure. 

I laugh at people in the church today who think they have stumbled upon some new phenomenon with the concept of small groups, where they go on and on about sharing life together, and other trendy buzzword phrases. Well, thirty years ago we were sharing everything in that class. It was called Sunday School.

I don’t remember how long we were there...six or seven years maybe? We all moved on to other groups. Most of us went on to teach classes or our own. But the time we spent in the McMath class was foundational to everything that has followed. Pam and I learned how to be parents with these people. We learned how difficult and rewarding it was to be happily married with these people. We struggled with finding our footing at work, establishing ourselves in our careers with these people. We learned what it was like to live as a Christian in the real world with these people.

Membership in this class was no silver bullet, no magic pill which inoculated you from trouble. Many of the couples who made up this group didn’t ultimately make it. There was plenty of disaster, tragedy and divorce to go around. But there was also an abundance of love and acceptance. A bond was formed, the kind of kinship that follows genuine and vulnerable relationships. So much so that you walk into Tarrant’s after over a decade, order chicken and waffles and breakfast pizza and talk each other’s ears off for half the morning. It’s as if they had simply stepped away for a moment, gotten out of town for a long weekend, and were now getting us caught up on the latest.

Last night we attended a wedding together with several other alumni from that 30 years ago class. It was a delightful evening of remembering some of the best things that have ever happened to all of us. Somebody took pictures of some of the prominent members of the class. Just to be safe, they decided to take front and side views!!

Feeling thankful this morning...

The Still Small Voice

A few nights ago, before it got so hot, I found myself out on my deck around dusk, trying to unwind from a tough day. The fact that I was outside at all after 6 o’clock is the result of the miracle that is the Mosquito Authority. I employed their services earlier in the Spring and for the first time in our 21 years in this house, I can lounge on my deck at night, wearing shorts, without fear of being hoisted aloft by a swarm of the blood-sucking pests. Since the day they first showed up in their scary-looking hazmat gear, and coated  my property with a fine but deadly mist, we have been gloriously mosquito free. Lest anyone raise the objection that by doing so I have put the planet and my own health at risk by introducing unnatural chemicals into the atmosphere, let me assure you that I did my homework...I thoroughly researched the company and their product, including an analysis of all known side effects and was satisfied that any risk was infinitesimally small. Besides, when it comes right down to it, do we really need two kidneys?

Anyway...where was I? Ah yes, I was outside enjoying my deck. It had been a difficult day. Nothing had gone right at the office. One small frustration after another had accumulated and built up to form a contentment blockage of sorts. Plus, I hadn’t felt well much of the day, I had been a bit dizzy and felt lightheaded and out of sorts. 

So, I’m sitting in a chair out on the deck and I noticed the new solar-powered lights that Pam had bought a while back, to affix to the umbrella over the dinner table. They were supposed to gather up sunlight all day, then when night falls, they each flicker on and provide mood lighting for three hours or so before they fizzle out. For some reason I began to fixate on them. None had yet come to life, and it was getting darker by the minute. It was around 8:45. 

Suddenly the first light blinked, then sprang to life. At that exact moment a voice inside my head said...Name something you’re thankful for.

Ok, let me stop right here and clear the air. I did not hear an audible voice. I’m not claiming that God spoke to me. It could just as easily have been the Los Dos Amigos I had inhaled at Casa Grande for lunch. But, it might have been the Holy Spirit. Who knows? All I know is it was a rather clear directive. So, I obeyed and said the first thing that popped into my head...I’m thankful for Mosquito Authority. Then I sat in silence, feeling shallow and self-obsessed for not saying I was thankful for Pam. About that time, the second light flickered on...My wife! I’m thankful for my wife.

Over the next few minutes I waited for each light to come on and with each new gleam of light, I offered up another of the many blessings that I enjoy, things that are precious to me, things I am very grateful for. I’m thankful for my daughter and her husband....I’m thankful for my son and his wife...I’m thankful for good friends.

There were eight lights in all. But, I wouldn’t have run out of things to be thankful for if there had been a hundred. After it was over I watched the darkness lower over the back yard, gathering up the last light of the day and taking it away to wherever it goes...all but the feint light from Pam’s eight solar lights, and me alone with my settled heart.

You Watching The Debate?

Are you planning on watching the big debate? It’s the first of many in this season’s Democratic presidential primary race. No? Well, in case you plan on skipping it, I can fill you in on the highlights, even though it hasn’t happened yet. I don’t plan on watching it either. It’s not that I am ambivalent on the subject of one of the two major political parties trying to decide who they will nominate to run against Donald Trump. That’s kind of important. But, last time around, I tried my hardest to watch several of the debates...Democrat and Republican...but I just couldn’t make it through to the end. They were excruciating. It was like watching someone who clearly thinks they are a great singer doing a really terrible job...singing. It’s the same trouble I have whenever the really lousy singers crash and burn in one of those American Idol auditions. Way too embarrassing for my taste.

Anyway, in case you missed it, here’s what happened:

1. All ten of the candidates on stage agreed that Donald Trump is the worst human being to ever walk the Earth. He’s like Hitler, Stalin and  Pol Pot all rolled into one. If we don’t replace him in 2020, not only will the Republic be finished, but the entire planet will be in deathly peril.

2. Elizabeth Warren will claim that there is another wealth in the bank accounts and on the balance sheets of the 1.4 million people who comprise the top 1% of taxpayers in America to pay for literally every new program she can possibly conceive of, including wiping out all outstanding college debts, making college hereafter free for all, and paying for an as of yet undetermined sum for slavery reparations. She will even be able to throw in Medicare for everyone as a bonus. If asked, she will reply that she is quite sure that these 1.4 million super rich people will make no changes in their behavior that might remove the confiscatory bullseye off of their backs. The other candidates will accuse her of not going far enough...allowing her spin doctors to cast her as the moderate in the race.

3. Most everyone on stage will rightly call into question Donald Trump’s sanity for even thinking about going to war with Iran. If I were actually watching, this is the part where I would stand up and cheer.

4. Some of the candidates will call for impeachment proceedings against the President. A couple of others will suggest that the best way to do in Trump is to defeat him in 2020, then prosecute him as a private citizen where they will not be constrained by executive privilege. That way he might actually wind up in jail. This will be the part where the crowd goes wild and breaks into the Lock Him Up, Lock Him Up chant, with not the slightest hint of irony.

5. The subject of immigration will dominate the proceedings, with one candidate after another bemoaning the fate of the families torn apart at the border. After a gallon of crocodile tears have been shed, someone...overcome with an irresistible urge to let it all hang out...will declare, What right do we have to deny access to any human being who arrives at our doors? National borders are nothing more than a vestige of our racist past. It’s time for all of the world to live without borders. It’s time not to build walls, but time to tear them down. Let them all in!!! Someone else...not sure who, maybe Tulsi Gabbard...will reply...That’s right, Julian. Let’s start with that security gate around your estate in Malibu!

6. Most everyone will pile on poor old Joe Biden for having the gall to try and get along with a few of his horrible colleagues from 30 years ago. There will be charges of latent racism, accusations that he isn’t sufficiently woke on a whole host of issues, not the least of which is the #MeToo movement. The suggestion that he is too old for the job will hang heavily in the air, despite the party’s reputation as the vanguard home of all of the ism movements...including ageism. Here’s a Pro-Tip...whichever candidate is kindest to Biden is the one who knows that they aren’t going to win, so they want to keep their Vice-Presidential options open.

That’s about all I’ve got. There might be some sort of bombshell moment that I have not anticipated. One thing I have a high confidence in will be the reaction of the media....they will go on and on about what a fine performance all of these candidates had, of how remarkably deep the field is this year, of how deeply worried the President should be.

Meanwhile, Trump will further beclown himself with a flood of middle school-ish live-tweets during the proceedings. The Vegas line on number of Pocahontas references is 3.

I’m taking the over.

It’s On!

There’s no turning back now. The pre-trip planning meeting/confab has taken place. The ladies of the family all gathered here last night to plot strategies. Floor plans filled the screen of the TV. Google Docs from past grocery lists, along with menus from years past were displayed with digital accuracy. Tactical issues were on the table, room assignments hashed out. There was key lime pie. I remained firmly ensconced in my recliner upstairs with Lucy, safely out of harm’s way. Within two short hours, we had a plan. Dunnevant Family Beach Week...is on.

In a fortnight, 19 of us will descend on this unsuspecting house in Salvo, on Hatteras Island for the 16th iteration of this tradition. We have come a long way since that very first mildew and cockroach infested bungalow in Sandbridge 30 years ago. Back then, Mom and Granny Till did most of the cooking. Somewhere along the line somebody came up with the fateful and ill-considered idea to assign each family the job of making dinner for everyone. As of this hour, Pam is the only one who has not decided on a menu. My suggestion of subs and Krispi Kreme went over like a lead balloon. She seems hesitant to plan a meal which requires me to cook on the grill since it’s charcoal only...as if I am incapable of making the adjustment from gas. Nonsense. I am capable of both undercooking and burning the hell out of any cut of meat, regardless of what fuel is used!!

There will be no dogs this year. Becca the dog whisperer has been employed once again, much to Lucy’s delight. I have secured a couple of new, disgusting practical joke props to add to my reputation for mischief and juvenile chicanery. Let’s just say that if it creeps, crawls, or slithers I’ve got it covered.

This year, it appears that my clan will have the bottom floor of the house, the six of us occupying the three bedrooms and two bathrooms down there. Of course, this means that I will have to walk up not one, but TWO flights of stairs each day to get my morning coffee. In the spirit of compromise and congeniality, I have chosen to overlook this outrage. 

Our Newest Dunnevant!!

We got the news while we were in Isle of Palms via FaceTime. Then Saturday, out of nowhere, a barrage of pictures and videos...

This handsome little guy is my new GrandPup. As of this hour, he has no name. He won’t be picked up for good for another 3 weeks. But, he has been picked out...or rather, he picked Patrick and Sarah out.

Just in case you’re keeping score at home, this makes three Golden Retrievers in the Dunnevant tribe, which will make for a lot of chaos and Tomfoolery the next time we are all together in the same house. This year’s Christmas picture promises to be a doozy!

Mom and Dad are thrilled. And from the look of those paws, eventually they are going to have a lot to be thrilled about!

Pam and I couldn’t be happier. For one thing, we love Goldens, and secondly, getting and caring for a puppy is excellent training for that glorious day when we get a FaceTime call from one of our kids announcing the pending arrival of our first Grandchild!!