Cry, The Beloved Country...

A quiet day at the lake, foggy at dawn, then brilliant sun in the afternoon. I drove into Belfast to play a round of golf at a course I had picked out online. When I got there, there was a tournament being played which wasn't disclosed on their website. The guy in the Prop Shop acted like he didn't even know they had a website. But, he was kind enough to inform me that there was another course north of town that I could get on with...no problem. He was right. I pulled up into the Searsport Pines Golf Club and my vehicle doubled the number of cars in the parking lot...not a good sign.

The good news...I walked 18 holes in a mere 2 hours and 3 minutes. The bad news...I shot an 88 on what was possibly the worst golf course I have ever set foot on. This place had fairways that owe cow pastures an apology. But, I walked 5.64 miles, got in some practice, and redeemed my trip by stopping at the Hannaford's in Belfast for a bag of marshmallows, and a bunch of other necessities Pam had added to a list she had sent via text. Tonight we are having a shrimp boil or some such thing which involves sausage, so I'm excited.

Tonight, thanks to my buddy Alan Smith, we will be having a campfire with freshly chopped Maine pine from Alan's personal woodpile. It comes with much hype, guaranteed to burn hot and make lots of crackling sounds. I still don't have a decent poker. The one that came with the cabin is an embarrassment, extremely short and dysfunctional for what it's alleged purpose is supposed to be. I will make do until Alan brings something more manly when they come back to visit next weekend.

I finished, the great Alan Paton classic, Cry, The Beloved Country the other day. When I was a sophomore at Uof R I took a survey of western literature class in which I was given the task of picking five novels to read out of a list of ten or so. Cry, was on the list and I didn't pick it as one of my five. I had been meaning to circle back and read it ever since. Now, 39 years later, I find it in the bookcase here at Loon Landing. Time flies...

So, this book was written in 1948 by a nobody reform school principle from South Africa. He had never been published and wrote the thing while traveling in Europe and the US touring other reform schools. Some American friends of his read it and promised to try to get it published, submitting it, unsolicited, to Scribner. That never works, right? Yeah, well, lucky for Scribner...the book was a sensation, the critics loved it, and it sold like hot cakes, allowing Mr. Paton to live well the rest of his life, and turn his full attention to writing and the brewing conflict in his country.

In many ways, the racial history of South Africa is the opposite of ours in that the Afrikaners and Europeans who ruled that land were in the small minority. The great indigenous tribes that far outnumbered these white settlers where kept in second class status during these pre-apartheid days and trouble was brewing when Paton began to write. Throw in several different languages, a thriving gold mining industry, duplicitous politicians, and racial violence and an exploding crime wave and you've got a volatile mess. But, Paton resists the temptation to write a political book, or even a book about revolution or even race. He writes about the human heart and its great capacity for both love and hatred, grace and vengeance. Most of all he writes about a country that he loves, despite the wickedness that is everywhere around him. His story doesn't absolve the white ruling class of their sins, he doesn't pull any punches on who the main villains are, but neither does he lay every South African pathology at their feet. There is a lot of blame to go around in his beautiful, beguiling homeland. He examines the hearts and motives of the labor unions and agitators within the black liberation movements, applauds them where they deserve it and cristicizing them when they don't. The famous line still resonates...I have one great fear in my heart, that one day when they are turned to loving, they will find that we are turned to hating.

It was a beautiful read, full of evocative prose that made you at once hopeful and sad. I couldn't help but draw rough parallels to the race conflicts in my country. I only wish that someone would rise up to write something as rich and moving about how we should move forward. 

Great book. Worth the read and then some.

Week One Complete

Wide awake at 5:25 this morning. The lake is shrouded in a blanket of heavy fog. There is a heavy dew. Two loons drift by, less than 50 feet from the dock. My coffee is ready.

I'm told that by mid morning the fog will give way to brilliant sunshine and a high temperature of 78. I'm also told that by 11:00 the noise level of this slice of paradise will be elevated by the arrival of Bill and Nancy Crooker of Livermore Falls, Maine. Later, their daughter Lisa, and her husband, Alan, will pop in for a visit. These are friends of the family from Maine. Nancy is a hoot, and the only person I've ever met who can out-talk my mother-in-law! They have been friends since childhood.

I first met Bill and Nancy around a campfire at Dummer's probably thirty years ago. When I first heard Nancy speak I almost laughed out loud. She has the thickest Maine accent of all time. I've been relentlessly teasing her about it ever since. She'll say something and I'll ask, Wait...what the heck was that word?? She just looks at me and says, You hush!

Of greater importance today is the fact that we are now in Week Two of our vacation. How did that happen? Slow the heck down!

Highlights of Week One include:

- Seven consecutive meals taken outside on the deck

- Blueberry pancake breakfast at the Camden Deli

- Fried clams at Marriner's

- Taking Russ and Vi to the top of Mount Battie and to the ocean views at Camden Hills State Park

- Watching Lucy dive into the lake to fetch her frisbee

- Exploring this lake via kayak

- Watching Pam master the paddle board in about two minutes

- Getting a FaceTime call from Patrick and Sarah announcing their engagement 

- Finding a copy of and finally reading Cry, The Beloved Country (more on this later)

- Learning how to take a shower in a 3' x 3' shower stall

An Angry Aside

 Our beautiful lake house is exactly .6 of a mile from the closest state maintained road, route 131. The road that leads here from the state road services Loon Landing and five other lake houses on this corner of the lake. It is a lovely path wide enough for only one vehicle at a time. Since I've been here I have mapped out a three mile trail to run each morning which includes the .6 mile track I am describing. Each day I have done so, I have been increasingly annoyed by the sight of several discarded beer cans along the way. So, this morning, I decided to carry a trash bag with me to pick them up and dispose of them properly. Here are the results:

If I had been willing to walk more than ten feet into the Maine woods on my walk, I could have filled another bag. 

It is difficult to describe my feelings about this, it's somewhere between baffled and furious. The only people who would be driving on this tiny little path through the woods are one of the owners of these 5 properties, their guests, or renters like us. Question: under what circumstances would it enter one's mind to throw an empty can of beer out of a vehicle window when you are literally less than a minute from your house? What kind of human being does this sort of thing?  The people who would be using Brierley Road are people who have been blessed beyond all measure with one of the most beautiful places in America. This is the way they treat it? In Genesis when God gave man dominion over the Earth, I'm reasonably sure he didn't mean, Feel free to chuck your empty beer cans out of the window whenever you feel like it! 

My guess is that this outrage has not been committed by Maine people. They would know, for example, that empty drink bottles can be turned in for cash. No, I'm thinking that this is the work of people from away who are renting for a week. If so, shame on them. What the heck is wrong with people? 

The Magic of a Camp Fire

We finally got around to having a fire last night. This house comes with a portable, light weight fire pit which you see above. This particular fire pit was perfect for my teetotaler inlaws! I set it up around 30 feet from our little beach, and the lake sucked all of the smoke away from the house like a champ. 

In the 30 plus years I have been coming to Maine, these late night campfires have been a staple. In the old Dummer's Beach days, all of the White family, along with their guests and campground friends would gather around, sometimes as many as 15 in the circle. Every night it was the same conversation, and the same routine. There would be Russ, with his broomstick fire poker, complaining about what a lousy fire his son-in-law had made. There was Vi, getting all of us up to speed on every physical ailment that had afflicted anyone and everyone at Dummer's. Then the tall tales of years past would begin...the time Pam got the worst sun burn of her life because she spent the entire day flirting with a pack of boys out on the swim float...the one about the high pitch scream that my Mother had let loose the first time she tried to go in the water, heard all the way up in Weld, they said. When we were younger, whenever it was time for the kids to go to bed, they would go around the circle in their footie pajamas and give everyone hugs and kisses. Once they were down, the topics of conversation would get more serious, and even more salacious...Apparently Bob and Lois are going through a hard time right now due to Bob's drinking problem!!...wait, maybe it's Lois who has the drinking problem, either way, all is not well over on PT 7.

Eventually, the fire would die down, and everyone would draw closer in the circle. The talk would fall away and we would all listen to the sizzle and pop of the flames. Someone would say, It's probably time to go to bed. A moment of silence...then, What do yau'll want for breakfast? Someone would say, fried bread...then someone else would suggest, blueberry pancakes. Vi would eventually say, We can do that. Then, one by one, we would stand up, stretch, and go to bed, smelling of smoke, thoroughly relaxed without a care in the world. It was my favorite part of the day.

Last night was exactly the same as the Dummer's Beach days, only a smaller circle, and no fat man in a truck coming around and grunting, Now, you folks be sure to put that fire good and out before you retire! After I made sure the fire was out, I walked out onto the dock and looked up at the sky. It was splashed with a million stars. The only sound was the steady buzz of the crickets.

I slept like a baby...

An Ice Cream Fiasco

Looks like we might have a cloudy day today, breaking a three day streak of astonishingly perfect weather. I'm debating whether or not I should take advantage of the clouds by playing golf. There are three courses within a thirty minute drive. Not an easy decision.

On the one hand, I love golf in Maine. The courses are all designed for people who like to walk. Each green is a short walk to the next tee box. Most courses up here are only 9 hole affairs with two sets of tee boxes for the front and back nines. This is a function of the fact that they don't get a ton of play throughout the year (it's hard to play golf in three feet of snow) and it's cheaper to maintain 9 greens instead of 18. It's incredibly cheap to play golf in Maine, at least at the courses where I play. To walk and rent a set of clubs will cost me $35-$45. The grounds are always emaculate, beautifully maintained, and the folks that run these places are as nice as they can be. Last year, I got paired up with three locals who could really play. Nicest guys I've ever played with. On the 11th hole, the skies got very dark and soon it was raining cats and dogs. We pulled over into a shelter. I mean, it is pouring buckets and the sky was ominous as far as the eye could see. None of my playing companions showed any sign of wanting to head to the clubhouse. I was assured by each of them that this was merely a "passing showah." As soon as it slowed to a moderate level of rain, these guys were ready to finish the round. I could hardly believe it! We had 8 more holes to play and these guys seemed perfectly fine playing in a steady rain. Well, there was no way this Virginian was going to tuck tail and run back to the clubhouse. Apparently, in Maine, one plays through inclement weather. By the time we got to the 17th green, puddles had started to form. I tried to putt through one such puddle from about 30 feet and came up 8 feet short. One of them deadpans, "When you're putting through puddles ya gotta hit it haaddah.."So, I finished the round in a driving rainstorm. By the time I was buying them a round of drinks at the 19th Hole Grill, I was soaked through to my Fruit of the Looms. I guess if you live in a place which for long stretches of the year looks like the inside of a snow globe, you don't let anybody or anything stop you from finishing a round of golf!

However, on the other hand, if I go off to play golf, that leaves Pam, Russ and Vi stranded here with no car. Of course, I could roll the dice with Uber. Do they do Uber in Maine? My luck, some guy would roll up in here with a log truck and say, Hang on back there!

Just ran the idea by my wife. She's thinking that her folks might want to go eat some fried clams at Mariner's in Camden today, so golf will have to wait.

One more thing...last night, after a dinner of red hot dogs, baked beans, and pink fluff (don't ask), we decided to drive into Camden for some River Ducks ice cream. For my wife, River Ducks is what she thinks of when she imagines what heaven looks like. Last year, her goal for the month of July was to sample each of the 12 Uniquely Maine flavors. She missed it by two, mostly because they ran out. Anyway, it's great ice cream and the most charming little stand you can imagine. If it's possible for an ice cream joint to have ambiance, then River Ducks has it. 

So, we walk up and olace our order with the server of the day, Sarah. Unfortunately, the State of the Day is Kentucky, so no free cones for us. I ordered Megunticook Chocolate Mayhem. Sarah asks, How many scoops? Without thinking I say...Two. Pam and Russ followed and ordered two scoops. Vi demurely asked for one scoop. 

I have no idea what we were thinking. We have been eating ice cream at River Ducks for like eight years now. We should know better. When the lovely Sarah handed me my two scoop Megunticook Chocolate Mayhem on a waffle cone, the thing was nearly a foot high from the pointy bottom of the cone to the decadent mounds of chocolate confection at the top. Immediately, I remembered that we always get one scoop. But, the damage had been done. I wasn't about to give it back. I should note, at this point, that neither Pam's or Russ' cones had been prepared. Both of them had plenty of time to correct their orders...but neither did. So, we set on the footbridge stuffing our faces with a pound of ice cream. They couldn't finish theirs....but I did.

So, this morning I will compensate for last night's ghastly display of indulgence by running an extra half mile and cutting back from four pieces of bacon to two. Sacrifice and discipline. That's me!

My First Swim

I finally worked up the courage yesterday afternoon to take a swim. It was a balmy 78 with abundant sunshine with very little wind. Lucy had already taken her maiden voyage to fetch her frisbee. I had run out of excuses. Since Pam was down in Portland picking up her parents at the airport, I had the added benefit of no human witnesses, so if I screamed like a child no one would be there to hear it.

Many people, including several Mainers had told me that since we were going up in September, although it might be a bit cooler out, at least the lake temperature would be warmer, having spent all summer basking in the warm sun. 

There was no basking. The sun must have been hiding behind clouds all summer. Quantabacook could do with a heaping helping of global warming. I jumped in around 3 o'clock in the afternoon. I jumped out around 3:02.

Lest you think I am some sort of southern wimp, I have been coming up here for over 35 years now and each year have spent many a day swimming in lakes. And yes, it has always been cold. In fairness, the first swim is always the worst, it generally gets easier each day. The body does build up a tolerance. But, holy cow! 

Maybe it's no colder than any other lake in any other year. Maybe it's just my 59 year old body tying to tell me that this sort of tomfoolery was all well and good when I was a young father with little children, but now that I'm older and have no logical reason to jump in ice cold water, it's simply unacceptable.

My inlaws made it to Loon Landing safe and sound. They made it just in time to watch the sun set from the back deck. Then we had a dinner of Italian sandwiches from the Fraternity General Store up the road which is sort of a White family tradition. After dinner, we got them both settled into their accommodations up on the hill behind our cottage. They will spend a week here with us.

It's a strange feeling. Life has a way of coming full circle. If I had never met Pam, I would never have come to Maine. In the early years of our marriage, when we were struggling a bit financially, Russ always paid for our site rental whenever we came up for summer vacation. He never wanted to take any money from me for my share of the grocery bill. It was the cheapest vacation you could imagine. All we had to do was show up. Once Pam became a full time, stay at home Mom, it was the only vacation we could afford.

Now, I get to return the favor. 

Of course, that doesn't mean my father in law gets a total free pass. I have a chore list a mile long and growing for him to get busy on while he's here. He will have to build the fires at night, including any requisite wood chopping. Oh, and if I smell red flannel hash anywhere on the property...he's OUT!!!

A Perfect Day for an Announcement

According to all the weather people, our first three days here were supposed to be a washout. Not even close. Yes, we've had a few showers, and the wind has blown some, but each day has had plenty of loveliness about it to enjoy. Now, this morning begins a string of three days of radiant sunshine and temperatures in the upper 70's. 

So, yesterday afternoon was a perfect example of what happens to my wife whenever she comes to Maine. I have said for years that she is never more beautiful than she is when she is here. Something magical happens to her, there's a peculiar bliss that paints itself on her face. Listen, I love coming here...but, Pam is enchanted. 

I had just settled in for my Sunday afternoon nap, while Pam was flitting this way and that around the house when her cell phone rings. It's a FaceTime request from our son and his girlfriend. This happens hardly ever. He calls...but when was the last time he Facetimed us with Sarah? One would think that a light might have gone off in Pam's head. We had been waiting for news from the two of them for months now. There they sat, smiling from ear to ear, snuggling close to each other. What does my wife do? Immediately, she launches in to a room by room video tour of our house and the grounds outside, going on and on about how perfect the place is and how delightful the views of the lake, etc..etc. Patrick and Sarah, to their great credit, were patient and attentive throughout the tour. Finally, Pam ran out of rooms and views, and stood still long enough for my son to make the announcement that he had proposed to Sarah and that she had said, Yes!! Joyous bedlam ensued.

A word about Sarah... I know that I speak for all parents when I say that from the time you are lucky enough to bring a child into this world, your every waking thought centers around their care and feeding. When they grow up and launch out on their own, your number one source of anxiety becomes, When will they find the one? You look at your own life and you understand how it has been made infinitely better, more joyful and complete by finding your own spouse, so you pray that your child finds the same thing. When my daughter found Jon, it was as if a giant weight had been lifted from us. We knew then, and it has been confirmed a thousand times since that he was and is perfect for her. So, the first time we met Sarah, something clicked. Here was a smart, talkative, opinionated, musical, tenderhearted, video game-playing beauty right out of central casting. My first reaction was, how did Patrick manage this?? Over the past couple of years we have had lots of opportunities to observe her in multiple situations. I have searched for warning signs, red flags, and found nothing. I was ready for them to get married long ago, but my son is the slow and careful type. He will not be hurried into anything, I have discovered. But, this weekend, he finally proposed and she accepted, and now...just like that, I have a new daughter.

After the call, I grilled hamburgers on the grill, and we had dinner on the deck while watching the sun disappear behind the pine trees across the lake, casting pink swirls in the western sky. I looked at Pam and she said, What an absolutely perfect day.

Yes. Yes it was.

Finding My Rhythm

Day 3 starts a chilly 50 degrees with fog shrouding the lake. There isn't a ripple of movement and no sound whatsoever. I have made the transition from Virginian to Main-ah in record time. It normally takes three or four days to find my rhythm here. I've managed to do it this year in 36 hours. For me it took a quick trip into Camden...

I noticed when I was up at the Fraternity Village General Store to buy Italian sandwiches that the spot in the cooler where the night crawlers were supposed to be was empty. Then, yesterday, when Pam made her opening trip to the Hannaford's in Belfast she found the same empty spot in their night crawler spot. Then she discovered the terrible news- post Labor Day in Maine, NO LIVE BAIT ALLOWED!!!

Ok, I should resist my usual snide comments about government overreach and the tyranny of the bureaucratic state, but..what career functionary is responsible for this bit of jackassery? By all means, lets arbitrarily pick a day of the year after which we will declare that if you're going to catch fish we must insist that you do so with artificial lures..because...well it doesn't really matter because we are the rule makers and we must do what we were born to do...make rules. In a temporary panic, I contacted my fishing expert, keeper of all manly information, and Maine fishing know it all, Alan:

Me: Dude, I'm in trouble. I just found out that it's too late in the year to use live bait to fish! What is a visitor from Virginia, without a license to do? I'm not a lure kind of guy...

Alan: First of all, don't panic. You need to find some Berkeley Gulp Worms. They fish just like live bait and they are legal. As far as the no license thing goes...all I can do is offer bail money.

Me: How much would a non resident temporary fishing license set me back?

Alan: Probably a lot, knowing Maine.

So, I drove into Camden to remedy the situation, pay my protection money to the Maine racket in charge of Inland Fisheries, and find me some Gulp Worms. We had been told that our beautiful little town wouldn't be crowded after Labor Day. We wouldn't recognize the place without the summer traffic clogging Main Street, they said. Lies. I had to park up at the library and walk three blocks to the store that accepts tribute money, only to be informed that this particular branch doesn't accept bribe payments, but their other store, a mere mile and a half away, does. Walking the three blocks back to my car, I passed by all of the familiar shops and noticed a couple of new ones. I paused a minute and just looked around. The thought came to me that I wouldn't want to be anywhere else in the world right now than here in Midcoast Maine.

The second branch of Camden Sporting Goods expertly took my shakedown money with all of the faceless efficiency of a Soviet era government cheese store. For the privilege of three weeks worth of legal fishing, I would be charged $64. The twenty-something clerk who filled out the paperwork was a dual threat since not only was he up to speed with the paperwork required to keep the wheels of the state fully greased, he also knew exactly what a Gulp Worm was and twenty more dollars later, I was once again a fully equipped, law abiding fisherman. At this point Alan had more sage advice:

Alan: Ok, be careful with the Gulp juice...it stinks. Don't get it on your clothes and don't open it inside the house. Pam will not be pleased. Lisa hates Gulp!!

Armed with this crucial information, I drove the twenty minutes back to Quantabacook. I took the back way, a road that wound its way over hills and around sweeping curves. One minute there would be the trashy yards of old houses, bespoiled with ancient rusted vehicles and piled high with mountains of firewood. The next minute, over the rise of a hill, a lush valley would be revealed, sweeping fields of grass punctuated by a few grey boulders covered with moss. Off in the distance there would be a lake. There is always a lake. By the time my back road finally emerged onto a more familiar one, I had found my groove.

I'm on vacation...

We Made It.

We made it. After walking around this gorgeous property for half an hour gawking at everything like unashamed tourists, we sat down on the dock and watched the late afternoon sun set the lake on fire in a splash of sparks. It's everything we hoped it would be..on stilts. Soon, we noticed a house across the lake, maybe three quarters of a mile away. We heard the sound of a boat, then saw it cutting a soft line across the water. It looked to be headed our way. I expected that at any moment in would veer north towards more open waters where the lake spreads out for miles. But no...it was still making a bee-line towards us. I turned to Pam...If those people are coming over to welcome us to Maine, this has to be the friendliest lake in America! 

And that's exactly what Wendy and Bob and their English Cream Golden, Finley did. They noticed us sitting on the dock of their friend's place and decided to pop across the lake and say hello. Small world. As a teenager, Bob happened to work in the same mill in Rumford, Maine that Russ did. They were both very familiar with Richmond, Virginia and complemented us on living in such a beautiful city. Their dog Finley happens to be a dead ringer for Jackson, my daughter's Golden. I laid out the subtle suggestion that perhaps later they can take us on a tour of the lake in their beautiful boat. We had been here less than an hour and we had already made some friends.

The house is incredible, but very tiny. Funny how cameras make things look so much larger. No closets. Kitchen has very small cabinets in which to place groceries. Bathroom has no vanity, and only a small three drawer cabinet to store all the chemicals and compounds that make us look presentable. The shower stall has no place to place bottles of shampoo, conditioner or body wash. When you find yourself in a place such as this you realize just how much stuff you drag around with you. But, Pam has worked her usual organizational miracle, and the place looks less cluttered now, ready for what the next three weeks will bring. Dan the Man will deliver the Kayaks and paddle board momentarily.

As delightfull as all of this is, I feel quite uncomfortable gushing about it all while so many of my countrymen are scrambling to escape the State of Florida as Irma barrels down. It feels inappropriate to be enjoying this rapturous piece of God's creation while others are fleeing, about to lose everything. But, I suppose this has always been true of life...when something marvelous happens to you, there is always something terrifying happening to someone else, some place else. Such is the nature of this fallen world.

So, we will enjoy everything that is here for us. We will pray for those in harm's way, and send another donation to those on the front lines. 

The Adventures of Mad Max, Dunnevant edition...

There's just no good way to get to Maine. 

You could walk, but that would be labor intensive, would take too long, and you run the risk of dying along the way. You could fly, but then you run the risk of flight delays and lost baggage. Besides, you couldn't take all the stuff necessary for a month of fun. The best way to go to Maine is the way we used to do it when we were younger and less obsessed with the safety of our children. We would take the middle seats out of our minivan, throw the kids on the floorboard in sleeping bags, tethered to nothing, and depart beautiful downtown Short Pump at 7:30 PM. By the time we made it to D.C. Both of them were fast asleep. Our first stop was after midnight somewhere on the New Jersey Turnpike for gas and a bathroom break...which the kids slept through. The worst part would always be in Massachusetts at 4:00 in the morning when I could only stay awake if Pam fed me grapes and squirt cheese on Chicken-in-a-Biscuit crackers. When the sun finally came up around 6:00, I would get my second wind. We would make our second stop at the first rest area after crossing the green bridge into Maine. We would wake up the kids and have breakfast, secure in the knowledge that the worst part was over and now we were only two freaking hours away!! Once we pulled into Dummers around 10:00 AM, i would sleepwalk through getting unpacked and settled in, then collapse in a beach chair and sleep the rest of the day.

...and ladies and gentlemen, this was the best way to get to Maine.

Somewhere along the line, our all-nighters came to an end. The kids got too big and wouldn't sleep the whole way, and I got to where I couldn't stay awake no matter what disgusting snacks Pam fed me. It was then that we discovered that making the drive up 95 north in the daylight was something on the order of Dante's seventh circle of hell. I felt like Mad Max trying to survive a dystopian nightmare. I would imagine all of the horrible things that would befall me if I broke down on the Garden State Parkway, the grisly end I would endure if somehow I couldn't scrape up enough money for the Tappan Zee Bridge toll. And the traffic...the traffic through the trifecta of misery which is New Jersey, New York and Connecticut during the day is immeasurably worse than it is in the middle of the night. It's sort of like how tofu is immeasurably worse than steak, or how having a surprise attack of diarrhea while stuck in traffic is immeasurably worse than being served ice cream on a beach in Maui by a beautiful local girl in native dress. That kind of worse.

So, this year we are trying the famous western route, the stuff of legend in the Richmond-to-Maine travel world. For years we had heard of its toll free roads, its idyllic traffic and bucolic scenery. Yes, it's a little longer, they would say, but so worth it. 

Its definitely longer.

Yesterday it took me 10 hours and 15 minutes to drive to Hartford, Connecticut. There were three backups. During these interminable delays, we comforted ourselves by gazing at the bucolic scenery. Nice....Oh look honey, some cows! On the plus side, I only paid one toll...$1.50.

Today, I'm told by the GPS( Great Pissed-off Sensor ) that I only have 5 hours remaining before arriving at Loon Landing on Quantabacook Lake. Lies. All lies. It will take 5 hours only if there are no accidents, Hong Kong level traffic, no horrific weather event and no backups caused by a couple of minivans pulled over to the side of the road so junior can take a leak in the bushes. In other words...never gonna happen.

But, regardless of what happens on today's leg of this trip, at the end of it we will be at a lake house in Maine.

And that is the best revenge.

24 Hours

Twenty four hours out from our departure to Maine...looks like our first week will be stormy. The weather forecast shows rain four out of the first seven days we're there. To make matters worse, looks like we will arrive in the rain...always a hassle. As a bonus, it appears that I will be loading up the car top carrier in the rain tonight. In addition, next Tuesday, the day that my inlaws will be flying up to Maine, Hurricane Irma might be arriving in Richmond, making their second attempt at flying to Maine in 2017 problematic. But, the good news is, Sean Hannity is still on top of Hillary's email scandal.

Despite these dark clouds, or perhaps because of them, there is a scent of adventure in the air today. The last day before leaving for a three week vacation is always crazy. There's the packing, made infinitely more difficult because it's Maine, so you have to pack for a wide range of weather outcomes. That means long pants and shorts. Tee shirts and sweaters. Swimming trunks and jackets. Then there's the added challenge of packing for a golden retriever. Half of the car is taken up with her crap. But through it all, there is an undercurrent of excitement. A road trip is that quintessential American experience. We are a vast country ribboned throughout with highways and back roads. This is a country built for travel, and we have the crumbling infrastructure to prove it. Hitting the road for a destination 845 miles and a half century away, is the sort of thing that has always gotten my blood pumping. 

Even if it rains every day in September, Pam and I will remember these next three weeks. This cannot be said of any random three weeks in Short Pump. 

So, we will take the weather as it comes, with resignation and submission. We will enjoy whatever comes our way. These next three weeks belong to us in full. We don't have to share it with Dunnevant Financial, or Hope Thrift, or River's Edge. 

We just have to get there. The trip is the hard part, the dangerous part. But for me, it's also the exciting part. 

College Football and Guilt...

Everyone who knows me knows that when it comes to sports, I'm very much a baseball...then everything else sort of guy. Truth be told, I'm a baseball nerd. The country could get invaded by the Chinese and I'd be the one checking out my MLB app for the west coast box scores. However, there is one sport that comes in a robust, albeit distant second. College football. I love it. I love the pagentry, the rabid fan bases, the mascots, the tailgate parties. But, I feel so guilty about it. Let me explain.

I'm a big Alabama fan. I got introduced to this monolithic force when I was 8 years old living in rural Alabama every weekend for 3 years. Paul Bear Bryant was the coach, and I quickly became aware that even Jesus wasn't as popular as "The Bear" in rural Alabama in the 1960's. So, I've been a fan ever since. Most people around here hate Alabama football. That's because 4 times in the last 10 years Alabama has won the national championship. When you live around a million Virginia Tech fans, this is a very sore subject. The Hokies are still waiting for their first national title, so...haters gonna hate. But, why the guilt?

Well, it's probably because college football is such a dirty, grubby business. Whoever coined the term student athlete to describe division I football players has probably been dead for fifty years now because while it may have at one time been true, it clearly no longer is. Yesterday's New York Times featured a story about a host of Florida State players who were caught cheating in an online hospitality class which dealt with the academically challenging world of coffee, tea and wine. Some poor professor who got bullied into inflating the grades of star football players despite the fact that none of them actually turned in any work eventually loses her job and commits suicide. And, that's not the worst of it. At least these FSU players were only guilty of cheating. For every cheater, there are probably 10 rapists. Just this past week, the Florida Gators had to suspend 10 players, many of them starters, for participating in an illegal jersey-selling scheme...or something.

But, as long as college football remains the money making behemoth it is today, this situation will get worse. Many of the best athletes in the sport come from backgrounds and environments not normally associated with academic achievement. All the tutors in the world aren't going to change that simple fact. The universities where they play don't have much incentive to educate them, but they do have plenty of insentive to exploit them for profit. The SEC is nothing more than a player development league for the NFL, and as such, those who play at these schools are actually unpaid, minor league athletes. Yes, they get a free education. But how much is that worth when so few actually graduate, and even if they did graduate, how valuable is an "education" which features online hospitality classes that require zero work? I say, drop this student athlete charade, and pay these players. Treat them as employees of the school. These guys bring big money to these schools. Many of them go on to the pros and get their big payday, but an even greater number don't. They blow out a knee and its over for them. What do those guys get by way of compensation for their work? If your answer is, a free education, you are living in a fantasy world where ghost-written term papers, fake classes and cooked grades equals an education.

But, despite all the flimflammery, rap sheets and crooked boosters...you can still count on me watching on Saturday when the Tide rolls. I suppose that makes me part of the problem.

SEC!!! SEC!!!

Attitude Adjustment Needed

What an odd week.

The week before a big event is always a slow, plodding thing. You find yourself trying to rush things along, making it next to impossible to stay in the moment. I have always suffered from an unfortunate affliction that constantly drives me to the next big thing. Pam is exactly the opposite in this regard, always content to make the most of now. Maine is the place where we are able to call a truce.

Anyway, so back to this week. There was the devastation of Harvey mixed with the heartwarming stories of heroic human beings from every background, every political persuasion, and every race, doing beautiful, selfless things. Of course, that was followed by various politicians trying to rush to the cameras to horn in on the good feelings being generated. Then the chattering classes did their best to throw a wet blanket on the sudden surge in unity by trying to undermine it all by casting doubt on the motives of our heros. And just like the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, a slew of activist/hacks began taking advantage of human compassion by sending our fundraising pitches ostensibly for flood victims, but actually providing links to various political action committees, proving once again the old adage that...no good dead goes unpunished. I'm convinced that partisan politics is this nation's divine punishment for the original sin of slavery.

Meanwhile, back at the office, I spent the week talking clients out of making moves that would have put several thousand dollars in my pocket. They were determined. I was persistent. Eventually they relented. I made zero dollars for my efforts. I labor in a profoundly strange business.

Later I had a text conversation with my son,(are there any other kind?), where it occurred to me that at some point over the past 35 years, my attitude towards the federal government has taken a decidedly cynical turn. Although I believe that my son gives them entirely too much credit, is far too willing to give them the benefit of the doubt than their actions over my lifetime would warrant, I am never willing to give the Feds any credit for anything. This has not always been so. There was a time in my life when I actually felt connected to my government and was generally convinced, at least, of their benevolence, and critical of those who questioned their motives. But, after a 35 year career in the financial world as a business owner, my views towards Washington are more jaded. I find myself nodding in agreement when I hear that old Ronald Reagan line, The most terrifying sentence in the English language is, "I'm from the government and I'm here to help!" I suppose that 35 years of paperwork, redundant regulation, fees, taxes, surcharges, and constantly moving goalposts will do that to a person. I don't trust them. I don't respect them or those we elect to represent me in my dealings with them. It is my considered view that anything done by government will always and forever be second rate, shoddy, and delivered to me by rude, arrogant, incompetent functionaries, who are free to be so because of the eternal job security they enjoy which shields them from oversight.

Having said all of this, I must confess...it's no fun feeling this way about your government. There is a bitter taste that lingers in your soul when you hold anything in such contempt. I actually envy my son and daughter their more benevolent attitudes toward government. At this point in my life, I can't imagine ever getting back to my younger attitudes toward Washington, but I am seeking something in between. I would settle for ambivalence. Actually I would be overjoyed to land at ambivalence. At the very least, I owe them my neutral disregard. Hostility and contempt don't work and I must figure out how to leave both behind.

Harvey Spending

I've often heard people lament the problem of why better people don't run for office. Why do the best and brightest people seem to go into the business world, or academia? That leaves us at the mercy of either the idle rich, or the egomaniacs to roam the corridors of power in Washington. Well, an obvious answer can be found in a recent example of what just happened to Senator Ted Cruz of Texas.

I should say at the outset that I am not a fan of Mr. Cruz. He seems to me to be a socially awkward, Dracula-Esk, smartest kid in the class know-it-all. In addition, he creeps me out for some reason. So, using him as an example is probably ill-advised. But, his example is just the closest at hand. What is happening to him happens to a lot of politicians in Washington, from both sides of the aisle. 

So, here's the deal...

In 2012, in the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy, the Senator refused to vote for the giant disaster recovery appropriation bill that was rammed through Congress, on the basis that, according to Cruz, 60% of the money wasn't even going directly to the victims of Sandy, but were what amounted to a grab bag of spending that under normal conditions would not have been approved. Now, that his state is the one in need of disaster relief, he is pounding the drums the loudest for...federal spending! What a hypocrite!!...right?

Well, it's not that simple. In true Cruzian fashion, back in 2012, his 60% number was overblown. But, on the merits, he was absolutely right. Whenever some disaster befalls this country, the federal government is expected to step in with an emergency appropriation to help the people rebuild. This takes the form of flood insurance, low cost loans, etc.. But, it also is an occasion for often ridiculous overreach. You've been having a hard time getting the government to fund your pet project for the folks back home? Attach that baby to the disaster relief bill, then dare anyone to vote against it! In the case of Sandy, only a portion of the funds made available were actually spent to relieve the immediate suffering of its victims. In fact, the majority of the funds were not even meant to be spent until three years later, and much of it was earmarked for 47 other states not named New Jersey. So, yes...Ted Cruz is creepy. But, he was right about the Sandy disaster recovery bill being a wasteful mountain of pork masquerading as disaster relief. Sorry.

When trying to explain how a country as rich and prosperous as the United States finds itself 20 trillion dollars in debt, it's a bit like trying to explain why water is wet. It's not just one thing. Pointless, unending wars certainly don't help. A tax code that gives write offs to people who don't need them doesn't help. But, pork barrel rolling is the engine that drives the insolvency train. The path to debt is paved with big-hearted emergency spending that isn't. And nothing creates a greater opportunity for pork barrel spending than a crisis. The idea of only passing a relief bill with targeted spending for actual relief victims would seem like a wise move. The fact that anyone who suggests such a thing is a heartless, hypocritical ogre is the kind of thing I suspect keeps an awful lot of talented, wonderful people from entering politics.

Of course, if my government is going to start throwing money it doesn't  have around, I suppose throwing that money at those suffering in Texas is preferable to throwing it around in Afghanistan. Every dark cloud has a silver lining.

From Away....

One week from today. Seven days, a half a fortnight. That's how long before Pam and I will depart Short Pump for three weeks on Quantabacook Lake in Searsmont, Maine. The closer we get to the 7th of September, the less I am able to concentrate on anything else. It's like there is a gigantic black hole with a powerful gravitational pull on that day on the calendar, impossible to resist.

Each day I'm crossing more things off my to do list. Most of those things have revolved around preparing my business to function effectively without me. However, the fact that I will not be there to screw anything up is a big plus, making the planning much easier! 

Ominously, the ten day forecast for Searsmont has suddenly turned cooler, with high temperatures dropping out of the 70's. There is a chance that we will be, once again, making the drive up in the rain. Although the accuracy of weather forecasts a week out are spotty, ultimately the weather falls into a category of things that I can do absolutely nothing about, and as such, I will give it no more thought.

As long as I will be living in this place for three weeks, the weather is very much a secondary concern. At this point, the only guests we have scheduled are my inlaws who will be coming up for a week, and some friends of ours from Maine who will be coming to visit at some point yet to be determined. The rest of the time it will be Pam and I and our manic, mentally disturbed Golden Retriever, Lucy. We will sit on that deck in the mornings drinking our coffee. The edge of the lake is less than twenty-five feet from our bedroom, those French doors to the right. If it's not too chilly, maybe we will have our breakfast at that table to the left. We will walk out on the dock and read a book. We will launch out on the lake in the kayaks which will be delivered to us by Dan the Man from Ducktrap Kayaks in Lincolnville. At night, we will build a fire in the fire pit down next to the small beach on the property. 

Some days we will drive into Belfast and Camden to nose around in the shops. Our favorite store in the entire world, The Smiling Cow, will get several visits. They will know us and greet us as long lost friends. We will eat several meals at restaurants next to the ocean. We will have blueberry pancakes at the Camden Deli, lobster rolls at Hazel's, and ice cream at River Ducks. We will take a ride on a lobster boat called the Lively Lady. We will hike up to the top of Mount Battie, then walk the Oceanside trails of the Camden Hills State Park directly across the street from the mountain, one of the geographical oddities about this place that enchants us every year.

But mostly, we will just be there. It's very hard to explain the feeling that comes over me just being there. When I'm at home, there are many things that compete for my attention, that pull me out of the present. I have a business and responsibilities. Everything that causes me stress is essentially within two miles of this house. That's not a knock against my home. I love my home, love Short Pump. It's more like a simple fact of life. But, when I'm in Maine, I'm truly and totally...away. Mainers actually have a term for people like us, those worn out souls who come there for relief...they refer to us as people from away. It's true. For me, every place that isn't Maine is....away.

The Heartbreak of Houston

Houston has turned out to be a giant heartbreak. When a 500 year flood comes calling, it's what happens. I watch the videos and stare at the pictures, amazed and horrified at the devastation that over 40 inches of rain has brought to this slice of our modern, technologically advanced world. Build your gleaming cities, trust in your towering machines...then cling to a sapling when the rains come.

We have friends in Houston. They are in harm's way, they've been relocated, and have endured the unimaginable trauma of being separated from infant children. But they tell us that there are so many suffering far worse. They actually feel lucky. 

I see the photograph of the small child found shivering, clinging to the dead body of her mother. My heart breaks for them both.

I see the image of the cowboy-tough Texas redneck carrying an Asian woman and her baby through waist deep water to safety and I think...there is a real man.

I see another picture of a black man wearing a slick yellow pancho carrying two white toddlers in his arms through rising water and think...this is an image worth making into a statue for a town square.

I watch a video of a reporter approaching two men, one white, one black who are preparing their fishing boats for battle. He asks them what they are doing. The black man says, we're going to try to save some people today.

I remember the thing my Dad used to say about how a life crisis doesn't build character, it simply reveals it. Once again, Dad was right.

I get momentarily sidetracked by reading about some professor who earned his fifteen minutes of fame by suggesting that the people of Texas deserve this because they voted for Trump, and I marvel at the hardness of the human heart, the inability of some to set aside politics. But when I hear how this professor was denounced by both sides I take small comfort.

But, through all of this I discover that there is something wrong with me. For, although I am moved by all of the human suffering, nothing moves me like the sight of an abandoned dog on a rooftop of a car. I see pictures of terrified dogs in cages, wet and wild eyed and I have to look away. I just can't take it. I literally walk away from the computer and leave the room. Why? Why am I so quickly moved to tears by the suffering of family pets?

It's because they don't understand. We can't sit them down and explain what is happening. They trust us for everything. They never doubt us. They have cast their lot with their humans without reservation. And now, they have been abandoned in the midst of a 500 year flood. The images are too much for me.

But, they are there and I am here, safe and dry. I can only pray for all the people of Texas. I can donate to the Red Cross. 

I remind myself that this is Texas we're talking about. Those people are tough as shoe leather. They will recover. They won't sit around waiting for someone else to save their fellow Texans. They will fill up the Evinrude with gas and do it themselves.

God bless them...everyone.

Scaramucci To Speak at Liberty Convocation

Liberty University has announced that Anthony "The Mooch" Scaramucci will speak during convocation. Something called the Office of Spiritual Formation booked the former hedge fund manager and political gadfly to speak to the mandatory gathering of 10,000 plus students at the Christian school in Lynchburg, despite the fact that Scaramucci has previously had no known connection to anything vaguely associated with Christianity. Scaramucci, best known for his expletive-laden interview which appeared in The NewYorker, served as President Trump's Communications Director for eleven days. Complaints about selecting someone of Scaramucci's dubious character and paper thin list of accomplishments were directed at Liberty President, Jerry Falwell Jr. who vigorously denied any involvement with the choice, noting that the selection of convocation speakers was the responsibility of the Office of Spiritual Formation. A spokesman for that office pointed out the invitation to Scaramucci was made prior to his stormy tenure at the Trump White House and his profane rant in the New Yorker. This "explanation" is quite odd since, if true, begs the question...what had Mr. Scaramucci done prior to his stint at the White House that would have suggested him as an appropriate speaker for Liberty University students?

He ran hedge funds. He wrote three books, all three of which celebrated his ability to make lots of money. Along the way he managed to have five kids with two women, both of whom he ended up divorcing, the last one while she was eight months pregnant with his child. At various times over the past ten years he had been involved in supporting the Presidential campaigns of Hillary Clinton, Barack Obama, Scott Walker, and JEB Bush. What aspects of spirituality are the leadership at Liberty trying to form here?

Listen, it's none of my business what Liberty University does. They are a private university and can invite anyone they want to speak on their campus. All sorts of really bad people get invited to speak at colleges all the time. But for a school like Liberty, dedicated as they are to producing "champions for Christ," it seems an extraordinarily odd choice. Yes, I know that simply by inviting someone to speak does not equal approval of the message. Liberty has had many speakers over the years that fall outside their wheelhouse...Ted Kennedy and Bernie Sanders come to mind. But, Anthony Scaramucci??

Jerry Falwell Jr. has transformed himself in the minds of many into the chief apologist for Donald Trump, at least among evangelicals. Again, that's his choice and his business. But, when he does so, like it or not, he also represents his university. It should not surprise him that many of his current and former students are appalled by the strident support that he offers a man who has lived a life antithetical to the Gospel of Christ. In an interview with Fox News after Trump's hamfisted remarks about Charlottesville, Falwell, with not an ounce of self awareness offered up this insight...

Trump doesn't say what's politically correct, he says what's in his heart.

Yes, Jerry. He does say what's in his heart. And, isn't that the problem?

Seven Essentials

Don't worry, I'm done with church talk for a good while. However, there was one aspect of this past weekend's class that I found fascinating, and I'm wondering if there might be a secular version we could rally around as a nation. On matters of theology, the Christian faith is a cauldron of factions and denominations. Hope did not trivialize those tensions, but rather boiled them down to their essence with their Seven Essentials of our Faith. I will not list them here since that is not what this post is about. The larger point made by Hope is that, as a church body, they allow disagreement on a great many things about doctrine...but not with respect to the seven essentials. There is, after all, no point in organizing a church around no guiding theological principles. Anarchy is not a workable doctrine. Chaos is not the foundation of a functioning church, or anything else.

This seven essentials business has launched me into thinking about my country. We are at a point in our history where all of the things that divide us seem overwhelming, a way forward seems elusive. If we were so inclined, what would the seven essentials of American citizenship be? For years I would have thought that it would have been the Bill of Rights. But, with each passing day, I hear more voices claiming that freedom of speech needs a few tweaks. Once that iconic freedom falls, how many others are safe?

So, if you could construct a seven essentials for American citizenship, what would it contain? I suppose I'm not committed to the number seven, there's nothing sacred about that, but, I think the fewer, the better. More importantly, are there a set of rules that free citizens must agree upon in order to live together in peace and stability? I'm not asking how everyone should be forced to live their life. I'm not asking you to impose your personal political ideology on the rest of the public. Rather, in the spirit of compromise and accommodation, what are the principles that are vital to living together in peace, principles that all human beings could coalesce around?

Go.....

This just in...I'm an idiot.

This morning I had a major cognitive breakdown, a new low in the inexorable decline of mental acuity for those of a certain age. It is embarrassing to admit that it has come to this...

I woke at the usual time after an uneventful night's sleep. My morning routine was virtually unchanged except for the latest contest of wills with Lucy, the psycho dog. Suddenly, she has decided that going down the stairs is beyond the pale. In her disturbed mind, our staircase is now the gauntlet of death. At first, she would only go down them if we walked along side her. Then, it became walk beside her with the leash securely attached to her collar. Now it's, I ain't going down those stairs for love nor money!! I have been forced twice this weekend to carry my 65 pound dog down the stairs of my house. But...I digress.

After this absurd encounter with Lunatic Lucy, I began laying out my clothes for the day, before  jumping in the shower. Pam made the odd remark, Wow, that's a fancy shirt. Nothing. Then I went to take my daily medication and noticed that I had failed to take yesterday's allotment. Still...nothing. Then I hopped into my car and started driving confidently to my destination, wondering why I couldn't get Sport's Phone with Big Al on the radio. Again...nothing, zip, nada...

It was only when I got to the corner of Pump Road and Three Chopt that I got the strange sensation that something was not right. Where was all the traffic? I picked up my cell phone and looked at the lovely picture of Pam and me on a boat in the Caymen Islands taken back in a time when I had not yet been turned into a blithering idiot by the ravages of time. Clear as day in white, block lettering came the announcement that today was, in fact, SUNDAY, AUGUST 27...not Monday, and if I continued on my present course, my clients in Mechanicsville are going to be shocked by my appearance on their doorstep before they had even had a chance to eat their bran flakes. 

I made an embarrassed u-turn then sheepishly drove back home where I promptly confessed to my concerned wife that her husband had indeed lost his mind.

A Life...in Church.

I am a 59 year old man, and for all of that time, I have been in church, the first 20 years by conscription, the last 39 by choice. I was born into Kingsland Baptist Church in Chesterfield County. While my Dad was in seminary, I was a member of the church he pastored on the weekends, Nicholsville Baptist Church in Nicholsville, Alabama. But, I don't remember much about either of these places. The two churches where I spent the majority of my life were Winns Baptist Church in Elmont, Virginia, and Grove Avenue Baptist Church in Richmond.

All of this is on my mind today because Pam and I have spent the last two days in a prospective new members class at Hope Church. There are several unique things about this. First, it's only the second time we have actually joined a church as a new member in 33 years of marriage, second, Hope is a Presbyterian church, and third, Hope is the only church I've ever attended which requires people to go through two days of meetings in order to join, and even then it's very much a take it or leave it proposition. It's like they're saying, Sure, we're really glad you're interested in Hope, but let's not run off half-cocked and do something stupid without knowing what you're getting yourself into, ok? I'll have more to say about Hope a little later on, but right now, I want to write about what my church life, for lack of a better term, has been like. Some of you will identify and relate with what follows. Others may be bewildered by it. But, for better or for worse, being in church all of my life has shaped me. It has been an enormous force for good in my life, while simultaneously being a force of anger and frustration. It's been a complicated relationship, between me and this institution, one that I feel compelled at this stage of my life to write about. For me, it all began when my dad was hired to be the senior pastor at Winns Baptist Church. I was ten years old.

Winns Baptist Church

When you're a preacher's kid, you're not really a member of a church. It's more like you are part of the package, a collateral accoutrement that had to be tolerated. At age ten I got the distinct impression that first Sunday at Winns that I was expected to be seen, often, as in--every single time the church doors were opened, and heard from, never. In addition, they would greatly appreciate it if I was never seen swinging from the chandeliers. My Dad was the pastor at Winns for sixteen years. There were good times and bad times. Some of the sweetest, kindest people I've ever met were there. I had my first kiss there, met and eventually fell in love with my wife there. It was at Winns where I actually came to a personal faith in Christ myself.  But, it was also at Winns where I learned that not everyone claiming faith in Christ was a nice person. In fact, some of those who cried, "Lord, lord!" the loudest were more like the spawn of Satan.

 I experienced my first church fight at Winns, complete with several knock down, drag out business meetings, and anonymous letter writing campaigns, (back before the Internet and social media, character assassination was very much a retail business). When the source of a church fight is the question of whether or not your Dad is competent enough to justify his continued employment, things tend to get personal. At age 16, enduring a church fight did a great job of feeding the growing cynicism already running wild in me and most other 16 year olds I knew. I responded to it by writing a play which was performed by the youth group one Youth Week Sunday. It was a send up of a raucous church business meeting where I put very little effort into hiding the real world identities of most of the characters. It was not well received by it's intended targets, and I was thrilled by their anger. The last service I ever attended at Winns was my wedding. Soon afterwards Dad moved on to a Church in Charlottesville. So, for the first time in my life, I was tasked with finding and joining a church in which My father was not the pastor.

Grove Avenue Baptist Church

The first couple of years of married life saw Pam and I not trying very hard to find a church. We discovered that we very much enjoyed two day weekends, and not having to wake up so early on Sundays. But, once Pam was pregnant with Kaitlin, we began the search in earnest. Since my two sisters had both landed at Grove, post-Winns, we decided to visit one Sunday. Vander Warner was the pastor and I throughly enjoyed his sermon, but hated the church for two reasons...it was too big, and it was broadcast live on television. The presence of TV cameras up and down the aisles was a huge turnoff. But, we were going to soon be parents and thought that we needed to settle on a church home sooner rather than later. A few Sundays later we found an amazing Sunday school class taught by a young architect, filled with other couples our age who were also expecting. The next week we joined. This being a Baptist Church in the mid-80's, joining consisted of us walking down the aisle during the alter call, shaking a minister's hand and then being swept off into a room which was decorated like a funeral home, where some guy asked us ten minutes of questions. That was it. We were in! It's called moving your letter, a process by which the new church contacts your old church to verify your membership there, then presto, the paperwork gets done, you get a fresh box of offering envelopes and it's all good. The procedure is spelled out somewhere in Malachi, I'm told.

Pam and I both grew to love Grove. We raised both of our children there with the invaluable help of countless people who poured their time and talents into our children. My wife began a 13 year run working and teaching in children's church, while some idiot thought I would make a great chairman of the Finance Committee since I was in the "financial business." It was a disaster. My leadership style is way to heavy on sarcasm and highjinks to make the necessary adjustments to church finance....

Random ministry leader making his pitch to my committee for funds: So, we need a 20% increase in our funding for this year because of all of these great ministry plans we have for the new year.

Me: You're kidding, right? Dude, you didn't even spend the money we allocated you last year. What do we look like, Central Fidelity Bank??

Yeah, so that didn't go well. It didn't take long for the church leadership team to realize that my skill set needed a different outlet for expression. An amazingly humble, godly ex-marine named Gary Stewart soon asked me to consider becoming the Sunday School teacher for a group of ninth grade boys who had scared off three teachers in three months. For reasons that remain a mystery, I said yes. Thus began a ten year run as a leader and volunteer in the youth ministry at Grove. It was easily, the best ten years I've ever had in church. Spent a fortune. Gave up weekends. Quadrupled the wear and tear on my house since nearly every weekend, the place got overrun with a couple dozen hormone-crazed kids. Spent a week every summer with over 200 teenagers at summer camp. But, as crazy and as difficult and demanding as it was, I loved it, primarily because I was making a difference. In all of that time, I was oblivious to what was going on in the rest of the church. I'm sure there were fights and disagreements going on throughout the church at the time, but I never noticed any of it, because I was busy with the kids. It was beautiful.

Then came a three year stint teaching college students. Also fun and satisfying. But after three years there, my time had passed. Then, for the first time in thirteen years I reverted back to just being a regular member, one of those guys who comes every Sunday morning, sits in the same pew, and slowly, quietly starts getting annoyed by church. It's the disease that afflicts most people in church who aren't involved in some sort of ministry. People in church, left at leisure, become critics. That sermon was lame. Could those sopranos possibly be any flatter on that song? Reading the announcements to us right out of the bulletin. Seriously? Who does he think we are, a bunch of illiterate morons?

So, after a few years of this spiritual whining, you look at yourself in the mirror and realize that you need to make a change. It's not the preacher, it's you. Then it occurs to you that you've been at the same church for 30 years. Somewhere during the last few years, you've stopped listening, you are no longer hearing the voices there. You need a new voice, a new season of growth, a time for renewal. 

Hope Church

A year later, you find yourself at a two day prospective member class event at Hope Church. There will be no moving your letter nonsense with this group. These guys are Presbyterians, and if you want to join this church, much will be expected of you. There are slick handouts on glossy paper spelling out what it means to be an owner/operator. One speaker after another tells us, here are the seven essentials of the faith that we believe. This is our mission statement. Here are our plans for the future. Here are the areas of service that you will be expected to move into at some point. If you want to be a member of something, go join Hermitage Country Club, or the YMCA. We don't want members, we want spiritual entrepreneurs who are ready to work, ready to lead and ready to sacrifice for the mission of the Gospel. Oh, and when you give, we take cash, checks, EFT debits, PayPal, and coming soon...pay by text!

There was something invigorating about such an unvarnished airing of expectations. It's good to know that we will not be allowed to sit around being a critic, that something will be required of us. We will be expected to make the church a better place than how we found it. This will not be some cheap, resume stuffing title, Member, Hope Church. Rather, it will be a call to action.

I think, we just might be ready.

Hefty, Hefty, HEFTY!!!

Hurricane Harvey is set to pound the coast of Texas with 100 mph winds and upwards of 35 inches of rain. Early reports indicate that the citizens of Corpus Christi have suddenly lost all interest in the raging Confederate statue controversy. Funny how the prospect of eminent death focuses the mind.

I'm not suggesting that the statue uproar isn't a legitimate thing. It surely is. I mean, when suddenly the sight of them has become so heinous, so provocative that the city of Charlottesville has taken to wrapping giant black trash bags around them to hide them from public view, it most definitely is a thing.

I'm told that under this giant tarp is a statue of Thomas "Stonewall" Jackson astride a horse. The Charlottesville city government, after a tumultuous town council meeting where they were loudly jeered, mocked and cursed by an angry assembly of concerned citizens, made the decision to shroud the offending statues. The move was met with varied reactions. Some called it a good first step, while others considered it a desecration, while still others lamented, Seriously, Charlottesville?? A black tarp?? No orange and blue?

Apparently, the city fathers opted for the black tarp only after they received a price quote on surrounding the statue in giant mirrors, which was too costly. Although the mirrors had the added advantage of encouraging citizens to examine our souls, and gaze upon ourselves for inspiration instead of venerating our troubled past, the cost was prohibitive.

Still, the tarp play was seen by most observers as only a stop gap measure and carries with it a new set of problems. Prior to "The Covering" as it has quickly become known, local police only had to concern themselves with protecting the statues from vandals on the left who might descend upon it in a mob and tear it down Raleigh-style. Now, they must protect the tarp from pocket knife wielding hooligans from the right. 

As a good capitalist, I smell a huge opportunity here for the folks over at Glad, the trash bag company. If I were them I would be all over this picture with the greatest virtue signaling add campaign of all time...Glad...taking out history's trash, one rebel at a time. Or maybe the guys over at Hefty can beat them to it with...Don't risk sanitizing your public square with some whimpy bag. Go with HEFTY, HEFTY, HEFTY!!

I suspect that the Charlottesville city council is in for a rude awakening if they think covering Confederate statues in platstic bags is going to calm the crowds that so reviled them at their last meeting. The next one might be even worse, since now angry citizens can make the case that by covering Jackson and Lee with bags, the city has actually protected the statues by muting the spray-painting graffiti free speech rights of urban artists. Hopefully, cooler heads will prevail and some compromise can be struck. Either way, the next meeting for the Charlottesville town council will be must-see TV.