The Limit

 

I love Netflix on many different levels, not the least of which being the 381% profit I have made off of it’s stock. But, what I really love about Netflix is the concept, a company which serves as a portal through which a universe of entertainment is brought into my home cheaply and efficiently. Their original programming is superb. So, yeah...I love Netflix.

But, not everything that comes streaming into my living room via Netflix belongs there. Last night provided a perfect illustration of this truth.

Recently, Pam and I were in a show hole, that miserable state of television purgatory where you finish binge watching a really great show and suddenly find yourself with nothing interesting to watch. We stumbled on a new British detective show called Marcella, the premise of which was quintessentially British...a brilliant but deeply troubled detective battles her own inner demons while tracking down a vicious killer. It’s not the best show we’ve ever seen by any stretch, but it was well written and well acted and we made it through the first season pleased enough to give season number two a shot. Last night was the first episode of season two. 

Almost from the first five minutes I felt uneasy. Something felt wrong. But if I’ve learned anything from watching British television it’s the fact that you have to be patient. Sometimes it takes a while for a show to get interesting. But, if you hang in there you’re almost always rewarded. Thirty minutes in, it became apparent that season number two of Marcella would feature our hero tracking down and catching a sadistic pedophile serial killer. Ten minutes from the end of this first episode I thought to myself...Why am I watching this? When it was over, I turned to Pam and said...No. We won’t be watching this show anymore.

Censorship is a horrible thing when it is practiced by governments, but for individual human beings it is an essential function of mental health. Years ago I heard a non-religious speaker say something that I have never forgotten about this subject...Stand guard at the door of your mind. His point was that each of us has to serve as the guardian of what we allow inside our brains. If you want to lose weight, you probably shouldn’t flip through a donut magazine. If you have a gambling addiction, you probably shouldn’t move next door to a casino. And if you want to maintain your sanity in the midst of an increasingly dysfunctional and evil world, maybe you shouldn’t invite a story about men sexually abusing young boys into your home.

Despair is an addictive drug. It’s easy to fall into and difficult to climb out of. The news that gets filtered down to us through the news media is often overwhelmingly depressing. Watch enough anguish and injustice every night and it’s easy to lose hope. The solution isn’t to retreat into a pollyannish world of Leave It To Beaver and Andy Griffith every night. Sometimes, we need to be confronted by the world as it is, in all of it’s evil glory. But, I believe there is a limit. That limit is probably different for each person. But, it is essential that each of us knows what that limit is and that we have the wisdom and courage to say...No.  Not that.  Not here.

Last night I discovered that limit. I will not organize a boycott. I will not call for Marcella to be taken off the air. I will simply exercise by rights of free agency by not watching. While standing guard at the door of my own mind, I have discovered something that I would rather not expose it to. I wasn’t placed in this world to limit what my neighbor wants to watch on television. But I better be careful what I watch. 

Dad’s Greatest Hits

This week of Father’s Day has me thinking of my own Dad. He’s been gone four years now. Life plows forward at its breakneck pace. Most of the time I’m too busy to think about him. But then an anniversary will come along...his birthday, the day he died, or Father’s Day, and it will all come roaring back. Luckily for me the majority of these memories are good ones. My Dad, unlike many, didn’t leave a legacy of bitterness and regret in his wake. None of his children turned out psychologically damaged by his indifference, or scarred by abuse. All he left us was a thousand stories to tell, stories of his peculiar habits, Herculean strengths, and impeccable character. This week, I’ve picked out a few of my favorites, a Dad’s Greatest Hits, if you will. Like this one....

My Dad has been in the hospital for five days now. He has heart palpitations that haven’t responded well to several medications. My brother, two sisters and I have taken turns sitting with him. I have been with him last each night, so I see him after a long day of hospital drudgery. Some nights have been better than others, for him and me. 

I arrive around 7:30. He never fails to smile at me as I walk in. He looks tired. I tidy up his covers, get him something to drink and ask him about his day. He tells me that he had a good day. Every day is a good day. He hesitates to provide anything that sounds like a complaint. He speaks glowingly of his nurses. He tells me that he got a visit from Chuck Ward or Mark Becton, and what a blessing they were to him. He tells me about the food and that it isn’t very good, but it’s OK because Linda brought him some homemade soup and Paula snuck in some wonderful cookies. 

When he tries to tell me a story he forgets his words, then apologizes for being so forgetful. My heart breaks a little that he feels the need to apologize. We watch Huckabee. He loves that show. Tonight Huckabee isn’t there and there is a pretty blond in his place. Dad informs me that she is Dana Perino, who used to be President George Bush’s press secretary. Dad likes her because she is very smart, and pretty too. He listens intently to a story about very bad parents. He can’t imagine how any father would provide kegs of beer for his sixteen year old son’s birthday party. “What’s this world coming too?” he asks me. 

I watch the night nurse come in to give him his medicine. She is perky and smiles a lot. She gently places each pill in his mouth and then gives him ginger ale. There are so many pills. She is very patient, and jokes that she should probably have given him the sleeping pill last since he might fall asleep before he makes it through all his pills. Dad smiles. 

After Huckabee is over Dad struggles with the remote and finally asks me just to turn the television off. We sit in silence for a few minutes. Finally he tells me what a good job his kids have done taking care of him since Mom passed away. 

We go through our nightly ritual when it’s time for him to go to sleep. I turn out the light and tell him I love him. I pull the curtain and then shut the door to his room. He’s right across from the nurses station and he tells me that they talk too loud. Sometimes he feels like yelling out to ask them to be quiet, but that would be rude. I walk down the long hallway towards the elevator past rooms with open doors. Terribly sick men and women, all of them alone. There’s a portrait of former Governor John Dalton right next to the elevator. Every time I pass it, I become irritated for some reason. Is there no place on earth where we can escape politics?

I arrive at my car in the mostly empty parking lot and sit there in silence for a few minutes. I think about my Dad and marvel at what kind of life he has lived. After losing his wife of 65 years and after five days in a hospital bed, he still finds things to laugh about and still finds people to be thankful for. 

“What kind of day did you have Dad?” I ask him. 

“A good day, I had a good day,” he answers.

Russ’ North Star

Yesterday from the pulpit I heard this statement...What we spend our money on is a reflection on what we value. The point of this was to get us to examine where are hearts are when it comes to how we spend money. For example, if you flip through your checkbook and discover that you spend a thousand dollars a month on makeup, you might value your appearance too much, etc...A quick examination of my spending habits reveals several interesting things:

- Over the past year, my largest creditor, by far, has been the Internal Revenue Service. This reveals the fact that I value my country and my freedom. It also reveals my sincere desire not to be sent to prison.

- Next comes my mortgage. I value the roof over my head. Five more years and she will be paid for!

- Then, something interesting...a category that surprises me. I spend a crazy amount of money on something that my wife refers to as things that bring our family together. I hadn’t really thought about it, but she’s right. 

All parents spend money on their kids. Even when they grow up and move away, we can’t help ourselves. I’m told that it gets even worse once grandkids arrive. Here’s the thing, when you’ve spent twenty something years raising them, then suddenly they’re grown up and independent, it’s hard to break the old habit of buying them stuff, ok? Anyway, I think it’s especially difficult when they move far away. That’s where vacation spending comes in. In my case, it’s all the fault of my father-in-law, Russ White.

Not long after I fell in love with my wife, I got invited to go along with her and her family to Maine for their yearly pilgrimage to a place called Dummer’s Beach. It was a dumpy little campground in the middle of nowhere at the edge of a magnificent mountain lake, the likes of which this Virginian had never seen. The place was magical. I soon learned that this lake had been the summer home of my wife’s family for their entire history. Each and every summer, starting in a tent, the Whites would live at the lake. Russ would make the thirty minute commute to his job during the day for three months...from a freaking tent! As the years went by, they graduated to a pop up camper, then to an RV, but the one thing that didn’t change was...the family was together at Dummer’s Beach. Russ had placed a North Star in his family’s firmament that was as dependable and reliable as the sunrise. They would be together in this place, every summer.

I had never had anything comparable when I was growing up. My family never really took vacations. There were a few here and there, but nothing like the White compound in Maine. While I managed very quickly to fall in love with Maine, what I really fell in love with was the idea of a fixed place and time that was set in stone for...the family. 

I would wind up making at least 25 Dummer’s Beach trips. Russ and Vi can’t make the long trip as often anymore. So, ten years ago, Pam and I discovered MidCoast Maine, and have started our own tradition. Now, it’s gotten almost ridiculous...this year we will spend six weeks up there. There are no tents...we rent fabulous lake houses large enough to accommodate my kids and our friends. It costs a lot of money, money that could be spent perhaps more wisely elsewhere. But, each summer, there’s a place for my family to gather. All the kids have to do is...get up there. We provide the rest. It’s something that they have always been able to count on in their lives...summers in Maine. As long as I’m alive, it will always be so. When grandkids arrive, they will be introduced to the wonders of Maine.

It’s not just me and my family. Russ’s North Star has also inspired my extended Dunnevant family to establish our own summer vacation traditions. Many years ago, inspired in part by Pam’s Maine stories, the Dunnevant’s started going to the beach for a week in the summer. The first such beach house rental was a hell hole dump in Sandbridge. Now, each house is a multi-story mansion with eight bedrooms and a swimming pool. Twenty of us descend on the place for a week every other year. It has become its own tradition and holds a special place in the family lore. It’s crazy, chaotic and cramped...and great fun!

So, when it’s time for me to write those staggering checks to the rental company in Maine, I blame Russ White. He’s the one who first set down this marker. He’s the one who demonstrated what it means to prioritize family, and create lifelong memories that revolve around not just family, but...place. I will forever be in his debt.

Naming Your Small Group

If you’ve spent much time in Church recently, you’ve been introduced to the organizational tool that has swept practically all of Christendom...the small group. Actually, precisely what to call the thing isn’t exactly clear. Small group. Life group. Family group. It’s all over the map. Essentially it serves the same purpose as a Sunday School class used to, only it meets during the week in someone’s home instead of at church... and food is involved.

I’ve been a part of one of these groups for over a year now. It’s Pam and me and four other couples. Sadly, I am the oldest of the ten members, a sad and irksome fact of life I have reluctantly come to accept. However, ours is not one of those multi-generational small groups we keep hearing about. No...there are no young couples with toddlers running around, nobody on Social Security. We are all in pretty much the same stage of life. We all have either grown children or children on the cusp of independence. We all take turns hosting  our gatherings, and during most of the year we meet three or four times a month, during the summer, a bit more sporadically. We communicate with each other via a nifty little private chat room app called GroupMe, which our fearless leader, Chip the Engineer, accidentally referred to as “Grope”Me one night, and the name has stuck! Anyway, we get on there to organize meals and whatnot, and also just to keep in touch during the week. Well, last night was a GropeMe highlight. One of our members brought up the fact that she doesn’t know what to call...”us”...home group reminds her of a nursing home, small group sounds like kindergarten, and life group sounds too pretentious. We need a snappy name, she said! 

Chip the Engineer’s wife sent us a link to an article which offered potential names for small groups...so apparently we aren’t the only ones thrashing around for snappy names! As the oldest member of the group, I found all of the names in this article highly offensive, since they were all derisive of older people...Geri-Actives and sizzling seniors. Somebody threw out...Hope Geezers, and The Pacemakers. Then it degenerated rapidly from there. We have several golfers in the group, so someone suggested, The Swingers...which I kinda liked because it seemed just questionable enough to make it interesting! After thirty minutes of this, no decision was made, so at this point we remain nameless.

So, our last meeting was just this past Thursday at our house. Our rule for the summer months is that whoever hosts the meeting is responsible for leading the devotion, or bible study portion...so this one fell to me. I decided to lead a discussion on the significance of the Seven Deadly Sins vs The Cardinal Virtues... a sort of compare and contrast kind of thing. I gave Chip the Engineer a heads up about the content so he could prepare some power pointish slides for illustration purposes. So, after dinner, I start in with the lesson and his first slide pops up on the screen...

The Seven Daily Sins

Set aside for a moment the fact that our fearless leader is now responsible for two epic Freudian slips. More importantly, this second one gave me a great idea for a proper name for us... The Dyslexics!!

Just in case some of you are wondering just how theologically sound and doctrinally vigorous our studies are, the following slide is illustrative... 

Postpartum Depression

Have puppies, they said.

Build a legacy, they said.

It will be fun, they said.

This photograph is either the best ever illustration of postpartum depression, or the perfect representation of exactly how public school teachers must feel during the last week of school...

So, I sent this photograph to my daughter on this, her last day of the school year with her students, and immediately we began a back and forth competition on who could come up with the best caption...

Kaitlin: Why in the heck are we having a meeting after these pups have been dismissed for the summer?

Me: In case you’re wondering, I will not be taking any crap off of anyone today.

Kaitlin: Are they sucking away my milk or my life force?

Kaitlin: I feel like my job is doing this metaphorically.

Me: You seriously want me to catch a frisbee from you right now?

The Coolest

My church is just the coolest...

Ok, Pam and I had no sooner finally taken the plunge and joined Hope Church, when a new sermon series was launched entitled, Healthy Money. I’m thinking, Great...what is this, some sort of cosmic bait and switch? Two years at Hope as a visitor and I don’t hear squat about money, we sign on the dotted line and bamm, here it comes!! As a preacher’s kid and professional skeptic, I have become jaded over the years to pleas for cash from the pulpit. I generally consider sermons about money as mostly exercises in church fundraising, kind of like those annoying 24 hour PBS beg-a-thons you have to endure every once in a while. So, it was with great trepidation that I attended church three weeks ago to hear Pete Bowell introduce the four week series. The next week it was David Dwight’s turn, last week, Nicole Unice. Three weeks in and I have heard narry a peep about tithing. Not only that, not one word has been said about the church’s finances. Maybe they are saving all of that for this week’s finale? Maybe, but so far this has been a decidedly unique money series epitomized by last week’s message by the estimable Nicole Unice, which I will attempt to summarize...

According to Nicole, the primary reason that we all need to get our crap together when it comes to money is that it frees us up to get in on the real thrill of...giving it away! Generosity is one of the most powerful concepts in Christianity, and if we are mortgaged to the hilt we miss out on the joy that comes with giving. It’s important to point out at this point that she was not talking about giving it away...to the church...necessarily. No, she was talking about something else entirely. As illustration she asked all of us to look under our chairs for a white envelope. There were two such envelopes, each containing a $50 bill. Then this...

If you found this $50, your assignment this week is to pay attention to the people around you. Keep your eye open for a chance to give this money away. Seek to be sensitive to those around you who may need a small miracle, and then follow the promptings of the Holy Spirit.....or something like that.

She went on to challenge the rest of us. In a church like Hope, everyone is in a different financial place. Some of us can afford to be generous with more than $50 bucks, others, like teenagers and young parents with toddlers, it might only be $10 or even $5. Whatever the amount is doesn’t matter, the point being...something that is sacrificial. She then instructed us all to go to the bank and get that amount out, fold it up and place it in our wallet. Then spend the week looking for a chance to give it away. If the scripture is to be believed, the stories that will come flying back to us as a result of this outbreak of generosity will be amazing, and spur even more enthusiastic giving. 

I love this sort of thing, always have. Being in a position to be a blessing to struggling people has always been one of the most fulfilling things to do with money. So, I obediently went to the ATM and withdrew a C-note. So far, no opportunity has presented itself. I mean, I live in the west end of Richmond in one of the most affluent suburbs in Virginia. It’s not like I’m surrounded by hard luck stories. But then I read this morning where Kate Spade, famous handbag designer was found hanged in her grand New York City apartment...a suicide. It serves as a stunning reminder that everyone, and I mean everyone...is fighting invisible battles. I need to look harder, look past the facades.

Anyway, nothing yet, but I’m excited for the opportunity and thankful for the reminder from the pastors of my very awesome and relevant church that everything I have been given in this life is a gift and I hold it in in trust. God doesn’t need my money, but he needs my willingness to use it for something more noble than my own comfort. 

An Observation and a Birthday

Here’s something I’ve noticed about life, although good news feels better than bad news, bad news clarifies the mind. A bad report performs the valuable service of cleaning out frivolous thoughts from your head and replacing them with more rational, sober ones...a not entirely bad thing. Of course, too much bad news can lead to despair, but an occasional broadside of alarm can snap you out of dangerously pollyannish thinking. 

In my line of work, for example, a sharp and sudden sell-off in the equity markets can serve as a reality check for a new investor who has never lived through a major bear market. Watch your portfolio crater in on itself by 25% over two or three weeks and suddenly your internal fantasy math about how you’re going to retire with 5 million at age 45 come crashing down to earth. But this principle works in other areas of life as well. Your first unexpected health scare can shake you out of bad eating habits faster than a thousand lectures from friends. One terrifying flutter of the heart will suddenly convince you that eating a box of donuts every time you feel like it might not be a wise long term diet plan. But, without that terrifying flutter, ignorance is bliss.

So yeah...bad news can be the great clarifier, the mother of correction, you might say.

Just an observation on this 5th day of June. 

Speaking of which, something happened on this day 62 years ago which most definitely was not bad news. My sister, Paula, was born. In her life she has been my playmate, buddy and friend. She has been my ally in pitched battles with our two older siblings. She has been my sounding board, a debating partner and for a couple of years back in the day, a roommate. She has been a proud and doting aunt to my children, a dear friend to my wife, and wicked-good cook and hostess. She can be irrational and overwrought at times, but she is seldom if ever in doubt, the signature trait of all The Dunnevant clan. Like my other siblings, she has always and will always have my back. So, on this day, I wish her the best and happiest birthday.

Wedding Fashion and Me

There are a great many things in this world about which I know nothing, in many cases, less than nothing. But, perhaps there is no single thing that my education, training and experience has taught me less about than the subject of proper wedding attire. Since this is the week that Pam and I are charged with buying our wedding outfits, I thought I would bring this up.

The problem is that people don’t get dressed up anymore. When I was a boy, for example...men wore suits. Everywhere. All the time. Catch any episode of Leave It To Beaver and you’ll find old Ward sitting in his recliner reading his evening paper...still wearing his suit.  I mean, the dude has worked eight hours, come home, had dinner, listened to Beaver’s latest travails for half and hour, and now he finally gets a minute to read his paper and he’s still wearing the suit he put on 14 hours ago! Occasionally, he would let his freak flag fly by taking off his jacket and replacing it with a sweater, but never once would he dare remove his tie. Church? No man in his right mind would show up at the Lord’s house without a suit. There was even a term for this dress code...your Sunday Best. Now, the only time you see suits on guys is when somebody dies, or at a downtown law office...which is kind of the same thing.

Now, I don’t think this is entirely a bad thing. I’ve never been comfortable in suits. I have a half dozen of them in my closet in various stages of fashionable-ness. But the problem with the decline of the dress suit is when it’s time to dress up for something like a wedding. What’s appropriate? What would be considered too dressy? You don’t want to show up looking like a pallbearer, or worse, a lawyer!

Of course, picking out a suit for the father of the groom is child’s play compared to the land mine-strewn landscape of mother of the groom dresses. I mean that decision has more psychological undertones, emotional moving parts and status trap doors than Donald Trump’s Twitter feed. So, I don’t envy my wife this week. I just need to make the proper choice. Something casually dressy. 

Here’s what I’m thinking...

I’ve always had a secret desire to buy a seer sucker suit. It’s cool, southern, and makes a statement...I know I’m supposed to be dressed up for this event, but in my heart I’d rather be in jeans and a t-shirt, so here I am following the letter of the law but being quietly defiant. Admit it, when you’re attending a serious event, which guy do you think is most likely carrying a flask? The guy in the seer sucker suit, that’s who! The thing that has always held me back from going full seer sucker is the fact that in my mind these are old guy suits...even this absurdly handsome model has gray hair! But, now that I’m 60, that hurdle has been jumped, so maybe it’s time. Of course, this seer sucker thing only works if it doesn’t conflict with the official palette of colors assigned to the Dunnevant-Upchurch wedding, or so I am told. Ultimately I will buy only the suit that meets with the approval of my wife, and I am grateful, not resentful of this fact. Having the expert input of Pam Dunnevant assures me that when I show up at the event nobody will be whispering, What the heck was he thinking??

Lucy’s Latest Lunacy

It has not been a great 30 Days for Lucy the Lunatic. May featured record breaking amounts of rain along with accompanying thunder and lightening, which sends our girl into bouts of emotional and psychological torment. During these storms there are only two locations in our house that offer even the slightest fig leaf of security...the small gap between our sofa and coffee table, and the space between the pillows on our bed. Generally speaking, around ten minutes before the arrival of a storm, Lucy will deposit herself in one of these safe spaces to ride out the horror. When the storms occur in the middle of the night, Pam and I will be awakened by the sudden presence of Lucy, jamming her nose as far under the space between our pillows as possible. Then, our bed is transformed into what feels like one of those vibrating beds in cheap motels where you pop a quarter into the box for five minutes of...well, of...never mind. Anyway, Lucy’s entire body endures one shaking wave after another until the storm passes. Occasionally, we will find evidence the next morning of urinary malfunction in usually obscure locations.

But, Lucy’s fear of thunderstorms is not what this blog is about. No, no...Lucy’s psychoses are much deeper and varied than that. Her new thing is her bizarre mealtime ritual. It started several months ago for no apparent reason that either of us can think of. Out of nowhere she started being spooked by her food bowl, or something. Pam experimented with several new locations for the terrifying bowl and finally settled on a weird location that allows her to eat while looking out the windows of the back door. This particular view seemed to cure the jitters. But, a new pathology has now arrived on the scene whereby she refuses to eat until at least one of us, ideally both of us are in a seated position. Yes, you heard that right. Lucy now requires a rapt audience in order to eat.

Ok...here’s the thing. I have had dogs literally all of my life, and the one thing they have all had in common was a combination of voracious appetite and atrocious manners. You’ve all seen it...every meal you give your dog they act like they haven’t eaten in weeks, kibble flying all over the place as they inhale the entire bowl in five seconds! Lucy, on the other hand, acts like she’s doing us a favor by eating. She will pause grandly and gaze down upon her kibble with barely concealed contempt, then let out a plaintive sigh of resignation before daintily placing a single morsel into her mouth. Then she takes a leaisurely stroll to the nearest rug where she deposits the morsel, as if inspecting it for defects, before finally taking it up again, reluctantly. Then there’s an indifferent return to the food bowl, one more disappointed inspection, and finally she will partake. In what I consider to be deliberate defiance, she almost always leaves a couple of morsels in the bottom of the bowl just to let us know of her official ambivalence. And now, she is insisting that we both sit down while she eats. 

If Lucy were a person, she would be our 10th grade teenage daughter!!

The New Normal

Being an American has suddenly become freaking exhausting. With the dawn of each day comes some new public insult about which I am supposed to be outraged. Some B-lister says something offensive on Twitter, and all hell breaks loose. Boycotts get formed. Demands for firing ring out on social media. Then, someone from the other tribe starts with the charges of hypocrisy, since just a few weeks/months ago some B-lister from the other tribe said something offensive but they still have a job. Then it becomes a contest about which insult was more grevious. Is sexism worse than racism? What about homophobia? Where does it rank on the hierarchy of offense? Once it becomes a debate about who is at the top of the greviance totem pole, then it’s full on war. How dare you complain about mere sexism, when I have to deal with systemic racism? Then somebody on Twitter points out that they carry the quadruple burden of being a disabled, lesbian, immigrant person of color. Immediately, a GoFundMe page gets established, and straight, white, woke males are strongly encouraged to belly up to the reparations bar and fork it over. 

Literally every day in my country, somebody, somewhere is pissing somebody else off. No sooner had we settled in to the Rosanne Barr thing when Samantha Bee steps up to the megaphone for her fifteen minutes of fame. Then, out of nowhere, people from my tribe start ringing their hands over someone named Joy Reid. (I’ll have to take their word for it, but apparently she’s on TV in the morning.) After Googling her I discover that she has a history of homophobic social media posts. When they first came to light, she claimed that nefarious actors had hacked her, (the my dog ate my homework excuse for the digital age). Whatever. Eventually, it all blew over, and she’s back in business...I think. Anyway, this was given as evidence of liberal hypocrisy...or something. In America it’s getting to the place where if we didn’t have double standards, we wouldn’t have any standards at all!

The thing is...I just can’t keep up with it all. I don’t think I’m much different from anyone else in that as a human being I have a limited reservoir of outrage. I can’t live my entire life being buffeted from one insult to another. At some point, for self preservation purposes, I have to decide to let stuff go. I mean, if I hear someone like Rosanne Barr say something stupid and offensive, don’t I have to consider the source? Do I have a reasonable expectation that a gasbag like Barr wouldn’t say something stupid and offensive? No, I do not. It’s what she does. Every B-lister that lands in the news for outrageous comments all have one thing in common...they are all desperately competing for eyeballs. With the proliferation of social media, and the millions of voices it magnifies, civility and kindness just wont do if you want to make a splash. In the old days the saying went...the squeaky wheel gets the grease. Today, at least on social media, it’s more like...the provocateur gets the clicks. When we allow ourselves to be offended by them, they are empowered, and we are reduced.

Of course, I can already hear the reaction to this view...That’s easy for you to say! You’re a straight, white, male, small business-owning, Christian, libertarian-leaning suburbanite. What the hell do you know??!! Probably nothing.

There’s an awful lot of blame to go around for the shocking disappearance of basic decency in our public discourse. It’s been slipping away for years. But, I feel confident that the current occupant of the White House shares a respectable amount of responsibility for its recently dramatic decay. The first Tweeting President has sowed the wind with a million juvenile rants and petty insults. Now, we are all reaping the whirlwind. The question is, how do we ever put the genie back in the bottle after he’s gone? I don’t think we can. This is and forever will be...the new normal. Yay.

Thanks, Mr. President

You would forget your head if it wasn’t attached to your shoulders...was a common accusation hurled at me by my sainted mother. I was always dashing off to school and leaving some vital thing at the house. More often my forgetfulness centered around some chore she had ordered me to complete which I had left undone. Selective amnesia, she called it. It wasn’t as if I didn’t have a powerful enough memory. I could recite the starting lineup of the 1969 Mets in game six of the World Series, backwards...still can. You need someone to remember the name of some obscure character from Twelfth Night, or if you’re having trouble recalling the name of the winning general from the Battle of Malvern Hill, I’m your guy. In other words, when it comes to useless mind-cluttering minutia and inane trivia, I’ve got a mind like a steel trap. But if you need to remember something consequential like a password, or where you left your car keys, or that 10:30 doctor’s appointment? Not so much. Turning 60 recently hasn’t helped in the mental acuity department, since now I instinctively blame the calendar for every error I make. But, yesterday, I found encouragement from the oddest source...Abraham Lincoln. In my Memorial Day readings, I stumbled across...this:

Executive Mansion,
Washington, Nov. 21, 1864.

Dear Madam,

I have been shown in the files of the War Department a statement of the Adjutant General of Massachusetts that you are the mother of five sons who have died gloriously on the field of battle.

I feel how weak and fruitless must be any words of mine which should attempt to beguile you from the grief of a loss so overwhelming. But I cannot refrain from tendering to you the consolation that may be found in the thanks of the Republic they died to save.

I pray that our Heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your bereavement, and leave you only the cherished memory of the loved and lost, and the solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of Freedom.

Yours, very sincerely and respectfully,
A. Lincoln.

At age 56, a mere six months prior to being assassinated, and having endured perhaps the most brutal three years of any presidency before or since, Abraham Lincoln turned out this stunningly beautiful bit of writing. In three short paragraphs, four sentences, he demonstrated for the entire nation what presidential leadership looks like. Over 150 years later, his words still stir the heart and soul. The eloquence. The epic tenderness. This is unrivaled writing. To read it, even now, is to be transported through time and space and dropped in the middle of an unparalleled tragedy, and to feel the freshness of the open wound that was the American Civil War. 

So, reading something this profoundly beautiful, written by a man under unimaginable stress, gives me great hope that whatever issues I might be dealing with can and will be overcome. 

Weddings, Funerals and Reunions

Now that Memorial Day is over, the Dunnevant family can officially be considered in full wedding-mode. There remain a mere 32 Days left before my son, Patrick Dunnevant marries the lovely and talented Sarah Upchurch in Nashville, Tennessee. Between that day and this lies a great chasm which can only be crossed through a terrifying gauntlet of caterers, event planners, photographers and incompetent hotel staff. But, cross it we will.

In the history of a family there are only a handful of things that bring everyone together in one place, and two of them are somewhat unpleasant...funerals and family reunions. Although, in recent years I have warmed to the reunion thing, generally speaking, they wouldn’t make my top ten list of fun things to do. Funerals, on the other hand, almost without exception, are dreadful things, full of sadness and weeping and featuring long lines of people waiting for a two minute opportunity to say something comforting to the bereaved, a ghastly business. But weddings? Now you’re talking! They are celebrations, an opportunity to gather together to eat and drink and shower young people with gifts and advice. The trouble with weddings is that they are a lot like sausage...nobody wants to see how they are put together. The truth is, weddings are logistical nightmares even in the best of circumstances. But, when you’re 600 miles away from the venue, it’s even worse. Thanks to the invention of texting and FaceTime we are making slow but sure progress. I say we when what I actually mean is...Pam, of course, but you already knew that.

As difficult as these things are to plan, organize and execute, once the day arrives it will be over with in a flash. We will then be left with our memories and hopefully several epic photographs. It will be worth all the effort and expense. A new daughter will be welcomed into the family and a new source of stories added to the family lore.

Then, we get to spend three weeks of rehab in Maine. Yes!!!

What’s So Great About America?

Freedom of Religion, Speech, and the Press

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion or prohibiting the free exercise thereof, or abridging the freedom of speech or of the press, or the right of the people peaceably to assemble and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.

The Right to Bear Arms

A well-regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.

The Housing of Soldiers

No soldier shall, in time of peace, be quartered in any house without the consent of the owner, nor in time of war but in a manner to be prescribed by law.

Protection from Unreasonable Searches and Seizures

The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects against unreasonable searches and seizures shall not be violated, and no warrants shall issue but upon probable cause, supported by oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched and the persons or things to be seized.

Protection of Rights to Life, Liberty, and Property

No person shall be held to answer for a capital or otherwise infamous crime unless on a presentment or indictment of a grand jury, except in cases arising in the land or naval forces, or in the militia, when in actual service in time of war or public danger; nor shall any person be subject for the same offense to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb; nor shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself, nor be deprived of life, liberty, or property without due process of law; nor shall private property be taken for public use without just compensation.

Rights of Accused Persons in Criminal Cases

In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial by an impartial jury of the state and district wherein the crime shall have been committed, which district shall have been previously ascertained by law, and to be informed of the nature and cause of the accusation; to be confronted with the witnesses against him; to have compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in his favor; and to have the assistance of counsel for his defense.

Rights in Civil Cases

In suits at common law, where the value in controversy shall exceed twenty dollars, the right of trial by jury shall be preserved, and no fact tried by a jury shall be otherwise reexamined in any court of the United States than according to the rules of the common law.

Excessive Bail, Fines, and Punishments Forbidden

Excessive bail shall not be required, nor excessive fines imposed, nor cruel and unusual punishments inflicted.

Other Rights Kept by the People

The enumeration in the Constitution of certain rights shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by the people.

Undelegated Powers Kept by the States and the People

The powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the states, are reserved to the states respectively, or to the people.

On his Memorial Day, I think it fitting that people be reminded what all the fuss is about. The reason we rightfully revere those who have paid the ultimate price is because they died defending a great and noble thing, the American Constitution. This is what makes America Great, and any attempt to make America great again must begin and end with a renewed devotion to this Bill of Rights. 

Even the most casual reader of these ten amendments will notice that the rights listed are intended to restrain government power. These rights are reserved for the people...individuals, and each of them make it more difficult for government to enact it’s will. For this reason, potential tyrants from the right and left have been frustrated by them, hamstrung in their desires to run roughshod over individual liberties, to which I say...thank God.

So, give them a thoughtful read on this day. Ponder which of them mean the most to you, and what your life might be like without these protections. Then be grateful to live in a nation with something worth dying for.

The Cure For Vanity

I had just finished up a rigorous Friday afternoon workout, an hour and a half affair of muscle-toning weight training followed by a 3.5 mile run outside in the heat. There was prodigious amounts of natural sweating produced by all of this activity, then some cheap sweat from a fifteen minute session in the steam room. Nevertheless, I was feeling quite accomplished by the time I got home, reasoning that few 60 year olds would put themselves through such a regimen. I was not allowing myself to give in to the relentless physical decline which comes with age. I was raging against the dying of the light, to butcher a little Dylan Thomas. Part of my workout routine is the result of genuine concern for my ongoing health. But, honestly...most of it springs from vanity. This is the one downside of marrying someone younger and more beautiful than you. You’ve got to keep up, man.

So, I get back to the house, throw on a nice pair of dress shorts and a stylish shirt and eagerly await my wife’s return from her Friday afternoon volunteer shift at Hope Thrift. It is our night to go out for dinner. Tonight would be a date with Mission Barbecue, and I wanted to look my best for her, determined to put my best face forward, so to speak.

We arrive at MB on this gorgeous evening where, as usual, the food is sensational. I ordered something new...cheese and jalapeño infused sausage, along with my usual sides of macaroni and cheese and kickin collard greens. Things were going very well. Pam looked great and I was keeping up. Then, out of nowhere, it happened. I started feeling something happening to my face. It was subtle at first, but then more noticeable. I excused myself and retreated to the bathroom on a reconnaissance mission. The mirror revealed that it was not, in fact, my imagination. Something was happening to my right eye, and that something involved swelling.

Now, at this point I suppose I could share a picture of my eye for illustration purposes, but my vanity and self respect argue against that idea. Words will have to suffice. Simply stated, it’s as if someone with a hypodermic needle decided to fill my eyelid, along with the place normally occupied by dark circles, with water. The resulting image is quite disgusting, making me look like Joe Frazier after the Thrilla in Manila. So, now instead of a semi-handsome, well preserved husband, Pam has to look across the table at a guy who is looking more and more like Elephant Man with each passing hour. This morning, it is much worse, a disturbing sight. I have taken Benadryl and administered eye drops, so far without positive result.

This isn’t the first time this has happened to me. Several times I have come down with grotesquely swollen eyes. The cause remains a mystery, and no remedy has been found. It just runs its course, taking its good old time. Meanwhile, I wear dark sunglasses and remind myself that this too shall pass. Luckily, my wife understands that beauty is more than skin deep, and in my case...way more!!

Photographs and a Birthday

One of the great and eternal privileges of parenthood is the authority it bestows upon us to embarrass our children. We are greatly assisted in this endeavor by the existence of old photographs. You parents out there know what I mean...not this new crop of digitized, perfectly framed, edited, posed and photoshopped things that people call photos today. No, I’m talking about the old 35m click and hope photos from the old days. You remember, right? One of the kids would have a birthday party and you would take an entire roll of shots, drop them off at the Kodak booth, wait a week to get them back, only to discover that half of them featured junior picking his nose.

I bring this up for two reasons. First, Pam has been tasked with gathering pictures of our son from his youth for use in a rehearsal dinner slideshow at his upcoming wedding. Secondly, today is Patrick’s birthday. I have spent a large part of this morning combing through several Creative Memories picture albums that my wife lovingly and creatively assembled back in the day. To do such a thing is risky business. Part of you is delighted by the memories and overcome by the realization of just how wonderful has been your life. But another part of you becomes plagued by longing and nostalgia for a time which is gone forever. Photo albums will do that.

But, here are a few of my favorites where my son is concerned...

It’s hard to believe that he was ever this small. 

This was from one of the Dunnevant Beach vacations. Some nights, after the kids had gotten their baths and put on their t-shirt jammies, we would take them down to the beach and turn them loose, making them promise not to get dirty. If ever there was a better feeling than watching them run on the beach, I can’t imagine what it was.

Actually, maybe it was this...a cup of hot chocolate while watching the sun set on Webb Lake in Maine.

This was one of Patrick’s Halloween costumes, probably hand made by his grandmother. He was Tigger this particular year...bouncy, trouncy, flouncy, pouncy, fun, fun, fun, fun, fun...

He is a fully grown man and I am very proud of him. But, for me, a part of him will always be the little boy in these grainy photographs.

Upon Further Review...

Earlier this afternoon, I had what can only be described as a surreal encounter during a routine commute from my house to my office. As is my custom, I had gone home for lunch, and was in the middle of my short drive back to the office in that dazed stupor into which we fall when driving familiar routes. My mind was a thousand miles from the section of Three Chopt Road just after you pass Pocahontas Middle School, heading east, when suddenly it occurred to me that there was a small backup in my lane. I tapped on the brakes and snapped out of my reverie long enough to ascertain the bizarre fact that this particular backup was being caused by the presence of a naked man standing in the middle of the road. 

Now, it’s not every day when you find yourself in this sort of situation. Looking back on the events of 1:25-1:30 this afternoon with the benefit of hindsight, perhaps I should have responded differently. Here’s how it went down...

So, I look up and see a very large, heavy set black man standing au’natural in the middle of Three Chopt Road and the first thought that pops into my head is...Is his house on fire? I know, that’s a weird thought, but I’m thinking that maybe he was in the middle of taking a shower and smelled smoke, then saw the flames and immediately ran out of the house to escape. Then I think, For someone who’s house is on fire, he sure is calm! No, this guy didn’t have a care in the world. He had a calm expression on his face, and seemed totally unaware of his nakedness, betraying not one iota of self consciousness. 

My fellow commuters slowed down cautiously as they approached him, not sure if he would suddenly bolt in front of their moving vehicles. This seemed a prudent response, since I believe it fair to question the mental stability of anyone standing buck naked in the middle of a busy street. By the time my car was pulling even with the guy, he suddenly began a leisurely stroll across three lanes of traffic, heading blissfully towards West Broad Village where perhaps they go in for this sort of thing. And just like that, I was on my way, trying to grasp what it was that I just saw, and battling mightily to erase the image of a 300 pound naked man from my memory.

When I got to my office, I reported this strange tale to my enraptured colleagues. Then I added a post on Facebook:

You can add...”I just saw a large, completely naked black man slow walking across Three Chopt Road”...to the list of things I never thought I would say.

Now, upon further review, perhaps I should have had a different response. My wife demanded to know why I didn’t call the police, since there was a giant naked man a mere two hundred yards from a Middle School. Maybe, if I hadn’t been so taken aback by the spectacle of the thing, it would have occurred to me to pull over and see if this poor man needed assistance, not to mention a decent pair of pants. 

Ok, for one thing, white people have had a bad few weeks lately when it comes to calling the police on black people. The last thing in this world I need right now is to get involved in anything that opens me up to accusations of racism...You only called the police because he was black!!! But, the more I think about this strange afternoon, the dumber that explanation sounds. Of the four descriptive adjectives I used in my Facebook post to describe the subject, the only one which adds nothing of interest to the narrative was black. I’m pretty sure that a naked white man would have been equally bizarre. A naked woman might have made it even crazier. 

Looking back, I do wonder about the guy. I hope he’s ok. He’s probably some poor man with mental problems who is off his meds. I saw nothing on the local news about him, so maybe he wandered back home and didn’t get hurt. I hope so, at least.

So, the moral of the story is that people sometimes don’t do their best thinking when confronted with public nudity...the bottom line, as it were.

Hats Off To The Park Service

Regular readers of this space are well aware of my negative opinion where government spending is concerned, specifically, that much of it is either tragically stupid or eaten through with malfeasance. So when someone like me stumbles upon an example of government spending which is at once wise and beneficial, fairness dictates that I give credit where it is due.

The last couple of days found Pam and me celebrating our anniversary at a delightful Inn just outside of Lexington, Virginia called House Mountain. We had discovered this place 12 years ago when it had just opened, and this time, we hardly recognized the place. The years have been good to this family owned luxury destination. 

So, when I was researching things to do while we were here I noticed that Natural Bridge was only thirty minutes away. It is a profound embarrassment for me to have to admit that despite being a Virginian by birth and a lifelong resident of the Commonwealth, I have never visited the place about which Thomas Jefferson said... “Natural bridge, the most sublime of Nature’s works ... so beautiful an arch, so elevated, so light, and springing as it were up to heaven, the rapture of the spectator is really indescribable!” Although once surveyed by a young George Washington and later bought by Thomas Jefferson, the site is currently a State Park, efficiently administered and impeccably maintained by the State of Virginia. A labyrinth of hiking trails ribbon through the park, each meticulously groomed to accommodate everyone from toddlers to octogenarians. There’s a living history exhibit of a Monocan Indian village, manned by ancestors of that tribe. The visitor’s center and all other structures of the park are beautiful, white columned structures in the Federal style. The staff are friendly and helpful, the facilities, everything from the bathrooms to the gift shop are first rate. For one twenty dollar ticket, I got access to the park and a tour of the caverns, a half a mile up the road. The Natural Bridge caverns, while not as stunning or famous as the caverns up the road at Luray, were an amazing site to see, especially since our tour guide was a delightfully smart and hilarious young woman who combined meticulous knowledge of her subject with a stream of one liners that had us all laughing out loud.

Most things in this world are done better in the private sector. This is an opinion forged from a lifetime of bitter experience. But, as we made our way through this gorgeous property, I couldn’t help thinking what an incredible job the park service has done here, and how horrible it would be if the rights to this natural wonder had fallen into the hands of, say...Amazon or Google. I spent several hours here and nobody tried to sell me anything. I was left alone to marvel at the beauty and majesty of creation on artfully constructed trails. Every so often along the way, signposts were there to provide explanation or background. This place belongs to all Virginians, and the park system sees to it that it stays that way. There will be no development here, no future hotels or casinos, no time shares or other ghastly commercial projects. Thank God in Heaven.

I may not always approve of the things that my taxes finance. But, when it comes to places like this...I’m happy to pay and very proud of the results. 

Actually, Division of Labor IS Romantic!

Over the years people have often asked me to explain my successful marriage to them. What’s the secret to staying with someone happily for so long, they will ask. I’ve never been good at supplying an answer, partly because I don’t want to jinx the thing, but mostly because it’s not just one thing. There is no silver bullet, and if there were, I would have misplaced it along with my car keys years ago! The other thing is, I’m not even sure I completely understand why Pam and I have gotten along so well for these 34 years. Maybe it’s all just dumb, blind luck. But, I suppose if I had to come up with a working theory, I would have to say that the same thing that makes a prosperous economy work is exactly what makes us work...the equitable and efficient division of labor. I know what you’re thinking...how romantic!! Hold on, hear me out...

If you wished to construct a number 2 Pencil, as has been famously illustrated, you would need several laborers all doing specialized tasks. To ask one single person to construct a pencil would be next to impossible. In a marriage there are two laborers, (except during childbirth when there is only one person doing any laboring). I believe that in order to have a happy marriage, each couple has to discover who is good at what and divide the labor accordingly. In the early years this is very much a trial and error proposition, but after awhile individual strengths and weaknesses become more clear. After 34 years, for example, I would never make the mistake of asking Pam to muck about under the house to change the crawl space lightbulb. She, on the other hand, knows better than to ask me to plan an English Tea bridal shower for our future daughter-in-law. That’s just crazy talk. 

So, what follows is a break down of how the jobs are split up around here. Now, lest anyone get the wrong impression, this list of job assignments, while very reliable, is not fool-proof. Just because I’m supposed to be the one who takes out the trash doesn’t mean that I don’t sometimes forget. But, most of the time what follows is accurate. If it isn’t, I’m sure that Pam will vigorously object. If there is a dispute, the tie always goes to the wife...

My Jobs

In 34 years, Pam has never once mowed the lawn. Essentially, everything that happens outside the house involving living things is my domain. I mulch, cut the grass, trim the hedges, get up the leaves, de-poopify the yard when needed...which is all the time, organize and execute the wholesale murder of squirrels, and clean up after storms.

I plan vacations. I’m in charge of working out the details of all of our Maine trips, and also planning getaway weekends for just the two of us. It’s not that Pam wouldn’t be entirely capable of doing this, I just prefer to do it myself because I think it’s fun. Also, I think it’s my job to take the lead in planning adventures.

Generally speaking, I do most of the vacuuming. This isn’t an absolute, sometimes I catch her doing it, but I’m better at it and actually kinda enjoy vacuuming for some odd reason.

I clean up the dishes and load up the dishwasher after dinner. Again, this isn’t absolute either, but probably 90% of the time, I do it. True, often Pam will come behind me and rearrange dishes I have placed into the dishwasher incorrectly, but basically, I clean up the kitchen after dinner. 

I empty the dishwasher first thing every morning while waiting for my coffee to brew.

I clean the bathrooms. Sometimes, when all that is needed is a touch up, she will do it, but most of the time when a full elbow-grease fueled effort is required, I clean the bathrooms. 

I take care of all the car maintenance. I’m no car guy, but my wife wouldn’t know an alternator from a gas cap, so I’m in charge of seeing to it that the cars are properly inspected, the oil gets changed, they are full of gas, and are clean inside and out.

I make 95% of the money that gets made. The first five years of our marriage, Pam was a full time teacher in the Henrico County Schools and all of our benefits were provided by her employer. But once Patrick was born she became a full time, unpaid mother of two, leaving all economic support up to me. 

I pay all the bills.

Pam’s Jobs

Literally, everything else.

She plans the menus, buys the groceries and cooks all of our meals, with the exception of Wednesday night dinner when she may as well have cooked it herself, after laying out step by step instructions for me to follow...her cooking for dummies tutorials are epic!

She is responsible for all the interior decorating that gets done around here.

She makes herself available to both of our grown children at all hours for whatever thing they happen to need, whenever the heck they happen to need it.

She has done literally every single load of laundry that has ever been done in our home for 34 years. It is actually quite embarrassing for me to admit that I am a 60 year old human being who has never done his own laundry...never even once. Although, I should add that I do iron my own clothes.

Anything that needs meticulous planning and cunning persistence falls to Pam. Whether it be keeping up with doctor’s appointments, overseeing home improvement projects or planning family celebrations and dinners, without Pam’s eye for detail, this household would be adrift. She sweats all the details, especially the ones I’m not even aware of.

Pam does 90% of the Christmas shopping/planning. Ditto, birthdays, etc.

Ok, so there you have it. Keep in mind that this is just one theory of what makes for a good marriage. Obviously, there’s a lot more to it, like knowing when to keep your mouth shut, and when you do speak, using kind words. But, the division of labor is a big deal. If all or even most of the work falls on only one person, nothing good happens. 

34 Years

Watching the Royal Wedding with my wife. It’s nice enough. Sunny day. Pretty people. Thirty four years ago on this day, Pam and I got married. It was not royal. There were some pretty people, and it was also a sunny day. Of course, we didn’t have a gospel choir in the back of the church, or celebrities lining the aisles. Our getaway car wasn’t exactly a spotlessly buffed Ascot Landous carriage...more like a three year old 1981 VW Scirocco. But, there wasn’t a single gaudy hat in the entire crowd. 

Still, the single best decision I have ever made, marrying this woman.