A Fish Story

Let me begin by saying that despite recent photographic evidence to the contrary, I am not a fisherman. By this I mean to say that I don’t think of myself as an avid angler. I only take it up once a year...here in Maine. I can’t remember the last time I went fishing back home. It just never occurs to me. But the minute I arrive in Maine, I’m all in. It’s like a temporary obsession. For three weeks, I channel my inner Roland Martin and get after it with great enthusiasm. But it never, ever translates into Virginia.

Anyway, for reasons that remain a mystery to me, I have enjoyed tremendous fishing success in Maine, despite the very clear fact that I don’t know what I’m doing. Whenever I go out in the kayak to fish, I spend literally half of my time trying to untangle the lines, or trying to disengage those confounding triple hooks from either some tree branch, a lily pad, or...most often, some article of my clothing. I would make an excellent outtake reel for one of those fishing television shows. In addition, the thumb and forefinger of my right hand both have taken on the look and feel of raw meat from the sixteen thousand times I have accidentally hooked myself while trying to remove a hook from a fish. It is fair to say then, that describing me as a fisherman would be the equivalent of describing Donald Trump as an Intellectual. If true at all, it would be entirely by accident.

Having said all of this, I must report that yesterday at approximately 11:30 on a sunny but windy morning, the temperature hovering around 50, I stumbled upon the mother of all fishing holes. I took the kayak all the way to the south end of the lake, where the water narrows into a creek, no more than 30 feet wide. At the end of the creek, there’s a small slab of concrete which serves as a dam...

Since I was having a hard time fishing from the kayak because of the power of the wind-driven current, I decided to drag the kayak into the rocky shore and try my luck from the shore line. It was then that I noticed the very deep water on the other side of the dam, the beginnings of Quantabacook Creek, and this perfect little rock placed perfectly amongst some bushes...

At this point, I should mention my good Maine buddy, Alan Smith. He is the husband of one of Pam’s cousins up here, Lisa. We’ve known them for years. Alan actually is a fisherman. He’s forgotten more about catching fish than I will ever know. Last year when we were here, they came to Loon Landing for a visit. When he looked at my tackle box, he took on the facial expression an opera singer might get when hearing a choir of tone deaf bricklayers performing a hip hop version of Handel’s Messiah. It was like...Oh my...Dude, what is all this? It was so bad, he goes to his truck and put together what amounted to a care package...a collection of lures and big-boy fishing tackle, among them...this baby....

He told me that I could use this in places where there might be a lot of sticks and stuff below the surface. This guy floats along the top of the water and doesn’t get hung up...or something. He tutored me in the proper technique of its use. I listened intently, staring at him with partial understanding, picking up every third word or so, nodding my head solemnly.

Up until yesterday’s triumph,the entirety of my catch over the previous 9 Days had been limited to one respectable smallmouth bass, a handful of tiny ones, a yellow perch and one freshwater pike. Then, I stepped up to the rock in the above picture and cast out into the deep. Instantly a fish knocked it out of the water.i was so shocked I snapped a picture...

The second cast yielded the same result. Then a third...each fish a little bigger than the last. Over the next forty minutes I caught 9 largemouth bass, and my clumsiness allowing another five or six to wiggle off the hook. As the frequency of the haul began to slow, I glanced down at my watch and saw that was almost 1:30. Two hours had evaporated in what seemed like an instant. It was easily the most fun I have ever had with a fishing pole in my hand. But, I felt like I needed to get back to the cottage. For one thing, Paula and Ron were due to arrive any minute, and for another, I was starving to death. I kept telling myself that this next cast would be my last. On the very last cast, the fish took the bait almost gently, barely moving the water...but as soon as I pulled back to set the hook I knew that something was different. It was almost as if I had hooked a leather boot. Then suddenly he broke through the water. Good Lord, I thought...I’ve hooked Walter!

For the uninitiated, Walter was the great elusive monster bass which always eluded Henry Fonda’s character from On Golden Pond. Anyway, this fish broke the water three different times in angry defiance. When I finally brought him in I found that he was barely hooked. I took a picture, congratulated him on his valiant fight, and released him back into the best fishing hole in the history of the world. What an incredible two hours!

The Morning

The sun comes up behind us here, creeping up through the tall pines from the back of the cottage. The first evidence is a tinge of color that lights up the northern edges of any thin clouds that remain from the night, then the tops of the trees across the lake. I watch it all unfold every morning because for some reason, I’m awake at 6:00, dependable as the sun. I make my coffee, sit in my chair and watch.

There’s a long, double-gabled house across the lake that gets lit up next. Beside it there’s a small a-frame right on the water which has a window that catches the sunlight just right, turning it into a bright shimmering square for ten minutes or so until the sun continues higher, moving the light further down the lake. Then, the white boat tied to a dock glistens bright as it bobs gently with the morning breeze. It’s never been used since we’ve been here. I kayaked past it the other day and it’s covered by a tight canvas, secured by a series of rusty snaps. Somebody will put it away soon, out of the water before the lake freezes.

The wind blows from the north today. Yesterday it was out of the south. It was 38 when I woke up. Last year when we came here in September we had low 70’s most of our three weeks. This year it’s much cooler, more seasonable actually. The lake looks different in the cold air, although I can’t put my finger on why. It seems more formidable, edgier, more robust, a place not to be trifled with. It’s as if it’s saying...You southerners with your sunny skies and warm autumn afternoons, watching the leaves change in your shirtsleeves, come up here to my lake and expect to work on your tan six days before October? This clean blue water that gently rocks beneath you on this dock will turn into a solid 18 inch block of ice while you guys are complaining about the three inch snowfall in the forecast for Valentine’s Day. Let me give you a hint of what my lake is really all about...

But, the fish are still biting, and my sister and her husband arrive today for a week. They don’t seem disappointed with the cooler forecast. They are looking forward to a week of rest, they say, of just being here. They’ve come to the right place for resting, I think. It’s a strange feeling that comes over me,. I want everyone to come here. I literally want every person I love to come here...at the very same time that I want no one to come here. I want to share this place with everyone and I want it all to myself, generosity doing feverish battle with selfishness. Generosity wins out only because to hoard a place this beautiful seems small and petty. And Quantabacook doesn’t encourage smallness. This is a place for big thoughts, big hearts...and small egos, a place to have your self regard taken down a notch or two, a place you come to fill up your humility bucket. 

The Coywolf of the Baskervilles

Ok...not everything about lake living in Maine is moonlight and magnolias. These lakes can be...kinda creepy.

After last night’s spectacular sunset, and another delicious dinner, my wife and I went to bed. The last thing she says to me is this...

I’m setting my alarm for 7 am. I know that you’ll get up earlier than that. When you do, check out the lake and if it’s good kayaking conditions, go ahead and wake me up.

I hate this type of request. Especially since, for Pam, good kayaking conditions essentially means...anything but a hurricane. I exaggerate...but only a little. So, I wake up at 5:45, make my coffee and see this...

First of all...yes, the dock does look like it is floating in midair. And, yes...the lake is still as glass. But there are two problems with these “kayaking conditions”...that fog and the fact that it is 40 freaking degrees outside. So, what’s a husband to do? I step outside to take the picture above and that’s when I hear a new sound...the mournful howls of either wolves or coyotes coming from the north end of the lake. Any minute I expect Sherlock Holmes to materialize out of the mist, hot on the trail of the Hound of the Baskervilles. Do I dare send my wife out in this?

I go back inside and Google... wolves and coyotes in Maine, and discover that there is rumored to be a new hybrid of these two creatures roaming the Maine woods...the coywolf. Perfect! Leave it to the land of a Stephen King to give birth to a new species of creepiness.

Since sitting down to write this, the lake is transforming before my eyes, as of this moment looking like this...

The blue sky brings a more cheerful vibe. The appearance of the first duck of our stay seems odd. Maybe he also heard the coywolf and decided to head for the safety of the water. And now, the crow of a rooster peels across the glassy depths. Good Lord! Never a dull moment on Quantabacook.

A New Mood

And now...a windy day. It started blowing last night, making strange noises outside in the unique, pitch black darkness of Maine. In September, when most of the cottages on the lake are empty, there are not enough man made lights to compete  with the night, making the darkness feel primeval. On a clear night the stars feel close enough to touch. It’s at night when you are most aware of your status as a visitor, someone from away. During the night a gust of wind made a sharp, screeching noise that woke me up. It was 2 o’clock. I could have drifted back to sleep easily enough, but I was curious. I slid open the door to the deck and felt the fresh wind in my face, cool and damp and smelling like rain. I stepped outside and strained to make out the dock, the edge of the deck...anything. It was like gazing into a dark tunnel of nothing...black as coal. For a moment it brought a suggestion of what it might be like to be blind. I waited for my eyes to adjust. I waited some more. If not for the one house light in the cottage a half a mile across the way, I would have been completely disoriented. I decided to stop fighting it and just stand there with my eyes closed, and let my other senses do the work. The smells of the lake drifted by, spruce trees, the mild briny tang of lake water, the mossy staleness of wet dirt. Then the whistle of the wind in the trees, the rhythmic ripple of waves against the rocky shoreline. I get the distinct impression that this is not my home. But, maybe it could be.

This morning, the sun shines and it’s 63 outside, which will be the highest it gets today, we’re told. Tonight we are in for a low of...40. Each day brings something new here, a different perspective, a different mood. The next two days will just be Pam and me. It will be quieter, lazier, more contemplative. This is good. How many times in life are we afforded the chance for quiet, thoughtful laziness?

Not often enough...

Week One in the Books

Week one on Quantabacook draws to a close today, and what a week it has been. Great weather, terrific food, and this incredible lake have combined to give us a wonderful seven days. We’ve tooled around in Camden, visited a lighthouse, had blueberry pancakes, clam chowder, and lobster rolls. We have kayaked, paddle boarded, fished, and swam. We’ve had three campfires, played Mexican Train and Farkle, read books and enjoyed at least ten meals Al fresco. Oh...and we’ve enjoyed the great company of these guys...

Gordon and Leigh Ann Fort have listened to us brag about Maine for over ten years now. Bringing them here for a week was fraught with great risk. Would this place live up to all of our non-stop hype? Unless the both of them are world class liars, they seem to have loved everything about Maine nearly as much as we do. Gordon has put me to shame in the fishing department, pulling in fish like Roland Martin on steroids. Of course, the vast majority of his haul has taken place safely hidden from anyone’s view, while he slips around some forgotten cove in his kayak. Nevertheless, I know when I’ve been licked. Well done, bud.

So, today they both head to the airport to fly home. It will be just Pam and me for a few days, then Ron and Paula roll in Monday. This will give me time to recover from an unfortunate mishap which occurred on yesterday’s morning run. I was at the 1.5 mile mark and just hitting my stride, enjoying a great run, when something popped in my right calf. At first I thought it was just a Charlie-horse type cramp, but it never went away, and I spent the rest of the day limping around, not being able to put any weight on my toes. This. Or I gotta it’s better, but still tender. By the time Monday rolls around it should be good as new. So for this weekend, I’ll have to restrict myself to more sedentary pursuits...kayaking, fishing, reading and eating...ie, the same exact things I’ve been doing since I got here...minus the running!

My Mistake

Our first taste of bad weather arrived last night. As we sat around a cozy fire, a mere ten feet from the water’s edge, we saw heat lightening across the lake flashing sporadically, revealing a bank of menacing clouds. Soon, the wind changed direction and freshened. Before long our cottage was being lashed with sheets of rain. This morning, the skies are low and cloudy, the water is up and it’s barely 50, with a stiff breeze. Not a lake day, so we will go exploring.

This morning, as I surveyed the scene, my guard dropped for a moment and I made the mistake of pulling up the news on my iPad. All of the screaming headlines were of Kavanaugh and a decades old allegation of sexual misconduct of some kind. There was wrangling over when the accuser would be heard and why the Dems withheld this information until the closing days of the hearings. Hillary Clinton, who can always be counted on at times like this to offer clueless, irony-free comments, opined that Kavanaugh’s accuser...deserves the benefit of the doubt.  Juanita Broaddrick, Kathleen Willey, Paula Jones, and Monica Lewinsky could not be reached for comment.

Setting aside the question of guilt or innocence in this matter for a minute...I’m staring to think that the most terrifying words in the English language for any judge in America are...Congratulations! The President wants to nominate you to the Supreme Court! Who, in their right mind would want to endure the kangaroo court/character assassination/clown show that is the Judicial Committee Confirmation Hearings?? Let alone, subject your entire family to it??

Listen, I don’t really have an opinion on Kavanaugh. He’s a judge, man. What do I know about legal philosophy? Nothing. And neither do any of these preening Senators, who only know what their party talking points tell them. Like all judges, the man has a paper trail of decisions and opinions, some of which I would probably agree with, some not. But, he seems smart enough and qualified by education, training and experience. Here’s what I do know...since he was nominated by a Republican President, the Dems are doing everything in their power to prevent his confirmation, including, apparently, trolling through his high school yearbook for dirt. When it’s a Democrat President’s turn, he or she will nominate someone equally qualified, and the Republicans will pull out every trick in the book to prevent confirmation. It’s the way the game is played. The fact that many years ago it was not this way is irrelevant. Many years ago, people rode horses to town, but that ship has sailed too.

So, apparently, Monday is a big day at the circus. The question everyone seems to be asking is will she show up to testify or not? If she does, it will be yet another low point in our political life, the latest in a long line of bar-lowering embarrassments, a further deterioration of public discourse.

In other words...2018.

But, come what may on Monday...I won’t be watching. My morning will be filled with a round of golf, and my afternoon with lake recreation. I’ll have to find out what happened by checking out my Facebook feed. That should be a blast!

What A Day

Yesterday in Richmond was a nightmare for a lot of people. Tornadoes were tearing through the city, trees crashing through people’s homes, roofs lifting off of buildings, and hysterical dogs being comforted in cramped laundry rooms by hard working pet sitters. While all of this was taking place, we were up here having what will go down as an all-timer...one of the best days in Maine...ever. I hesitate to write about it for the same reason that you don’t announce to the world the great news of your promotion at work while visiting a friend who is on his death bed. Timing, after all, is everything. Farting and belching is all very well and good around a campfire with your buddies, but farting at a funeral would be horrible, and nobody in his right mind would let out a long, sloppy belch during the hushed beginning of Beethoven’s ninth symphony. Time and place...there’s one for everything, I’m told.

So, at the risk of being thought an insensitive lout, I will tell about our incredible day anyway.

It started with Pam and I taking Gordon and Leigh Ann into Camden for breakfast at the Deli. We felt like tour guides, walking them around that beautiful place. We showed them the library, with its sweeping views of the harbor. We walked them down Commercial street, past the Smiling Cow and Sea Dogs. We strolled along the bay where the schooners were filling up with passengers for day cruises. We took them to the famous foot bridge beside River Ducks. It’s hard to describe how much fun it is to introduce friends to a place that you love so much.

We made it back to the lake around noon, after a quick trip to Hannaford’s to buy steak and lobster for Gordon and Leigh Ann’s 35th anniversary dinner. The skies were blue and the high temperature peaked at 76. We spent the afternoon swimming and fishing, kayaking, floating, and snacking. A couple of naps were taken. By 6:00, we all knew that at some point we were going to have to leave the dock. I mean, dinner was not going to fix itself. But, just about the time we were ready to head back to the house, the looming sunset would reveal a new color, a tapestry of soft pink, purple and red. Needless to say, dinner would have to wait.

Eventually, we enjoyed a marvelous meal out on the deck, the tenth consecutive meal we have taken outdoors. We made Gordon and Leigh Ann tell us all about their wedding day and honeymoon. Just about the time they were about to bore us to tears ( just kidding ), we decided it was time to have a fire, and s’mores...

Just a fabulous day, by any measure.

Oh, and it should be noted that Gordon claims to have caught several fish during his kayak trip around the cove, which was conveniently hidden from anyone’s view. He bragged about catching these fish with surprisingly few details. No pictorial evidence was supplied, so he asked me to take him at his word. He gets a lot of mileage out of that missionary thing. 

We Have Guests!

It’s already happened. I’ve been here less than three full days and I already have no idea what’s going on in the world. I know about Florence, but only vaguely. It made landfall. There was lots of rain. The television in the cottage has been on once, for maybe 30 minutes while I watched ‘Bama lay waste to Ole Miss. That’s it...the sum total of my knowledge of current events.

We have guests. Gordon and Leigh Ann arrived yesterday afternoon, and as you can see, have figured out this place quite well. That pea soup fog didn’t stop my wife from launching out in her kayak about thirty minutes ago to God knows where. It’s as if she has a magnet in her heart that pulls her toward the lake.

This morning, we are taking our guests into Camden for a blueberry pancake breakfast at the Camden Deli and a little walking tour of that beguiling town. Then, mid morning we will head back to the lake for a day of fishing, swimming and lounging, topped off by a steak and lobster dinner tonight on the deck to celebrate their 35th wedding anniversary.

There are worse ways to spend a day in September.

Pam’s Capital Idea

I know this has happened to you before, a memory of some delightful event or place from your past grows exponentially with each telling and the passage of time. Before long, your memory of it has mushroomed into legend. Then, when you revisit this place years later you think...Huh...that wasn’t at all as cool as I remembered. It’s like when you tell your kids what an awesome movie Billy Jack was, then you find it on Netflix one night and you make them watch it with you, and fifteen minutes in, you’re totally embarrassed by the sorry excuse for a plot and the atrocious acting. Well, I was a little worried that the same thing would happen with our second look at Loon Landing. Although it’s only been 12 months since we first came here, this place has taken on a legendary place in our Maine memories as...the absolute perfect place. Everything about it...perfect. The lake. The location. The dock. The guest cottage out back. The deck. The proximity to Camden. Everything.

Our second look yesterday afternoon insured that Loon Landing will never be dethroned from the vacation pedestal it sits upon. If anything, this place is more gorgeous than we remembered. Of course, it didn’t hurt that we arrived to blue skies and 74 degrees! But, the owner of this place (aka..the luckiest man alive on planet Earth) has done some additional landscaping that have improved the grounds, and also expanded the dock to twice its old size. There still remains a very short list of shortcomings...no closets, small bathroom, tiny kitchen...but everything about this place stirs within me a couple of emotions that I seldom ever feel in this life...envy and covetousness. If this guy would be willing to sell this place to me, I would move heaven and earth to buy it, even if it meant I could never, ever retire.

Pam deserves a shout out for coming up with a brilliant idea upon our arrival in Camden at 2:30 yesterday afternoon. Check in time wasn’t until 4:00, and we hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. She says...How about we have an ice cream cone at River Ducks for lunch, then do a grocery run at Hannaford’s before checking in at the lake? Then, as soon as we get to the cottage, we can put all the perishable stuff in the fridge, leave everything else in the car, put our bathing suits on and spend the rest of the day on the dock?? We can unpack after it’s dark...I don’t want to miss any time on the lake! For dinner, I’ll send you up to The Fraternity Village store for Italian sandwiches, and we will eat them outside while the sun sets.

Yes, my wife understands Maine better than anyone I know. A brilliant plan, it was. We finally had unpacked everything and properly set up housekeeping by 10:00 last night. This morning, the house was super chilly at 52 degrees, and the lake was fogged in at 6:15...

But, now it’s 7:45, and it’s already lifting...

God, what a beautiful slice of creation...

Don’t Even THINKAbout Littering in Connecticut

Tales from the road...

The government of Connecticut doesn’t mess around with litterers. There I was getting off of interstate 84,at exit 31 near Southington, halfway through the sweeping turn, when I see a simple sign in red script...

$219 Fine for Littering

I’m not sure about you, but if I had been tempted to sling a mentos wrapper out of the window, I might have thought twice if I knew a $200 fine would be the result...but that extra $19 bucks would certainly have made me snap out of that temptation, for sure. I would have loved to have been in that meeting of the highways committee in Hartford...

Bureaucrat 1: Ok, we need to set the fine amounts for 2018. We can’t keep putting this off. Last year it was $197.24. Should we leave it there, lower it, raise it?

Bureaucrat 2: How many litterers did we catch last year?

Bureaucrat 3: 725

Bureaucrat 2: Ok, that means we collected $143,000. How many of those litterers were from out of state?

Bureaucrat 1: We don’t have that information. That would constitute profiling...

Bureaucrat 2: I guarandamn-tee you that most of ‘em were from New York.

(General laughter all around)

Bureaucrat 3: Well, I say we need to stick it to those bastards. How about an eleven percent increase?

(Audible gasps)

Bureaucrat 2: That’s awfully bold, Stan. Why, that would raise the fine to $219!!

Bureaucrat 3: Fortune favors the bold, Al.

Bureaucrat 1: So it’s settled then. $219 it is. Now, let’s move along to how much we should fine people for driving the speed limit in the passing lane. Last year it was $126.15....

Empathy

This blog might wind up being embarrassing for the author. If you’re not a dog person, or if you’re one of those people who think that humans project way too much importance unto their household pets, you may want to skip this one. Maybe it’s just that I’m feeling guilty about the fact that I’m about to leave her for three weeks...but here goes.

Lucy and I have this little morning routine. Almost every morning when I wake up, she is curled up at the foot of our bed, usually entangled with Pam’s legs. Sometimes she’s on the floor, but 90% of the time she’s on the bed. So, when I wake up it’s still dark outside, so as I’m walking past the end of the bed I have to wait until my eyes adjust, and when they do, I find her. Then, I do the exact same thing every single morning...I place both of my hands around her face, kiss her on the nose, scratch behind her ears and say the following:

Who is Daddy’s best girl? Lucy is. You’re the best puppy in the world.

Then I continue on to the bathroom and the rest of my day. Of course, she is sound asleep and has no response to any of this. But I do it every...single...morning.

Why?

I honestly don’t know, other than the fact that it’s comforting to me somehow. Starting your day with a positive affirmation of love...even to a dog...is mildly therapeutic, I suppose. But, it’s more than that. There’s just something about a dog, especially one as neurotic and easily frightened as Lucy, that makes you want to protect them, and what better way can you protect someone than by reassuring them of how much you love them?

A dog grabs ahold of your heart in a thousand ways. Part of it is that they are totally dependent on you for their survival. They always expect nothing but good things from you. To them, we are the most wonderful, fantastic, incredible people in the whole wide world. So, you find yourselves constantly trying to live up to their idealized expectations. I’ve said this before but it bears repeating...I want to be half as good a man as Lucy thinks I am.

Which brings a thought to mind. If we treated each other with half of the unconditional love we have for our dogs, I’m thinking that our world would be a infinitely happier place. For dog lovers like me, although I prefer Goldens, the truth of the matter is, I love all dogs, no matter the breed. When I encounter one on the street, all of them bring a smile to my face. When I see friends on Facebook putting up pictures of their new puppy, it’s always a happy time. When someone loses a dog, I feel the loss along with them. In other words, dogs produce in us a large reservoir of empathy. They make us better people.

Oh, that we could summon such empathy...for each other.

The Trees We Plant

As a married man, I have only lived in two houses, the one I’ve lived in for the past 21 years, and the first house Pam and I built 33 years ago. It was a starter home, only 1600 square feet. We brought both of our children home from the hospital to that house. But, eventually it got too small, so we had a second house built not much more than a mile from our old house. In an average week, I drive by the old place two or three times. I always glance at it with an odd sense of nostalgia.

Since we sold it, the place has had a string of short time owners. Most of them have neglected the yard, which always makes me sad. I spent so much time fussing with that yard, always had it looking great. When I drive by and see that the grass hasn’t been cut in a month I always let out a sigh. 

I bring this up because I’ve been thinking a lot about legacy lately. How would I like to be remembered? It’s strange how so much of what we do on a day to day basis is mundane and of no consequence in the grand scheme of life. Most days are indistinguishable from each other. We busy ourselves with things that seem important at the time, but ultimately matter very little. Earthly pursuits all eventually decay and wither, leaving not a trace of evidence that we were even here.

All of this was on my mind when I drove past the old house yesterday. I immediately noticed that the fence that I had built 33 years ago around the back yard had been torn down. New lumber was stacked neatly in rows. Memories flooded back of when my friend Al and I built that fence soon after we moved in. Had to have it because we had just bought our first Golden Retriever...Murphy. Once again, something I had built had vanished, leaving no evidence of my existence. Suddenly, I found myself turning the car around, driving back to take a closer look. I parked at the curb across the street. No one was home. I got out of the car and stood in the street, staring at the overgrown grass where my fence used to be. It didn’t take long for me to realize how profoundly stupid it was for me to be staring at a place I hadn’t lived in over 20 years. I abruptly turned to head back to the car when I noticed it...the huge maple tree in the front yard.

The first Spring we spent at the old house, I found a healthy, well-shaped maple sapling growing right out from the edge of the house over by the water hose. I almost just yanked it out of the ground and threw it away, but at the last minute the thought came to me...maybe I can dig this little tree up and replant it in the middle of our big, treeless front yard. So, just like that, I planted this little Charlie Brown looking thing in the front yard. It was only a little over two feet tall. It looked silly actually.

33 years later it looks like this...

So, as it turns out, we can leave a lasting legacy. I planted a tree when Ronald Reagan was in the White House. Nobody had a cell phone. Nobody had a flatscreen TV. The Washington Redskins were a good football team. Both of my parents were still alive. I hadn’t yet become a father. I didn’t even know what I was doing. I had never planted a tree before. But I planted it anyway.

Soon, I would have two children, despite the fact that I didn’t know what I was doing. I had never been a father before. But I became one anyway.

Our legacy is about the living. The trees we plant. The children we raise. The people we love.

 

Boycotts Are Dumb

In the last few years it seems as though I can’t make it through a single week without someone asking me to boycott something. Now that the personal has become political, if the CEO of the company that makes your dogfood is discovered to have made the wrong kind of political contribution...well, Fido is going to have to adjust to some new kibble.

Boycotts are the ultimate example of virtue signaling, where you proclaim your moral superiority over your neighbor by demonstrating solidarity, or some such thing, by being willing to sacrifice your dog’s favorite dinner for the greater good of...whatever. This is a bipartisan project. What follows are a few examples of some companies that the woke social justice crowd have targeted for boycotts:

Papa Johns...Hobby Lobby...Walmart...Chik-Fil-A...Amazon...In and Out Burgers

Not to be outdone, allegedly free market conservatives have painted a bullseye around:

Target...Nike...Disney...Kellogg’s...ESPN....the NFL

My view? Boycotts are nothing more than tribal manipulation, a test of your political zeal. The lyric to a Rolling Stones song comes to mind...He can’t be a man ‘cause he doesn’t smoke the same cigarettes as me...The truth is that if you dig deep enough into the bowels of any company that makes any product or provides any service, you will find something objectionable. Somebody in the boardroom will have made bigoted comments, been accused of inappropriate sexual conduct, or donated to a questionable candidate. If you make it your goal to politicize every commercial transaction of your life, at some point you will find yourself filthy, dressed in animal skins, freezing your ass off in a cave, rubbing two sticks together. 

I am a right of center, small government conservative/libertarian. My political neighborhood has recently called upon my tribe to boycott Nike because of their decision to pick Colin Kaepernick as their spokesman. So, yesterday I had to buy new running shoes. I went to Shoe Carnival. There must have been a thousand shoes to pick from. My views about Mr. Kaepernick were a thousand miles from my head as I made my decision, which was based on a combination of quality, aesthetics and price.

So, my opinion? Boycotts are for suckers. If you want to be a preening, virtue signaling moron, help yourself.

                                             

                                            Boycotts

                        Don’t Do It

Checklist

Pre-Trip Planning Checklist:

# Haircut

# Clean out, fumigate, and organize tackle box.( I can’t keep putting this off...)

# By whatever means possible, bring body weight down below critical 190 level, before the three week calorie-fest to come.

# Purchase new running shoes. The old ones now have over 1500 miles on them. Much running to do in Maine to keep body weight under the Mendoza line by the time I return to RVA. Have debate with myself over whether or not to buy Nike shoes. Should I boycott the Kaepernick thing, or contribute to Nike’s bottom line considering the not insignificant position of their stock in my retirement portfolio?

# Go to Hope Thrift to search for quirky novels from the book section.

# Spend inordinate amount of time showering Lucy with love and affection to assuage guilt of decision to leave her at home. She already can sense our betrayal...

# Craft clever and thoughtful away message for office phone, striking the perfect balance between contrition, embarrassment, and gratitude for having taken two three week vacations in one summer.

# Make sure that all life-sustaining prescriptions are filled.

# Finish up all outstanding paperwork at work, prepare assistant for inevitable mistakes I will have left behind, reminding her of proper protocol for fixing them while I’m away...you can call, but I can’t promise I’ll answer. Remember to buy her a bag full of Maine gifts to present to her upon my return since I’m pretty sure she’s gonna be pretty pissed at me by then.

What’s Next?

You never know how a year is going to turn out when it starts. You can plan all kinds of things, but then stuff happens. 2018 has been an out of nowhere type of year where it’s been one thing after another. So, if you can tolerate it, let me catalogue the weirdness for you...

January...dishwasher blows up, flooding our kitchen, resulting in a week and a half stay in a hotel while our entire downstairs got ripped up and replaced. $

February...hole in wall caused by furniture movers takes two weeks and two different contractors to repair. One of our dearest friends in all the world becomes horribly ill and nearly dies, spending most of the month in the hospital clinging to life. Washing machine dies. $

March...Pam’s sister and mother have back to back surgeries. Pam has her credit card info stolen and some dude tries to buy a computer with it while we are in Myrtle Beach trying to get away from all of the tumult. We learn that Patrick and Sarah’s wedding is going to be a lot more expensive than we thought. $$$

April... I turned 60 and, as if on cue, begin having age-related difficulties...which are not only troubling, but also...$$

May...preparations for son’s nuptials heats up. Stress and strain begins to build. $$$$

June...wedding a fabulous success. Relief palpable.

July...back in the fall of 2017, flush with cash and optimism, and before I knew what a dumpster fire 2018 would turn out to be, I made the decision to book TWO three week vacations in Maine. Deposits were made, reservations confirmed. The July trip was a triumph. The upcoming September-October Trip feels excessive in light of...

August...upon our return from three weeks in Maine, our upstairs air conditioning unit rudely expired, along with our water heater...$$$$$

Although the amount of money I have spent this year on both the unexpected and the excessive is staggering, the silver lining is that business has been brisk, and has...so far...kept up with the deluge.

Nonetheless, despite the foolishness of it, I have not cancelled my second Maine vacation. We leave in one week to once again escape the madness of 2018. This will be our home for another three weeks. We will entertain a few friends for part of that time, and for all three weeks I won’t be thinking about how much any of it cost. I will live in the moment at this place...

It won’t be until the drive home when I’ll start worrying about which appliance will blow up when we walk in the door.

Would The Last Person Leaving America Please Turn Out The Lights?

Thirty years ago, this guy and his sorry excuse for a beard showed up in front of the Senate Judiciary committee for his confirmation hearings to become a Supreme Court Judge. Before the hearings were over, his last name had officially become a...verb.

According to Webster’s, to BORK someone is to...“to attack or defeat (a nominee or candidate for public office) unfairly through an organized campaign of harsh public criticism or vilification.” Ever since then, Supreme Court confirmations have become high drama passion plays. If the nominee is from a Republican President, the Code Pink ladies can be counted on to show up for their fifteen minutes of theatrics, warning us all about the large scale slaughter of women about to befall the republic. If the nominee is from a Democrat president, we can count on the NRA to predict the wholesale seizure of guns from law abiding citizens which is just around the corner. Each senator on the committee tries to outdo the other with empassioned speeches, masquerading as questions. When the nominee is a conservative and the proceedings get out of control, Democrats call the chaotic dissent, the highest form of patriotism. When the nominee is a liberal, the chaos is nothing less than high treason! For someone like me who is so easily embarrassed by government, it is about as bad as it gets.

Well, yesterday I actually learned something new. I saw something I had never seen before. I was on a treadmill at the gym...you know, running in place, getting nowhere ( how deliciously ironic ). The hearings were on the screens in front of me with captions at the bottom. It was later in the afternoon, so I had missed the pink ladies and the temper tantrums from the morning sessions. I was watching The Senators making their opening statements. The camera would alternate between the preening Lindsey Graham and the solemn stone face of the nominee. After a while, it got really boring watching his blank expression so I started checking out the various people behind the nominee in the first row of the gallery. The only person of interest was a reasonably attractive woman just off the nominee’s left shoulder. I didn’t know who she was. She looked too young to be his wife and too old to be his daughter. And that was about all the thought I gave her...until this morning.

According to the left, I learn that this woman’s name is Zina Bash, and not only is she insufferably smug, but she spent the entirety of her time on camera signaling to America that Brett Kavanaugh is the approved candidate of White Nationalists. How do they know this? Because she was flashing what everyone in America knows is the white power hand sign.

I consider myself a reasonably informed citizen. I mean, I don’t watch C-Span 24 hours a day, but I read a lot more than the average bear and try to keep up with what’s going on in the world. Well, this was a new one on me. Apparently, the universal sign for A-Ok ...

..has somehow been transformed into some sort of secret handshake of the Neo-Nazi movement. Only, if you spend two minutes researching the thing, you discover that the Anti-Defamation League says it’s a hoax perpetrated by the notorious website 4chan. But, why let the facts get in the way of a great story? If you look carefully at this photograph, the position of her right hand as it rests on her left forearm looks awfully suspicious...

Ladies and gentlemen, it has come to this in my country. 

Here’s my interpretation of this new hand sign...

Actually, the reach of the white power movement might be so much worse than I thought...

Sunday Morning Puns

One day, the monks at the monastery decided they needed to raise money.

Friar Tuck decided to start a florist's shop. It was a success! All the villagers nearby loved to buy flowers from the men of God.

All except one, that is.

The local florist! He was getting run out of business by the monks. He went to the Friar and asked him to close their shop, but they refused.

A week later, he went back again, and begged the Friar to close down the shop - he was going bankrupt, and his family was hungry!

Again, they refused.

Another week still, the florists's mother went to the monastery and nagged them to close down to save her poor old son.

And yet again, they refused.

The local florist was fed up with the monks, and spent the last of his money to hire Hugh McTagart, the roughest thug in town, and well know for doing anything for money.

Hugh went to Friar Tuck, and told him that if he didn't close their florist shop, he'd have to 'persuade' them. Initially, Tuck refused-- but when McTagart began to smash up the shop and threaten the pacifist monks, he caved in and closed the shop.

Just goes to show you; Hugh, and only Hugh can prevent florist friars.

What kind of exercise do lazy people do?

....diddly-squats

I hear that Apple is working on building an electric car, but they’re having trouble...installing windows.

Newspaper headline about a tightrope walker who walked across the Han river in Korea...

Skywalker Crosses Han Solo 

Pragmatism. Are There Any Limits?

Pragmatism. It’s a word I hear a lot these days whenever the subject of Donald Trump comes up. It’s like a get-out-of-jail free card for my evangelical friends seeking cover for their support of a President who seems completely at odds with, well...Christianity. Webster’s defines a pragmatist as someone who is more concerned with the practical rather than the idealistic. In other words, pragmatism is centered around what works, what is utilitarian, not philosophical. In their telling, Trump was far superior to Hillary Clinton, and despite his clear character flaws, they are holding their noses while enjoying a booming economy and a more conservative Supreme Court.

Ok.

So, just so I’m clear...from now on in American politics, it no longer matters what kind of moral values politicians have, it doesn’t matter anymore how reprobate a politician’s private life has been...as long as they deliver the goods, meaning, they serve up your preferred governing philosophy, either conservative or liberal. All that matters now is...what works. Interesting.

Fidel Castro’s Cuba featured a drastic increase in the literacy rate for that island nation. In addition, everyone was given free health care. Are my evangelical/conservative friends ok with Castro? 

Mussolini, by all accounts, was the first and last Italian leader to make the trains run on time. We cool with Mussolini?

Adolf Hitler put the German people back to work, transforming the Weimar Republic’s moribund economy, and restored the pride of the German people. Are we to celebrate Hitler’s pragmatism?

Let me be clear...I am not suggesting that our President is on a par with these three tyrants. I am simply asking if there is a limit to pragmatism? Are we as Christians prepared to except any level of lying, any illegality, any sordid personal behavior, as long as we get a conservative Supreme Court judge? If the answer is yes, then, what happens when the lying, criminal, amoral President...is a Democrat? On what grounds will any conservative or any Christian be able to criticize him or her? 

Therapy Jokes

The results of yesterday’s blog are in and they remind me of the old advice given to first year law students...When interrogating a witness on the stand, never ask a question that you don’t already know the answer to.

Here I was thinking that I would use the power of this blog to sway public opinion in my favor in a private disagreement I was having with my wife. I would take advantage of my powers of persuasion, my reader’s natural affection for Lucy, and the overall wild popularity of dogs in general. When the overwhelming support of my position came pouring in via the comment section, I was planning on saying something like...Huh, wow...it seems like an awful lot of people think we should take Lucy to Maine...

Instead, my argument was unanimously rejected...not only online, but two guys at my office poked their heads in my office yesterday to say...Leave Lucy at home, moron. My defeat was so complete, so humiliating, that I spent much of last night searching the Internet for more horrible Dad Jokes to cheer myself up. If the reader is rolling their eyes right now, all I can say is...you should have thought of the possible consequences when you sided with Pam and threw me under the bus!!

Why can’t you take inventory in Afghanistan?

Because of the Tally Ban.

Why should you never trust a train?

Because they have loco motives.

Everyone should learn sign language.

It’s pretty handy.

What do you do with a dead chemist?

You barium.

Advertising slogan for an auto-body shop...

We come highly wreck-a-mended.

What do you call an owl who does magic tricks?

Hoooooodini.

Big Decision

This blog made a ghastly error recently by allowing National Dog Day to go by without comment. It was this past Sunday, August 26. What could I possibly have been thinking?

You all know of my love of dogs, in particular  Golden retrievers, and specifically...Miss Lucy...

   

You also know that of all of our Goldens, Lucy has been and remains the most...er, unique. She is a bundle of energy, athleticism, and beauty with more nervous ticks than a guy with Tourette’s after three cups of coffee. Therein lies a dilemma. Because she is so high maintenance and such a drama queen, my wife and I are at odds over whether or not to take her to Maine with us in two weeks. I am in favor of it. Pam is not. A decision must be made soon. Here are the entirely valid arguments Pam makes for her position:

1. When you have a dog with you for three weeks, it limits what kind of side trips you can take since you can’t leave Lucy in a strange house (or any house really) for longer than about five hours.

2. Although Lucy loves the lake and delights in swimming and retrieving all sorts of things, she cannot be trusted to not take off into the deep woods or a neighbor’s cabin on a whim...unleashed dogs being a huge no-no in our rental agreement. 

3. It’s one thing when Lucy gets freaked out during a thunder storm and pees on a rug here at home...another thing entirely when she does it in an expensive rental home.

4. Despite the fact that Lucy is an awesome traveler, more well behaved, in fact, than I am on long trips...traveling with her makes finding a hotel mid-trip much more difficult. There aren’t as many dog friendly hotels as you might think.

5. Leaving her alone in a strange house for even short trips into town makes Pam nervous. What if there’s a loud sound and she goes crazy? What if she starts barking and disturbing others?

All of these are valid arguments.

My counter arguments are mostly emotional.

1. I miss her too much if we are apart for three weeks.

2. SHE LOVES THE LAKE...

  

3. She’s a great snuggle buddy...

So, as you can see, my wife has the better argument. What shall we do? I welcome your input.

Just A Thought...

Here’s a thought for your consideration this morning.

Back in the days before the internet, if you were of a mind to attack someone’s character you had essentially two options...gossip or the U.S. Postal Service. I am speaking here of normal people trying to bring down a neighbor, not celebrities and politicians who have always had the media at their disposal. If you really had grown to despise Joe down the street, you could start talking him down behind his back with the well chosen phrase or half truth...gossip being as ancient a tool for this purpose as is known to man. But, if you wanted to step up your game you could type a poison pen letter and make copies of it, stuff them in envelopes, take them to the post office and send them to everyone in the neighborhood with no return address. Back in the day, someone actually did this to my Dad when he was the pastor of Winn’s Baptist Church. We never found out who sent them, but they did a lot of damage. But, each of these methods take time and planning. They take a certain meticulousness and premeditation.

Not so anymore.

Now, with one careless and casual click of the mouse, you can destroy a reputation. Facebook, Twitter, online chat rooms and the like offer everyone an anonymous microphone.

I don’t know about you, but I much prefer the days when character assassination was a retail business.

One Less Patriot

I don’t remember an awful lot about my high school years. But I do remember one assembly like it was yesterday. We had all gathered in the gym to hear a man speak. He was a navy pilot from Virginia who had been shot down in Vietnam and spent years in a POW camp being tortured by his barbaric captors. His name was Paul Galanti. I listened to him tell a sanitized version of what must have been a hellish nightmare. He spoke of what it means to devote yourself to something greater than comfort. As a seventeen year old kid, I’m not sure I understood it all. How could I? 

I thought of Paul Galanti when the news came yesterday of John McCain’s passing. Few of us are ever asked to make such a sacrifice for our country. Every man wonders whether or not he would hold up under similar pressures. Would I have the courage? Or, would I break and grovel for mercy? I am supremely grateful that I never had to find out.

I bought John McCain’s memoir, Faith of Our Father’s, practically the day it went on sale. It took me barely three days to finish it. It was horrible. It forced the reader to confront the absolute worst of human character, man’s inhumanity to man. Anyone who survived such an ordeal would be forgiven for becoming bitter and angry, for spending the rest of their lives in a mad rage at the world. But, John McCain spent the rest of his life serving his country in the best way he knew how. To listen to his colleagues from both sides of the aisle testify to his character is a rare and beautiful thing.

I was never a huge McCain fan politically. I found his maverick schtick a bit tiring at times. But the one thing about the Senator that I always respected was this...the man was hard wired to put his country first. I may have disagreed with some of his conclusions, but I never doubted that he came to those conclusions out of a sincere desire to do what was best for his country...not himself. And really...in politics, what more can we ask of our leaders? We are never going to agree on everything, but is it too much to ask that our political class endeavor to advance what is best for America rather than what is best for the Democrat or Republican Party? In other words, I’m looking for...patriots.

In 2018 it has come to this...I only want one thing from politicians...devotion to the country instead of themselves or their party. With the passing of John McCain, there is one less such politician.

My Life’s Work

Put a group of ten strangers in a room for thirty minutes and the most popular question that will be asked by practically everyone of them is...So, what do you do? I have always had a difficult time coming up with a satisfying answer to this question. I know what they want to know... what do you do for a living? Even that question is hard to answer directly. Financial planner? Investment advisor? Financial services provider? I could say something like...I work with people so they can retire without ending up on food stamps...or, even better...I make sure that if my clients get hit by a bus, their families won’t get thrown out onto the streets...or...i make sure that my clients don’t outlive their money. All true, but unsatisfying, primarily because I am much more than what I do for a living...and so are you.

Don’t get me wrong, our jobs, the source of our livelihood, is an important part of who we are. But it’s not the only part, or even the most important part of our lives. So, what is? Well, it might be different things for different people. But for me, the answer is simple...

     

This is my life’s work.

The problem with answering the question, What do you do? with your occupation is that it assumes that the best way to describe yourself is how you make money rather than why you make money. 

 Men and women have struggled to answer two big time questions since the dawn of time...Who am I...and..Why am I here? I don’t claim to have all the answers, but I at least have a clue. First, my faith suggests to me that I am to have a relationship with my creator. Further, because of my faith and it’s teachings, I have a pretty good idea of how I am to treat other people...with charity, compassion and grace. Slow to anger and quick to forgive. But secondly, when Pam and I were lucky enough to have children, my purpose on this earth became crystal clear to me. The clarity of that moment has never faded. My job was to raise my kids up to be the very best people they could possibly be, to be better, in fact, than I was. Of course, to accomplish this would take no small amount of...cash. So yes, hard work, putting in the hours was necessary. But, only up to a point. 

Please don’t misunderstand my point here. I am not claiming that I was a perfect father or even that my two kids are perfect kids. All of us have weaknesses and shortcomings. But, I would like to give some unsolicited advice to any young fathers out there who may be reading this. Don’t fall for the lie that making more money equals being a better parent, that providing for them is more important than being with them. If I could sum up what I know about parenting in one phrase it would be...don’t miss the play, be at the game, show up at the concert. Actually...that’s three phrases, but you get the point. Sure, you might give up a chance to make more money, but when your kids look up and see their Dad cheering them on...there isn’t enough money in the world, man. 

So, the next time you’re at a party and someone asks you, what do you do? Whip out your cellphone and show them a picture of your kids.

Here, say proudly, this is what I do.

A Proper Ending To Dad Joke Week

So, today brings to a close a week long homage to Dad Jokes and bad puns which I hope you have all found entertaining. Even if you haven’t, I’ve enjoyed them...and that’s the important thing. But, I’ve needed a proper sendoff, a joke that captures the spirit of this effort to distract us all from the dumpster fire that is 2018 America. I think I’ve found it...

A pirate walked into a bar and sat down for a drink.

The bartender asked, "Gee you look awful, are you feeling okay?"

"I feel fine, why do you ask?," said the pirate.

"Well your leg is half missing, you have a wooden peg leg!"

"Arrr that happened a few years back, cannonball came right through the ship and took out me leg."

The bartender looked down at the pirate's hand, "But your hand, it's a hook! How did that happen?"

"Arrr well I was in a sword fight and he got me left hand, but I feel okay now."

"Okay, but how about your eye? You have an eye patch on it!"

"Arrr well just a few days ago I was looking up and a seagull pooped right in me eye."

The bartender, slightly confused asked, "How did that put out your eye?"

The pirate raised his arm, "It was me first day with the hook..."