Mrs. Winston

This blog has had a field day with L’affair NoirFace, and for that I will forever be in the Governor’s debt. The man has been and continues to be...comedy gold. But, the fact that I have relentlessly made fun of it all does not mean that i think it’s actually...funny. It is anything but. It is a stain on our State and an embarrassment to all Virginians. Generally speaking, the more I crack jokes about something, the stronger my underlying feelings are on the subject.

I would never presume to lecture African Americans about how they should feel about all of this. I can’t possibly understand their prospective upon learning that their Governor, advertised to them as a reliable liberal, turned out to be someone who not only appeared in that terrible picture, but then butchered his response to the news with a parade of awkward, tone-deaf lying. They would be forgiven for shrugging their shoulders and saying, We just assume that anyone his age, Democrat or Republican probably did the same thing! So when that poll came out saying that 57% of African Americans in the state do not want him to resign, I’m cool with it. But if I were African American, I would be furious, not just with the betrayal, but with the shameless, insincere groveling, as if he thought their support could be purchased with mere trinkets, word salads and pandering.

This entire sorry episode has gotten me thinking about the first influential African American in my life, my 4th grade teacher at Elmont Elementary school in Hanover County, Virginia...the estimable Mrs. Winston. She was a force of nature who came steamrolling into my life like a wrecking ball. In those days, I hadn’t had much exposure to black people in general, and never a black teacher, one who exercised authority over me. To put as delicate a spin on it as possible...I wasn’t exactly a model student at Elmont Elementary. I found it nearly impossible to sit still, had the attention span of a gnat, and an advanced talent at crafting paper airplanes and getting into fights on the playground. In other words, Mrs. Winston would have been forgiven for writing me off as a lost cause, and shuffling me off to her fifth grade teaching colleagues with a condolence card. But no...that wasn’t Mrs. Winston. For reasons that I will never understand, she took a liking to me. Although it frustrated me at the time, she decided that I had too much potential to continue on my present course of being a jackass. I became her project in 1968. Her plan was simple...she determined to make my life a living hell by refusing to accept anything from me but my best work. This meant after school detentions for even minor classroom infractions, whereby i would have to write on the chalkboard...I will stop being a Jackass...50 times while listening to her lecture me about education, behavior and manners. The upshot of all of this was straightforward... I fell in love with Mrs. Winston. Her relentless nagging made me for the first time in my young life a good student. I’ll never forget the tears that welled up in her huge expressive eyes when she showed me my report card with straight E’s for Excellent.

But 1968 was a different time. Towards the end of the year, my church was having a revival all week. Back in those days this was rather commonplace, and every revival had a pack the pew night whereby each family was tasked with filling an entire pew with friends and neighbors. One day after school, I marched myself up to Mrs. Winston and excitedly extended an invitation...Mrs. W, will you come sit with me at the revival meeting Friday night?

Here’s another thing I will never forget, the look of sorrow and sadness that came over her beautiful face. She looked down at me with an expression I had never seen before. Did I say something wrong? Was she mad with me? She asks me to sit down beside her, held my hands and said something close to the following. It’s been over 50 years so I hope my memory is reliable...Douglas...first I want to thank you so much for inviting me to your church. I would love nothing more than to be your guest...but not this time. When I couldn’t hide my confusion and disappointment she offered an explanation...Douglas, a revival meeting is an important thing. Serious business! Everyone needs to pay attention to the preacher...and I’m afraid if I go with you, more people might be paying attention to me than the preacher. We wouldn’t want that, would we?

I didn’t understand. I went straight home and told my Dad, who was the pastor of the church, what Mrs. Winston had said. Tears came into my father’s eyes. He sat his 4th grade son down and explained to him for the first time about segregation in the church, and how many people aren’t comfortable worshiping with people of others races. He finished with this observation...Son, listen to me. Your teacher is a very wise woman. She’s right about how people would be paying more attention to her than the preacher. But you know what else? If Mrs. Winston had come with you...I think she would have been the most holy, Godly person in the whole building.

For me, every single time something comes up about race in America, I always think back to my profoundly wise 4th grade teacher. I think...What would Mrs. Winston think of all this. Although America has made much progress since 1968, when I think of the sorry mess that Virginia finds itself in in 2019 I am profoundly grateful that Mrs. Winston is in heaven and not alive to see how far we still have to go.

Leaked Notes From Northam Staff Meeting

Notes from Ralph Northam’s senior staff meeting at the Governor’s mansion Tuesday morning, the 12th of February 9:00 am...

Governor enters meeting in high spirits, no doubt buoyed by overnight polling that shows his approval rating steadily rising among African Americans...calls the meeting to order with, Yo! You feelin’ me?.....Asks if someone can find him a Cliff Notes version of Roots, claiming that the book is..like reading the freaking phone book.....Gov. then presents a list of brainstorming thoughts he has come up with of ways that he can lead a State-wide conversation on race that can restore his good name...

* Order Executive Mansion chefs to institute Soul Food Saturday’s, where only African American inspired dishes are served

* Floated idea of hosting State dinner honoring all of his favorite African American singers and actors like Smokey Robinson and Sidney Poitier. (It was then suggested that the Governor might want to consider younger, more current stars. He agreed and suggested perhaps Mr. T and Gary Coleman)

* Floated the advisability of hiring Jesse Jackson as a consultant and liaison to the African American community.

* order rainbow colored t-shirts for all staff emblazoned with...I’m Down For The Struggle on the front and We Shall Overcome on the back

Several senior staff suggested that while all of these suggestions were very interesting, that perhaps more concrete and practical things should be done through the advancement of an agenda that might actually help address the real concerns of the African American community like education and job opportunities.....Governor rolls eyes and declares, Come on people, this is no time to get bogged down in the policy weeds. We need to keep our eyes on the prize and that prize is my  ego and my legacy. If you people think I’m gonna let one bad photograph tarnish my image as a good liberal, you all have another think coming. No, what we need are grand symbolic gestures that are photo-opp worthy. So, lets all hunker down and make it rain up in here with some ideas, yo?!

My Civics Lesson

Yesterday was one of those days when you get to see the inner workings of government up close and personal. As an American who lives in the State of Virginia, and the County of Henrico, I fall under the jurisdiction of three levels of government. I am forever grateful for all three, incidentally. The Bill of Rights and Constitution enshrine my rights at the Federal level, my State government provides valuable services to me without which my life would be considerably more difficult, and my County did a nice job of educating my children, and does a passable job of filling potholes. So, I’m no anarchist here. But my experience of yesterday demonstrates precisely why I don’t share the confidence of my younger friends that giving them fresh new Socialistic powers to centrally plan ever larger swaths of our lives would be such a good idea...

Recently, a client of mine moved to Florida. As a resident of that fine State, she then called me for investment advice. I informed her that despite the fact that she had been a client of mine for over 10 years, before we could proceed with said advice, I needed to obtain my non-resident securities and life licenses in her new home state. The business at hand was of a time sensitive nature, so I told her I would move with haste to obtain all the proper licenses. I had allotted yesterday morning for this task by marking down 9:00 to 9:30 am—-Florida license. This turned out to be wildly optimistic.

A visit to the Florida Bureau of Muckity-Muck informed me that although I have been in this business for 36 years and hold securities licenses in upwards of ten states, I would need to be fingerprinted anew for the privilege of doing business in the Sunshine State. And no, I could not use just any vendor for this procedure, I had to use just the one such firm that Florida uses for these purposes. I could obtain the properly coded fingerprint cards from them for just $50 and I could expect to receive them in two to three weeks...but wait, if you’re in a hurry, we can overnight them to you for an additional charge of $32.50. I sighed, mumbled something about well, this is the life I have chosen, and ordered the gold plated fingerprint cards, which were delivered to me first thing yesterday morning....

Florida Bureau of Muckity Muck.......$82.50

Florida Department of Insurance........$62.00

I then drove over to the Henrico County Police headquarters to get fingerprinted, which I hadn't had to do in a very long time. I was pleasantly surprised that this stage of the process would only cost $15, a glorious bargain. But, upon being ‘greeted’ by the surly, agitated women ensconced behind bulletproof glass I was rudely informed that I would need two forms of ID, one of the picture variety. Check, my drivers license would work nicely. But then I noticed that the other accepted forms of ID I did not possess...I am not a government employee, I am not in the military, I don't have a social security card, and my passport expired three years ago. Enter, the Virginia Department of Vital Statitics.

Henrico County.......$15

Their handy website informed me that a certified copy of my birth certificate could be obtained for the low low price of $31 and delivered swiftly to me in 2-6 weeks. However, walk-ins can be provided with same day service. A quick 15 minute commute down to someplace in Scott’s Addition found me in line with several dozen of my fellow citizens seeking similar proof of their existence. When I finally made it to window 4, I was confronted by a man who looked like he wanted to kill me with his bare hands for disturbing the text conversation he was having. I proceeded with extreme caution. 45 
minutes later I emerged with the proper papers. Then it was back to the Police headquarters to pick up my fingerprint cards. Hour three of my quest found me at the UPS store to overnight my precious cargo to the Florida Bureaucrats as quickly as possible to accommodate my client’s time sensitive request. The woman at the UPS store beamed at me and had the cards out of my hand and practically out the door so fast I didn’t have time to complain about the outrageous charge for shipping something next day delivery!

Virginia Department of Vital Statistics....$31

UPS......$25.50

Total man hours dedicated to project....3 and a half

Yeah, so I’m out over $200. But on the plus side, I got to meet two delightful Government employees about whom I might one day have nightmares.

But, sure...let’s let a new eager army of Commissars from the Green New Deal plan our economy. What could possibly go wrong?

Great. Now I have Guilt!

Several months ago, I signed up for the Mentoring ministry at my church. It was an eight month commitment whereby mature men and women get paired with two younger men or women in a mentoring relationship. Now, before you all start giggling at the thought of me being considered a mature man, two things...one, my church doesn’t really know me very well, I’m new, and second, they were obviously grading on a curve. Nevertheless, I made the cut. I was expecting to be paired with two twenty-something guys fresh out of college trying to make their way in the world. Instead, I was introduced to two older guys, sharp, accomplished men, one in his late 30’s the other in his late 40’s who both happened to be new to the faith. We meet every two weeks for coffee and conversation. There is no curriculum. What guidance I receive comes to me via weekly e-mail from my man, Tommy Thompson, who heads up the program at Hope. That’s a roundabout way of introducing this morning’s subject, which comes courtesy of Tommy’s most recent email in the form of the following killer quote:

“We must have some room to breathe. We need freedom to think and permission to heal. Our relationships are being starved to death by velocity. No one has the time to listen, let alone love. Our children lay wounded on the ground, run over by our high-speed good intentions. Is God now pro-exhaustion? Doesn’t He lead people beside the still waters anymore?” (Swenson, Margin, p.30)

Ok. When you read the words, Is God now pro-exhaustion, at 6 o’clock in the morning, it startles you, right? First of all, I’m bummed that I didn’t think of it first...what a great line!! But almost immediately after reading it I felt guilty. Here’s why.

I just came off a week of being sick with a really bad cold. It hampered my activities for practically the entire week. I had to cancel appointments, reschedule a bunch of things. I was only in the office for maybe a total of a day and a half. The rest of my time was spent laying around the house coughing and feeling miserable. For the first week in years I had not a single workout at the gym. In other words, I had eliminated all of the velocity from my life. I had all kinds of time to think, heal and breathe. The trouble was...I hated every minute of it. Sure, part of the hate part was because I was sick. But part of me felt totally out of the game, abandoned by life.

Here’s the thing, everything in the quote Tommy sent me is true. I know it in my gut. But, I’m a high motor kind of guy who comes from a family of high motors. One of the most hilarious things ever is watching my sister Linda during beech week trying to...relax. She’s like a jack-in-the-box on speed! Although I have never been diagnosed, my siblings considerate it an established fact that i have ADHD, a vicious slander of course, but just for the sake of argument, lets say that they’re right? All of this slowing down, taking time to smell the roses, living a more contemplative life sounds great on paper, but when it comes to applying it, I feel like Ralph Northam getting six chapters through Roots, saying, Man, this is harder than i thought!

This coming week is jammed with one thing after another, due to all of last week’s inactivity, but the truth is, I’m psyched. So, thanks...Tommy Thompson, for giving me another reason to think that maybe my guys should be mentoring me instead of the others way around!

My Money’s On Ralph

Ladies and gentlemen, Gov. Ralph Northam, D, Virginia is not going anywhere.

What we have witnessed over the last 7 days has been nothing less than a master stroke of survival. This man makes Machiavelli look like a wallflower. No one currently in public life has demonstrated a better understanding of the moment we are in than Ralph Northam. Despite the initial ham-fisted apologies and tortured explanations, and despite the fact that during the most crucial press conference of his life, he came within a nanosecond of performing the moonwalk, Ralph Northam survived. Ralph knows. Ralph gets it. Ralph understands the moment.

Ralph knows that the people of Virginia, like the rest of America, have an attention span of a toddler. Sure, the fire might be hot for the first 48 hours, but each day after that it cools. Ralph also knows that the Press also has a short attention span. They might be in high drugeon when the story breaks, but after a few days it’s like...squirrel!!!

So, Ralph didn’t become Governor by accident. He may have sold himself as the kindly old family doctor, but inside burns the heart of an egotistical tiger, who had to be willing to crush his opposition as he grew in statue in Democratic Party circles. Along the way, he picked up a select group of shady characters who’s job it was to gather background information on all of his potential impediments to power. That information was intended to be kept locked away in a safe place and only used in an emergency. When his yearbook photos emerged, Ralph had his emergency. In less than a week, his two fellow Democrats who just happen to be the two guys who would be constitutionally next up as his replacement have found themselves in even worse shape then he. What are the odds? Somebody read The Prince!

So, in this battle, my money’s on Ralph.

Get Ready For Mediocrity

The world spins slower when you’re sick. You feel more observer than participant. This is the primary reason why I hate it so. Watching your day go by from a safe distance without being in the mix is profoundly frustrating. I sit at my library desk, staring at my computer screen, bracing myself against the next coughing spasm. I drink gallons of water and obsessively wash my hands more than Howard Hughes. There is a feather covered brick lodged in my lungs that I have convinced myself will come flying out fully formed if only I can hack hard enough. After hundreds of attempts, it remains firmly intact.

I’ve had time over the past couple of days to read up on the Commonwealth of Virginia’s troubles, which can be summed up by the headline in the New York Post...Virginia is for Losers. My pride of place bucks up at such an accusation coming from a newspaper from the State of New York, which has vomited up on the Republic not one, but Two Cuomo’s. What in the name of all that is holy did the rest of us do to deserve that? Nevertheless, it hasn’t been the best couple of weeks for the State that gave the world George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and James Madison.

Watching men roughly my age be brought low by photographic evidence of stupidity from 35 years ago has been sobering. Although I never would have been caught dead at a party which featured either blackface or Klansmen, that is not the same thing as saying that I never did anything shameful when I was a college student. Frankly, I have put much of what transpired between the years 1978 and 1982 out of my mind, a defense mechanism to protect my carefully constructed self image. But, selective amnesia doesn’t have unlimited storage space. Some things can’t be forgotten.

There exists in all of us a rebellion gene. In some of us it gets surpressed, others allow it to blossom in all of it’s foolish glory. In the years referenced above, I let my rebellion freak flag fly. Even though the most audacious examples of that rebellion were short lived, my tendency towards rebellion has never fully retreated. I’ve always chafed against...the rules, and the rule makers. Over time, I have forged an uneasy peace with the established order, but it has always been part of my natural state to question and challenge those in authority over me. Depending on your philosophy, this is either a noble virtue or a character flaw. But, it lies at the heart of my concern over what has happened to the top three elected officials in my State.

As disappointing as it has been to discover that two men who have made their political bones by signaling their virtue on matters of race, checking all the right policy boxes, and casting aspersions over their opponent’s commitment to same, have been found to have been rank hypocrites, should these types of youthful sins be grounds for expulsion from public life? Does anyone truly believe that a man like Ralph Northam still holds the same views about race as he did in college? Nothing in his public life as an adult would suggest any such thing. And yet, because of these 35 year old photographs, nearly everyone in Virginia politics is calling for his scalp. Seriously? Will this now be the standard going forward? No matter what contributions you have made to your community and country, no matter how much valor you have earned serving the Republic, all could be destroyed by a single photograph of some debauchery from your misspent youth? Really? What of grace? What of forgiveness? Can not some balance be found on the scales of justice between youthful stupidity and a record of admirable public service?

I shudder to think of what would become of my reputation if photographic evidence of my worst moments as a college student were introduced into the public record. I have a sneaking suspicion that I’m not the only one. The bad choices made in my youth are things about which I have prayed for and received forgiveness. I have learned from those mistakes. The experiences I had during those years ultimately have made me a better man, more sympathetic to others who have screwed their lives up, less likely to judge, more willing to offer grace. But, I cant erase them from the history of my life, nor would I want to. But, if we have now decided that bad choices made during youth disqualify a man or woman from leadership, then we will soon be lead by a great army of blandness, men and women without blemish, but also without the correcting scars of an adventurous life. Men and women who are devoted to rule following obedience and spotless resume building seldom accomplish great things. The best and most courageous men and women of history have been flawed. Are we now committed to flawless leaders? If so, we better get ready for mediocrity.

Suggestions, Please?

I am a business owner in America which means that among other things, I have to provide my own health insurance. As a 60 year old husband of but one wife with no children living at home this means I pay over $1,300 a month to Anthem. This purchases for me and my wife what amounts to catastrophic coverage, since before Anthem pays a dime on my behalf, I must accumulate over $3,500 in medical bills in a calendar year. My wife must do the same. To cover this gap in reimbursement, I established a health savings account (HSA) years ago, into which I currently contribute roughly $500 a month. If you’re playing along at home, that means that I spend upwards of $21,000 a year for health insurance before my insurance company pays a dime. Let’s set aside for a moment how preposterous this arrangement is, and instead concentrate on one of the many conundrums which it presents to me each and every year.

The idea behind the HSA is sound. The hope is that on the years where I don’t ever go to the doctor, the money builds up exactly like any other savings account. If years from now there is a surplus in this account, I will be able to use it for any expense that I wish. At least that was the theory. In reality, there haven’t been very many years when doctors were not a fixture of my schedule. Getting older presents you with a bulging stack of business cards which feature the letters, Dr.

So, here’s my problem. Three days ago, I woke up with a sore throat. Over the next 24 hours the sore throat was joined by a hacking cough. Now, three days in, my throat is still sore, the coughing has gotten worse and now I’m sneezing a dozen or more times a day and can’t summon enough energy and enthusiasm to make a ham sandwich, let alone do my job. I have no fever or body aches, so it would seem that it is not the flu. So...what do I do?

I can waddle over to Patient First, sit in their waiting room surrounded by a dozen other people who all look and sound as if they have the bubonic plague, then an hour and a half later be informed by a doctor(?) that I have a cold, drink plenty of water, take these antibiotics and that will be $145 please. Or, I can save the cash outlay, go over to the drug store and find these babies...

...the DayQuil/NyQuil Walgreens knock-off on sale for $7.99. The question I pose to this audience is a simple one. Which is the better deal? Which strategy will result in a faster recovery? If you’re a hypochondriac I would rather not hear your opinion, but if you are either a doctor or nurse, or play one on TV, your recommendations will be welcomed.

Thank You.

Scandalous Photographs From MY Past

Ralph Northam and I are almost the same age. We attended college at about the same time. His fate...being brought low by a damaging photograph from 35 years ago...has gotten me to wondering and worrying myself. Are there possibly scandalous photographs lurking out there of me doing something foolish? From ages 17-22, I wasn’t exactly a paragon of virtue myself. If my mother were alive she would refer to that five year time period as the years that the locust ate, or some other Old Testament formulation designed to make back-sliding sound far more sinister. Well...I have come down with a cold over the past couple of days which has left me with some down time on my hands. I have used this down time to try to get out in front of any damaging photos that might be revealed by my enemies. In my research, alas...I have much to answer for...

I do not believe that this is, in fact, me. I can’t imagine any circumstance where I would have voluntarily agreed to wear this shirt with that sweater vest, especially on picture day, 1974...my sophomore year in high school. Certainly, this does not represent the man I have become. I am willing to open a dialogue about middle 70’s fashion choices and learn from this ghastly example of poor judgement.

When I graduated from high school, my best friend and I celebrated our passage into adulthood by doing something very un-adult. Instead of entering college like the rest of our friends, we decided to load up the car with backpacking equipment and travel across the country visiting as many national parks, states, and bars as we could before our life savings of $1,000 each ran out. This would have been the summer of 1976. It was an election year. Alert readers will notice that the car in question was festooned with a brand new, hot off the press Jimmy Carter ‘76 bumper sticker. Yes...my very first Presidential vote was cast for Mr. Peanut. 

When I was a little boy, my siblings all agree that I was an out of control ADHD maniac who spent his days and nights getting away with murder and terrorizing them with world class obnoxiousness. This unfortunate photograph lends great credence to their claims. That’s me, surrounded by my two sisters and a bevy of cousins, held firmly in place by my big sister Linda. Perhaps I was just having a bad day. Maybe I was the one being terrorized by this all-female entourage. Nevertheless, this was not my best look.

This photograph deserves answers. First of all, yes...that hair is real, and yes...its a perm. And no, I have no idea what I was thinking at the time. The t-shirt, however, was quite well thought out and sadly does not speak well of my state of mind with regards to women... It’s a picture of the Quaker Oats man. Underneath is written his famous tag line...Nothing Is Better For Thee Than Me....my misogynistic mindset on full display. The fact that it was a babe-magnet just adds to my sense of shame.

Last, but certainly not least was the disastrous three months where I went all in on the Pimp Look. I look like Don Cornelious’s brother from another mother. It was a dark time in my life...

It is my sincere, heartfelt wish that everyone will forgive me these youthful indiscretions and allow me to learn from them. I ask you all to honor my privacy at this time.

Let’s Just Enjoy the Ducks

The Super Bowl is over and done with, finally ushering football off the national stage and not a minute too soon. In a mere 59 days baseball will begin and all will be right with the world. As far as the game goes, it was another example of that old adage about how nothing is guaranteed in life except death, taxes, and Patriots win.

A funny story...after the game was over I started scanning through social media and saw a hilarious post from a friend of mine. When it comes to politics, this particular friend  makes Bernie Sanders look like a Rotarian. I paraphrase his post below:

The Patriots are white privilege personified. You think the playing field is equal, but somehow they always end up on top. Most people suspect the system is rigged in their favor, but they insist that they merely play the game better than everyone else.

My immediate reaction...after spewing my Sam Adams across the room laughing...was to comment, Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the winning pickup line heard last night at Fidel’s Woke Sports Bar and Grill!!

I see this sort of thing all the time on social media. Everything, and I do mean everything gets reduced down to politics. The personal is political. If someone is a huge Trump guy, every single thing that happens in life becomes about him. If you’re all about social justice, even your dentist appointment becomes a metaphor about the evils of capitalism. 

Sure, sometimes I imagine that a duck could possible be emblematic of how the patriarchy has poisoned the bourgeois ethos...but my trick knee tells me that the vast majority of the time, a duck is just a duck. But, as my Dad told me years ago...When you’re a hammer, the whole world looks like a nail.

So, this morning my advice to all of you is simple. Today, lets all take off our ideological glasses and just enjoy the ducks.

Tough Week To Be a Virginian

One of my mother’s most frequent and reliable warnings to us kids was...Be sure your sins will find you out. We all knew exactly what she meant...that no matter how airtight your alibi, no matter how slick and calculated your story, no matter how completely you may have covered your tracks...the truth had a way of muscling itself into the light of day eventually. In Mom’s telling, this was a result of the hand of God. She took seriously the words of the Apostle Paul...God is not mocked, for whatsoever a man soweth that shall he also reap. 

It’s been a tough week to be a Virginian. Our governor has been splashed all over television and computer screens across the fruited plain, first for his cavalier endorsement of infantacide followed quickly by his racist medical school yearbook photos. In just a few short days, Ralph Northam went from an obscure southern governor who nobody had ever heard of to the most notorious politician in the country...and when that country includes Donald Trump in the Oval Office...thats saying something.

Of course, in politics often the coverup is worse than the crime. With Northam, his tortured response to the photos has been a disaster. First, he apologized but couldn’t or wouldn’t reveal which racist character he was dressed as, the guy in blackface or the dude in the Klan getup. Then, upon further review and no doubt on the advice of his PR team, he denied either one was him with the ludicrous formulation...I vividly don’t remember. At this hour, he still clings to power, hoping that the infinitesimally short attention span of the American people will wipe this whole kerfuffle from everyone’s consciousness by the middle of next week at the latest.

Let me attempt a defense of our embattled liberal democrat governor.

First, with regard to the now distant memory of his infantacide radio interview. In its immediate aftermath, my Facebook wall exploded with outraged pro-life memes. Several people tried to make the case that the governor supported delivering completely healthy babies onto a table, then allowing the mother one last chance to back out of motherhood via a three minute discussion, after which the healthy infant would be murdered in cold blood. This wasn’t at all what he was saying. If, like me, you cling to the notion that all life is sacred, even disabled life, his actual comments were objectionable enough without this unfair twisting of his words.

With regards to the yearbook pictures...This is a full stop horrible thing. To discover that the man who hurled accusations of racism at his opponent just over a year ago would be caught dead as either one of these men in the sickening photograph is a grave disappointment, not to mention an example of staggering hypocrisy. Yes, it was a long time ago. But, I went to college a long time ago too, and I saw my share of bad things at parties. Although I was no choir boy then or now, my parents did a good enough job of filling my head with the idea that racism was an indefensible evil, that the sight of anyone in a Klan robe or blackface would have been an automatic order to leave said party, let alone participate in such a thing.

But...do I think that Ralph Northam is a racist? That’s an entirely different question. Looking at the evidence of his life over the past thirty years, I would say, no. Is it fair then to punish him with exile from his duly elected position in government because of such an old transgression? I would hate to be judged by practically anything I did and said 40 years ago. On many subjects, 21 year old Doug Dunnevant was an intemperate moron. But, Doug Dunnevant isn’t governor of the Commonmwealth of Virginia. If you live by identity politics, if your political rise was helped along by being a merchant of the grievance industry, eventually you die by identity politics. I don’t believe that Ralph Northam is the same man he was in 1984. I believe that like all of us, he has progressed in his thinking and in his character since then. But honestly, his humiliating performance since this yearbook story broke has damaged him more than his yearbook decisions from 35 years ago. His stubborn attempt to cling to power, his willingness to demean himself and his office with these ridiculous and tortured explanations of the unexplainable have revealed him to be the personification of everything we all hate about politicians, their inability to just tell the freaking truth. 

...on second thought

I sat out this morning to write a blog post about how our political discourse has become dominated with bad faith arguments. I was going to suggest that this technique is designed to enrage us rather than advance an argument. One side takes the most extreme position of the other side, then presents it as representative of main stream thought, insuring that both sides will end up at each other’s throats and more divided than ever. In the heat of the moment, I’ve done it a time or two myself. But, half way through my thought process on the subject, I realized that it was futile. In the world we live in, my chances of changing anyone’s mind about anything involving politics is less than zero. So, screw it.

On a much brighter note, we have all survived January. Our new year is now fully up to speed. We are one month closer to better things, more moderate temperatures, and the beginning of spring training. My health is good. Business is prosperous. I love my church, and I just made down payments on two summer vacations. My wife has been on a culinary roll all month with a series of new recipes she has found. I’ve dropped a few pounds. My grown children are both happily married and contributing to their communities. I’m writing a very cool story in my spare time, and although I haven’t given any money away so far this week, the search for the right person has been fun. This week ends this afternoon with a cigar date with good buddies at Mona’s...which is much better than a sharp stick in the eye. 

Carry on...

A Harbinger of Things to Come

Despite the fact that my calendar clearly says that it is January 31, 2019...for some demonic reason, a multitude of Presidential hopefuls from the Democratic Party have started making way too much noise, way too early. It has been a sobering reminder of what life will soon look like in these United States...

First it was Elizabeth Warren, offering herself as a candidate with the aw-shucks, I’m just a regular Jane who is gonna go get me a beer video, which no doubt gave her Ivory League colleagues the vapors, but certainly convinced me that she is authentic! Then, Michael Bloomberg, former mayor of New York and full time billionaire started making noise. Kamala Harris, the African American female senator from California became the automatic front runner when she threw her hat into the ring. Being both female and black is basically the Holy Grail of democrat politics these days, easily trumping Warren’s Native American schtick. If Ms. Harris would only declare herself transgendered, she could wrap up the nomination before the kickoff to the Super Bowl! Of course, then word came that Howard Schultz, he of the Starbucks fortune, would be a candidate of the Independant Party. Democratic Party big wigs are having a fit at the prospect of an untested Jewish billionaire gumming up the 2020 works, imagining the possibility of Schultz dividing the progressive vote to the point that Trump could win a second term. If that were to happen, Starbucks would become the first major corporation to be hated by both republicans and democrats.

From what I have been able to gather, at least among the declared candidates so far, the 2020 contest will be to see which candidate proposes the most free stuff. So far, I’ve heard about free college for all, a guaranteed minimum income for all, Medicare for all, and free ice cream on Friday night. All of these new freebies will be financed by some sort of income tax hike or a wealth tax on billionaires. But it won’t cost regular people like us a dime...however, the working definition of regular people remains nebulous, at best.

The Republican Party has been quiet. The presumptive nominee is the current occupant of the White House.

As I begin contemplating what the 2020 campaign is going to be like, I die a little bit inside. A a voter, I begin the contest completely opposed to Donald Trump’s re-election. And yet, my ability to support his competition is at present 0%. So, once again, I trudge along in the political wilderness, resigning myself to a two year, scorched earth campaign which will produce a disappointing result. Somewhere, somehow, I need to get my hands on this bumper sticker...

Kicking and Screaming

What I am about to tell you is a confession of sorts, and I will have to work hard not to bore you to tears while telling it, since it involves the single most boring subject in all of the universe...computers. More precisely it’s a story about modern office technology vs. tried and true old-school methods of organization. You can probably guess which side I’m on. But, yesterday, my efficiently tactless assistant put her foot down...and now I am launched into the modern technological age kicking and screaming. Here’s how it happened.

Many years ago, back before cell phones were invented, my assistant was my wife. When I hired her, she was instantly traumatized by the haphazard condition of my files. You know...random things filed under K for ...kids, that sort of thing. She determined to tear the whole confused mess down and start from scratch. It took her six months before she was satisfied with her work. I couldn’t believe how much easier it was to find stuff once Pam’s organizational zeal had been unleashed. The linchpin of her system was this chart she had designed and stapled on the inside cover of each hanging file, containing every single fact you could ever want to know about the specific client in question. It was a beautiful thing that transformed my business life. Eventually, Pam tired of her Uber-frustrating boss and quit. Her last words were something along the lines of...Well, I’ve done all I can do, dear.

A series of assistants would follow with varying degrees of success. Then, six years ago, I hired Kristin. The thing that makes her unique is the fact that I never have to wonder what she’s thinking, and she can talk smack every bit as well as I can...no small feat.

So, yesterday, I had the idea that I needed to update Pam’s summary sheet thing. It had been abandoned at some point after her exit and replaced by a Rube Goldberg system of post-it notes, and scraps of paper stuffed into overstuffed files, yours truly being the only human being on Earth capable of understanding where anything was. I broach the subject with Kristin, suggesting that she design a new summary sheet to staple to the inside cover of each hanging file. She nodded her head that she would make an attempt, then disappeared into her office. Thirty minutes later she was back in my office with that expression she gets when she’s about to call me an idiot, but is struggling to find words that aren’t too harsh. As I recall, it went something like this...

Ok, this thing you have asked me to do is...dumb. I will do it if you insist, but its stupid. It’s pre-historic thinking. You do realize that almost everyone else on the planet, including everybody in this office is using computerized client management systems, right? There’s 
this thing called RedTail which can do everything you want and tons more automatically. So, sure, I can do this very dumb thing you’ve asked me to do, or you can bring your business into the 21st century. Your call.

At this point, I put up a reasonably spirited defense of my system, pointing out that it had served me quite well over the past 36 years, and that I had already heard the RedTail pitch years earlier and considered it an overpriced and far too geeked out and complex for my style. Each argument was met with an eye roll and a snappy rejoinder. Finally she threw out this line...This system would make it infinitely easier for you to spend more time in Maine. Before the end of the day, she had my credit card and had signed me up.

I will hate every minute of the transition. My eyes will glaze over at every confusing glitch of the implementation. But, I suppose I will eventually wonder how I ever got along without it. That’s how the technology game works. You fight and claw against it’s encroachment, you vow to never let it’s tentacles ensnare you. Then one day you wake up and hear your wife asking Alexa to put coffee on her grocery list and realize that you have lost not only the battle but the entire war. Kicking and screaming, indeed.

A Challenge to my Readers

Sometimes its easy when observing the world to come to the conclusion that we are doomed. Reading the news is an invitation to nihilism. The reason this is so is because the news is almost always bad. Good news doesn’t attract eyeballs, so only the worst examples of human behavior make the cut. This isn’t anything new, of course. It has always been so. Human beings have, since the dawn of time been drawn to bad news like moths to flame. Still, we all know of good decent people. They are everywhere, all around us. Each of us could rattle off a list of a dozen people we personally know who are beautiful, generous, caring people. Hardly any of us actually know a rapist, murderer, or thief. But, when we are constantly informed of their exploits, they seem omnipresent, lurking behind every bush. We become fearful and guarded, withdrawing a bit from our fellow man. How can we fight this withdrawing? Is it possible to reclaim optimism?

Yes. Here’s how...

This is something I started doing many years ago at the urging of my Mom. I don’t do it every day certainly, but whenever I start feeling a bit too big for my britches,(one of my mother’s frequent accusations about her youngest child) it always comes back to me. It starts with the basic understanding that we humans are essentially selfish at our core. On the subject of total depravity, my mother was Calvinist to the core! To overcome our innate selfishness, we had to develop strategies to fight it. Her’s was simple...give money away. At first, I thought she was crazy. She had no business giving money away, I reasoned, since she never had enough of it to start with. But, Mom would always counter with...if generosity depended on wealth, only rich people could do it. Why let them have all the fun!?

So, here’s how it works. You go to the bank and withdraw an amount of money to give away. The amount isn’t as important as actually withdrawing it. It will vary widely from person to person. To some, giving $10 away would be a sacrifice, to others, $100 would be chump change. I always pick a number that at least makes me careful about just who I decide to give it to. Anyway, for argument’s sake, let’s say you withdraw a $100 bill. Now, the task before you comes with a deadline...you have a week or maybe two to find someone who needs a break, someone who you encounter in the normal course of your life for whom your $100 might make an enormous impact. But, who? That’s the most difficult part of this exercise. 

We human beings, even the best of us, have a tendency to plod through life with blinders on, head down, resolutely striving from one task to the next. Now with our cell phones, we are even less aware of those around us. The hard part of this is looking up...paying better attention to the people around us. In the past I’ve given this money to a harried mom in line at the grocery store, a hunched over elderly man in line at the pharmacy. Other people I know who have done this have paid for people’s meals at fast food restaurants. One guy paid for the next 25 cars in line behind him at a toll booth! There’s no right way or wrong way to do this...although I prefer not giving money to the professional pan handlers on Broad Street!

Here’s the payoff. It’s not only the recipient who benefits. It’s...you. When you let loose just a little to your grip on what’s yours, you discover the joy of generosity. You become more grateful for what you’ve been blessed with, and you discover the thrill of being a blessing to others. There’s no feeling in the world like knowing that you just might have made someone’s day by being their answer to prayer. 

Pro Tip....bonus points if you can manage doing your giving anonymously.

So, to anyone reading this, I make the challenge to you...give some money away this week. Keep your heart and your eyes open for someone who needs a blessing. Then come back here...anonymously...and share your story with the rest of us. That will be good news worth reading.

Dad Jokes III

For the third time in less than...oh, who’s counting? That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, once again I am prepared to publish the very latest, up to the minute collection of the world’s greatest Dad Jokes. Just so we are all aware of the rules...a Dad Joke only qualifies as such when it is super cheesy, while at the same time being...kinda, sorta funny. That’s harder to do than I make it look. Anyway, in no particular order, here they are. I will try my best to refrain from editorial comment:

1. Why was the blond staring so intently at the can of frozen orange juice?

    Because it said...concentrate.

2. Did you hear about the Dad who decided to give away all of his old batteries...free of charge?

3. Son: What’s the leading cause of dry skin?

    Dad: Towels

4. Wife: Honey, can you put the cat out?

     Dad: Sure...But, I didn’t even know he was on fire.

5. Son: Dad, can you put on my shoes?

    Dad: I can try, but I don’t think they will fit me.

6. Have you tried eating a clock?

    It’s time-consuming.

*7. What did one snowman say to the other snowman?

     Do you smell carrots?

8. Son: Dad, do you know where I left my sunglasses?

    Dad: No. Do you know where I left my dad glasses?

9. I would tell a Chemistry joke...but I’m afraid of the reaction.

* Sorry, but this one is really funny.

A Morning Not Fit For Man Nor Beast

I’m not sure if in the entire history of civilization dogs have ever been more popular than they are at this moment. They are celebrated everywhere, from Twitter to Hollywood to the newly ubiquitous dog parks which have sprouted up all across the fruited plane. I could not be happier. With the notable exception that many newly married millennials are much more interested in purchasing a dog than they are in presenting grandchildren to their impatient parents, I believe this new love of dogs is a beautiful thing.

Except on mornings like this...

Yeah, Short Pump has been inundated with record amounts of rain over the past 12 months, to the point where our fenced in back yard is an oozing, sodden, quagmire. With the recent sub-freezing temperatures, we have finally been able to let her back there for her morning constitutional. She has loved the cold and stays out there forever, doing her business, but also running around manically and sniffing all of the new smells she has been missing of late. Then, when she comes back in her paws are merely cold, with not a drop of moisture or mud to be found. It is a glorious.

Of course, this being Short Pump, Virginia...suddenly its 60 degrees outside and pouring rain. So, the back yard is out. At 6:15, Lucy plods down the stairs and stares me down as I sit on the sofa getting ready to take my first, magical sip of coffee. I cannot win a stare down with Lucy. Nobody can. She focuses those gigantic brown eyes at you and within minutes you are putty in her paws...Do you need to go pee, girl?... I ask, a ridiculous question, since we both know the answer. She immediately runs over to the back door, turns around and answers YES with those eyes. It is then that I inform her that we will not be going into the back yard today. No no...we will be trudging out into the front yard, in the driving rain and darkness for her first bathroom trip of the day. I put on my Columbo overcoat, grab a poop bag and launch out into the storm.

This is the part of dog ownership which makes you question your blind devotion. Lucy is fascinated by the rain. It must release a treasure trove of new smells, because when its pouring down outside she becomes obsessed with sniffing. Sometimes she even stands perfectly still and sniffs the same inch of ground for over a minute...which seems like an hour in dog years. I can plead all I want for her to get a move on. I can say, While we’re young, Lucy...while we’re young until I’m blue in the face, but it will not hurry her. She will simply not be rushed. By the time she finally squats, she is soaking sopping wet, her paws drenched. I look like an extra in On The Waterfront, and both of us smell like wet dog.

Once we’re back in the house, the five minute drying off process beings, towels strewn everywhere. I begin to sweat, I can feel my heart beating. When I finally return to the sofa, my coffee is cold. As annoyed and flustered as I am after all of this, I know that my frustration will have a very short shelf life. Within minutes, she will jump up besides me, flash me a goofy smile, then curl up next to me and let out one of those deep and peaceful sighs. All will be forgiven. I will forgive her for taking forever. She will forgive me my impatience.

See, that’s the thing about dogs. They are incapable of judgement, they don’t know how to hold a grudge. They don’t even know what a grudge is. They never get mad at you, let alone stay mad. Why would they ever get mad at you? You’re the greatest person in the history of the world! How do I know this? The eyes. It’s right there in their eyes.

Referees...Enemies of the People!

I’m not really a big fan of professional football. There isn’t a team that I root for or against. The NFL is basically the thing I fall asleep to on Sunday afternoon. College football is much more fun and enjoyable to watch. But neither the college game or the pros rouse anything approaching the passion in me that baseball does. This, I am fully aware, makes me an outlier, my baseball obsession being the source of many an eye roll from family and friends. That’s ok. It’s a semi-free country.

Despite my lukewarm embrace of the NFL, I do usually watch the playoffs. The games are more intense, and the outcomes more immediate. I watched parts of the second half of the Rams v Saints game. Then, I watched the first and last quarter of the Chiefs v Patriots contest. There were loads of truly awful referee behavior in both games. The infamous no-call on a blatant pass interference against the Rams essentially cost the Saints a trip to the Super Bowl. And, that forearm that flashed by the helmet of Tom Brady might have been the worst roughing the passer call of all time. If that’s roughing the passer, then I suppose bad breath should be roughing the passer as well.

But, as I was watching the ending of both games, it occurred to me that bad calls and missed calls are actually the best ending a game in 2019 could ever have. It fits so nicely into the overwhelming desire we all have now to be outraged. What better way to end an important and consequential game than with an accusation of referee misconduct, better yet...bias. The no call against the Saints wasn’t just a bad call, it was Fake Officiating!! The phantom roughing the passer call wasn’t just the bad judgement of a referee who had a bad angle on the play, but nothing less than a conspiracy to promote the Patriots!! Don’t believe me? Well, there’s a website some where which will spill all the details of the running 19 year plot to promote the false narrative of Tom Brady and Bill Belichick’s alleged greatness. The Patriots wouldn’t have won a single championship without this gigantic and intricate conspiracy, which has involved not just the officials, but hundreds of players over nearly two decades. The amount of bribes paid out to pull of this great scam must run into the billions! I mean, seriously...how else could New England win with so many white guys on offense??

So, now my Facebook feed is lit up with people who claim they won’t be watching the Super Bowl because they are sick of Brady and the Patriots. Another group claims that they are now Rams fans by default. Anyone but the Patriots!!

Fair enough. The Rams are a terrific team, with many outstanding players. In fact, they have better players top to bottom than the Patriots do. So, by all means, become Rams fans for the day and cheer them on. But, whatever you do...don’t wager a dime against Tom Brady.

Score One For the Internet

Like millions of other people, I play this game. It’s essentially an on-line digital version of Scrabble. I’m decent at it, although I lose more often than some of the people I play. Nevertheless, I find it a pleasant enough diversion and a passable mental calisthenic. But, the best part of the game is the opportunity it affords to meet people from all over the world. Take Natalia, for example.

She was suggested as a suitable opponent by the slightly creepy Words With Friends algorithm several months ago. I was assured that she possessed a similar skill level as mine. So, I took them up on their recommendation , something I rarely do. I prefer playing old friends...like Pam Lawrence...who, incidentally, is a beast!

I won our first game rather handily. During our second game, I decided to strike up a conversation using the chat feature. She had a very Russian-sounding last name, so I took a chance and asked her where she was from. I discovered that she was born, raised, and still resides in Moscow. Over the time we have been friends, it has been fascinating to discover things about her life in the old Soviet Union. She has been equally curious about what it is like to live in America. We talk mostly about our dogs and the brutal Russian weather. We have now played almost 30 games. I’ve won 18...Words With Friends keeps a running tally of our competition. But, yesterday a thought occurred to me. She has gotten better and better with each game and now I struggle mightily to beat her...and English is her second language!!! Suddenly, I felt intellectually inadequate. I shared this revelation with her and her reply was classic Natalia...It’s ok, I try to improve skills by playing game!

But, here’s another thought that has occurred to me. Although it is fashionable these days to decry the societal damage being inflicted upon us by the internet, and some of the charges are no doubt true, Words With Friends is an example of something that connects people from all over the world in positive ways. Anyone can play. It doesn’t matter what your politics are or your religious beliefs. There is no violence, virtual or otherwise, no blood and gore. Just two people trying to find a way to use the letter Z on a triple word score tile. While doing so, sometimes conversations develope that bring people closer together by highlighted the many things that we all have in common, our universally held desires for good health, happy family life, a good dog, and better weather.

Score one for the internet.

My Weird Hobby

I have a strange hobby. In my spare time, I enjoy writing stories. It’s terrific fun to create a universe of characters, then propel them along a path of your own design. It’s very much like being God, if you think about it, a heady experience. Sometimes, these stories evolve into full length novels...https://doug-thetempest.blogspot.com/2015/09/momentum.html. But, that’s where it always ends. A Life of Dreams sleeps in the bottom drawer of my night stand, neatly typed, unknown and unread.

About a year ago, while sitting at the end of the dock at Loon Landing, the idea for a strange story came into my head, Maine lakes being famous breeding grounds for strange stories...see: Stephen King. I didn’t write a word down until I got back to Short Pump, but once I started, the story came pouring out of my head faster than I could write it down. In no time at all, 25,000 words had brought a dozen characters to life, complete with a gruesome murder. Then, as quickly as the story had come to me, it abruptly left. Whatever reservoir of creativity it had come from suddenly dried up. I haven’t written a word since...over six months now...nothing.

So, I took a chance and sent it to a buddy of mine who writes a little himself and who I trust would have the guts to tell me the truth, asking for his opinion. Is this even worth trying to finish? Is it nonsensical? Are there plot holes big enough to drive a truck through? I must admit that his response surprised me...he loved the thing, unequivocally loved it. Now I want to finish it. I’ve read it through a couple of times trying to get swept up in the narrative and find the loose thread of thought that I lost six months ago. Hopefully I will find it and be able to bring it back to life.

The question is...why? When and if it gets finished, it will move in next to A life of Dreams in my nightstand. I lack the connections and determination required to become anything but a self published writer. Part of the reason for this is that I’m not starving. I run a successful business. I write for fun, not because I need money. But the other part is...the only part of writing I enjoy is...the actual writing. All of the business of publishing bores me to tears. So, as soon as the writing is over, my interest level drops to zero. Maybe one day when I’m retired I’ll become interested in pursuing that part. But for now, I’ll stick to writing. Maybe I’ll publish this current project like a serial on my blog...a new chapter every Monday. That might be fun. I should probably figure out a way to charge readers like 25 cents per chapter, put a pay portal on the blog or something like that. Can that even be done? Ha!

Here’s chapter one...free of charge!!  https://doug-thetempest.blogspot.com/2018/07/chapter-one.html

My Companion

4:47 AM and my eyes spring wide open at maximum consciousness. This is seldom a good thing. Sleep is a mysterious thing. I find that when I am the busiest and most exhausted at bed time, that’s when I sleep poorly. On lazy days, I sleep like the dead. So, I  come downstairs, do my morning chores, then sit down with my mug of coffee while it’s still blackest night outside. 

Then, this knucklehead, who normally prefers to lounge at the foot of our bed all morning long until I have to virtually drag her downstairs for her morning constitutional, perambulates down the stairs, and presents herself on the sofa all bright eyed and bushy tailed as if to say...what’s up, dad? I need to pee. I oblige her dutifully. I throw on my coat, grab a poop bag and head out into the culdesac to collect her latest bowel movement. Five minutes later, we are back inside. She takes a drink of water, then plants herself next to me on the sofa...out like a light.

What a life this one has. She sleeps like it’s her job. She probably logs at least 18 hours of shuteye per day. The other 6 hours is divided between eating, sniffing, grooming herself in unseemly ways, playing with me, and being vigilant against a whole host of invisible phantoms that conspire against her sanity. Just because we cant actually see these monsters doesn’t mean they aren’t out there ready to destroy us all if it wasn’t for her diligence. Just to remind us that she is always at work, sometime she will rouse herself from a snoozle nap, lift her eyes towards the ceiling and some unseen thing and let out a soft growl and an inside bark or two. Then, her mission complete, she will settle back again into her nap. Sometimes I wonder what color the sky is in the world where Lucy lives...

Ancient and Strange Memories

A photograph was shared on my Facebook page today from the Friends of James River State Park group. This is the beautiful State park that occupies the piece of land that used to belong to my mother's family, the Dixons. The old house that my great grandfather built and where my grandparents used to live is shown in a grainy black and white photograph, taken from the cow pasture that used to run along the side of the property where the family graveyard was...and still is. Greenhill was the spooky house at the end of a long dusty dirt road.

My first memories of this place were when I was five or six. Other family members reading this might dispute what follows, but after 55 years, its the best I can do. On that little back porch there was some sort of refrigerator which contained small 8 oz. glass bottles of Dr. Pepper, my grandmother's favorite drink. Legend had it that she drank one at 10:00, 2:00 and 4:00, just like the bottle instructed. Whenever we came for a visit, she would give me one. She always wore an apron. Never saw her without one, and whenever she would wrap me in her arms for a hug, I would always breathe in the smell of the last meal she had prepared. The long picnic style table which was in the kitchen, right across from the wood stove would always be crammed with people whether it was meal time or not. Whenever I watched  my grandfather eat a meal it was the most awe inspiring thing in the world for a little boy. Here was this strong bull of a man devouring whatever was placed in front of him like his life depended on it. It was as if he was worried that someone might take it from him before he was done. Never saw any man before or since eat that quickly!! After breakfast he would take me to watch him milk the cows and throw slop into a trough for the pigs. Every once in a while he would let me sit behind the wheel of his Desoto parked in one of the barns. I remember it had a push button transmission. I thought that my grandfather was the greatest man in the world. 

For a little boy, Greenhill was a wonderland. There were animals everywhere. There was fishing to do down by the river. Every second was spent outside, partly because what five year old wouldn't want to be outside?? But part of the reason I spent all my time outside was because I was afraid of the inside of the house. The bedroom where we kids stayed whenever we visited had a single free hanging light bulb which splashed strange shadows all across the dark red walls. Was it dark red or dark green? It's a little hazy, but whichever color it was, it was dark and foreboding. Consequently, I always woke up before daybreak and escaped down the stairs where no matter the hour, I would always find my grandmother, apron in place, busy with something. She would talk to me and pat me on the head. I remember it being so comforting...

This is a picture from the river side of the house way back at the turn of the 19th into the 20th century. The man leaning back in the chair is John A. Dixon, who I believe was my great grandfather. To look at this picture is a strange experience. What would it be like to travel back in time just for one day at that very spot and have a conversation with my ancestors? How amazing would that be?

I'm confident that many of my more family-history aware relatives from the Dixon clan will correct any factual errors in my recollections. But, its been fun today to be reminded from where I came... 

The SOTU Show Has Been Cancelled

So, apparently this year’s State of the Union show is the latest casualty of the government shutdown, proving that old adage that behind every dark cloud there’s a silver lining. Don’t get me wrong, the fact that our government has been partially shutdown now for over three weeks remains a colossal failure of our democracy, and an embarrassment to anyone who claims devotion to self-government. Nevertheless, the cancellation of this year’s SOTU is a giant step forward for the country. Let me count the ways...

When this nation broke free from the British monarchy, it threw off the presumptions of authoritarianism along with it. The Founding Fathers, with the exception of John Adams and the now universally lionized Alexander Hamilton, constructed a form of government that divided power three ways with the intention that anyone’s attempt to seize and concentrate power would be met with institutional and constitutional opposition. Stalwarts of liberty like Thomas Jefferson and James Madison--Virginians-- were contemptuous of anything that smacked of monarchy and resisted mightily the concept of titles and both would have been appalled at what the modern imperial presidency has become. When George Washington chose retirement over the continuance of his power, he set the gold standard of presidential leadership consistent with liberty.

Ever since FDR chose his continued power over retirement, the Presidency has been exalted over the other branches of government. Calvin Coolidge wouldn’t recognize the office were he alive to witness the ridiculous pomp and partisan caterwauling that define the modern SOTU spectacle. 

For the first 137 years of this Republic, the speech was written by the President and sent to Congress to be read aloud. Leave it to this nation’s first truly progressive and authoritarian president...Woodrow Wilson--alas, also a Virginian-- to muck it all up. Wilson was of the belief that he knew best what the country needed and felt unduly constrained in his intention to transform it in his progressive vision by the notorious straight jacket known as our pesky constitution. Endowed with an exalted view of his powers of persuasion, Wilson thought it would be a grand idea to give the speech himself, thinking that the power of his presence might be enough to sway opinion. Thus was born the modern SOTU speech, which has devolved into an embarrassing partisan pep rally. Democrats sit on one side, Republicans on the other. The Vice President and the Speaker of the House sit behind the podium looking like two dour bookends, framing the President as he gives his platitudinous address, roused from their stupor every two minutes by undeserved standing ovations. Tight shots of congressional leaders looking grave and concerned fill our television screens making all of us wonder how any of these lightweights ever were elevated to such lofty heights. Ordinary citizens sit next to the First Lady up in the gallery, serving as props for some point the President wishes to make. Each bland resuscitation of political talking points is met with thunderous applause by the President’s party as if he had just revealed the secret to immortality. 

So, Nancy Pelosi’s decision to cancel the 2019 edition of this debacle will go down as her second greatest contribution to American Democracy, just below her eventual decision, at age 100, to finally retire. Let Mr. Trump write his speech, hire James Earl Jones to read it, and broadcast it over the radio. Not having to watch 535 preening politicians jockeying for face time will probably add a half a point to the country’s GDP!

Beach Week 2019

2019 is the year of the Dunnevant family Beach Week vacation. It’s a biennial event. Nineteen people, renting an 8 bedroom, 8 full bath house somewhere on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, is not for sissies. Finding a house which is large enough, close enough to the beach, suitably endowed with a proper kitchen, a pool and hot tub, a massive enough living area to accommodate 19 people for a sit down dinner, one that doesn’t cost a small fortune, and one which is available during the one week that 19 people can all agree on is no small task. So, to that end, the search begins the first week of January and is greatly assisted by my wife and her dazzling array of Google docs, spreadsheets and organizational life hacks.

The first family email went out a few days ago with the aforementioned Google doc attached. It has prompted a flurry of responses. Already, huge obstacles have appeared, not the least of which is something called the...Great Beach Refurbishing Project of ‘19...whereby, the storm ravaged beach between milepost 11 and 21 will endure a re-sanding project over a 5 month period which happens to include the entire summer. The department, bureau, or agency in charge of this project has declined to provide any information on when exactly it will begin or specifically where it will begin. So, if you rent a house anywhere between milepost 11 and 21, you run an incalculable risk that during your chosen week the beach in front of your house might be closed, or worse...inhabited by scores of illegal immigrants doing the dirty, hard jobs that Americans just won’t do, right at your doorstep! The burning question now is...do we roll the dice and take a chance on renting a house in this trouble zone?? What are the odds that our vacation will be ruined? 

To establish those odds...if I understand how Vegas works...you first have to calculate the amount of beach mileage affected, and then divide that by the number of days in the five month window. Then, since the work is being done by an agency of government, you have to factor in delays, impact studies, public hearings, work stoppages because somebody saw an endangered species crawl into the dunes somewhere, grandstanding press conferences by local politicians trying to either claim credit for the work or blame somebody else for the debacle that it has become, and finally... the potential of a government shutdown. What is a vacation planning family of 19 to do?

Despite all of these obstacles...we will figure it out. That’s just what we do. We air all of our concerns, we balance competing preferences, we all make the required concessions and compromises necessary to accommodate what is best for the majority of us, consistent with our objective of a happy and fun family vacation.

If the Dunnevant family, a tribe known far and wide for our raging opinions and contentiousness, can figure this out...how come the people in Washington DC cant?

Winter in RVA

This is essentially every snowstorm forecast for the City of Richmond over the last 2000 years. There’s this thing called the rain/snow line and it lives here in the winter. Therefore, depending on where it decides to sit can be the difference between making our local weather folks look like geniuses or making them look like clueless buffoons. It’s also why the best weather people in RVA are the ones with the most humility and good humor...in other words, Andrew Freiden...in a rout.

I live where the little white dot is on the map. Which means, while I might only have 2 inches of slush on my deck at the moment with sleet and rain falling, I can get in my car and drive 4 miles up to the Rockville exit on 64 and watch 6-10 inches of snow falling. Or maybe, by 4 o’clock this afternoon this fickle R/S line will have changed its mind and drifted south. 

Godspeed, Andrew. You have the toughest meteorologist gig in the country.