Going Away For a Month

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sandy vs Max

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Reunion

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

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

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

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

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

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

Feeling thankful this morning...

The Still Small Voice

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You Watching The Debate?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m taking the over.

It’s On!

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

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

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

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

Our Newest Dunnevant!!

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

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

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

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

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

Equality at the Cross

Recently I have been forced to face a long time nemesis of mine, a nearly life long prejudice that I developed during college and never have quite turned loose of since. It is a story filled with resentment and irony, and like all prejudices, ultimately debilitating. It started my freshman year at the University of Richmond.

I was blessed with an incredible family. My parents were amazing people who loved their four children to the moon and back. But, we never had any money. My dad was a Baptist minister of a smaller country church which didn’t pay a lot. We always lived in housing supplied by the church...a parsonage...as it was called. I don’t remember thinking anything of our relative poverty while I was in middle school and high school since most other kids I went to school with were in the same shape. But when it was time for me to attend college, things changed. Dad informed me that he would not be able to help me out with any of the costs of college, so it was probably out of the question for me to go away to school. I would have to commute and University of Richmond was his alma mater so...In order for me to attend college, I was going to have to work almost full time hours somewhere, and even then would be required to take out loans every year. So, I was fortunate enough to land a job at an equipment company out at the Hanover Industrial Air Park where I worked five days a week from 12:30 to 5:30. That meant all morning classes and late night trips from my home in Elmont, Virginia to Boatwright library at night. There was no use bitching about it...it’s just the way it was.

I began to notice...and resent...the many guys at UofR who were from up north, Connecticut, Massachusetts and New Jersey. They drove BMW’s and were sent allowances from their parents every month. I envied them their cars, their free afternoons, their exuberant college experiences. My Volkswagen barely got me from campus to Ashland everyday, and by the time I had spent 5 hours in an unairconditioned warehouse building wooden pallets all day, and a couple of hours in the library, parties were a rare luxury...not a nightly ritual. Over the four and a half years it took me to graduate, I developed a deep resentment for...rich people...the kinds of people who gave their teenage sons European luxury cars, the kinds of people who inherited money, the kinds of people who joined country clubs and sent their kids to Collegiate. I listened to them talk about their money, I heard the stories of their wealth and became keenly aware of my own heritage...a grandfather who was a share cropper...and slowly, a bitterness began to form in my heart. A chip climbed up on my shoulder and in many ways has never left.

Of course the ironies of such a prejudice are striking. I have made a living as an investment advisor, helping regular people get rich and rich people get richer. My profession places me smack dab in the middle of the kinds of people I learned to resent all those years ago. I love my clients. They are great people. Yet..I still feel uncomfortable driving through an affluent neighborhood. Even though I can afford it, there isn’t a country club anywhere in the world that I would join. And now...for the last three years I have found a church home that I dearly love...but in which I am surrounded by people who send their kids to Collegiate!! Like I said, ironies abound.

Here’s what I’ve learned at Hope Church. The unspeakable heartbreaks of life are no respecter of persons. God is not impressed with our money, our cars or our homes. Tragedy befalls all of us, rich and poor alike. Cancer takes our kids from us. Our kids get destroyed by addictions. Those we love the most still lose their way and take their own lives...whether we live on River Road or in public housing. Although we all know this intellectually, it becomes real when it happens to someone you have come to know. 

Attending an affluent church like Hope has been an adjustment for me. I still feel a bit uncomfortable there at times. The old resentments rise to the surface at the strangest times. But, I’ve met some incredible people there, people who are forcing me to examine myself and my resentments. I’m learning to look past the surface, to take the time to get past the superficial. Underneath the trappings, we are all human beings trying to make sense of the world, searching for transcendent meaning. It is at the cross where we discover our equality. It’s the place where we lay aside our differences. For the first time I’m learning how to do just that.

What Do I Do With My New Hour??

I deleted my Twitter account last night. My wife had suggested that I could just block people who made the experience unenjoyable for me...and she had a point, but upon further reflection I just decided to be done with it. For one thing, the Twitter statistics told me that I spent an average of over an hour a day on the thing. So, by deleting Twitter, I have reclaimed 30 hours of my life back every month. That’s like gaining back an entire day each month, 12 days a year. What will I do with all this new free time?! Well, this morning, I spent a good chunk of it shooting squirrels, a much more fulfilling hobby.

But, it has gotten me to thinking...what would be a better way to spend a spare hour every day than flipping through Twitter?

1. Become a more consistent and thorough flosser.

2. Spend more time praying for friends, family and enemies.

3. Take some time to write friends the occasional note of encouragement.

4. Learn the proper use of the dreaded apostrophe ie..its vs. it’s...which has always been the bane of my literary existence.

5. Learn how to bake bread.

The worst way to use my new hour each day?

1. Spend an extra hour on Facebook.

2. Immerse myself in all things Trump.

3. Learn everything there is to know about Bernie Sanders.

4. Figure out a way to communicate to Lucy that thunder will not, in fact, kill her.

5. Give soccer a chance.

Alrighty then...I suppose I should get started!

Old vs. New

My wife often accuses me of being an old fuddy-duddy, in that I never like anything new, always preferring the versions from my younger days. I must admit that the accusation is mostly true, but not universal. For example, it is my firm conviction that modern country music isn’t country music at all, but rather synthesized pop songs written about nothing, sung by mostly men with southern accents. But...Brad Paisley is still great. There are always exceptions to the rules. I might generally disapprove of modern television programming, but when something like Breaking Bad comes along, I have to admit that it’s as good a drama as has ever been on television. 

However, my attachment to things from my younger days is not absolute.  Craft beer is ten times better than a single can ever brewed by Miller, Coors and Anheuser-Busch combined!  Every single time I turn on the heated seats in my car, I say a prayer of thanks for modern innovation! In fact, from a technological standpoint, I am quite thankful to be alive in 2019. My life has been made infinitely more convenient than it would have been if I were 61 in 1958. My cell phone alone is a life changing marvel. You couldn’t pay me enough money to go back to the rotary phone days. Advancements in medicine make this the greatest time in history to get sick. Ailments which used to carry life sentences can now be cured with over the counter remedies. You want to book a vacation? Try doing that in 1965. Good luck getting that road atlas folded back up.

It’s true...I still prefer 1970’s baseball to the modern game. Games were shorter, players tougher. That doesn’t mean that I can’t realize and appreciate the fact that Mike Trout is an all-time talent. I liked the NBA much more when it featured Michael Jordan, Larry Bird and Magic Johnson...but that doesn’t mean that I can’t see and appreciate the greatness of Lebron James. 

Then there’s social media. Contrary to my wife’s putdowns, I have always been a big fan of that most modern innovation. Facebook has a thousand flaws, but it’s ability to bring us together has made keeping up with old friends immeasurably easier. Almost all forms of social media have tremendous potential for good, along with extraordinary capabilities for mischief. Whichever outcome you enjoy depends almost entirely on your behavior as the user. I have been on Facebook for over a decade, Instagram for just a couple of months, and Twitter for almost seven years. 90% of the time I enjoy Facebook. I don’t entirely understand this Instagram business, can’t figure out the purpose of the thing. Maybe I’ll figure it out over time. With Twitter, it’s a different story...

I’m thinking seriously about deleting my account. Why? Mostly because I think it’s making me dumber. I am told that the average user of Twitter is much wealthier, younger, and liberal than I am, although I have heard from plenty of older conservatives. Its just the medium itself that doesn’t lend itself well to reasoned debate...and that’s exactly what Twitter is...a debating platform. A more accurate description of Twitter would be to say it’s a place people come to make misrepresentations of their enemies positions on every issue imaginable. The goal is to come up with the best meme, to own, to troll, to say things that you would never say to another person face to face. At first it was entertaining as hell. I would gawk at the proceedings, mouth agape, for hours. But soon it became like rubbernecking a horrible accident on the freeway, searching for a severed head. It’s started to make me feel guilty for exposing myself to so much cheap hatred. I always come away feeling...dumber, far less enlightened, and generally in an ill-temper. I don’t think it’s worth it. That old scripture verse comes to mind...

...I will set no vile thing before my eyes...

Psalm 101:3

Ordering My New Zealand Brochures

It is now June of 2019. In less than a fortnight the Democrats will hold their first televised Presidential debate. There will be 20 candidates on the stage, three less than the number of declared candidates. It will mark the unofficial beginning of the 2020 election season.

Saints preserve us.

It was my wife who reminded me of what the next 18 months will bring on our trip down to Isle of Palms. Out of nowhere she said, Can you imagine how horrible the next election is going to be? I can’t, actually. First of all, I still haven’t gotten over the last one...https://doug-thetempest.blogspot.com/2016/11/the-morning-after.html.

This feels like unchartered waters. There is no precedent for Donald Trump. The Democratic Party has never in my lifetime been so enamored with Socialism, or at least this willing to admit it. There is talk of wiping out student debt, making college free, Medicare for all, wealth taxes, guaranteed income for all, slavery reparations. It’s like all the dudes and dudettes wearing the Che Guevara t-shirts back in the 60’s are now running the show. Then, there’s Joe Biden. I know that all the polls say he’s the front runner, but I don’t buy it. He looks ancient to me. This doesn’t seem like the year that the Dems will nominate an old white man. The real front runner seems to be Elizabeth Warren. But, what do I know?

Pam asked me if I thought anyone in the Republican Party will challenge Trump. My answer was an emphatic...No. They have made their bed, now they have to lay in it. So, it will be Donald Trump vs. a Democratic Party candidate who will be the preferred candidate of every television network not named FOX NEWS, every newspaper not named THE WALL STREET JOURNAL, every movie star, pop singer and television actor in the country. Every poll will predict a landslide victory for the Democrat. A long list of A-list celebrities will promise to leave the country if Trump wins. Evangelical leaders will predict the unleashing of the four horses of the apocalypse if Trump is defeated. Twitter will become more dangerous to your health than a swim in the pool at the Chernobyl Hilton.

I hear New Zealand is a nice place...

A REAL Dad Tribute

Without even looking, I know that my various social media feeds will be full of Father’s Day tributes. There will be photographs of fathers and sons, and all sorts of conflicting claims as to which one is, in fact, the world’s best Dad. To quote Mister Potter from It’s a Wonderful Life...sentimental hogwash!!

What Facebook, Twitter and Instagram need today is a tribute to the real contributions that our Dad’s have made to our development. What I’m talking about isn’t some song and dance about the virtues of honesty, loyalty and hard work. No...I’m referring to the things our dad’s taught us that no one else could. Who but Dad could have made sure we understood where we came from by reminding us that we were not...born in a barn? What could have contributed as much to our understanding of the connection between consumption and employment more than Dad’s refrain, Would somebody in this house learn to turn the lights off when they leave a room?? We don’t work for the power company!! And what about the Hobson’s choice dilemma presented to us by dad’s instruction...Pull my finger?

But all of these important contributions made by our dad’s pale in comparison to their most enduring contribution...The Dad Joke. To that end, I believe that today is the perfect day to remind us of the proud and enduring sense of humor that our father’s have bequeathed to all of us. Enjoy...

You hear that news story about the cartoonist found dead in his home? The details were...sketchy.

Last night, Mom and I watched two DVD’s back to back. Luckily, I was the one facing the TV.

Went to a seafood disco last night. Just my luck, I pulled a mussel.

Two cannibals were eating a clown when one says to the other...”does this taste funny to you”?

An invisible man married an invisible woman. I bet their kids aren’t anything to look at either.

I went to bed last night wondering what had happened to the sun. Then it dawned on me.

What’s the difference between an angry circus owner and a Roman barber? One is a raving showman, the other a shaving Roman.

Yesterday I accidentally swallowed some food coloring. The doctor says I’m fine, but I feel like I’ve dyed a little inside.

Last night I dreamed that I was drowning in an ocean of orange soda. Eventually I figured out that it was just a Fanta Sea.

Why did the skeleton belch? Because he didn’t have guts enough to fart.

Have you heard that new music group called Cellophane?

No, what kind of music do they play?

Mostly...wrap.

A steak pun is a rare medium done well.

What do you call a group of killer whales playing classical music? An Orca-stra.

An Almost Perfect Day

What a day. What an amazing day.

It was supposed to be overcast. Instead, the sun came out around ten o’clock and stayed out all day, setting in a fireball of orange and pink. A breeze blew every time it started to feel hot.

We walked into the center of the resort where all the shops and restaurants are, and rented a couple of bikes for the rest of the week. We tried to remember how long it had been since we had ridden bikes together and realized that it was over twenty years ago in Bar Harbor. We had both forgotten how much fun it is, how much like a kid it makes you feel. We rode around all morning on this very flat strip of high priced real estate, gawking at the fabulous homes and lush vegetation, delighting in the charm of the white picket fence, which is a staple here. 

Of course, me being me, I got a little freaky with the bike at one point and had a brief encounter with a metal fence post, resulting in a jammed finger and a bloody forearm. No day isn’t complete without at least one eye-roll from Pam. 

After sandwiches at Hudson’s Market, we gathered up our beach gear and traipsed across the 600 feet of sand until we finally found the ocean. Walking the equivalent of two football fields loaded down with beach chairs and coolers is not for sissies. But, it was worth the trip. It was a gorgeous afternoon.

After a short power nap, I hopped on my bike and rode up the street to the Links Course for my 5:00 tee time. I have never had a tee time so late in the day, but it was all I could get. The course was in magnificent condition, and my rental clubs were brand new Callaways. I shot 44 on the front side, which featured an almost comical 8. I will not bore you with the details...but I deserved it! At the turn, I picked up my wife who had come up to have a cocktail and read her book on the balcony of Huey’s. She served as the cart driver for my back nine. She was also my lucky charm...shot 41on the back!

However, there is no such thing as a perfect day. There’s always something, am I right? Ok, so after 18 holes of golf, it was almost 8 o’clock, and we were both very hungry. Unfortunately, Huey’s was only opened for members last night, so our perfect plan to eat at the golf course was foiled by eilitism. No worries, we would just ride our bikes back to the Village Plaza and pick from the various eateries there. By this point in the day, we both started to notice a tightness in our legs, a gentle reminder from God that although riding bikes sure did make us feel like kids, we are not, in fact, kids. Being seriously hungry didn’t help either. But as we saw our first choice...Woody’s, come into view, all was well. Right up to the point when it wasn’t. Woody’s had closed at 5:00. No problem, let’s go across the street to that BBQ place we saw earlier. The young, overwhelmed maitre’d thus began her soliloquy...

Yeah, well...we are really, like, super busy right now and like, we only have like three waiters and each of them have like three tables each and it’s taking a long time to like, serve people...so it’s gonna be like, a while.

At this point, although hungry, we had not yet reached hangry level, so we demurred. There was always that burger place we had heard so much about down on the boardwalk. Now, it was 8:45, and we had to make the long walk to our third choice. We arrived only to be told by a befuddled young man bussing a table that the kitchen was closed...but if we wanted a drink, the bar was opened.

When I looked into the eyes of my beloved...I saw it for the first time. My wife was not only hot and sweaty from all the bike riding and walking, but now she was hangry. There’s always the Terrace in the Boardwalk Inn, I suggested optimistically. She replied with the one word, all purpose response she always uses whenever she’s started to become annoyed...Sssuure!

The Terrace Maitre’d, while possessing a better grasp of her native tongue, was equally confusing in her response to two people who just wanted for somebody, somewhere on this resort property to feed us!!....We have been very busy tonight, but the guys are bussing tables right now and it shouldn’t be more than five minutes. Can we offer you a menu while you wait?

Twenty minutes later, no table. Despite the fact that both of us were so hungry we could have eaten the maitre’d, absolutely nothing on the Terrace menu appealed to us at all. We left in a huff of righteous indignation and headed over to our last resort...Hudson’s Market. Alas, their kitchen had also closed at 5:00.

At 9:15 in the evening on a day when you have biked multiple miles, walked like packmules across a desert of sand, and played a round of golf...your body becomes a rebellious and petulant child. It demands food...any kind of food. Then I saw the...ice cream. Ten minutes later, Pam and I were sitting in rocking chairs gulping down large quantities of the hand dipped stuff. It would be our dinner, at least until we could find our way back to our condo in the dark...on bikes, where a half a sandwich and an orange left over from lunch awaited us.

Other than our dinner dining experience, yesterday was as good as it gets...

Morning Beauty After The Storm

I’m sitting on a screened in porch listening to the thunderous surf in the distance. It was exactly what I was doing for over an hour last night during the wind and rain, watching the heat lightening out over the Atlantic. It is cool this morning, but thickly humid. I just got back from a short walk on the massive expanse of beach on this island..200 yards from dunes to water massive...the widest, flattest stretch of sand I have ever seen. Inexplicably, a single driftwood tree sits perched on the highest spot on the beach, begging to have its picture taken. I obliged...

The beach is so wide and so flat, it makes the sky look bigger than the sky is supposed to look. The last time I saw such a big sky was when I was in Montana as an 18 year old and discovered exactly why that State is called Big Sky Country.

I’m not sure what we will do today. This is supposed to be the only cloudy day of our week. Maybe I’ll use that as an excuse to play the golf course that is right down the street. Dinner last night at Huey’s featured this view...

...which seems a bit unfair. How is a guy supposed to give his undivided attention to his wife of 35 incredible years with this view just to the left of her beautiful face? I would post the competing picture I took of her but after 35 years, I have learned a few things. One of those things is never post a picture of your wife on social media without first obtaining permission to do so. I only look stupid!

For the record, last night’s amazing dinner included this item from the appetizer menu...

Low Country Egg Rolls...filled with collard greens, pulled pork BBQ and drizzled with a smoked mustard sauce. 

Yeah, when you see that on the menu, thats when you know you’re nowhere near Connecticut.

I Win

I get to spend the next five days in this fabulous place...

...with this beautiful woman...

The place is Wild Dunes in Isle of Palms, South Carolina. Neither of us have ever been there before. If the website can be believed, we will have an amazing four nights. The occasion is our 35th wedding anniversary...a month late. Lucy will stay here, accompanied by Becca, the dog whisperer, and the cost of the trip will be paid for with Capital One points. 

I win.

Gail

It was twenty two years ago when I took the call. Everyone had gone to lunch and I was the only one available to answer the phone. Her husband had passed away and he had a policy with Life of Virginia and could somebody help her with the claim? I took down her information and set a time to have her come in, only she didn’t want to drive all the way to Richmond. She lived in Hopewell. Could I come to her? 

Thus began my over two decade relationship with an elderly woman named...Gail. That she would become not only a great client but a dear friend was one of the most unlikely outcomes imaginable, for Gail was and is the most unique person I have ever met. When I pulled up in the circular driveway of her house she greeted me at the door wearing an outlandish pink and green pair of velvet pants and a silk blouse, with an unfiltered cigarette hanging out of her mouth, I remember thinking...Holy Crap. What is this I have gotten myself into? She was tiny, a wisp of a 64 year old woman, with a warm grin on her face. She thanked me for driving all the way out to Hopewell, a place she described as...a place with no hope where ain’t nobody doing well, except me!! Then, I heard that laugh for the first time, high pitched and unrestrained. I walked inside very gingerly.

Her house was beautiful on the outside, all elegant lines with a finely trimmed yard. Inside, the place was a hot mess. It wasn’t dirty, but there was stuff everywhere. Gail was a hoarder. I kept a sharp eye out for cats, but thankfully the only animal was a small Pekingese who appeared from beneath the rubble and was frantically barking at the tall, nervous man in the dark suit. Gail barked out a raspy command..Sweetie!! Shut the hell up!!!! “Sweetie” was never heard from again.

When we finally found a place to sit around an antique table piled high with what appeared to be every piece of junk mail she had received over the past ten years, she slapped her dead husband’s policy down in front of me. I suppose you expected me to be dressed in black, since my husband died. Well maybe I should be, but I look like a God***** old woman in black. Besides, Ed loved these pants.

As I processed the paperwork, she told me her life story. With her husband’s death, she was now completely alone. She had no surviving family, neither did he. They had no children. There was literally no family left, no uncles or aunts, no distant cousins. What she did have was tons of friends and the ugliest Pekingese in the entire world. She grew up as an Army brat, lived all over the world. Her husband was a lawyer. She was once a great singer and dancer and had the photographs to prove it. I looked at the young girl in the pictures. She was a beauty. The more we talked, the less uncomfortable I felt. The stories she told were fascinating. What a life she had lived. In the couple of hours I spent with her that first day I discovered a complex woman with an astounding back story. I wasn’t quite sure how much of it was true, but if she was making it up, well...she was one heck of a storyteller. Her sentences were lively and flowed naturally, as if they had been written in advance, and carefully crafted. All of it was sprinkled with the most hilariously colorful profanity I have ever heard from another human being. Must have been the Army background.

She ended up investing the proceeds of her husband’s insurance policy with me. In the months and years that followed, she entrusted more and more of her money with me. In all of our 22 year business relationship, she has never made the trip north to my office. I have always made the drive to Hopewell, probably over 50 times by now. Over the years we have talked about everything. She wanted to know all about Pam and the kids, was fascinated with my parent’s story. She was astonished to discover that I was a Christian. She had a million questions, including this one...Ok, Mister Christian...what’s your favorite verse in the Bible? I answered with Deuteronomy 8:17-18...You may say to yourself, my power and the strength of my hands have produced this wealth for me, but remember the Lord your God who gives you the power to produce wealth... Tears came to her eyes. Then she dismissed me with a colorful phrase. The next time I saw her, she met me at the door with a beautiful, professionally framed, hand stitched rendition of...Deuteronomy 8:17-18. 

Last week I received a call from the lawyer who has her Power of Attorney informing me that she had been placed in a nursing home after being found unresponsive in her home by a friend. Yesterday I went to see her. She lay there in a crumpled pile of covers, face twisted upwards, mouth ajar, her vibrant personality obscured by the ravages of time. I held her hand and looked closely into her face, and called to her. She opened her eyes and mumbled something I couldn’t understand. Her friend interpreted...She said Dunnevant. She knows its you. Then she drifted back off to sleep, or whatever state she was in before, something that looked and felt more painful and disturbing than...sleep. The doctors say she wont be going home again. She might not make it much longer, or she may hang on for months.

I’ve been around in my business long enough to know the rules of life. Clients get old and die. All the money eventually passes to others, in Gail’s case to seven environmental advocacy groups. It’s all part of the job. But every client is not like Gail. I will miss her friendship, her wit and wisdom, and yes...the side-splitting profanity. 

About ten years ago she asked me out of the blue...If I were going to read just one book in this Bible of yours, what should it be? I thought for a moment and answered...If I were you, I would read the Gospel of John. She nodded and said...Well, Doug...you ain’t me, but I will read the Gospel of John, just for you. Six months later we met again for a review. In the middle of my presentation to her, she slammed her hand down on the table and said, By the way...I just finished up the Gospel of John and I’ve got to admit...Jesus was a bad-ass!! I busted up laughing and we ended up talking for over an hour about her thoughts on the subject. For what its worth, I’m not sure I’ve ever met anyone who understood who Jesus was and what his message was more beautifully than my strange, and profane friend.

It takes all kinds of people to make a world...

How Would You Like to be Remembered?

Thirty six years ago I entered the workforce as an agent for a company which no longer exists called, Life of Virginia. My first day on the job I was introduced to the guy who I would share a tiny 10x10 office with for the next six months. I quickly gave him the nickname...Hexhead...and we got along great. A mutual friend from those old days sent me a note this morning informing me of his passing. Hexhead is dead. This news has transported me back in time to what life was like thirty six years ago. Its been part fond nostalgia and part nightmare.

Some things from those days are nearly impossible to believe. In 1983, I shared that tiny, cramped office with a guy who chain-smoked Marlboros. Hexhead made no apologies, never asked if I minded if he smoked, nor would I ever have expected him to. If I walked down the hall, about every other office had at least one smoker. Every single day, I went home smelling like cigarette smoke. But of all of my worries and concerns back then, the fact that my office-mate smoked was 36th on the list. I try to imagine what I would do today if someone came in my office and lit up a Marlboro!! In one generation smoking inside public buildings has gone from being ubiquitous to unimaginable. Amazing.

Hexhead was a good dude, if a bit rough around the edges. He had a loud, infectious laugh, and a great sense of humor. There was also no chance in a thousand hells that he would make it in the insurance business. He marched to the beat of a very different drummer, one who had only a passing knowledge of the beat. There is one clear memory I have of the man and it’s a doozy...

One Friday, our sales manager invited several of us for a day on the Chesapeake Bay on his beautiful sailboat. Girlfriends and wives were invited, so Pam...then my girlfriend...came along. It was a gorgeous day and as the boat cut it’s way briskly through the water while we sipped our adult beverages...all was well with the world. Then Hexhead got up and moved from the stern of the boat to it’s bow for a better view. Unlike the rest of us who were wearing swim suits so we could dive in if it got hot, Hexhead was sporting cutoff jeans. When he sat down in front of the rest of us at the front of the boat we all instantly realized that he was not wearing underwear.

There he was, oblivious...his full glory prominently displayed for all to see. We laughed. We cried. We had the mental image permanently burned into our brain for all of eternity...so much so that when my friend sent me the news of his passing...it was the very first memory that..er, um...reared it’s head.

I read the obituary. It was exactly the sort of obituary I would expect his family to write. He loved life, was full of fun and whimsy, loved by everyone. Yes, yes and yes. RIP, Hexhead.

Squirrels and the Existence of Evil

 There are two universal constants in my life, which at this particular moment are front and center. These two constants are completely unrelated, and writing about them both in the same blog post may seem odd to the reader, but this is my blog and therefore I owe you no explanation.

The first universal constant is the existence of evil in the world, the latest manifestation of which has been the Virginia Beach shooting and Mr. DeWayne Craddock. By all accounts, Craddock was an unremarkably normal man. He had no criminal record, was well educated, a civil engineer stable enough to hold a steady, responsible job for over 15 years, and came from a good family. But something inside him snapped and inexplicably turned him into a man capable of killing 12 of his co-workers in cold blood. It is a human trait to seek explanations, to assign blame and find a culprit. It is part of our need to discover meaning in life. We all construct belief systems that serve as a template for understanding the world around us. But...what if there is no explanation other than the existence of evil in the world? Some will dismiss the existence of evil in this case by saying that Craddock was obviously mentally ill with some undetected and untreated psychosis, which if properly diagnosed could have been treated and this violence could have been avoided. Perhaps that is true. But, mental illness or not, the act of killing 12 colleagues, in and of itself, is an unspeakable evil that cannot be explained away simply by giving it a name and classifying it as a disease. We prefer our mass murderers to look and act the part. We prefer that they are political extremists. We feel better when we discover that they came from an abusive family or were drug addicted or unrepentant racists. But when they turn out to be the DeWayne Craddocks of the world, what then? If someone like him...like us...is capable of this, what do we do then?

The second universal truth has to do with this photograph which I took this morning at 6:38 AM....

There I was, drinking my coffee and checking out last night’s boxscores, when I glanced up and saw a squirrel sitting up on his haunches, with a lovely rose blossom in his bony little mitts chowing down like a fat kid on a box of doughnuts. There was absolutely nothing I could do. If I bolted out there with my pellet gun, he would be long gone by the time I could get a shot off. If I raised a window and stealthily tried to shoot him from inside my house, his little squirrel ears would hear the slightest squeak from the window and flee. So I just sat there watching this pathetic and worthless creature laying waste to Pam’s beautiful roses. It is my sincere conviction that squirrels were placed into this world for the sole purpose of my eternal exasperation. It is clearly God’s way of introducing a daily dose of humility into my life...Yes, Doug...there are some things in this world that you cannot fix, problems which you cannot solve. Chill out.

Evil and squirrels...but I repeat myself.

Best Dog Culdesac in the Neighborhood

These past couple of days have been glorious. Yesterday when I walked out onto my deck at 6 AM I wrote that Maine had come to Short Pump. This morning it was exactly ten degrees cooler, which turned me into a liar since actually...today is much more like a July morning in Maine than yesterday was! Be that as it may, it is a wonderful thing to be visited by such perfect weather. We have taken full advantage. Last night Pam whipped up an Instant Pot meal extraordinaire called Mongolian Beef something or other. We ate it with our good friend, Al Fresca...

And yes...my wife is still wearing her apron, in my opinion, one of the sexiest garments ever fashioned by human hands.

Lucy loves it when we eat outside. She spends her time alternating between full sniffing interrogations of all quadrants of her yard to bouts of rolling around in the grass on her back, tongue flopped out of her mouth, not a care in the world. As soon as she senses that we are done eating, she brings me her frisbee and insists on a session of catch and keep-away. After three or four throws and three or four demonstrations of Lucy showing off her athletic grace, she is done and back to back scratches in the grass.

We are able to enjoy our back yard this year because we employed the services of an outfit called...The Mosquito Authority. For a tidy sum of cash, I contracted with this service which promised to rid my yard of mosquitos...guaranteed. I was skeptical, but desperate. Before these guys came along, our deck was the mosquito capital of Short Pump, a bloodsucking feeding ground. But now, after a couple of months under their protection, there hasn’t been a mosquito sighting, much less a bite. It’s like a miracle. Of course, if six months from now, one of us begins to grow a new appendage, one of us sprouts a sixth toe, or one arm suddenly gets longer than the other...we’ll know why!

The other day I was out on the deck doing my early evening squirrel reconnaissance when I happened to look over into my neighbor’s back yard and noticed their new puppy standing at their back gate, giving me the once over. This lovable beast is...Boss...their aptly named mastiff puppy who is, without putting too fine a point on it, HUGE, and getting bigger by the minute. Anyway, there he was, ginormous paws gripping the fence, ponderous head cocked to one side, beckoning me to come over for a scratch. What was I to do? Of course, I had to agree. Luckily, I have great neighbors who don’t mind me letting myself into their backyard to play with their dog (at least I HOPE not). Anyway, by the time Boss is full grown he’s going to be bigger than me, so I have a vested interest in getting on his good side. When I returned to the house, Lucy was on me like white on rice...as manic as one of those bomb-sniffing dogs from the Department of Homeland Security. She demanded to know where I had been and who I had been with. She could scarcely hide her disappointment when she discovered that I had been with...Boss. All Lucy knows about Boss is that he was this adorable new puppy next door one day, then she turned her back for a minute and the next thing she knew he was this towering beast slobbering all over her beautifully clean coat!

Our culdesac now officially has the best dog population in the entire neighborhood...

Lucy the Golden

Van the Pug

Boss the Mastiff

Pippen the Golden Doddle

Maverick the Lab

Kane the German Shepard 

...and Buddy the whatever

Why I Hate Running

I hate running. I have always hated running. Even when I was much younger and much faster. Hated it then, hate it now. Nevertheless, there I was this morning out on the sidewalks of Short Pump around 8 am, doing the very thing that I hate. Why?

There are many reasons. First of all, in life there are many things we do which we hate doing. I hate shaving every morning...but I kinda have to. I am in a profession which frowns upon waltzing into an appointment with a client in a t-shirt, sporting a three day growth. So, despite the great annoyance, I shave. I don’t particularly enjoy going in for a colonoscopy every five years, but I do it because...well, cancer. Running is part of my exercise routine. You can spend but so much time on an elliptical, or a stairclimber. At some point you have to mix running into the mix for cardio if for no other reason than to break up the monotony. But, after doing this off and on for the past twenty years, you would think that at some point you would come to some sort of accommodation with running. At some point maybe you would warm up to it, grudgingly admire its benefits. Nope. Still hate it.

But, I am nothing if not stubborn and disciplined, so I trudge on. I even set little goals for myself...try to beat previous times and previous distance limits...that sort of thing.

So, this morning, I sat out to try and run the 5K distance...3.1 miles in under 26 minutes. Why? I have no idea...other than stubbornness. I haven’t been able to in quite a while, for another thing, and its been ticking me off. So, off I went...

I always hate the first mile. That’s when I start arguing with myself...What are you doing, Dunnevant? You hate running. Why are you out here? You’re getting older and slower by the minute. Keep this up and before long, kids on tricycles are gonna start passing you! Somewhere on Broad Street, my MapMyFitness app shared the embarrassing news that I had completed one mile in 8 minutes and 59 seconds. Pathetic. At the time I was approaching the Chuy’s in West Broad Village. I wondered if they were open at this hour. Maybe I could stop in for a Dos Equis!!

The only thing worse than the first mile of a 5K run is the second. By this time, I’m on the back side of the lake in the Village and starting to sweat profusely because for some stupid reason I have picked up the pace. There’s that stubbornness thing again. It’s during the second mile when your hips start feeling unpleasant. Adding insult to injury is the fact that you are not even halfway done. Part of you wants to bag it, slow down and walk back to the house. But another part...the vain and stubborn part won’t allow this perfectly reasonable decision. You plow on, faster and faster.

The third mile completely blows, even worse than the first two miles put together. At the 2.5 mile post you glance at your app and see that you’ve got a shot at breaking 26 minutes. The only problem is that your hips, hamstrings and knees seem to have gotten together and plotted a coup. At the corner of Three Chopt and the John Rolfe Parkway, there’s only .18 miles to go and you find yourself in an all-out sprint up the slight incline, legs burning like five alarm chili, heart pounding in the chest, and sweating like a the barnyard turkey on Thanksgiving. As you reach the finish line you glance at the timer.....26:00. For the love of all that is Holy...are you freaking kidding me?? After all of that, I’m ONE SECOND SHORT.

This is how running works. Despite your very best efforts, despite all the discipline and stubbornness in the world, not to mention the anger one has to generate to get faster each mile...I still fall short.

On the positive side, those 673 calories I burned means I can have a cookie or two at church this morning.

Perceptive readers will have noticed that my times went way up for the remainder of my run. That’s because I stopped running...the only wise decision I made all morning. I simply walked back to the house, tired and frustrated at being so close and yet so far. But, the thing is...I’ll do it again. I’ll be out there somewhere in Short Pump arguing with myself for the first mile, bargaining with myself the second, and flailing around like a maniac down the homestretch. I’m just glad Pam doesn’t run with me. She would be mortified at my behavior. Why do you have to do everything so, so...hard??!! She has asked me this question at least a thousand times in our 35 years of marriage. 

I have no satisfactory answer.

Virginia Beach

My beloved Commonwealth of Virginia is once again in the news. And once again, it’s not because we are for lovers.

At this hour, 13 souls have perished in Virginia Beach, victims of a disgruntled long time city-government employee of the Public Utilities department. He had been fired the day before and apparently came back on Friday to exact his revenge. While at this point we don’t even know the shooter’s name or background, it boggles the mind to imagine what on earth he possibly could have done to get fired from a government job. He must be a piece of work.

No doubt most of the conversation in the days to follow this horrific event will center around gun-control or the lack of it. What always comes to my mind when something like this happens is...What ever happened to conflict resolution skills? Sure, losing a job you’ve had for twenty plus years is no day at the beach, but who decides that the proper response is to march down to the office the next day and start slaughtering everyone in the building? What mind set is at play here, and why do so many Americans chose it?

Some will say it’s all the fault of guns...if they weren’t so easy to obtain, these kinds of crimes wouldn’t happen nearly as frequently. I can agree with this position only up to a point. Before the gun comes into the picture, the decision to commit mass murder comes first. Why? By what reasoning does someone conclude that killing 13 people is even a possibility? 

Some will suggest that pervasive violence on television is to blame. Others will claim that violent shoot-em-up video games have brought us to this place. Still others will shoe-horn their pet philosophy into the debate...It’s Capitalism, man! No, it’s racism and misogyny!!

All I know is, something has gone off the rails when human beings normal enough to hold a job for twenty years start mowing their former co-workers down in cold blood. For me, the shooter’s race, sexual orientation, or political views...or the race, sexual orientation or political views of his victims is irrelevant. What I care about is...what combination of factors is leading more and more people to come to this sort of unspeakable end? We better devote ourselves to finding out...and soon.