Week One in the Books

We’ve taken a bunch of pictures since we arrived here just over a week ago. If I had to pick only one of them which summarizes what this first week has been like, it would be this one...

There has been a lot of this, me kicked back on the dock, Lucy standing vigilant guard after a swim, and Pam reading a book on her Nook. Last night was the first time we have gone out for dinner, that’s how magnificent the weather has been. But the past two days have been much hotter, especially around the dinner hour, turning our un-air-conditioned cottage into a steam bath. So, we decided to drive into Belfast for dinner at Delvino’s. First of all, Delvino’s is the best restaurant in the area, and secondly Delvino’s is air conditioned! We ordered beer-battered haddock bites with lemon aioli tartar sauce for an appetizer and I was tempted to tell the waitress...Ok, I’ve decided that I don’t want an entree, just keep these babies coming! Sensational. 

Afterwards we tooled around the streets of downtown Belfast, which we have always considered Camden’s red-haired stepchild...(just as Rockland is Camden’s annoying younger brother). But, over the years, Belfast has grown on us. It is quite charming and generally not as crowded in the evenings. Except for Delvino’s. SRO at 7:30. We waited 30 minutes for a high top. Worth it.

As we were leaving, we noticed that the sky was, once again, lit up with sunset colors. Belfast is a harbor town. Our restaurant was two blocks from the ocean. But, 18 minutes away, we knew that we were missing another fire show at Quantabacook. I hustled home as fast as I could, but by the time we arrived it was mostly over. Still, Pam and Lucy walked out on the dock to watch the last few minutes...

A word about my wife. I run a considerable risk publishing the above photograph of her on the streets of Belfast without her consent. I took it partly to capture the sky but also to catch my wife in the act of being beautiful without even trying. Here’s the thing...Pam is always put together. It’s who she is. She always takes care to look her best when she goes out in public. It’s not born of vanity, its more like she considers it bad manners to look sloppy. Me, on the other hand, on many occasions have been stopped at the door and delivered a sharp rebuke...Um, no. You are NOT going out in public dressed like a homeless man. So, last night Pam went out without doing anything to her hair. It was far too hot to even think about running a blow dryer. She just let it dry on it’s own. She was worried that she would look like a scarecrow or something. But I had to remind her of a fact about beauty that most women don’t understand.

Most of the time, Pam looks her best when she is all dressed up, nice outfit, hair done, makeup in place etc..etc.. However, there are times when she looks even better...when she’s not even trying. Every man reading this will understand this instinctively. Yes, we all love it when our wives get dressed up in their finest. But there are other times when they are a bit disheveled, windblown and harried when we glance at them and think...Wow, is my wife gorgeous or what?! Last night was one of those times.

It appears that the weather is on the mend today...high only 76 with plenty of sunshine. The owner is coming to cut the grass at some point today, so we will have to be on our best behavior. Met our new neighbors yesterday...family from Pennsylvania. Dan works for a company with a branch office in...wait for it...Short Pump. Small world! Pam so impressed them with her effortless paddle boarding, they went out and rented one for their 16 year old son. Pam gave him a short lesson and off he went. 

Another day in paradise.

A Mysterious Connection

After six days of glorious weather, the next two days will find us catching up with the rest of the country which has been in the grips of a merciless heat wave ever since we left Short Pump. Our part of Maine will be under a Heat Advisory from 11 am today until 7pm tomorrow. What this means for us is...a high temperature today of 93 and 89 tomorrow with unusually high humidity. Before you scoff at 89 producing a Heat Advisory, you should consider that most people on this lake and probably 60% of the businesses in Camden have...no air conditioning. Our plan is to spend as much of this day as possible either in or on the water. If there is no wind today, this cottage will become an unbearable steam bath by around 4 o’clock. If so, we are planning a grocery shopping trip to the Belfast Hannaford’s...a very slow and casual grocery shopping trip which may take a couple of hours to complete. (Hannaford’s is delightfully climate controlled!)

Of course, we have zero right to complain. Our first week has been like something out of a dream...perfect weather, calming breezes, and a series of sunsets seemingly intent upon outperforming the night before. Here they are, in order of their appearance:

Last night’s may have been the most dramatic. From the picture you will notice on the far right an intimidating rainstorm that was passing by up towards Bangor. Although it missed us, our horizon was split in two, dark thunderous clouds to the north and brilliant sunshine to the south. It was fascinating to watch, putting a perfect ending to my wife’s birthday. She spent it doing all of the things she loves most in this world, a 4 mile kayak trip at dawn, a leash-less walk with Lucy, a drive into Camden for a lobster roll and a root beer on a park bench down the hill from the library overlooking the harbor, then an afternoon of floats on the lake, with Lucy swimming with her, and a couple of long paddle board jaunts. The coolest thing that happened featured something that I have long suspected about my wife...loons love her. No, I am not making a wisecrack about her husband, I am referring to the mysterious connection that she seems to have with this iconic Maine bird. Just before she left for her early morning kayak trip, five of them magically appeared at the end of our dock, as if to greet her on her big day. It is quite rare to see more than two or three loons together at one spot, but where my wife is concerned they ignore convention. Then, at the close of the day, two more incredibly docile loons plopped out of the water in front of our dock again, this time falling asleep for over thirty minutes while we inspected them up close. It was spooky, in a way, as if they knew it was her birthday, and that she loves them so. 

Of course, she also spent time talking with her two children and getting to see our new GrandPup, Frisco, on FaceTime. When we finally called it a night, I knew that she had a perfect day. All the ingredients for perfection were here already. All we had to do was show up.

The Reminder In The Wind

For better or for worse, I am a man of the south. I was born in Virginia and have lived in the old Capital of the Confederacy all of my life except for three years which was split between New Orleans and a two horse farming town called Nicolsville, Alabama. Most of my vacations have been taken on the ocean in either North or South Carolina. My children live in Nashville, Tennessee and Columbia, South Carolina. But I am not just southern by geography, I am also southern by temperament. My attitudes and lifestyle were formed here. Its been a mixed bag. Everything about the south clings to you, the traditions, the food, the humidity. There is much about being a southerner that I’m proud of, but there are also things I’ve had to overcome, ways of thinking and being that borrow too much from the past. There is a tendency towards the provincial here, an us vs. them mindset. Down here, it’s either SEC football or nothing. It’s been said that you could blindfold a southerner and drop him anywhere in the country and in five minutes he could tell if he was in the south or not. I believe it. It’s in the atmoshere. It hovers. It’s a presence.

When I come to Maine, I am always aware that I am...away. It is, quite literally, in the wind. Since marrying a girl from Maine 35 years ago, I have probably spent nearly a year of my life up here now, mostly in June or July, but more recently in September and October. Everything about this place is different from what I know. But nothing is as unique as the wind. It will be difficult to explain. Mainers probably won’t know what I’m talking about because they have never known anything else. People from down south will think I’m exaggerating. 

Of course there are winds in Maine about which I know nothing. The howling gusts that savage these people over the five brutal winter months are something that I am grateful never having experienced. There isn’t enough money in the world to make me live here from November to March. In Virginia, we love our snow and brief relationship with cold. It is a quaint photo opp, a postcard scene that closes schools and sends suburban Mom’s scurrying to grocery stores to stock up on bread and milk. It’s delightful. Here, snow lost all romantic pretense about 300 years ago. No thanks.

So, basically I’m talking about the breezes of summer. There are so many different kinds of breezes in Maine and if you’re lucky you will experience all of them in a single day.

At 6 am, I wake up and walk out on the deck. Today it was 58 and the lake was drifting by from the west, the breeze gentle and forgiving. Still, I had long pajamas and a long sleeve shirt on. It was chilly. Other days when you wake up the lake is as still as glass. The trees hang motionless as the dead...but still you feel the occasional breeze in your face from out of nowhere. It’s the oddest thing. Around ten o’clock in the morning a mysterious thing happens, and it happens almost every single day...the wind picks up from across the lake and begins to stiffen. Soon the wind chime starts singing. This keeps up for thirty minutes or so and you begin the great anticipation, the answer to the question that each day presents itself...will it blow all day, or die back down? Forget the weather forecasters on the subject, they are like sorcerers from the Middle Ages, bumbling and stumbling about making fools of themselves trying to pretend they can predict the winds. Up here, the wind has a mind of its own.

The first two days we were here the wind blew all day with several gusts that sent the wind chime into musical orbit. It was nearly 84 one day, but the wind coming off the water made it feel so much colder. Yesterday it was 79 and the breezes that came were 
intermittent and surprising. But no matter what the temperature happens to be, there is always a startling coolness in the wind. It comes like a reminder to me that I am not in the south anymore. It’s Maine’s way of letting me know that I am...a guest.

There is also a distinct smell that is stirred by these breezes. Although we are a twenty minute drive from the Ocean, there is a briny ingredient in it, mixed with the deep woods aromas of pine straw, moss and balsam. Sit outside in it long enough and you become ravenously hungry despite the fact that you’ve spent all day doing nothing.

In the evening everything changes. The wind dies down, the lake settles itself, becomes like glass again. Then we wait for the sunset. It’s a long performance in several acts that begins around 7:45 and doesn’t finish up until almost 9:00. I’ve learned to never give up on a sunset here. You look at the dark, cloudy sky and are tempted to say, We won’t get one tonight. Too cloudy. But, you are almost always wrong. Some strange thing happens in the heavens...the wind stirs something up...and suddenly the show is on. It is breathtaking. You take photographs, to no avail. It cannot be captured, it seems, as if it is here just for us and no one else. We are, after all...guests. The wind reminds us every day.

Better Vacations With Technology

As many of you know, my wife and I had a long and vigorous debate before this year’s Maine trip as to the disposition of Lucy. Should we bring her with us like we have twice before, or should we leave her at home with Becca the Dog Whisperer like we did least year? It was a tough call, since although she loves it here, leaving her in Short Pump last year did give us a lot more freedom. What it boiled down to for Pam was...I feel nervous leaving her alone for half the day in a strange house. What if she hears someone shoot a gun or what if a thunderstorm pops up and she goes all postal??

Obviously, Lucy is here. So what happened? Did my famous powers of persuasion overcome her arguments? Was I forced to resort to bribery? Did I fall on my knees begging? No, no, and no. What happened was...technology.

Allow me to introduce you to...Wyze Cam v2, the digital security camera which allows you to keep tabs on your hyper-neurotic dog from your cell phone 24/7. If she were to get into any mischief, you can even send a corrective rebuke through the ether to remind her that...we’re watching!!

Pam had visions of Lucy standing at the back door whining for hours after we leave to head into Camden, then once the poor thing realized we were gone, she imagined her sulking around the house, mourning our loss and looking for ways to lash out at her duplicitous humans. Instead, we got this...

Is this a great time to be alive or what??

Hard To Pretend I’m Not In Heaven

Every time I come up here I feel conflicted about...Facebook. Let me explain...

On the one hand, this is my favorite place in the world. Everywhere I look I see beauty and wonder. Here’s a very small example...

I mean, for heavens sake, I can’t even write a blog without being enchanted by it! So, naturally I feel compelled to share it with everyone. If there is a line between sharing and it’s notorious twin brother—Facebragging—I probably have crossed it. By posting so many pictures and writing so many blogposts about my adventures up here, will I run the risk of alienating the reader? Will all of this Loon Landing love start to grate on your nerves? Will I come off as just another privileged white guy bragging about his carefree life while everyone else is trudging off to work? Maybe. It’s certainly a possibility.

But on the other hand, I could be spending all my energy ranting about politics. I could be sending out cryptic coded messages about someone with whom I hold a bitter grudge. I could spend my time fishing for compliments by posting something like...Some days it just doesn’t pay to get out of bed..#ineedprayer. I suppose I could post recipes, or share my latest Map My Fitness running map. Maybe I could entertain all of you with my fascinating opinions on the national debt and the glaring errors of our fiscal policy.

What is Facebook and other social media for if not the dissemination of joy and happiness? I don’t know about you but I would rather see pictures of babies and puppies all day than participate in a single online shouting match between a Socialist and a Trump-loving evangelical. Speaking of puppies, meet my new Grandpup...Frisco Rutherford Dunnevant...

The family resemblance is uncanny, don’t you think?

So...while I will try to be sensitive over the next three weeks with regards to over-sharing this fabulous place with the world, I make no promises that I will be successful. I suppose you all can vote with your feet if I get too carried away. But, I just can’t pretend that I am not in heaven. When I drive down the long dirt road through the Maine woods that ends at this place, I am overcome with a desire to bring every single person that I love in this world with me...even if it’s only for one day. I want everyone to sit on this dock. I want everyone to hear the loons, breathe the clean air and feel the cool breezes in July. I want everyone to smell the barbecue chicken cooking on the grill while watching the sunset in a furious explosion of color through the pines across the way. I want all of this for everyone...even those who voted for someone else.

All Is Well.

We have made the drive to Maine using the western route many times now after years of trudging up that 21st century trail of tears known as Interstate 95. The western route is an hour and a half longer but far less stressful and the scenery is incredible. What’s not incredible is the Ramada Inn of Pottsville, Pennsylvania.

When traveling with Lucy, we have to find pet-friendly hotels in far away places sort of on the fly. Friday was one of those days. We left Hatteras Island at 7:20 AM for what ended up being a four hour drive to Short Pump. So far, so good. By the time we had repacked the car to accommodate Miss Lucy, eaten lunch, and rested a bit, we departed for Maine around 3 in the afternoon. I had no idea what the traffic would be like and how far I would be able to go without getting too tired...so Pam, my travel agent, was severely handcuffed in her job of finding the right hotel in the right town. To make a long story short, she settled on the accursed hotel mentioned in the first paragraph above that I simply can’t bring myself to type again.

First of all, the hotel was a thirty minute drive into the bowels of the Pennsylvania mountains from interstate 81. This particular drive recalled traumatic memories for me of the Deliverance variety, while Pam began shrinking in despair with each mile driven, the horrific memory of the Yokum Vacationland Motel debacle from twenty years ago. If you were in the Youth Group at GABC back in the day, you know of which I speak. If not, you’ll have to ask Pam about it one day. Our GPS wasn't impressed with our choice of accommodations either, since she decided to deposit us in the sketchiest, scariest section of Pottsville and then blithely declare...You have arrived at your destination...and frankly, I expected better. After some fancy footwork, I managed to finally find the place, a dismal brick building whose front entrance was roped off with what looked like police tape...not a good sign. The personality-free girl at the front desk offered this helpful explanation...We painted the steps today. Her next mono-toned words were...No, you can’t have a room on the first floor, we’re almost completely full. 

At this point, after ten hours of driving, hamstrings within mere minutes of full-fledged revolt, the only thing I could think of was...Wait a minute...this hotel, in this town, is sold out?? What...is there a sadists convention in town? Then, the charmless girl behind the counter showed signs of life...NO, its the big Yuengling Festival!! It’s their 199th anniversary celebration!! Oldest brewery in America!!

Actually, that explained a lot.

When we finally got Lucy into the loud and scary elevator and opened the door to our fourth floor suite, Pam was ready to turn around and drive straight through the night to Loon Landing, even if it meant she would have to drive. The place was 100 degrees...the air conditioner hadn’t been turned on all day. The dimly lit rooms gave off an industrial smell which, if bottled and sold as air freshener would be named...Inhospitable. It was the first hotel room I have ever stayed in which had not one single work of art hanging anywhere, the gray walls looking naked and forlorn. Pam immediately sat out stripping the bed looking for bedbugs. Finding none did not calm her nerves. She then gingerly stepped into the bathroom and determined in an instant that there would be no showers taken by either of us for any reason. Our strategy became crystal clear in my wife’s eyes...we would immediately fall asleep, and at the but-crack of dawn we would get the hell out of the Ramada Inn of Pottsville, Pennsylvania and never, ever speak of it again.

While taking Lucy out to pee in the giant parking lot across the street, I happened to glance at our credit card shaped room key. There was Ramada’s slogan emblazoned across it...Ramada Inn...you deserve this.

What, heinous crime against humanity was I or my descendants guilty of that would earn this hotel as its punishment?? As I watched Lucy deposit a prodigious pile just to the left of a loaded dumpster in a dimly lit corner of the parking lot, which was no doubt the scene of many a recent drug deal, I could think of no such transgression. We scurried back across the street and once again up the rattling elevator to our now 90 degree room. All three of us slept with one eye opened.

Yesterday’s drive was long and crowded. 

Lucy is thrilled. I am a new person. Pam had a wonderful shower.

This morning, I woke up to this...

All is well.

Finally.

Why Do We Do This?

When I tell people about the Dunnevant Family Beach Week, I often get this question...Have you taken leave of your senses? To be fair, this is not an entirely inappropriate question. Cramming 19 family members into a single beach house for seven days, for many, would be considered a violation of the Eight Amendment to the Consitution and it’s prohibition against cruel and unusual punishment. Indeed, there are times when the experience does test one’s patience. My comeback to this challenging question has always been a garbled, tortured mess, since it is sometimes hard to put into words the particular charms of this event.

Pictures help.

The first morning of the week I walked out onto the deck to drink my coffee and there was my niece, Darcy. I remember her first year when she was just a baby. Now here she was, a newly minted teenager, up before me, reading a book. Seems like two weeks ago we were all holding her in our laps reading her books.

Family vacations offer rare opportunities for generational interaction. My nephew, Bennett, is enthralled with my son’s video game playing skills. If Patrick is annoyed by his hovering, it doesn’t show. This is the sort of photograph that the two of them will look at years after I’m gone and smile at the memory.

...A rare gathering of the six of us under the same roof, rarer still since this is one of the only times all week where we all are fully clothed and free of sweat, sand and suntan lotion.

A quick side trip to Manteo to reenact Jon’s proposal to my daughter 5 years ago. It was in this exact spot, I’m told. I will resist any reference to how criminals always eventually return to the scene of the crime. Oops...

The women of the family, sunglasses fashionably in place, smiling for the camera on the top of the dunes at Jockeys Ridge. Evelyn, the youngest, already displaying advanced workin’ it skills. This, another photograph that will elicit many fond sighs for years to come. Aww, do you remember how gorgeous it was that night yau’ll?

This tradition, now in it’s 16th attempt, is a historical marker of sorts. Each year is compared to the one before. The locations change, the houses change, the experiences mount and are archived in our collective memories. Where one’s memory fails, another’s fills in the gaps. Still others just make stuff up...using creative license to help the history along. Soon, history becomes myth, and we delight in it.

The Waiting...(is the hardest part)

Tonight after dinner, I entertained the family with the blogs I had written upon the occasion of our arrival at the three previous Dunnevant Family Beach trips...in 2013, 2015, and 2017. It was pointed out by the assembly that I had not yet submitted a similar edition for 2019. Truth me told, I needed a day to decompress. It was quite the arrival.

Salty Paws, this year’s beach house, was rented from the Sound and Surf Realty Company, an organization committed to the twin principles of the customer is always wrong...and anything bad that might happen to the customer is merely the nature of the business. For example...according to the company website, check-in time for their properties is 6:00 pm. Despite this late hour, they assure the customer that should the property become available earlier, a text would be sent to the renter and early entry granted, Indeed, in 2017, when we rented from the same company, we received such a text at 1:00 pm. This year, we decided to shoot the gap and plan on arriving around 3:00. Bad decision. When Pam and I pulled up and discovered that the house had not been cleaned and it was already nearly 4:00 in the afternoon, my sister Paula was already rehearsing her finger-wagging tirade for the first company hack who had the guts to show up to face one of the infamous and dreaded hip-sisters. At roughly 6:00, our guaranteed check-in time, a hapless flunky pulled up in the driveway, and pulled a pack of bed sheets from the trunk of his car! His response to Paula was something about the fact that his company was understaffed, a fact that was definitely not our problem, but most certainly the problem of the Sound and Surf Realty Company...which after Paula’s tongue-lashing should have been renamed the Sound and Fury Realty Company.

By 6:25, all was well, and all 19 of us were allowed to enter the house, right after the wide-eyed cleaning crew had slunk away through a side door. I’m quite sure that these overworked and underpaid folks gave it their best shot, but when you’re pretty sure you can tell what the last family had for dinner last night from the crumbs still on the kitchen counter, you kinda know you’re in trouble. This morning, the first attempt to retrieve a coffee cup from the cabinet yielded a handsome white ceramic mug with a charming lining of fried-on scrambled eggs around the circumference of the interior. My reaction was first frustration at the poor cleaning job, but second and more importanatly...confusion at the question that immediately lept to mind, ie. who eats scammbled eggs out of a coffee mug??

But, time passes and eventually you get over the sanitation issues. I mean, what’s Lysol for if not for this occasion? So, I find a clean mug, pour my coffee and sit down on one of the comfortable but stained rocking chairs when this catches my eye...

Now, normally I’m not the kind of guy who pays much attention to...rules. But, this list of regulations for the use of the hot tub were alarming on many fronts. At the top of the form we are instructed that Hot Tub use is NOT for everyone. What it should have said was...Hot Tub use is not for ANYONE. For instance, how many people in this family over the age of 25 don’t take any prescription drugs? And I had no idea that hypertension and high blood pressure were, in fact, two different ailments?! But, assuming we pass the first prohibited list, the list of rules for use raise several disturbing questions... Take the third item on the list for example...

No use of hot tub if bottom cannot be seen clearly.

What in the Sam Hill is going on at the Sound and Surf Realty Company? I mean who are these people? Are they trying to tell us that we cannot enjoy the hot tub unless we are naked? You would like to give them the benefit of the doubt, but then three bullet points later comes the declaration: Do Not Use Alone. So, they are cool leaving us a filthy beach house, but gleefully encourage lascivious behavior in the hot tub!!

But, now that we all have the first 24 hours under our belt, we are warming up to the place. The air conditioning has been stellar, the plumbing, heroic. The performance of the electricity has been faultless. And although any exploration into a random drawer in the kitchen is liable to produce evidence of previous meals from perhaps years ago, for the most part we are happy with the place.

It’s a shame about that hot tub though...

I Miss These Guys...

What follows is a conversation I had last night with the two guys I recently mentored for 8 months as part of the Mentoring Ministry of Hope Church. I really miss these guys!!

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!