Dog Tale

So, Dunnevant Central has been home to three Golden Retrievers for the past 48 hours plus now, and I’m sure that all of you are dying to hear all about the path of death and destruction they have visited upon our home. Before I get to all of that try to imagine what it was like when Patrick and Sarah arrived Christmas night...

It was around 7 o’clock. There were 16 people and two dogs crammed into my house. We had all had dinner and were now opening presents in the den, boxes, packages, bows and ribbons strewn about like confetti. Into this caldron arrives a seven month old puppy who has spent the past 10+ hours in the back seat of a Honda Civic, having never made a trip of any kind that lasted anywhere near this long before. It had the potential for Hitchcockian terror, a recipe for a potential repeat of Lucy’s famous poop lap fiasco of 2017. While it was crazy, and eventually required some time out and one three minute trip to the penalty box for roughing, there was no feces deposited anywhere (that we are aware of). Once everyone left, things calmed down. I use that phrase—things calmed down—with great care. The word calmed is doing very hard work in that sentence. In point of fact there has been very little that has transpired in my house that can fairly be described as calm since three dogs have taken up residence. However, it has not been the full-fledged disaster I was worried it would be. The three of them have gotten along reasonably well. Lucy still guards our bedroom as if her very life depended on it—no dog of any description is allowed entrance. Jackson has experienced an epic dose of payback for all the times he annoyed Lucy by biting her ears and slobbering all over her. Frisco has put on a clinic in that regard. Most of the behavior problems have involved the two of them with Lucy serving as the above-it-all eye-rolling grownup. 

It occurs to me that any words of mine will fail to accurately describe what a few well chosen pictures would convey more accurately. So...enjoy!

A rare affectionate hug

An even rarer moment of group rest

Our Chairs used to be for humans only...


Frisco bobbing and weaving, looking for an opportunity to go for the ears.

“Ok boys, this beef jerky belongs to Pops and Pops only!!”

The calm after the storm.

Christmas Eve Eve and a Family Scandal??

Me:  

For Christmas morning, I'm going to make Eggs Benedict, and I'm going to serve them on hubcaps from a 1962 Ford.

Pam:  ??

Me: Because there’s no plate like chrome for the Hollandaise.

Pam: Geez...

And with that stellar exchange of deep thoughts, Christmas Eve Eve is off to a roaring start. At this hour I am still awaiting my marching orders from Pam. In between my assignments, I will begin the process of wading through the “simple step by step instructions for uploading your manuscript to Kindle/Amazon for self publication.” I am skeptical that anything involving the word uploading will be “simple.” I also doubt my ability to get this done without assistance from either my wife or one of my savvy adult children. But, my wife will be otherwise engaged and my adult children haven’t arrived yet, so my goal of having Saving Jack self published and for sale by Christmas looks like a lost cause.

So, my son-in-law is up in Maryland visiting his family. Somehow, among all the activities, he has managed to find this...

This is a Census for Buckingham County from 1930, the year that my mother was born. She had not yer arrived apparently since her name does not appear. Neither had my Uncle Jim. But everyone else was there...Granddaddy, Grandma, Auntie Ruth, John, Harry and Lloyd. Then, a mystery. Carrington Ewers, who is listed as “brother-in-law” must have been living with them. He was Grandma’s brother, I assume. I wonder what the story was? Why was he living with his sister and her family in 1930? I publish this in hopes that one of my cousins up in Buckingham and Nelson County will have the back story. Without any hard facts, I am capable of spinning a fantastic tale to explain his presence there, and while a writer should never let facts get in the way of a good story, I feel an obligation to do so in this case because...well...family.

     

The Twelve Ways of Christmas

Once again, it was my intention this morning to write a piece about the impeachment thing, but once again I just don’t have the stomach for it. I figure that being so close to Christmas, it’s not the time for political spleen-venting or spleen-venting of any kind for that matter. Eventually, I will get around to Trump’s impeachment. Although when I do I’m not sure I will be able to improve on this little thing that my daughter sent me yesterday:

No, this morning I will share with all of you 12 secrets of my family’s Christmas history. What follows won’t be particularly compelling to most of you because they are mostly inside jokes. But, every family has them. There are things that happen every year when the gang gets together for Christmas that are unique to your family’s style. Well, these are ours. All I ask is that you not judge us too harshly.

The Twelve Ways of Christmas

On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me...an 8x10 photo of Bo Diddley, suitable for framing? YES!

On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me...a live performance of Ahab the Arab, Sheik of the Burning Sands.

On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me...three glass tea pitchers for Nanny, all of which she claims to need!

On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...an electric coat hanger, with charger, from Uncle Bill.

On the fifth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...FIVE POUND CAKES.

On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...Aunt Linda giving the “destructions”

On the seventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me...a seven hour present opening session.

On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...about hour four of presents, Ruaridh asking “Why did I have to marry into a dry family??

On the ninth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...a juvenile prank involving either fart noises, bugs or air horns pulled off by one of the children with absolutely NO HELP from me.

On the tenth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...Uncle Ron dozing off...while opening his own presents.

On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me...Me singing “Jolly Old St. Nicholas” in a terrible French accent.

On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...Aunt Paula making twelve vows to make changes in the present unwrapping NEXT YEAR.

Urine Luck

No, this is not some clever metaphor for what happened yesterday on the floor of the House of Representatives. This is the future of the commode, a smart toilet, developed by two scientists at the University of Wisconsin. I was all set to write a piece about impeachment this morning. Watching Nancy Pelosi, dressed in mourning black reciting the Pledge of Allegiance was a stunning visual image. Discovering her new-found devotion to the United States Constitution took the concept of stunning to a whole new level. But when I saw this headline—Smart Toilet May Pose Privacy Risk—impeachment will just have to wait.

So, these two scientist have come up with a revolutionary crapper called the smart toilet. They hope it will make a splash with consumers and usher in a new era of personalized medicine. Among its many advantages are its ability to closely monitor your health and check for early signs of diseases like cancer and diabetes.

It is fitted with a camera that takes pictures of your waste, analyzes it and comes back flush with information about everything from what you had for dinner to what medications you are taking and even how well you slept last night. 

With this toilet, users can preemptively detect urinary tract infections, kidney disease, diabetes and other metabolic disorders, before they show symptoms. According to the scientists, frequent samples from a smart toilet could also help monitor how prescription or over-the-counter drugs are being metabolized, and allow users to adjust their dosage as needed.

But, with all this helpful data comes the possibility of it falling into the wrong hands. Suppose an employer uses it to secretly delve into an employee’s drug habits? Would this be a violation of privacy rights, not to mention, kind of gross. And what of the mountains of video of personal waste that this thing would produce and store? Could it be used to blackmail its user? “Whoa there, big guy. Probably shouldn’t have had that second burrito last night, eh?”

Of course, another barrier to wide spread acceptance of smart toilet technology is the cost. Current technology can’t build these toilets for less than $10,000, making it out of reach for all but the number two of the 1%. But considering the health benefits not only of early detection of disease, but the ability to more closely monitor day to day developments of your health, the future of these devices looks bright. I think I smell a government subsidy in the wind.

That’s where marketing comes in. There are many headwinds that must be overcome when selling toilets. But many of them can be solved with a catchy name for this new device. The Japanese already have a smart toilet, although not as advanced. They call theirs the Flowsky. Not bad. But I know we can do better. I mean we have Madison Avenue. Here are just a few candidates I came up with just this morning while using my very dumb toilet...

The Pee-Gazer 2000

The Loo Lab

The Shitbit

Urine Luck

Disturbing Christmas Math

Yesterday, we finally nailed down (sorta) our Christmas Day plans. It would appear that we will be hosting Pam’s family here at our house. At this hour we still have not decided on a precise timeline for the meal, but the details that are clear present some troubling mathematics. There are three particular numbers that give me pause, 18, 7, and 3.

18. This represents the number of human beings that will be in my house for the day. Luckily for me, I love all of them. They are generally well-mannered, well-spoken, and they all bathe regularly. It will be as agreeable a group of family members to be trapped inside with for four-five hours that one could possibly ask for. 

7. This is the number of fully decorated and lit Christmas trees that will be competing for space with the aforementioned 18 humans. Long time readers of this space are familiar with my wife’s Christmas Tree obsession. They are all lovely, each with a different theme, each designed to make a different statement. They are placed strategically throughout the house in every available nook and cranny. All of this is well and good. Far be it from me to put a damper on my wife’s Christmas spirit. Heaven knows we need more, not less, of it...but our house is not what one would call, overly spacious. It has 2600 square feet, I’m told. Although if you subtract the space gobbled up by the 7 trees and the 18 humans, it feels much more like a 600 square foot bungalow. Which brings me to our third number...

3. This will be the number of Golden Retrievers that will competing with the 7 trees and 18 humans for floor space and attention on Christmas Day. Each of them are beautiful, adorable and loved by one and all. But each of them brings their own, er, uh...challenges.

Lucy, is the elder statesmen of the group, and if you can believe it, the most well-behaved and rational of the bunch. This picture was taken as I was having a talk with her, warning her about the coming chaos. I’m aware that this will be hard for many of you too believe, since her many neurosis are well known to readers of The Tempest. But, as crazy as it sounds, she will be the voice of reason in the dog hierarchy on Christmas Day. (God Help Us)

Jackson. Then there’s this guy, the Great White Dope, the galloping galoot, the 95 pound canine freight train. Jackie-Jack is the sweetest boy you’ve ever seen, but has never exactly played with a full deck, he’s not what you would call a Rhodes Scholar. He is covetous of our attention and thinks it his responsibility to warn all of us of every chirping bird, falling leaf, or odd cloud formation lurking outside with a full-throated bark. Most trips, Pam tapes paper on the windows on the sides of the front doors to block his view of the terrors outside, but this is only partially effective since Jackson has a vivid enough imagination that he doesn’t require visual evidence of his prey to belt out a warning bark. Also, Jackson can sometimes be jealous of the newest Pup in the family...

Frisco. The newest member of the family is this gorgeous good boy. Unfortunately, in keeping with family tradition, Frisco brings his own mental issues to the table. Of late he has discovered his reflection in his water bowl, which causes him a great deal of angst and produces much barking. Also, alert readers will notice that in this particular photograph, Frisco seems quite concerned about something, distraught, in fact. Yes, that would be his profound suspicions about his very first ever...Christmas tree. Obviously, this has the potential to be problematic when he gets to our house for the first time and is introduced to 7 of the monsters.

So, while each of these three numbers are perfectly fine in isolation, and although each of these three numbers are even desirable on their own, the pending combination of these three numbers has the potential for chaos. At the very least, this volatile combination of numbers could produce enough material for a month’s worth of blogposts. For that I suppose I should be grateful.

Pray for us.

Elf on the Shelf. Sigh...

Ok, I should probably begin this blog with a disclaimer, an airing of my biases on the matter of the plague that is presently sweeping the nation called...The Elf on the Shelf. Set aside for a moment the authoritarian, nanny state implications of a stuffed elf who spies on you 24/7. Set aside the entirely new edifice of parental lying that must be built to sustain the con. Set aside the therapy that your child will  no doubt need after waking up one morning to discover this...

Having said all of this, I must confess that I am so angry that this wasn’t a thing 25 years ago when I had two small pups in the house. I would have had a field day with this thing! I bring all of this up because I have a really crazy friend down in North Carolina who is rapidly becoming something of an Elf on the Shelf legend. For several years now, her co-workers at the North Carolina Department of Revenue have entered the building every day in December with fear and trembling, wondering where the little bastard is going to turn up...

See, this particular Elf on the Shelf doesn’t teach warm and fuzzy life lessons. He doesn’t promote good tidings of great joy. No, this Elf seems intent on violating all Ten Commandments, like the time he got caught hooking up...

Cross dressing, and public defecation...

But, this morning was perhaps his finest moment. Sure, I know what’s going on here. He probably set the whole thing up to gain public sympathy. He’s probably hoping that we will all be so worried about his well being that we will forget all the havoc he has spread for the past two years...

But, I have to hand it to him. This is epic!!!

Did I mention that my friend who is responsible for all of this works at the North Carolina Department of Revenue? Yeah, think about that for a minute, let that sink in...

An Afternoon at Hope Thrift

Today is the second Saturday of the month. That means it’s our day to work at Hope Thrift. Of course, not counting today, there are only 11 days until Christmas Day, making this particular Saturday the worst possible day to be spending half of it doing anything other than Christmas stuff. But, a deal is a deal. We committed to work at the store on the second Saturday of every month. Period. So off we go.

The people we volunteer with are great people. I divide them by whether or not they are front peeps or back room peeps. The difference is profound. My wife is definitely a front peep. You will find her behind the cash register with Lynn Hewette. Today they will both be decked out in some ridiculous looking Christmas getup, both looking adorable. That’s a key characteristic of front peeps, they tend to be  more—how shall I say?—aesthetically pleasing than we back room peeps. It’s not an intentional thing on the part of our managers, I’m sure. Robin, Renee, and Jennifer are all three wonderful folks and clearly in the front peeps camp. It’s just that if you spend enough time in the back room, or out at the dumpster, or unloading people’s cars for more than thirty minutes, you might have been a front peeps candidate when you arrived, but now you’re a back room peep all the way.

Usually on my shift I work with Christy and Brenda, two veterans of the back room. Christy can usually be found over at the toy counter, elbows deep in an assortment of puzzles, Power Rangers, and stuffed animals. Brenda is always tethered to the incoming clothes counter trying to decide if the mountains of clothes that get dumped at her feet every Saturday are suitable for resale or destined for the dumpster. She goes about this mundane task with what seems almost...pathological cheerfulness. When I arrive I am usually assigned book duty, that dreadful task of essentially throwing away 25 year old paperback classics like The Hardy Boys Meet Nancy Drew on Brokeback Mountain. Then there are always the hardback coffee table books which people have convinced themselves someone alive in 2019 would want to buy and place on their coffee tables. The 100 Best Selling Hats of 1957. The Encyclopedia of Cross-stitch. Everything You Need To Know About Origami. Once I manage to break away from that drudgery, I usually wind up at the dumpster taking out my frustrations by throwing glasses and plates. 

Eventually, I end up roaming around the place looking for Dave. He’s the main guy in charge of heavy lifting. He also knows where every single thing is, knows where everything goes, and knows all the lyrics to every 70’s and 80’s tune that plays over the sound system. In other words, he is clearly the most essential volunteer at Hope Thrift. Whenever I get stuck and yell out, “Dave, what band is this??”, Dave can be counted on to provide the answer, “Come on dude, that’s Cheap Trick from 1977.”

The best part of a day at the store is the end when the front door gets locked, all the customers are gone, and the manager on duty gathers all of the volunteers together for a quick prayer before we leave. When its Renee, she looks exhausted. That’s because she actually runs the store. She’s the first one there, the last to leave. When we all arrive in the circle she asks, “Alright, is this everyone? We lose anybody?” It’s not a rhetorical question. The pace of work at Hope Thrift can be frenetic to the point where the thought that someone might be passed out under a pile of cardboard boxes a real possibility! Once everyone is present and accounted for, someone leads us in prayer. We are thankful that we have this store. We are thankful that we get to work here. We are thankful that we get to serve in this ministry. If you’re reading this and a member of Hope, you should volunteer. You don’t know what you’re missing.

Waiting For a Reaction

My courageous friend had an excellent day yesterday. She went for her second to last chemo treatment and her platelet count had gone way up (a very good thing) and the attending physician said he couldn’t even feel the tumor. She was so excited and felt that rarest of emotions when battling cancer...encouraged. So to celebrate her good spirits I felt I really needed to up my Joke Game this morning. It helped that I woke up at 4:30 since that gave me extra time to search even the most remote and obscure corners of the inter-webs for material. Here’s what I found:

An old married couple are in church one Sunday… when the woman turns to her husband and says, “I’ve just let out a really long, silent fart. What should I do?”

Her husband turns to her and says, “replace the batteries in your hearing aid.”

 A wife sent her husband a romantic text message… She wrote: “If you are sleeping, send me your dreams. If you are laughing, send me your smile. If you are eating, send me a bite. If you are drinking, send me a sip. If you are crying, send me your tears. I love you.”

Her husband texted back: “I’m on the toilet. Please advise.”

What’s the difference between a Mercedes Benz and a porcupine?

The porcupine has pricks on the outside.

I posted them at precisely 5:27 am. Usually she’s already up by then. So far, there has been deathly silence. Either she is sound asleep or so overcome with delirious laughter she can’t steady herself enough to type. Of course, there is a third possibility. She may have read these three jokes and been so embarrassed and underwhelmed that she dozed back off again. Thus is the tenuous nature of comedy. So, here I sit waiting for her verdict. I’m thinking that the silent fart joke deserves at least one laughing face emoji, perhaps two. The romantic text from the toilet is golden so if it doesn’t get three laughing face emojis, I’m going to feel insulted. The Mercedes joke will probably get an eye roll emoji, but it was the weakest of the three. I can deal with that.

Sure, my friend is dealing with cancer. But this is no picnic for me either!!

My Wife

Someone posted this on my wife’s Facebook wall...

My wife responded thusly...

I disagree.  I believe that respect can be (and often is) separated from honor or admiration.  Sometimes we have to show respect to those we dislike, disagree with, or even have contempt for -- simply because they are in authority over us.  You don't have to like them, but you do have to show respect.  Of course, EARNED respect is a powerful thing, and we hope that those in leadership would show actions and character that will result in earning our further respect.  But that's not always the case, sadly. 

My wife is amazing.

A Day That Changed My Life

It was a cold, bright morning in December, 1979. I was running late for my exam in Dr. Bogel’s Modern Middle East class at the University of Richmond. That meant that I had gotten a late start on my 25 minute commute from Hanover County in my trusty 1968 VW bug, the one with over 200,000 miles and a couple of rusted-through holes in the floor board. That particular morning, I was putting the old girl through her paces, pushing the limits of German engineering. I had just made a sharp left turn into a neighborhood shortcut near the corner of Three Chopt and Patterson Avenue when I heard the disconcerting sound of a mechanical malfunction, then smoke and the distinct smell of burning oil. My commute had come to an emphatic end.

Since this was 1979, there was no cell phone handy. That meant that not only could I not take a picture of the trail of oil coming from beneath my dead car and publicly whine about it on Facebook, I also had to knock on somebody’s door at 8 in the morning to ask if I could use their phone. The only call I could think to make was to my friend David Axselle, who happened to be a mechanic. Even though this happened 40 years ago, I remember it like it was yesterday.

David took charge of my life. He could tell that I was quite distraught. In those days my life was like a treadmill. I was a full time college student, had a 30 hour a week warehouse job, and the racing around from those two commitments in a beat up Volkswagen was a blur. I lived on a shoestring of little sleep, little fun, and lots of work. So much for the alleged care free days of college. David picked up on the panic in my voice and took over...

“Ok kid, here’s what’s gonna happen. I’ll come tow your car in to the station. I’ll send someone over to take you to school so you can take that exam. When you’re done, call me and I’ll send someone over to pick you up. By the time you’re done, we’ll know what the problem is with the car.”

The entire time I’m taking Bogel’s exam, I’m thinking about the car and feeling sorry for myself. I looked around at the room full of rich punks from New Jersey and Connecticut, most of whom hadn’t done an honest day’s worth of work in their entire miserable lives, and felt nearly overcome with jealous rage, irrationally angry that my Dad was a small church pastor instead of a corporate executive. The resentment had been building up for most of my life and now, thanks to a blown engine, had reached it’s ugliest level.

When I walked in to Axselle’s Auto Service on Lakeside Avenue, I was about as down as I had ever been. David gave me the verdict.

Bad news, bud. You blew the engine. I can put a brand new engine in it for $700, but you could probably buy a decent used car for that much money. Another option is, I could get a rebuilt engine from a guy I know up in Ashland and put that in for you for around $400.

I said nothing as he talked. He might as well have said $4000. I just didn’t have the money for any kind of repair at that point in my life. Every nickel I made at my job went for gas, and the payment I was making to the bank every month for the loan I had to take out for my sophomore year to pay for tuition and books. Then David Axselle did something that I will never forget.

Listen Doug, here’s what you’re going to do. I’m gonna give you a loaner to drive for a couple of days while I rebuild this engine. I know you can’t afford to get this car fixed right now, but the way I see it, you don’t have a choice. So, I’m going to take care of this. One day when you’re all graduated and successful, you can do something nice for me. Now, get out of here so I can get to work. I’ll call when it’s ready.

It’s not too much of an exaggeration to say that that conversation changed my life. I walked into David’s shop defeated and resentful. Then his act of kindness and generosity redeemed me. I was overwhelmed by it. Suddenly I wasn’t feeling sorry for myself. In that moment I was able to let go of much of the resentment which had built up in my heart. Someone had believed in me, placed a bet on my future with his checkbook. But more importantly, David had provided me a real world illustration of what grace looks like. I had heard the term in church all of my life but seldom saw it in action. David had extended grace to me, giving me a glimpse of a different way to live life, one not consumed with merely making money, but sharing it with those in need. 

Here’s what has happened in the forty years since that day.

I now live across town from Axselle’s Auto Service. It’s a pain in the neck to haul my vehicles all the way from Short Pump. I drive past at least a dozen mechanics closer to home and cheaper than Axselle’s Auto. But, there’s not a chance in hades that I would ever allow anyone else to work on one of my cars. In 40 years, I have probably sent at least 40 people there via referral. So, I suppose David was right all those years ago. I did eventually do something nice for him. But, anyone who knows him knows that he didn’t pay for my car repair all those years ago for purposes of business promotion. He did it out of an abundance of generosity. David was and is the type of guy who knows how to take care of others. He understands the old proverb that To Whom Much is Given, Much is Required.

So, on this dreary December morning in 2019, let’s be on the lookout for a chance to bless someone else today. You never know when the smallest act of kindness might have the power to change someone’s life.

Taking Care of Each Other

Every year it happens. From Thanksgiving Day through Christmas I always become more aware of and sensitive to the vast chasm that exists between people. Many of us, blessed beyond measure, secure in our homes and fortunes, while others struggle to make ends meet, insecure and fearful of what the future will bring. Politicians and others eager to empower themselves seek to exploit this gap by pointing fingers of blame at a whole host of villains, none of which ever ends up being wrongheaded policies they themselves were responsible for. So, the gap between the rich and the poor becomes yet another fault line, another battle ground to divide us.

I know that this gap has always existed throughout all of human history. I also know that regardless of what attempts are made to correct the inequities that exist, our savior’s words are instructive...the poor you will always have among you. But, for some reason, I notice it more this time of year. The holidays can be the best of times for some while being the worst of times for others. Whichever station of life you happen to be in gets multiplied and underlined this time of the year, I suppose.

I happen to believe that the government has a big role to play in helping address the inequities of a modern society. There are many things that only government can do at the scale required. When I pay taxes, one of the things I am glad that those taxes pay for is assistance to the less fortunate. But, like Ebenezer Scrooge in a Christmas Carol, it’s tempting to say, “Are there not poor houses?” One disadvantage of living in a country with such a large and generous safety net is the complacency that it brings in our hearts. When we outsource the care of the poor to the government it can dull our own sense of responsibility. 

Of course, there are many exceptions to this. The United Way, The Red Cross, The Salvation Army, and many other organizations do outstanding work. My church and thousands of others give to food banks and benevolent societies that care for thousands of people. This is all good and proper. So, why this time of year do I still feel inadequate? Part of my problem stems from the fact that it has always been a profound mystery why God chose to bless me with success while many of my colleagues, smarter and better looking than me, have struggled? There must be a reason. It can’t just be so I can buy more stuff. 

So, lately I have been obsessed with the simple notion that we need to do a better job of taking care of each other. I’m not talking about  some grand new government program. I am mostly powerless to do anything about systemic poverty. What I’m talking about are the people right here in our neighborhoods, the people all around us at the mall, the gym, at work, and at restaurants. The people who deliver our packages, do our dry cleaning, bag our groceries, bus our tables. The folks who pick up our garbage, work on our cars, stock the shelves at our stores. What can I do to be a blessing to the people right here in Short Pump, up in Ashland, out in Mechanicsville?

To that end I’ve been thinking about something my wife showed me a while back about a restaurant in South Carolina and another in Maine who both came up with a pay it forward option for their customers. At the cash register of these restaurants there were these coupons posted all around, each worth a designated amount of money, $5, $10 and $20. They were paid for by previous customers and available to anyone who needed them to pay for their meals. One restaurant had a sign saying that his cash register was an official NO JUDGEMENT zone. If you needed to use a coupon, no questions would be asked. I haven’t been able to get this idea out of my mind. How cool would it be for a local restaurant in Short Pump to do this? Many of us could add 10 bucks to our bill to fund a coupon every time we eat out. If I understand the way life works, I imagine that at some point the same people who had to use the coupons would eventually be the ones funding the coupons.

I know that there are many business owners who do this same thing in a less obvious way and God Bless them. But wouldn’t you love to go to a restaurant that allowed you to help take care of your fellow man this easily? I know I would.

Now, I’m sure there are details about this sort of thing that would have to be considered. Where there is charity there is always abuse. But, I think that we can figure out how to make it work if we really wanted to. There should be no excuse for anyone to go hungry in the United States of America, especially at Christmas. All of us need to commit ourselves to doing a better job of taking care of each other.

If there are any restaurant owners reading this blog, I ask you to consider this coupon thing. If you do, tell me about it and I will give you free advertising in this space and I guarantee you I will become a regular at you place.

God Bless.

Christmas Comes Early

Yesterday was my Christmas. That’s because yesterday I locked down another fabulous cabin in Maine for 2020. We will be staying in Loon Call Cottage on beautiful Crawford Pond from June 27th thru July 25th.

No, this is not Loon Landing, our favorite spot. Due to a scheduling foul up, we weren’t able to secure it for the weeks we wanted. But, after weeks of relentless searching, we found this place. Lest you think that because the word “pond” appears in it’s name that it’s a tiny body of water, think again. It’s 11 miles in circumference...

...with lots of nooks and crannies for Pam to explore on her kayak and paddle board. The fishing, by all accounts, is off the charts. AND, it has a swimming dock!!

Three bedrooms, and more importantly, three bathrooms! 

It’s no Loon Landing but nothing else could be. What it is is...on a lake in Maine, and available for an entire month!! Amazingly, this place is only 12 miles from the ocean and this beautiful town that Pam and I love so dearly...Camden, Maine.

Lest you think that I intend to go the entire year of 2020 without returning to Loon Landing, think again. We have the first two weeks of October scheduled for that particular piece of paradise, and we are praying that something dreadful befalls the person who has the place the last week of September so we can gobble up that week too!! Just kidding!!

So, my Christmas is complete. I don’t want or need another thing. Maine has been booked and all is well.

My Brave Friend’s Bad Day

Since it’s Friday, an update on my brave friend.

She’s having a hard time. Each new chemo treatment brings greater discomfort and the attending miseries associated with that poison can be nightmarish. Some mornings when I text her I can tell she’s not feeling well. There have been more such mornings lately. She sounds more frustrated, angrier, sick and tired of being sick and tired. But today, I ended up fussing at her. I felt bad about it, but not bad enough to take any of it back. So I called her to make sure she wasn’t angry with me. She wasn’t. She’s just angry at cancer.

Here’s the issue. My brave friend is a worker. She’s always been a worker. Like me, when she was a kid she had chores and worked with her Dad in the garden. All of her adult life she has run her own business. Working is in her blood. The problem is she thinks she can still go in to work like she doesn’t even have cancer. She has convinced herself if she stays on the sofa and works from home she would be giving in to cancer. I basically responded that she was an idiot, and needed to drop this hero crap, stop being so stubborn and allow her body to heal. Her platelets are down precisely because she is working too much. Its not giving in to cancer to give your body its best chance to heal by resting. She says, “But, I’ve never been sick before! I don’t know how to not work.” To which I replied, “Well, you’re sick now, sister! Drop this hero act and slow down!” After this exchange it occurred to me that I might not have the greatest bed-side manner.

After we talked on the phone I started thinking about how I would be dealing with life if it were me who had cancer. I realized that somebody, probably Pam, would have to give me the exact same speech I had given her. When bad things happen to me, like open heart surgery 17 years ago, I get angry and aggressive. I want to fight. Pam was constantly trying to reign me in from trying to do too much too soon after the operation. I was a horrible patient. And here I was this morning lecturing my friend about her stubbornness. Pot, meet kettle.

But, just because I might not be the best messenger doesn’t change the fact that the message was true. My friend needs to give herself the best chance at victory. That means dialing back her schedule, resting more. Sick people. You can’t tell ‘em anything!! The worst part about this morning was...she didn’t laugh at my joke. Didn’t even realize it was a joke. 

But, tomorrow is another day. Onward and upward.

25 Year Old Me v. 60 Year Old Me

I don’t know about you, but I find it fascinating how people change as they get older. I’m not talking about physical changes as much as attitudes and preferences. It’s a well documented fact that as we age our perception of life changes. Our buying habits change, our tastes in everything from fashion to food changes. The things we find interesting at 60 are often miles apart from the things we thought were interesting when we were 25. Take me for example.

Some things have not changed about 25 year old me. I still love baseball, still crazy about dogs, and I’m still in love with my wife. I still love anything with sausage in it, still love the taste of cold beer, still love my morning coffee. Still love reading, still love to travel, and still hate having to wear a suit. Still love practical jokes, still love taking physical risks, provoking arguments with people just to stir things up, and the occasional inappropriate joke. Still love my big, opinionated family. Still love Jesus. Still overwhelmed by grace and the power of forgiveness. Still can’t sit still at all the times when adults are supposed to sit still. But...thats about where the similarities end.

The 60 year old me is a much different guy in many ways. I have lost interest in college basketball, professional football and golf. In my twenties and beyond I was attracted to politics, fascinated by the rough and tumble of it all and quite hawkish about America’s foreign policy. Now, I am repulsed by politics and about as dovish as it is possible to be. I have been disabused of the idea that just a bit more money will make my problems go away. I find that with age comes much less certainty in the infallibility of my conclusions. 60 year old me understands his weaknesses much better than 25 year old me, who had a hard time admitting he even had any. 25 year old me was all about the law. 60 year old me is much more into grace. 25 year old me was obsessed with making his mark on this world. 60 year old me is hoping I didn’t make too big of one. 25 year old me was driven to become a success. 60 year old me desperately wants success for others. 25 year old me thought he knew everything. 60 year old me is astonished at how little he knows.

But, I still have a mischievous streak in me. I still enjoy pushing people’s buttons, which brings me back to the inappropriate joke. My problem has always been that I LOVE THEM. Of course you can go too far with anything, some jokes, although funny, probably shouldn’t be told in mixed company. But when I’m debating whether or not to tell a particular joke, I often make my decision based on if the laugh it produces will be an embarrassed one. If so, I usually go with it. So, today I leave you with this classic:

A businessman boards a flight and is lucky enough to be seated next to a stunning looking woman. They say hi to each other and he notices she is reading a manual about sexual statistics! He asks her about it and she replies,' This is a very interesting book. It says here that American Indians are the most well endowed men and that Polish men make the most sensitive lovers. By the way, my name is Jill. What's yours? 

“Tonto Labowski, at your service.”

Buddy the Elf and Mrs. Claus

Thanksgiving has come and gone. Today we all wake up to December the 2nd staring back at us, making demands. Thanksgiving was late this year which means that there are only three weeks left before Christmas. That dull ache in the pit of your stomach is the first flaring of panic rising from deep within when you contemplate all that remains to be done between now and then. All the Google docs and family Christmas websites in the world can’t change the fact that there are only 20 shopping days left until Christmas. Nothing says Let’s celebrate the Savior’s birth like a three week mad dash to buy as much gold, frankincense and myrrh as we can get our hands on!

I always feel out of sorts in the time between Thanksgiving and Christmas. For one thing, business is winding down, end of the year requirements being largely administrative. This frees me up to be of assistance to my wife during this hectic time. But I never know exactly how to go about helping her. She becomes like a whirling dervish this time of year, flitting about here, there and everywhere doing elf-like jobs. Take yesterday for example. We enjoyed a brunch with Kaitlin and Jon before they left to drive back to Columbia. When they were out of sight, she asked me to help her rearrange the family room furniture so we could get the big tree down from the attic and in place. Once that was done, she seemed content. She had working feverishly as hostess all weekend so I thought she was done with decorating. I even left to head over to the gym for a workout. When I arrived back home, it’s like a crew from Flip This House had descended on the place. Not only was the big tree in place, but five others as well. Gone was all the fall regalia, replaced by the Christmas finery. She had been at it for almost five hours and showed not the slightest sign of fatigue....

This is by no means all of it, there are four more trees in place upstairs. None of the trees have been decorated yet, not all of the seasonal knickknackery has been hauled down from the attic...but this was an astonishing accomplishment for one woman and one terrified dog to get done in one afternoon while I was doing cardio!!

So, now I have guilt. Once again, the majority of the prep work gets done by my wife, while I roam around the house asking if she needs me to pay for anything, write a check for something. Yes, it is true that I will be in charge of outside decorations. I am also tasked with anything that requires heavy lifting, something for which I am increasingly ill-suited due to a variety of age related issues which I would rather not discuss. So, basically I become my wife’s hired hand during the holidays, an entry level laborer with few skills but very eager to impress the boss, a real life Buddy the Elf to her Mrs. Claus...

Thanksgiving In Four Photographs

There are four photographs from Thanksgiving that tell the story of how the day went for the Dunnevant’s.

This is the Over The River and Through the Woods shot. We were heading over to Linda’s for the big meal. The rule is supposed to be that Christmas music cannot be played until the return trip, but that rule got violated. 

This was to be the first Thanksgiving ever without Patrick in attendance. We were missing him, missing Sarah... a lot. But, while we were eating the meal, they were busy posting a video of a gorgeous song that Sarah had composed about Thanksgiving and the longing that rises in the heart on this day. It was beautiful and made our day.

Then, there are these people, my brother and two sisters. Life without them would be unimaginable and nowhere near as fun.

Meanwhile, Miss Lucy’s life was being interrupted by our prolonged absences and the presence of her ginormous and incorrigible cousin, Jackson. When we finally returned from our very long day, I snuck upstairs to take a quick nap on my recliner. As soon as I extended the foot rest, she appeared at the door, big old goofy smile on her face. Then she did what she does every single time I attempt such a nap. She deposited herself on top of me, with her back legs on the floor, demanding head skritches. She stays up there for five minutes or so, then jumps down and curls up on the floor at my feet.

I hope that each and everyone of you had as wonderful a Thanksgiving day as I did. God Bless you all.

A Thanksgiving Plea

Ok, I am not a cook. I am not burdened with having to prepare a Thanksgiving feast for anyone. However, I have a lot of experience eating, and as a world class consumer of Thanksgiving feasts, might I make a couple of suggestions? For the sake of all that is holy and sacred, please do not serve either of the dishes above.

Canned Cranberry Sauce

One of the few curses of living in an advanced, consumerist, capitalistic country is the unfortunate fact that if it is possible to put literally anything in a can and sell it at a profit, somebody will. Thus, the persistent survival of this ghastly mistake. Anything with the word sauce in its name should not be able to be...sliced. Moreover, sauce should not respond to the human touch by...jiggling. Generally speaking it is always a dependable rule of thumb that sauce which has...ridges...should always be avoided.

Beets

This lowliest of all forms of vegetable life shares a color with canned cranberry sauce, and is equally revolting. Yes, yes...I know all about how good they are for me, their abundance of iron and whatnot. But the trouble with beets is the fact that cooks the world over have been trying desperately to insert this pitiful thing in recipes since Alexander was only Good. They stew them, broil them, steam them and the meaner cooks out there eventually pickle them, all with disastrous results. Leave them at it long enough and inevitably they come up with a dish called Red Flannel Hash...

If this looks like a skillet full of raw steak, strawberries and uncooked hamburger, you are right. Oh if that were only the case!! No, no...those red things you see everywhere are chunks of beets. Trust me folks, there isn’t enough salt, pepper and hot sauce in the world to make this edible. Because I married a Maine girl, this dish appears all too frequently at family gatherings...like Thanksgiving. Upon reading this I’m sure that my wife and her sisters and parents will leap to the defense of Red Flannel Hash. They always do. It’s a pride thing.

Pretty much anything else that is on the table at Thanksgiving is a winner. But, for the sake of humanity, lose all the purple stuff!!

A New Car

Ten years ago, I bought a car. Ten years before that, I bought a car. So naturally, yesterday I bought a car. I didn’t set out to purchase automobiles every ten years, it’s just worked out that way. It’s the same way with Pam, I buy her a car roughly every ten years. There are several reasons for this, I suppose. First of all, I don’t like buying cars. They are expensive. They are also depreciating assets and I am not in the depreciating business. The fact that the car I purchased yesterday is worth considerably less this morning as it sits in my garage is profoundly disappointing. The process of buying cars, although improved, is annoying, as it involves sometimes ruthlessly disingenuous salesmen and their equally ruthless managers, all intent on separating me from as much of my money as is legally possible. Nevertheless, there I was at Moore Cadillac yesterday enduring my once in a decade unpleasantness.

As is always the case with my car purchases, this one was a demonstrator. Why should I take the initial depreciation hit when I can let someone else do so? Usually the cars I buy have two to three thousand miles on them at time of purchase. This one, happily, had only 227. Like my old car, this new one was also red. I like red cars. They are easier to find in parking lots. I fully intend to keep this one for another ten years.

The problem with buying cars only once every ten years is that when you get a new one, it takes three hours for the sales guy to explain to you how to turn the thing on. The technological advancements in automobiles over the past decade has been astonishing. As my man Bob sat beside me explaining all of the bells and whistles of my new Cadillac XT5, I felt like I did when I bought my first smart phone, “what the heck??” There I was taking my test drive when all of a sudden my seat began furiously vibrating beneath me. At first I thought there might have been a squirrel trapped down there, but was informed that I had merely allowed the car to drift out from between the white lines of my lane. OOOO-K, good to know! Then I was warned that if I was foolish enough to not slow down fast enough because of an approaching backup, first the car’s seat will start to vibrate, then a bright red flashing light will illuminate the entire dash, then the car’s computer will suddenly and violently apply the brakes, along with a caustic warning by Charles, my computer’s British-sounding voice...Hand’s on the wheel, eyes on the road, mate! In fact, it became clear to me as the two hour tutorial continued that there would be many such tongue lashings, flashing lights and beeps directed my way as the new owner of this vehicle. To drive this car will be an exercise in computer based denunciations and stinging invective directed at me for my various shortcomings as a driver by a pleasant but firm British chap who does not suffer fools. I am told that there is a way to shut off this abuse, but I rather think that it will do me good to be dressed down every once in a while by my car. Back out of many parking space too fast and this thing will slam on the brakes and demand to know where the freaking fire is!! Let your speed creep up to 80 on the interstate? Better be ready for old Chuck to chime in, “Yes, indeed. This will be a fine day to die. Proceed!!” Weave in and out of traffic too frequently and my friend will inquire as to whether or not my life insurance is paid up.

As I drove my new car off the lot at 5:30 in the afternoon, after arriving there at 1:00, it occurred to me that this will probably be the last car I buy which allows me to drive. Ten years from now when I’m 71, my final car will most likely be of the fully automated self-driving variety. No telling what kind of backtalk that computer will dish out!

A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood. A review.

It can be an awkward and confounding thing to encounter a grown man in whom there is no guile. I discovered this last night in a theatre while watching the great Tom Hanks’ portrayal of Fred Rogers in A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood. About midway through there is a scene where the character Lloyd Vogel, played expertly by Matthew Rhys, is interviewing Mister Rogers in his tiny apartment in New Your City. Vogel, a hard bitten investigative reporter for Esquire magazine, has been given the assignment of interviewing Rogers for an issue the magazine is doing on American icons. He is tasked with writing a 400 word summary of the famous children’s television personality, but is having a difficult time getting a handle on his subject. Every time he asks the man a question, Rogers finds a way to change the subject to Vogel himself. And now in Mister Rogers’ cramped New York City apartment, he finds himself having a conversation with Daniel the Striped Tiger puppet. It is all suddenly too much, the puppet’s questions hitting a raw nerve from his past, far too close to home, and Lloyd picks up his briefcase and storms out.

My sympathies were 100% with Lloyd Vogel. I remember thinking, Mister Rogers was such an odd duck, man...so strange. I would have probably stormed out too.

There were many such scenes in the film. Another strangely uncomfortable moment came in a Chinese restaurant where Mister Rogers asks Lloyd to do an exercise with him before they ate their lunch. “Let’s have a minute or two of complete silence while we think about all the people in our lives who have loved us into being,” he says. The camera pulls back from the table where we discover every customer at every table following his instructions. The silence continues for what seems like an eternity. Mister Rogers opens his eyes and stares at Lloyd, then slowly turns his twinkling eyes towards the camera and stares longingly into...our eyes. It is at once enchantingly sweet and moving...and slightly creepy all at once.

With our 21st century sensibilities, it’s hard to make sense of Fred Rogers. He just doesn’t seem entirely human. Can anyone be that calm, that comfortable in his own skin, that outwardly focused? Although the point is made many times in the film that Fred Rogers was not a perfect man, the viewer comes away with the feeling that if not, he was awfully close. 

But, the biggest impression that was made on me by this film is how odd he seemed. A man like Rogers should have had a towering ego. The fame that he earned should have dazzled him more. With a career as successful as his he should have picked up more self-promotion skills. What we find instead is a man who seemed drawn to broken people. People like Lloyd Vogel. We discover that Mister Rogers was the only one of the ten men and women who were to be the subjects of Esquire magazine’s hero piece who would agree to be interviewed by Vogel, all the others scared off by his epic cynicism and caustic writing style. Before the interview, we learn that Mister Rogers read every previous article that Vogel ever wrote to get a better idea of what kind of man he was. He detected correctly that Lloyd Vogel was carrying around a heavy burden of anger and resentment towards his estranged father, played perfectly by Chris Cooper. This tortured relationship serves as the basic plot driver of the film. We watch as, slowly but surely, Lloyd begins to open up to this strange man in the cardigan sweater.

Although Mister Rogers was a Presbyterian minister and a man of faith, there is nothing preachy about him. There are no sappy scenes of religious conversion or grand gestures of repentance. Instead, there’s just this graceful, nonjudgmental, grown man telling us the truth about ourselves in the sweetest way possible and looking like an alien from another world in the process. 

I’m sure there are plenty of men and women in the world who have the same qualities as Mister Rogers did. They live their lives away from the cameras, in anonymity, unnoticed and uncelebrated. But Mister Rogers was different in that his life was lived on stage for everyone to see. How many famous people familiar with the glare of fame turn out like Fred Rogers? Precious few. Therein lies the oddness, the disturbing optics of his goodness. The fact that such simple virtue makes us a bit uncomfortable is perhaps the saddest fact about life in America, 2019.