The Truth

Two Sundays ago I sat in my usual spot at church, on the aisle, ten or so rows back from the front. I listened to my absurdly gifted pastor, David Dwight, tell a story about the time he was asked to help his elderly and frail father take a shower. As he described the experience, I felt my throat tighten. Suddenly, the memories came pouring back and I became aware of the beating of my own heart. In David’s telling, the time caring for his Dad felt like something holy and precious. For me it was much more complicated.

When my mother died in her sleep nearly eight years ago, my dad found himself alone for the first time in his life. At the time he was 87 years old and in declining health. He would live two more years before passing away in 2014. For almost all of his last two years, his four children worked round the clock to keep him in his own home. Only his last 60 days would be spent in a nursing home. But with each passing month it became more and more difficult to take care of him. Towards the end, we started taking turns helping him in and out of the shower. My shift was Thursday nights.

The first time for me was neither holy or precious. It was awkward and uncomfortable. When it was over, I got in my car to drive home and for the first time since my mother passed I found my self crying. I actually had to pull over to the side of the road. But these were no tears of joy. These were angry, bitter tears. It was all so unfair. How could God have allowed such an incredible man to fall so far? How could God allow such a faithful servant to lose all of his dignity like this? Is this how God rewarded men and women who spent their entire lives serving him? In the parking lot of what used to be a beer joint, at the corner of 660 and Route 33, I fell apart in a rage of anger and bitterness.

As I listened to David, I realized that a part of me was still holding on to some of that bitterness. Not all of it, much of it had drained away with the passage of time and better experiences on subsequent Thursday nights. Several weeks later in fact Dad and I had an experience that was very much what David had described. After struggling to get Dad’s pajamas on after his shower and tucking him into bed, he reached for my hand just as I was leaving and whispered, “you’re a good son...” As I looked at him I felt overwhelmed with thankfulness that I was lucky enough to have this giant of a man as a father. I kissed him on the forehead and turned the light out. The drive home on that night felt very different, something approaching holiness, I suppose.

David made the observation that when we are confronted with tragedy and disappointment in life we come to a fork in the road. We have to choose either bitterness or beloved-ness. His message convicted me that I had some unfinished business back at that fork in the road. I had to backtrack, go back to that spot and ask forgiveness for the bitterness I was still unconsciously holding on to.

This is why I love my church. I don’t get finger wagging screeds. I don’t have to endure pointless theological dog and pony shows or a bunch of esoteric nonsense that has no relationship to the real world. Instead, I get told the truth about myself, drenched in so much love and compassion it’s almost impossible to take offense. 

Thanks. Hope Church.

12 Gems

.

 

 Name this politician.....

1. “If the government were placed in charge of the Sahara desert, there would be a sand shortage within three years.”

2. “It’s true that hard work never killed anybody, but I figure, why take the chance?”

3. “I’m not worried about the deficit. It’s big enough to take care of itself.”

4. When responding to a reporter’s worry that he was known to take long naps in the afternoon, “I have left orders to be awakened at any time in case of national emergency…even if I’m in a cabinet meeting.”

5. “Politics is supposed to be the second oldest profession. But I have found that it bears a very close resemblance to the first.”

6. “The nine most terrifying words in the English language are, “I’m from the government and I’m here to help.”

7. When answering a reporter’s question about whether he was too old to run for President…”Thomas Jefferson once said, ‘We should never judge a President by his age, only by his works.’ And ever since he told me that I’ve stop worrying.”

8. First remarks at the beginning of a press conference, “Before I refuse to answer any of your questions, I have an opening statement.”

9. “One way to make sure crime doesn’t pay is to let the government run it.”

10. “I have wondered at time what the Ten Commandments would have looked like had Moses run them through Congress.”

11. “Government is like a baby. An alimentary canal with a big appetite at one end and no sense of responsibility at the other.”

12. Responding to criticism of his foreign policy by Ed Asner…”What does an actor know about politics?”

    
    

    
    

    
    

Oscars and the Coronavirus

It has been said that there are two things which can be counted on in this life...death and taxes. I would add a third, that the morning after the Oscars show, social media will lose its mind over left wing actors lecturing us about politics. I’m thinking that if something happens every single time you watch a show, you lose your right to bitch and moan about it if you continue to watch. Maybe at some level people enjoy being triggered. If nothing else, the Oscars serves as an excellent reminder that millennials aren’t the only snowflakes in America.

Why would anyone spend more than five seconds caring about anything that Joaquin Phoenix says? Don’t get me wrong, the man is a fine actor, but by any reasonable measure he is profoundly unstable and has been for most of us life. So, he’s a vegan and lectures us for stealing milk from cows? Who cares? 

So, Brad Pitt finally wins something besides a Razzie, and all anyone can talk about is his John Bolton blast. Look, somebody wrote him a really funny line. End of story.

You know what would really be hilarious though? If just once some A-List actor stood up to accept an award and said something like, “I would like to thank the Academy for this honor. Tonight I plan on celebrating by eating a 16 oz. Porterhouse, a giant genetically modified baked potato slathered with butter that I stole from a cow, a tall glass of iced tea sweetened with cane sugar which I will drink out of a styrofoam cup using yet another plastic straw. God Bless America!!”

But, listen folks. If you choose to watch the Academy Awards, then get all bent over politics, you only have yourself to blame.

I am told by all of the usual suspects that I should be very concerned about the Coronavirus. One source threw out the number of perhaps as many as 52 million dead before this thing runs its course. So, why am I not freaking out? Oh, I don’t know. Maybe its because in my lifetime I have been told I was about to die so many times I’ve lost count. Ebola was going to do me in. The Avian flu was going to put me in the ground. SARS would be the death of me. Rapidly spreading flesh-eating bacteria was the latest periclum back in the day. But, here I am, still alive and kicking with a deep distrust of authority, and an all consuming suspicion of experts. Do I plan on visiting China anytime soon? No. But am I planning on losing one minute of sleep over the latest pandemic apocalypse? Puhleeze.

Gym Smells

I’ve been a three workouts a week member of American Family Fitness for the better part of twenty five years now. As someone who is very well acquainted with the inside of a gym, I understand full well that odd smells are a part of the experience. Everywhere you turn there is one malodorous assault after another. After a while you get used to it. Your olfactory glands become accustomed to the rotten sneakers, the gym bag that smells like a dumpster, and that one guy who applies his favorite musk cologne by the handfuls. But yesterday I was introduced to something new. 

I am a creature of habit when it comes to my workout routine. After my workout I always do the same thing—I spend fifteen minutes in the steam room, then swim a couple of laps in the pool before my shower. Yesterday was no different. I walked into the sauna and was alone, a rarity. Ahh, the sauna. At AmFam the sauna is like a Petri dish of bizarre smells. One day you go in there and some guy has put drops of eucalyptus oil in the blower so the place smells like a cough drop with BO. The next day it’s back to normal...like morning at the beach on a day when a dead whale has washed up on shore.

So, I endure my fifteen minutes then head towards the pool. AmFam has a wonderful pool facility. There’s a lap pool, a separate pool for water classes, a third pool for kids and a huge whirlpool. Very nice. Usually when I open the door I am greeted with that acidic smell of chlorine with an inescapable dash of sweating men. But yesterday was different. Whoa!!! What the heck happened in here, I thought. Surely, there must have been an accident of some sort, perhaps someone had expired after some horrific gastrointestinal disaster. I looked around and saw only five other souls in the place, none of whom seemed terribly distressed. So, I went about my business, swam my laps then parked myself in a chair to rest before heading to the showers. But try as I might, I couldn’t get used to this smell. Truly horrible. So, I beat a hasty retreat, took my shower and headed home. Before I left I did something I very seldom do. I stopped by the front desk to get the story behind...the smell. One of the perky front desk peeps smiled at me and asked if he could help me with anything. I said, “Dude, what in the world is up with that terrible smell in the pool??”

Front Desk Guy: Excuse me? 

Me: The pool area smells horrible. What happened?

Front Desk Guy: Really? I haven’t heard any complaints. What kind of smell is it?

At this point, I hesitated. I could have used any number of words to describe what I had experienced, but I had to be careful. We have lots of members from all over the world at AmFam, and I didn’t want to run afoul of the sensitivity police. I know that we all put off different scents. I’ve heard that westerners smell funny to Asians because of how many dairy products we eat etc, etc. So, I had to tread carefully. But, as is so often the case with me...

Me: What kind of smell was it, you say? It’s like...someone went to the World’s Fair, walked into the International Cafe and tried every spicy dish on the Southern Hemisphere buffet, then had diarrhea.

Front Desk Guy: .....wait, what?

Me: It’s like one of the prisoners from Cool Hand Luke, after working all day tarring that road, walks into a Turkish bathhouse, eats a dozen tins of sardines, then lets out a fifteen second fart.

Front Desk Guy: (suddenly convulses with laughter) Well, Doug, I can assure you that I will personally go check this out, and I am sorry you had a bad experience.

Me: I didn’t have nearly as bad an experience as the poor dude responsible for that smell!

Actually, after reading back over this, I’m not sure I needed to write an entire blog about this, but, it’s Friday and what’s done is done.

Have a great weekend, everyone.

A Feature, Not a Bug

Some days are meant exclusively to serve as a bad example. These are the days that conspire to expose every single bad quality of your personality. Yesterday was one such day.

I knew when I woke up yesterday what I faced. I at least had the benefit of advanced warning. It was going to be a day which featured lots of interaction with paperwork problems. In my profession this means that I must speak on the telephone with anonymous functionaries in far off offices in other time zones. In those conversations I must explain myself to a series of 21-30 year olds with a scant understanding of what exactly it is that I do for a living. A day of such interaction has been known to produce the absolute worst in my character. To that end, my wise and faithful assistant, Kristin, gave me the following speech just before I entered the gauntlet:

“...Ok, please remember that it’s not their fault. They are just doing their jobs. Be nice. Stay calm. Don’t roll your eyes. Behave yourself.”

Ok, she said some of those words. The others she clearly implied!

So with the nervous Kristin listening in from down the hall, I began. I will sum up the gist of what these conversations were like below...

Kyle: Yes, Mr. Doonevant, thanks so much for calling. So, I have some questions about a few items on the case you submitted on Mister Goldblatt.

Me: Fire away.

Kyle: On page 6, section two of the VAD form you listed the client’s NIA at $1,050,000. By my calculations, it would seem that the actual number is closer to $1,100,000.

Me:..........

Kyle: So, which one of us is right?

Me: Depends on which one of us is better with a calculator.

Kyle: (hysterical laughter)

Me:.......

There were many times during the ensuing conversation with Kyle and the subsequent conversation with Graham—another beauty— where my patience was tested. But each time, I girded my loins and stifled my inner snark. Kristin was quite impressed and very proud of me.

But, here’s the thing. Whenever I stifle my natural gift for smart-ass repartee, whenever I swallow hard and play it straight...pressure begins to build in my head. I know that it is just a matter of time before something will trigger a full blown snark explosion. The longer it builds up, the worse the explosion will be. I am not proud of this particular character trait, but I’ve lived long enough to know that this isn’t a bug in my personality, it’s a feature. Sure enough, later on in the day...it happened.

I use a CPAP machine because I was diagnosed six years ago with sleep apnea. Occasionally, I must buy supplies for my machine like masks, replacement hoses, filters and whatnot. They aren’t terribly expensive but they are notoriously troublesome to purchase. It’s all done over the phone with some outfit in Texas or some such place. So, I ordered replacement parts in October of 2019. Right after Christmas, 9 weeks after my purchase, I received a call from the CPAP supply company informing me that my order could not be processed for some indecipherable reason. Then two weeks ago I received a second call asking for a sim card from my machine before they could process my order. When I replied that my machine had no such sin card, I was instructed to call back when I was at home with my machine so they could instruct me how to get the required data from the readout of the machine. Yesterday afternoon, I made the call. Of course, the information and instructions I was given before were no longer actionable. Once again...Tanya...informed me that they needed proof that I was actually using my machine before they could process my order through the insurance company. This last tidbit of information sent me over the edge...

Me: Tanya, is it?

Tanya: Yes.

Me: Tanya, let me ask you something. Why would I be ordering a new mask, new tubing and new filters from your company if I wasn’t using the machine?? Clearly, I am trying to buy your products because I have worn them out by...using them.

Tanya: Yes but...the insurance company requires proof and that means we need that SIM card readout.

Me: Why do they need proof, Tanya? These are not opioids we’re talking about. There is no chance I will become addicted to this CPAP machine and then run around trying to get my friends and neighbors hooked! All I want is a new mask!

Tanya: But the insurance...

Me: Tanya. Screw the insurance company. Why can’t I just buy these myself. I’ll give you my credit card number and we can just bypass the insurance company altogether. In fact I’ll double my order so we won’t have to go through this for a couple more years.

Tanya: Well, I suppose we might be able to do that...but you’ll have to call the factory direct. I’ll give you the number just in case we get separated.

Tanya then hooks me up with the factory where I get placed on hold for twenty two minutes when suddenly I heard an ominous click, and then the line went dead. My thirty seven minute experience with the CPAP supply company was now at an end.

And after all that you people expect me to watch the State of the Union Show? Not a chance.

Iowa

So, after a year of televised debates, press conferences, sound bites, and campaign rallies, the hearty Democrats of Iowa finally got their chance to caucus last night. I rolled out of bed and eagerly searched the internet to find out that the winner was........Donald Freaking Trump.

Seriously, Democrats?

1917. A Movie Review.

I must begin this movie review with the confession that I am not a movie buff. I like movies well enough but I’m not what anyone would call an aficionado of film. I know what I like and what I don’t like. Generally speaking, I prefer drama over comedies. I would much rather watch historical fiction than fantasy, a psychological thriller over a car chase scene. On the whole, the fewer explosions the better. But last night Pam and I went to see 1917 and frankly, I don’t even know what to say. I would love to write something deep and profound about our experience but all I can think to say is...holy crap.

1917 is a compilation of war stories told to Director Sam Mendez by his grandfather, an infantryman in the Great War. The plot is rather thin and extraordinarily simple. Two men are tasked with the nearly impossible mission of crossing nearly nine miles of no-man’s land to warn a company of 1,600 men to call off a dawn attack on the enemy. It’s a trap and they will all be massacred, including the brother of one of the men assigned this deadly mission, unless these two men succeed. For the next two hours we watch their mission unfold through the muck, mire, mud, dead men and animals which litter the landscape. What makes this war is hell theme work so astonishingly well is the fact that it unfolds in one continuous shot. Ok...technically this isn’t entirely true...there are two, maybe three barely discernible cuts, I’m told. But for the viewer it comes across as one uninterrupted scene. How Mr. Mendez and his cinematographer, let alone the exhausted looking actors managed this is something that I will ponder for the rest of my life. It was so dazzling, so intensely personal and immediate an experience, I felt as if I was running through the muck with them, dodging the sniper fire, feeling the intense heat of the biggest fire I have seen on film since Atlanta burned in Gone With The Wind. After the first thirty minutes or so, you get over your mouth ajar gawking at the technical brilliance of what you are watching and settle down into the drama of it all, the stunning bravery, the epic foolishness of World War I in particular and war in general.

The only misstep is a scene where in the midst of our hero’s mad, frantic, time sensitive dash to save 1,600 men, he takes the time to give away all his food to a woman with a baby hiding out in the remains of a shell ridden house, even to the point of reciting poetry to the infant. Even though the scene seemed totally out of place, it did serve to give the audience a breather from this high wire act of a movie. Perhaps it was required to give Lance Corporal William Schofield, played brilliantly by George MacKay, an actual physical breather. I haven’t seen an actor run harder or faster in a film since Chariots of Fire!

When Pam and I left Cinebistro, all we did was talk about it all the way home, something we rarely do after a movie. This one will hang around a while in our minds. Both of us think it should win every award it is possible to give to a film. Of course, it has a few things going against it. There are no social justice sermons, no preening lectures about income inequality, climate change, or gender bias. There is no mention of racism, no glorification of Hollywood’s past, no car chase scenes, no profanity, no sex or nudity, and nobody struggling with their sexual identity. And, considering that this was a war picture, surprisingly few explosions! But, if Oscars are handed out for brilliant film making and storytelling, 1917 is your winner.

Surgery Postponed. I ramp Up My Joke Game.

Ok, so yesterday was supposed to be the day that my friend had her long anticipated surgery. Unfortunately, her body wouldn’t cooperate. She just hasn’t recovered enough from the chemo to endure major surgery yet. Something about platelets and neutrophils being too low. Needless to say, she was disappointed. But after venting about the unfairness of it all for five minutes, she began to see the wisdom in waiting just a couple weeks until she is stronger and her body is better able to endure such an operation. In other words, she wallowed in bitterness and self pity just long enough to remind me that she is human, then righted the ship and began to be thankful for God’s blessings once again. “I’m just trusting God, Doug. He’s got this.”

What was my contribution to her predicament? I reminded her that because the surgery got put off for three weeks, that meant that she was guaranteed three more weeks of my awesome jokes. If there was such a thing as a gun to the head eye roll emoji, she would have used it! 

Well, because of her spiritual insights to the news, I decided to go with a few religious-themed jokes:

What did the atheist say upon dying and meeting God?

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

Mother Superior had to crack down on sisters wearing perfume in the convent.

She made it clear that she wasn’t about to tolerate any nun scents.

Who was the greatest female financier in the Bible? Pharaoh’s daughter.

She went down to the Bank of the Nile and drew out a little prophet.

Who was the greatest male financier in the Bible? Noah.

He floated his stock while everyone else was in liquidation.

Why are there so many old people in church?

They’re cramming for the finals.

After she read these jokes she called the emergency 911 hospital number to she if they could slip her in this weekend!

Technology and Me

My son sent me a text yesterday with a picture from his hotel room in New Orleans. He is there on business and wanted me to know that he was in my old stomping ground. I lived there for three years from 1965-1968 while my Dad attended Seminary. I started thinking about the old cramped two bedroom apartment where all six of us lived back in those days. Just in case Patrick got a chance to do some sightseeing I thought maybe he would like to visit the place to check out where his dear old dad used to live. So, I FaceTimed my older brother and asked if he remembered our old address. Of course he did. My brother has a photographic memory for useless information, but can’t remember where he put his car keys...it’s a family trait!

A little later my brother sent me the following text:

Nice seeing you just now. Have we lived to see almost unimaginable tech advances since our youth? At Bluefield there was one men’s dorm, one cafeteria, and 1 pay phone on the wall entering the 3 story hotel. Now, every kid in grade school and even kindergarten has an iPhone, with more computer power than the ones used in the Apollo program! Unbelievable!

Unbelievable indeed. We are all beneficiaries of these technological miracles. We enjoy their conveniences every day. They have made our lives infinitely easier and more efficient. I wouldn’t want to go back to the way things were fifty years ago and neither would you. 

But, I feel so disconnected from technology. Yes, I use it, but I don’t understand it. In many ways, I am intimidated by computers. I don’t understand the language that tech people use when discussing it. Younger people seem to swim gracefully in the currents of technology, while I flail around gasping for air. Nothing I’ve done better illustrates my technological limitations more clearly than recent experiences trying to self publish my book. I will not bore you with the details, partly because that would be unforgivably boring, but mostly because...the details...escape me. That’s the problem. I don’t understand the details. Even when I think I’m beginning to grasp them, fifteen minutes later they vaporize and I’m back to being dazed and confused. If my writing is ever going to see the light of day in any substantial way, I will need someone else—possibly multiple someone else’s—to take over the details. Apparently, I am incapable of anything other than conceiving and writing the story. After that I turn into a bumbling idiot. 

Thoughts on the Death of Kobe Bryant

Professional basketball fell off my radar screen two decades ago. I was once a serious fan back in the Magic/Bird/Jordan days, but as I got older I lost interest. Today, I still know who most of the stars are but if you asked me to name the starting five of any team in the NBA I would be lost. But, I knew who Kobe Bryant was, and his tragic death yesterday felt like a blow to me. It’s funny how it is when famous people die unexpectedly. You feel an intimacy with the loss that you haven’t earned.

Over the next few days tributes will pour in from all sources of the media in praise of Kobe Bryant. This is good and proper. He was an iconic athlete and personality with millions of devoted fans all over the world. As a player he was one of the top five to ever play the game, I would think, although true basketball fans may argue the point. He played with a flair and flamboyance that few others had, and a fierce competitiveness that perhaps only Michael Jordan could top. But beyond his skill as a basketball player, I have no idea what kind of man he was. Yes, I do remember the 2003 sexual assault charge against him. I remember being disappointed in him at the time. But through all of that ugliness he and his wife managed to save their marriage and have four beautiful daughters, one of whom perished with her father on that ill-fated helicopter ride.

To learn of the death of anyone at age 41 feels like a blow. Then to learn that a 13 year old child was lost makes it even more jarring. One minute the man was on top of the world, fabulously rich, adored by millions, his future as limitless as the imagination. Then he gets on his private helicopter with eight others, a few minutes later the engine sputters and everything that was Kobe Bryant ends in a fireball on a hillside outside of Los Angeles. In the twinkling of an eye...

My life doesn’t resemble Kobe Bryant’s. I am not fabulously rich, or adored by millions. I’m more like comfortably well off and well- liked by tens. But, just like Kobe Bryant, I am flesh and blood. I am perishable. I am infinitely destructible. Kobe and I share one thing...our mortality. One day, for all of us, this life will end. And when it does, we all become equal. 

So, I pray for his family, although I don’t know anything about them. I mourn his untimely death although I never knew him, we never spoke a word. And I will think more about what sort of legacy I will leave behind when it’s my turn to become equal with all who have gone before me.

Bubba’s Oil Fire Killers

Crazy story...

A buddy of mine decided to quit his job and head down to Texas to become a wildcat oil man. It was a mid-life crisis sort of thing and he had plenty of money to get started so he went for it. Before long he had a few wells and was learning on the job. Things were going great until one day when one of his wells caught on fire. Well, my friend knew just enough about the oil business to be dangerous but didn’t know the first thing about how to put out an oil well fire. So, he did what anyone else in 2020 would do...he Googled it...and sure enough, four or five oil fire extinguishing companies came up. He called the first one and the guy wanted $25,000 to put the fire out. My friend thought that was a ripoff so he called the next one but discovered that he too wanted $25,000. Finally he got to the last company...Bubba’s Oil Fire Killers. My friend hesitated at the name but called because he was desperate. Bubba himself answered and said not only would he would put the fire out for $5,000, but he could be there within the hour! My friend was thrilled and hired him on the spot.

About an hour later, off in the distance, Bubba’s Oil Fire Killers truck appeared at the crest of the hill. It was a long flatbed truck with wooden side panels packed to the gills with men. There must have been fifty guys crammed in the back of that truck. My friend watched as the truck started descending down the hill to the burning oil well. The truck began picking up speed. As my friend watched he thought that maybe the truck was going too fast. Before long it was careening down the hill, out of control and headed right into the fire. My friend watched on in horror as the truck crashed into the burning well, sending fifty men flying this way and that. Suddenly he saw the men rolling on the ground while others began waving blankets all around. Within ten minutes and to my friend’s great amazement...the fire was out! He had never seen anything like it before in his life. He cautiously walked over to the truck and watched Bubba writing something on a clipboard. Then Bubba got out and handed my friend the bill for $5,000. 

My friend said, “Bubba, I have to say, that’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. Your guys put that fire out in five minutes. Your method seemed unorthodox but it sure did work.”

Then he handed Bubba a check for $5,000

“So, Bubba,” my friend said. “It sure didn’t take you very long to earn this money. What are you gonna do with $5,000?”

Bubba looked at my friend and said...”Well, the first thing I’m gonna do is fix the brakes on that truck.”

My Friend, My Book, and Wong’s Tacos

So, here’s a snippet of a conversation I had with my friend this morning:

Me: So...any blood in the toilet this morning?

Pam: No blood. PTL. They put me on antibiotics for a UTI. They will do another blood test Tuesday to decide about surgery.

Me: Can you believe I just asked you that question? Can you even imagine that you and I would ever be talking about blood in the toilet?

Pam: NO!! It’s crazy. I consider you like my brother...

Me: ...your annoying bossy brother.

Pam: Exactly.

Yesterday she had a rough go of it. She ended up back at UVA where they discovered that her platelets had fallen to a point where she won’t be able to have surgery. She has seven days to get them up to appropriate levels or they will have to postpone the operation. To do this will require lots of rest and dietary adjustments. The rest part is difficult for her. She is ADHD and antsy as all get out—-just like me. But, she will have to dial it back and rest or pay the consequences. To that end I have been fussing at her...a lot.

So, say a prayer for my high strung, stubborn friend that she would be able to rest and eat properly over the next week.

In other news, I picked up the first proof of my book from the printer yesterday. Pam will be reading over it, looking for typos etc this weekend. Pretty exciting stuff...

One more thing. Last night, Pam and I tried a new place for dinner, Wong’s Tacos. Oh. My. Goodness. Its one of those fusion joints, a delectable mashup of Asian and Mexican cuisine. I had three tacos and a spring roll appetizer that were so delicious I nearly cried. It felt like the beginning of a beautiful friendship!

The Kids Are Alright

I have written many times in this space about my experiences with teenagers during the time I was involved in youth ministry at Grove Avenue. So many years have passed since those days there’s always the danger that I have romanticized the experience beyond recognition. We tend to do that with our memories. But yesterday I was reminded of why I loved working with teenagers so much. I received a long text from one of my favorite kids from those years. She is now a grown woman with a grown up job in another state. Before I share her words with you, a little background.

All teenagers might be created equal, but they don’t stay equal for long. Some of them, by the time I got them were disasters. Others were fragile flowers who I couldn’t imagine surviving in the real world as adults. Still others looked to me like sure things, confident, smart and engaging. In my ten years of youth ministry I met all kinds of kids, but I always seemed to have a soft spot for the ones with the rougher edges. These were the kids who asked the hardest questions, the ones who didn’t always say or do the right thing. They could be counted on to say just about anything, often inappropriate things. In other words, these were the kids who reminded me of exactly who I was at 17. This girl was one of those kids.

Each year, a group of kids would graduate out of the group and either go off to college or out into the workforce. Occasionally I would take one of them aside with a proposition that went like this:

“OK, kiddo. I want to make a deal with you. I want to give you something...but there are strings attached!!”

Then I would hand them a clean, crisp $100 bill. Their eyes would light up, but because these were unique kids, their eyes would narrow a bit...”Mister D, what are you up to??”

Then I would explain that this $100 bill was special. I wanted them to fold it neatly and hide it in their wallet and forget that it’s in there for a while. “One day,” I would say, “this $100 dollar bill is going to come in handy. There’s no telling what it might do. You might be presented with an investment opportunity, there might be an emergency that comes up where this forgotten 100 bucks will come to the rescue, the possibilities are endless. But there’s a catch....whatever you spend it on and no matter where you are when you do...you have to track me down and tell me the story.”

So, yesterday, I got this:

Hey Mister D! I can’t believe I forgot to tell you about this when it happened!  I drove to the Atlanta airport and parked my car in long term parking to go home for Christmas and the whole ride on the shuttle bus, I just kept thinking I wanted to give the driver the $100 bill. I’d never had such an overwhelming feeling about it all the years I’ve had it. He was just this sweet older middle aged black man talking about barbeque and his family, nothing special or that gave an impression he was particularly in need. But I got off the shuttle, told him about how you’d given me something when I graduated and said if I ever felt compelled to give it to someone, I should. And that I’d had it for almost 7 years and never felt compelled but I did tonight, and handed him the bill. He got teary eyed and hugged me and told me I’d blessed him and we wished each other a merry Christmas and I left to get on my flight! I don’t know how it blessed him or to what extent, but I really felt the Holy Spirit compelling me for some reason I’ll probably never know. I had actually forgotten about it since moving to Georgia, and sitting on the bus all of a sudden I just thought, “you have that $100 bill in your wallet” and couldn’t stop feeling that I needed to give it to him.

When I read this note emotions started welling up in me from all over the place. I pictured this spunky kid embracing the stunned shuttle driver, two total strangers hugging in an airport parking lot, wishing each other a merry Christmas. He will tell the story of the crazy white girl who gave him a $100 dollar bill with a tear in his eye for the rest of his life. How much will that story, that memory, be worth to him?

Nowadays, in some circles, it has become fashionable to rag on Millennials. Well, I worked with two or three hundred of them more than a decade ago before anyone was throwing that word around as an epitaph. I publish this story in part because it was such a blessing to me, but also as a reminder of something I know for a fact...the kids are alright.

Dinner With My Friend

Some disjointed thoughts after a very, very long day yesterday...

- Very relieved that the huge gun rights rally at the Capital proceeded so peacefully. With such a throng of people packed into such a small place, mixed with high passion and thousands of firearms, it could easily have degenerated into a catastrophe. The fact that it didn’t speaks well not only of the attendees, but also the law enforcement men and women in charge of security. Well done.

- Left the house at 7:00am. 700 miles later, rolled back into Short Pump at 10:00pm. Along the way I was able to have dinner with these people...

That’s my friend on the left sporting the latest in Cancer-chic headwear, her husband in the middle—the rose between two thorns—and her daughter on the right. This was the first time I had actually visited her since all this started. She made homemade soup. There were barbecued ribs and a ridiculous chocolate concoction for dessert. She kept apologizing for how she looked. “I have no hair. My skin is peeling off my hands and this hoodie makes me look fat!” To which I say...balderdash. 

I was expecting the worst. After everything this woman has endured for the past five months, I was expecting a hollowed out, emaciated  shell. Instead, she greeted me at the door with her customary smile, running her mouth a mile a minute like always. Yes, she has clearly been through a war and has the scars to prove it, but it’s still her, same smile, same personality, same generosity, same unquenched optimism.

But seriously y’all ...she has got to get well soon. This morning’s jokes...

“Happy day, friend.” 

 

Shameless Plug Time

  “Everyone knows him as a good man, proud father, loving husband, and successful businessman. But when Jack Rigsby’s wife is brutally murdered in the parking lot of a convenience store his life descends into an abyss of guilt and grief, made worse by the discovery that her killer has a connection to a secret from his past. Saving Jack is a story of betrayal, secrets, grief and the limits of forgiveness.”

 

This...is happening. It’s at the printer. Haven’t figured out the e-book thing yet, but the paperbacks are on the way. If you want one, let me know. $10

The Astros and Sign Stealing

This past week was the week that baseball lost its collective mind. The hammer came down on the Houston Astros for sign stealing during the 2017 World Series. Their GM and Manager both got fired along with two other big league managers implicated in the scandal. For Major League Baseball this is a big deal, the biggest scandal since the steroid debacle fifteen years ago. First, a tutorial:

So, the Astros brass figured out a way to steal signs by watching a monitor back in the clubhouse of the opposing catcher giving the pitcher signs for what to pitch. As soon as the guys figured out the sequence of signs they would bang on a trash can in the hallway between the clubhouse and the dugout loudly enough for the batter to hear. My understand is the only thing that was communicated by the trash can banging was whether the pitch was a fastball or an off speed pitch, but just that information would be invaluable for a big league hitter. Which is why baseball players have been stealing signs since Christ was a corporal. What makes this sign stealing different, I suppose, is the level of technological sophistication. Especially after an unproven rumor began circulating that several Astros hitters were wearing small devices under their uniforms that buzzed before each pitch to alert them to what was coming. What a mess.

Here’s my take on all of this. Baseball, despite its reputation as an unchanging game mired in its history and traditions, actually has changed quite a lot during the 50 years or so that I have been a deranged fan. In the late 1960’s and early 1970’s, when I fell in love with the game, players tried to steal signs all the time. Some were more successful than others, but sign stealing was ubiquitous. Whenever a runner would reach second base he would peer in to try to decipher what signs the opposing catcher was sending the pitcher and then by some facial expression or hand gesture try to relay that info to his teammate in the batter’s box. Smarter pitchers and catchers changed their signs frequently during games to combat this thievery. Other pitchers, like Bob Gipson or Don Drysdale, if they suspected a player was attempting to steal signs would simply aim a 90 miles per hour fastball at the offending player’s ear hole...and that would take care of that. Back then, if sign stealing got “out of hand” the players themselves would put a stop to it by setting players up...putting down a sign for a curve ball, then busting the guy high and tight with heat, knocking the poor guy on his ass. Today, that sort of thing is frowned upon in the big leagues. You throw a pitch anywhere near a guy’s head and you get a warning from the umpire. The next one brings your ejection. Sometimes even curve balls that drift too far inside make modern players want to fight. It’s a different game.

But, having said all that, the Astros did cross a line. The lengths they went to, the technology they set up, all the subterfuge seemed excessive. So, I support the firings of the Astros brass. But, at the same time, I know that probably over half the teams in baseball steal signs, maybe not as expertly as the Astros, but they steal signs nonetheless. And these punishments will not end sign stealing in baseball. Every business, at the highest levels always seeks out edges. Everybody looks for an advantage over the competition. It’s part of how human beings are hardwired. So, part of me rolls my eyes when I hear all these baseball fans taking to their fainting couches over this...I’m shocked, shocked to discover cheating in baseball!!! Please people. Give me a break!

Terror in Texas

Bloodthirsty Squirrel Leaves 2 Hospitalized, Neighbors Hiding Out During Daytime

I saw this screaming headline on Drudge this morning and immediately felt sweet vindication. Many of you have rolled your collective eyes at my determination to rid my property of these tree rats. Doug, you all said, they’re adorable...God’s creatures, learn to coexist in harmony with them, you all said. Well, this is what happens to you when you start playing nice with these killers.

“When I stepped outside the door he leaped on me and bit my arm, I pulled him off, threw him to the ground, and tried to get in the house,” said French-Amezquita. “I couldn’t get in the house because he came back, he bit this leg.”

My heart goes out to poor Mrs. French-Amezquita. But reading through this sad story I came across this statement:

“Residents have contacted both animal control and the Texas Parks and Wildlife Department but were told that until someone traps the squirrel they cannot remove it.”

Excuse me? This isn’t Connecticut or Massachusetts we’re talking about here, this is freaking Don’t Mess With Texas!! The only option these fine people have of ridding themself of this outrageous menace is to trap the thing? Wait...WHAT?? I am told that there are 750,000 legally registered firearms in the State of Texas, making Texas the most heavily armed state in the Union. It would seem to me that someone in the Bridgeland Shores neighborhood of Houston needs to grow a pair, march over to Mrs. French-Amezquita’s place with a a shotgun and a box of shells and rain down some hell-fire justice on this marauding killer. Order needs to be restored in Bridgeland Shores. People need to be able to walk outside onto their decks without fear of being attacked. I mean, what in Sam Hill is the 2nd Amendment for if not this??

Ralph Northern’s Gun Ban

My opinion of Ralph Northern is well known to readers of this blog. I consider old blackface an embarrassment to the Commonwealth, a virtue signaling moron and a pandering idiot. But right now he is getting ripped for doing the right thing by people who should know better.

Yesterday, the Governor declared that guns would be banned on the grounds of the State Capital for the duration of a planned gun rights rally to be held there next Monday. The ban will be lifted the following day. He has declared a state of emergency for the day of the rally. He claims that the State Police have received credible threats of violence for the upcoming event which prompted the move. Gun rights advocates have been hyperventilating on social media ever since declaring this the beginning of the end for America. Time out.

Two years ago, a similar gathering of citizens in Charlottesville ended in death and violence. The city government was ravaged for its lack of planning and foresight. Now, with that horrible memory no doubt on his mind, he seems concerned with avoiding another Charlottesville. Accordingly, he has not only moved to ban guns but also anything else that could serve as a weapon like baseball bats, sticks, shields and clubs. Social media has become inundated with far right militia groups vowing to attend (many from out of state). The governor is not canceling the rally, but he is trying to remove the potential for violence. If he does possess credible threats of violence and does nothing to try to stop it, these same people ripping him for the ban would crucify him for inaction. In light of the current raised level of passion and intensity in our politics, it seems to me to be a justified precaution, a prudent preemptive action to protect the safety of all the protesters. It’s a 24 hour ban on weapons on the grounds of the State Capital during a gun rights rally in 2020, but to hear the gun rights crowd tell it, Ralph Northern is the new Joe Stalin, preparing his shock troops for door to door confiscation. Listen, just because our Governor is a dork doesn’t mean that every single thing he does is an assault on liberty.

I am not naive. I fully understand where the Governor stands on gun rights. He and his Party are in favor of restrictions on the second amendment that I don’t believe are constitutional. But that’s not what this is. This is a Governor being cautious about a pending rally that might be attended by members of militia groups with reputations for violence. Now, he claims to be in possession of evidence of credible threats of such violence. What if he is lying? Suppose his “evidence” is bogus and he is merely using it as an excuse to curb the rights of citizens, even if it is for only 24 hours? That would be different. But I haven’t arrived yet at the place where I must ascribe nefarious motives to every move a politician who I don’t particularly care for makes. I assume that if he says the State Police has credible threats...they have credible threats. In which case he is doing what any Governor would and should do.

Even old Blackface, like a broken clock, can be right at least twice a day.

Spinning Plates and Juggling Chainsaws

Today is January the 15th, two weeks into the new year and I’m already feeling overwhelmed. A little like this guy...

...minus the tattoos. 

Multi-tasking is the thing. Everyone of us is asked to multi-task all the time. The ability to do more than one thing at a time, competently, is a basic requirement of adult life. It’s nothing new, this multi-tasking thing. My mother called it “having a lot of irons in the fire.” Of course, women have been multi-tasking since the dawn of time. They can make lunches for three kids, cook breakfast, make a grocery list, lay out clothes for everyone, drink coffee, line up a car pool, put on mascara, and finish up a lesson plan for 30 first graders all before 7:30 in the morning. Men can multi-task too, but we tend to complain about it more...like this blog writer.

Here’s the thing, I have always had multiple plates spinning simultaneously in my head. Kinda like this guy...

I could be working up a proposal for a client, setting appointments, paying bills, arguing with a colleague, and reading the box scores all at the same time without missing a beat. I can still do all these things. But when I do them all at the same time, more often than not, the proposal for my client features a spirited discussion of why it is that my stupid colleague thinks that the National’s starting pitcher shouldn’t have been yanked from last night’s game after only 116 pitches and oh by the way, my cable bill is past due. These days I am forced to spend money on expensive apps that help me remember stuff. Although they are worth every penny, they aren’t foolproof. Just the other day I noticed on my phone log that a client had called 24 hours ago. There wasn’t a red check mark beside her name indicating that I had returned her call. I pride myself in always returning client calls same day, so I briefly panicked. Did I return her call? I honestly couldn’t remember! I had no choice but to call her and make sure:

Me: Hello Peggy. Listen, I hate to do this but...did I call you back yesterday?

Peggy: (cackling laughter) Doug! What? Do you have Alzheimer’s?? Of course you did! You answered my question and I took your advice.

Me: (nervous laughter) ...ha...well that’s a relief!

Then it all came back to me. I remembered the call and the conversation. All is well.

Yesterday afternoon within a matter of ten minutes, I answered three telephone calls from clients asking three different questions about three totally different things, all of which required an answer within the next hour. After hanging up the phone my cell buzzed at me with an urgent email from my accountant reminding me that I had to file a form I had never previously been required to file before the end of the week. Then I received a text from a friend with disturbing medical news concerning a mutual friend. Then a report from another friend about a doctor’s appointment gone bad. Then my phone buzzed: “Doug, your 2:00 appointment is here.” No, I hadn’t forgotten that I had a 2:00 appointment, but how in God’s name could it possibly be 2:00 already??!! I quickly tidied up, sat the client’s file on my desk and confidently strolled out to the lobby, the very picture of professional calm. Inside I’m thinking...How many days until Maine?

Three Weeks Until Iowa...handicapping the field!

Yesterday’s stunning news that Cory Booker, aka Spartacus, has exited the Presidential race means that the Democratic Party will not be nominating a person of color as their candidate in 2020. Now the choice seems to have boiled down to one woman and four men, three of whom qualify as members of the single most despised demographic in the hierarchy of identity politics that is the modern Democratic Party—old white men. With just three weeks left until the Iowa caucuses, what follows is my attempt to handicap the field. Admittedly, this is like an anthropological experiment, akin to a westerner observing a tribe of pygmies in their natural habitat in the Amazon. All of these people seem alien to my experiences and beliefs about how the world works and there is only one of them who I would want to have a beer with, more on that later, but nonetheless here goes:

Elizabeth Warren

At one point not very long ago she was the odds on favorite. She is an accomplished and committed leftist who in a pinch could check the minority box with her Native American roots. She seems sufficiently angry enough to appeal to the dominant progressive base which prizes righteous indignation at the moment. But something has stalled in her campaign. The money isn’t coming in like it was. Her standing in the polls has slipped. I honestly have no idea why. But she is still a formidable candidate. I wouldn’t write her off. Chances of winning the nomination? 5-1

Bernie Sanders

Very old. Very white. Very angry. Very formidable. He’s proudly Socialist at a time when that is considered an asset, not a liability in the Democratic Party. He’s the guy who worries the establishment wing of the Party. It is rumored that he is the candidate that Trump most wants to run against. He has the juice right now. His crowds are teeming with the young and the restless. He’s got his 5 million donors. He’s promising free everything and no more wars and seems sincere on both counts. He also is fresh off a heart scare. Chances of winning the nomination? 6-1

Joe Biden

Very old. Very white. Big, toothy smile. A little slow on the uptick. Reminds everyone in America of their favorite Uncle. He seems all wrong for the moment at which his Party and the country has arrived. But his name recognition and his association with Obama is a powerful formula, especially with black voters, no small contingency in the Democratic Party. His chances at winning the nomination? 4-1

Pete Buttigieg 

Young smart and even tempered, this midwestern small town mayor who, thanks to his sexual orientation appeals to the deep pockets in Hollywood, is the candidate who won’t go away for the Democrats. He has that one ingredient that all the other candidates lack and envy...authenticity. This guy is bright, thoughtful, pleasant, and served his country in the military. In case you’re wondering, he’s the only one in the field who I wouldn’t mind having a beer with, getting to know. I would hear this guy out. He has the maturity and level-headedness that Americans want in a President. Chances that the Democratic Party will roll the dice on a gay mayor? 20-1

Michael Bloomberg

The latest billionaire attempting to spend his way into the White House. His record setting media buy has launched this particular vanity project into the first tier of candidates. But he’s also a little long in the tooth and his New York City resume isn’t likely to attract very many heartlanders. But, he’s a fast talking politician with money to back up his mouth. This is 2020 and anything can happen, I suppose. Chances at him being successful buying the nomination? 10-1

Yes, I know...there are other candidates still in the race. But none of them are worth mentioning because none of them have a chance. 

My Friend’s Medical Bills

Talk about your boring blog topics—it doesn’t get worse than—health insurance. But the subject came up this morning with my friend. I will do my best to make this interesting. I will do so with plenty of sarcasm and wisecracks, no doubt, but don’t confuse that with flippancy. This is a deadly serious topic for my friend.

Thankfully, she has great insurance. She is covered under her husband’s generous plan through his employer. So far, her cancer ordeal has cost her only the total of her maximum out of pocket limit which is absurdly low! Her plan runs from June to June, so at the end of May she will be on the hook for another out of pocket limit. But again, it is a small and very manageable number. Everything else will be paid by her insurance company, permanently taking her off their Christmas card list.

So far, she has been battling this nightmare for just over five months. There have been tons of doctor’s visits, six chemo treatments and a seemingly endless parade of medications to help her deal with its effects. But, there hasn’t been any surgery or extended hospitalizations. When she told me the total price tag so far I was mortified. $600,000...and she hasn’t even had surgery yet! Just imagine how much an eight hour surgical procedure will run, not to mention the six additional weeks of radiation. Worst case scenario would include an additional year of chemo. My mathematical skills aren’t what you would call elite, but just some entry level extrapolation makes it clear that this thing might end up costing over two million dollars. Let me write that out for you. $2,000,000. That’s ten Lamborghini’s. That’s three lake houses in Maine. With two million dollars you could buy enough sausage to feed everyone in Pittsburgh for a year. While it’s certainly true that you can’t place a monetary value on a human life, two million clams is still a lot of money.

Is it worth it? What kind of utilitarian nonsense question is that? Of course it’s worth it. But, suppose my friend didn’t have health insurance? Or suppose she had accidentally let it lapse because she forgot to pay the premium? Suppose her husband’s employer decided to stop providing subsidized insurance to their employees?  Suppose he got laid off and couldn’t afford the Cobra premiums? Thankfully, none of these things happened and my friend is mercifully shielded from the financial death that enduring this would surely bring without health insurance. But what about those not so fortunate?

I would imagine that the only thing worse than going through a life and death cancer war would be going through a life and death cancer war...without health insurance. 

As most of you know, I have had a life long aversion to and suspicion of powerful, centralized government. Second only to my aversion and suspicion of big government has been my aversion to and suspicion of big business. In this country there is no business bigger than health insurance. So I am in a classic bind on the subject of government run health insurance. Should we leave the frying pan of profit driven big business-run care for the fire of government bureaucrat-run care? Should we trade in the bean counting accountants at Anthem for the paper pushing apparatchiks at the Department of Health and Human Services? Would you rather have to deal with the soulless money grubbers at the insurance company or DMV style morons? It is a vexing questions with no good answers. But when I hear of $600,000 chemo bills I start to wonder...is it even possible for government run health care to be any worse? At least with the government nobody would have to declare bankruptcy after getting a cancer diagnosis. The country might go bankrupt...but we could cross that bridge when we get to it.

One more thing. I just got my Anthem bill in the mail. I got my annual rate increase. It wasn’t horrible...only went up 7%. So starting next month i will be paying $1458 a month for a $3500 deductible plan for the two of us. Add to that the $400 a month I will deposit in my Health Savings Account to cover that deductible and you’re talking over $22,000 of my income after taxes goes to insure that I won’t be bankrupted by an unexpected diagnosis.

Something is extraordinarily screwed up about that. Don’t you think?

Good Luck, Kids

Ordinarily, I would say that there isn’t anything in the universe that I care less about than the British Royal Family. I fully understand that this view places me in the minority in my country, not to mention my own family. Around here any royal wedding is must see TV. My sister is a lifelong Anglophile. I like England well enough but my view essentially has always been...You guys are fine, but your monarchy is silly and pretentious and...oh yeah...we kicked your ass 240 years ago to prove it.

But this week comes news that these kids have had enough and are actually trying to quit the royal family!

Apparently they are sick and tired of living in the bubble of British tabloid scrutiny. I guess they’ve had it up to here with ribbon cutting photo opps and the most overbearing and powerful mother in law in the history of civilization. No doubt, the Queen is royally pissed. My first reaction to this news was...Wow. Good for them! It takes some guts to give the finger to the House of Windsor. But, it was inevitable really. There was no way an American girl was going to put up that foolishness for long. The red-haired guy should have known that from the get go. I mean, just look at her...can you imagine her walking around a castle wearing white gloves and stupid hats all day?

First reports were of a planned move to Canada. Perfect. Then word came that Harry was looking for work now that their royal allowance was getting cut off. Another good idea. But then the news turned troubling. It was learned that they might be headed to Hollywood. No, no no no. You don’t exchange one out of touch, entitled fantasy world for another! Then even worse news...the ex-royal couple were being advised by that noted down to earth everywoman...Oprah. Frying pan? Meet fire.

It remains to be seen how this all plays out. I hope they are able to create a better life for themselves. I really do. But when Vegas posts odds on how long their marriage lasts post royal family, over or under five years....I’m taking the under.

My New Normal

Agenda Items For Today, January 8, 2020...

1. Attend to swollen and puffy eye with Benadryl and cold compress

2. Stand in freezing cold on my deck in my pajamas while waiting for neurotic dog to relieve herself

3. Try to comprehend vagaries of the human experience that cause the S&P futures to go from down 400 to up 60 literally overnight.

4. Make an appearance at Bennett Funeral Home to show respect for long time friend’s deceased mother.

5. Drop by hospital to visit long time friend who just underwent quadruple bypass operation.

6. Design new investment strategy for dear client who has been informed that he only has two years to live due to incurable bone cancer.

7. Meet with two clients for annual reviews.

8. Submit complicated and corrected paperwork to change ownership and beneficiaries of the vast holdings of client who passed away late last year, including Power of Attorney documentation since surviving spouse is incapacitated with Alzheimer’s.

9. Go to gym for workout to fight suddenly ballooning weight.

....Welcome to life in your sixties.

Friend Update

My courageous friend is finally finished her three months of chemo. From my perspective it has been like watching a horror film, one grisly scene a day, a Chinese water torture of agony. But each day she answers the bell with an optimism and gratitude that at times borders on the miraculous. Sometimes I want her to just scream and cry and lash out at the unfairness of it all. That’s what I would do after the third of fourth trip to the bathroom, three days after my first treatment. But not my friend. After three excruciatingly difficult months of this poison she still throws around words like thankful and grateful. Instead of bitterness and anger, she speaks of counting her blessings.

This is not to suggest that she hasn’t had her moments of despair. How could she not? But they have been rare, quickly overcome with a dignified determination to overcome. “I’m sorry, but this morning I feel like a whiny baby,” she offers by way of explanation for her rare lapses into anger, actually apologizing to me for her ill temper. I just shake my head in amazement.

Next up is surgery at the end of the month. Further treatment plans will be dependent upon the results of that surgery. In the meantime, the chemo is over with, a major hurdle endured and overcome.

As we enter the fourth month of our daily morning conversations, my inventory of dad jokes has been throughly depleted. I have been scraping the bottom of the barrel of late with some truly pathetic stuff, like these beauties:

My friend Jack claims he can communicate with vegetables.

Jack and the beans talk...

What do you call a sheep who has been dipped in chocolate?

A Hershey baaaaaaaa.

Did you hear that over a thousand dollars worth of Viagra was stollen from the CVS yesterday?

The police are looking for hardened criminals.

The fact that she still laughs has me worried that the chemo may have warped her sense of humor. Either the chemo or continuous exposure to my material. Regardless, yet more collateral damage!

So, if you are reading this, say a prayer for my friend today. And if you are cancer free, add a prayer of thanks.

Time To Saddle Up

Like many of you, my professional life has been in limbo since roughly the 20th of December. Sure, I’ve been into the office on several occasions since that last Friday before Christmas, but not an awful lot of serious work has gotten done since the beginning of the Holiday Season. That all ends this morning. I will trudge in early, put on a pot of coffee and gird my loins for my 38th year in my chosen profession.

2020 will be like most of the previous ten years or so. From January through the end of May I will cram my schedule full of appointments with clients, one annual review after another. I will meet with them, go over their accounts, access their results, update their risk tolerances and suggest any changes that might be appropriate. When I walk out to the reception area to greet them I will immediately notice when one of them is ill. It happens almost every year, at least once. In the 12 months since I have seen him or her, they’ve gotten sick. I can see it in their eyes. It always stops me short. It is a disturbing thing to be confronted by the relentless pursuit of mortality.

By May 31st I will have grown extremely tired of the sound of my own voice. At least once during this five months of frenzied activity I will loose my voice entirely. It will occur to me more than once that I probably should space these reviews out over the entire year instead of front-loading them into the first five months. But, I will remind myself that there is a method to this madness. By doing 70% of my year’s work in the first five months of the year, I free myself up for a summer and early fall full of...Maine. This year there will be two trips, the entire month of July and two, hopefully three weeks in late September, early October. Once I have scratched my Maine itch, I will return for two more intense months of client meetings, then things will slow down again over the holidays. I have used this strategy for several years now and am happy with it, my attempt to achieve the much ballyhooed life-work balance that all the smart kids are talking about. The plus side is that I get to recharge the batteries and step away from the incessant pressure of this business for an extended period of time every year. The down side is...I walk away from a lot of money. As a business owner, I am afforded no “vacation pay.” Time spent away means that productive activities are placed on hold. No work? No new business gets done. Luckily, I have a cracker-jack assistant who keeps the place from catching on fire while I’m away. 

Is the money I lose worth the time I’m away? It’s a fair question for which I have an unequivocal answer...Yes...a thousand times YES.

I do not live to work. The end goal of my life is not the accumulation of wealth or the illusion of safety. I have learned through hard lessons that all of this could be over tomorrow. I am one car wreck, one shadowy x-ray away from losing everything...and so are you. I don’t dwell on this hard truth. If I did I would be miserable. But I do keep the tenuous nature of this life in mind when I make my plans. Ultimately, I work to live and find ways to serve. I battle to keep my eyes and energies focused on the eternal, not the temporal. That’s not always easy, but each year I get better at it.

So, this morning it’s time to saddle up. July will be here before I know it!