My Nightmare

Yesterday’s brutal slog was followed by a restless, fitful sleep which featured lots of tossing, turning and bizarre dreams. Mercifully, I finally woke up for good at 4:00 in plenty of time to take our house guest of the past four nights to All Saints Episcopal Church to catch his bus back to Nashville. The Chambers Singers Spring tour of 2020 was a raging success and Deen Entsminger was a delight to have in our home. A big thank you goes out to Leigh Anne Fort and Becky Baldwin for hosting seven young women in their homes since Friday. They treated their girls like queens and were the talk of the ensemble.

The subconscious mind is a strange place full of discordant, brooding inclinations that manifest themselves, I’m told, during periods of great stress. Yesterday would certainly have qualified as stressful, so I probably should have expected bad dreams last night. The one I got was a doozy.

We have neighbors in our culdesac who have a wonderful dog named Maverick. He’s a black lab and a world class sweetheart. We noticed recently that he didn’t look well, and learned late yesterday afternoon that he had to be put down. Such a sad thing to lose a beautiful, sweet dog. He was one of Lucy’s best pals. With that loss serving as a backdrop, my dream proceeded like this:

Overcome with empathy for my neighbor’s loss, I decided that I would loan them Lucy for a week or so to help them through their grief. The trouble began when it was time to get Lucy back. They refused to give her up, insisting to me that I had said they could keep her forever. Then, in the maddening way of dreams, I found myself in a excruciating loop of waking up every morning, walking around the culdesac and seeing Lucy out in their front yard, unable to come to me because of the electronic fence they had hastily erected. Lucy would whine at me each time I passed the yard. It was as close to a nightmare as I have ever experienced. When I awoke with a start at 4:00, I looked down at the end of the bed, and there she was stretched out to her full length like she owned the place. I have never been so glad to see a dog in my entire life. Even now as I write this, she is at my side, much earlier than usual...

As I was sharing this dream with Deen on our way to the bus this morning he said that I should try to find the mental file where it was stored and shred it immediately.

I agree.

Pandemics and Me

I have had a long and stressful day. I am exhausted. I have grown tired of the sound of my own voice. 

Among many, many other things, over the past few hours I have been doing some research on the history of flu pandemics in the United States during my lifetime, courtesy of the Centers For Disease Control. The CoronaVirus is the fourth such pandemic to hit this country in my nearly 62 years on the Earth. I will print here what I have discovered about the previous three without any editorializing. Each of you is free to come to your own conclusion about what you read.

The Asian Flu. Summer of 1957 thru early 1958.

The Asian Flu was first detected in Singapore in February of 1957, Hong Kong by April, and finally reached the coastal United States in the early summer. Total deaths associated with this Flu were 1,100,000 worldwide, with 116,000 deaths in the United States. Economic growth as a result of this pandemic cratered to a -10% by the second quarter of 1958, only to rebound by the end of the year to a growth rate of 7.8% for five consecutive quarters.

The Hong Kong Flu September 1968 thru March 1969.

First detected in China in July of 1968, it eventually would kill a million people world wide although it had a very small death rate. 34,000 people perished in the United States. This pandemic, unlike the Asian Flu would cause very little economic pain or disruption.

The Swine Flu 2009-2010

It is estimated that the Swine Flu was contracted by 11-21% of the world’s population in 2009 or roughly 700 million to 1.4 billion people. Despite this astounding number, only 575,000 people died of the disease, and only 4,000 of those in the United States. Again, much like the Hong Kong flu, no significant economic disruptions occurred as a result.

The Coronavirus late 2019 to present

First discovered and identified in the 1960’s, the recent outbreak started in Wuhan, China in late 2019. So far there have been 114,000 confirmed cases worldwide, with over 4,000 deaths. In the United States there have been 500 cases confirmed and 22 deaths. 

Since the 19th of February when the first news reports started coming in, the Dow Jones Industrial average has dropped nearly 5,500 points or 18.7%

Since this is me you’re talking about, and in keeping with my long term view that it is always a good time for a bad joke, I offer you this:

Some people aren’t shaking hands because of the Coronavirus.

I’m not shaking hands because people have run out of toilet paper.

The Zenith

Donna had never attended a funeral until the day she sat on the red velvet cushions inside the Blissful Gardens Memorial Chapel to pay final respects to her maternal grandmother, Beatrice Covington from Augusta, Maine in the spring of 1987. Donna had moved away from Maine for warmer climates and better opportunities years earlier. Most of her memories of the recently departed were sketchy snippets from early childhood with the more vivid memories proceeding from return trips during the glorious Maine summers, when Beatrice was a shell of her former self, having succumbed to the ravages of dementia. Truth be told, Donna didn’t care much for her grandmother even when she was in full possession of her faculties, much less so in the years leading up to her death. Her favorite had always been Beatrice’s long suffering second husband, Winfrey, who she affectionately called Gramps. Despite the fact that Winfrey wasn’t a blood relative, it was Gramps who Donna loved, he of the jolly red face, sparkling eyes and powerful hugs. It was Gramps who always remembered to bring her candy and little presents whenever he went into town. It was Gramps who always followed around after one of his wife’s intemperate outbursts to reassure her that everything was alright and that he still loved her to the moon and back. So, Donna sat in bored, tearless silence as the Preacher painted an overly generous portrait of the deceased. 

After the graveside service, the family gathered at her Uncle John’s house in Lewiston for the covered dish supper. The Covington house was in no condition to receive guests. Ever since Gramps had passed away, seven years ago, Beatrice had given herself over fully to every hoarding instinct that Gramps had kept in check. The small three bedroom rancher had become a warehouse of minutia which reeked of moth balls and mildew. Uncle John’s place was neat and tidy, smelled like leather and had room enough for the thirty people standing, leaning and sitting in the three main rooms eating raspberry pie and sipping hot coffee. Donna watched her mother standing in a corner with her brother looking overwhelmed at the job that awaited her, the job of cleaning and clearing out her mother’s disaster of a house. She knew that her baby brother was going to be no help. The job would fall to her and she would get it done while her brother spent the next six months talking about helping her. Guilt began to rise in Donna’s heart. Her mother would need her help, but even now as she drank her coffee, she was formulating plausible excuses for withholding it...I can’t take time off from work, Mom...the boys need me back home...If I lived closer I would be glad to help, but Virginia is 800 miles away...If I spent more than fifteen minutes in that pig sty with my asthma, I’d end up in an iron lung. Her mother would nod her head claiming to understand, but it would hurt her feelings, and send Donna home to Virginia with a fresh source of guilt—her steadfast and constant companion.

It would take six months to clear out her grandmother’s house. As bad as the upstairs had been, the basement had turned out to be a disgusting but profitable adventure. Aside from the twenty five years worth of neatly stacked, unread newspapers and unopened junk mail, a treasure trove of unopened Christmas presents revealed themselves from underneath the molded newsprint...three microwave ovens, four CD players, two DVD players, packages of underwear, socks and shirts, and most surprisingly—piles of cash stacked in obscure places. Here, a wad of twenty dollar bills pressed into the inside cover of a paperback book. There, $6,000 buried at the bottom of a can of sixteen penny nails. These finds slowed the process down to a crawl. Now, literally nothing could be discarded without a thorough inspection lest they throw a valuable baby out with the bath water.

She found it in the tray of Winfrey’s old work bench which had been covered with issues of The Sun Journal, Lewiston’s ancient newspaper. The entire bench had been hidden by issues from 1975-1978, and was only discovered three months in to the project. When she pulled back the tray there was only one thing inside, a faded yellow envelope held shut with a metal clasp with the words, For Your Eyes Only scribbled across the front. Although no one could be sure exactly whose eyes it was intended for, Donna’s mother felt she had earned the right. Inside was a hand written list of Winfrey’s personal belongings and instructions of who they were to be given to. Why this hadn’t been opened by Beatrice when Winfrey passed was unclear. Maybe she had opened it, didn’t approve of his choices, and hidden it in his desk drawer. It was the sort of thing she would have done, Donna’s mother thought as she read. Most of these old things had disappeared, probably thrown out by Beatrice in an unbalance rage. Only one remained, Winfrey’s prized television, the Zenith H2340P 25” beauty that sat proudly in the only clean room in the Covington house—Winfrey’s small den. His instructions were clear, This goes to my sweet Donna.

The day it was delivered Donna’s three boys stood, mouths ajar, staring at the giant burnt brown box with the dark screen in the middle and marveled at the boxy remote control with the cool name emblazoned in gold letters...Flashmatic. Donna tried to explain why televisions from back in the day had to be so large. She spoke of tubes, horizontal hold buttons and gangly metal antennas that had to be attached to the roof before a discernible picture could be seen. When Donna’s husband got home from work he took one look and asked, “Wonder what we can get for this thing on EBay?” Donna shot him down with an emphatic “NO” but had to admit that it was huge and they really didn’t have room for the thing in the house. It would wind up being “temporarily” stored in the utility room jammed into a corner beside the washing machine until they found a better place. Donna made it clear that the Zenith was here to stay.

Donna and her husband seldom argued, and when they did it was usually over something inconsequential. This particular day it was the culmination of a month of frustrations great and small. He had gotten laid off by the bank after the buyout, and had been on one job interview after another, always returning home discouraged and increasingly ill-tempered. Donna had tried to be patient, understanding and supportive. It wasn’t hard because it was exactly how she felt. She loved him and held him in high regard as both a husband and father. But patience had its limits, and after an argument over some little thing had blown up into a screaming match, he had stormed out slamming the door behind him. Donna retreated into the utility room, shut the door behind her and wept. In the middle of her crying jag the television turned on with a popping sound, a tiny dot of light in the center of the gray screen suddenly spreading a fuzzy snow out to the edges of the wood frame. Startled, Donna looked around for the remote and found it on the top of the console. She rose to her feet and walked closer to the set, picked up the remote and pressed the off button and the snowy screen leapt wildly then contracted back into the tiny dot in the center, then disappeared. Donna stared at the screen, temporarily distracted from her tears, and pressed the on button. Nothing. It was only then when she looked behind the set and saw the power chord, unplugged, coiled and lifeless on the floor.

It’s not that she wasn’t curious or troubled by what she had seen, it’s more like life overtook her. So after a couple days she had forgotten about the incident. When you live in a house with three boys and an unemployed husband, not much time is available for deep contemplation about the scientific conundrum of fifty year old televisions cutting on by themselves. There’s laundry to be done, for one thing, and for another, it hadn’t happened again. Perhaps it never happened the first time, memory being so famously unreliable during times of high emotion. Three weeks after the incident, Donna’s husband found a job, a very good job with better pay and benefits. There was a raucous celebratory dinner and a movie night with the boys. She couldn’t remember a time when they had been happier. Now whenever she walked into the utility room, she would run her hands over the polished wood of Gramps’ old television with nothing but sweet thoughts of what a dear man he had been in her life so many years ago.

The trouble with life though was the relentless succession of hardship that it visited upon the just and unjust alike. While Donna’s husband was away in Detroit for training Donna began having debilitating headaches. They would begin with dizziness, then progress throughout the day, which would end with a pillow over her head trying to block out the light. It was during her first such headache when the television once again sprang to life when she entered the utility room with a basket of laundry. This time it was plugged in but the remote wouldn’t shut it off. Donna had to reach for the on/off knob and push it in, Click. The screen went black. Each day, the headaches got progressively worse, and each day, every time she walked past the set it would turn on. By the time Donna’s husband returned, she was so sick she could hardly get out of bed. Doctor’s were visited, tests run and anti-migraine medications prescribed. Donna gradually improved, but it was weeks before she was well enough to take command of running her household. Her husband was valiant in response, taking over the cleaning, laundry and cooking. At no time during his many trips to the utility room did the Zenith come to life. Once again, the matter went unexamined, unremarked upon, but lived on in a corner of Donna’s consciousness between love and fear.

Months passed. Life was good. The boys were growing, her husband loving his new job, Donna content and energized. The set was quiet. Donna would stand and stare at it after loading and unloading the washing machine, wondering. One day, her curiosity prompted a Google search. What could possibly have prompted an unplugged television from the 1960’s to turn on without access to a power source? Theories abounded. The only one that seemed possible to Donna’s non-scientific mind was the suggestion that perhaps the ancient remote had picked up a signal from a baby monitor from one of the neighbors. Do you live near high voltage power lines, someone in a chat room asked. Another loopier theory posited that only an external power source more powerful than mere electricity could be responsible. What might such a power be? Clearly, the extraterrestrial kind, came the answer. Donna turned off her laptop.

She poured herself a cup of coffee, pulled up a chair in front of the Zenith and thought about Gramps. When he passed away it had been ten months since she had seen him. He had died of lung cancer, first detected just seventeen weeks earlier, already having done irreparable and fatal damage. When twenty two year old Donna walked past his open casket at the funeral home, she had been shocked by what she saw. His plump, jolly face was hollow and drawn tight around his mouth, his rugged, meaty hands shriveled down to the bone. She had burst into tears at the sight. It had grieved her that she had not been there to wait on him when he was sick, her grief made worse by Beatrice’s callous declaration that during the last painful hours of his life he had “many times asked where his sweet Donna was.”

Donna sat quietly, running her hand over the wood of the Zenith, remembering the times when she would see him watching something from his recliner, run across the small room, jump up on his lap and be enveloped in his warm embrace. She remembered the smell of him the most, the intense combination of molasses and pipe tobacco. On anyone else she would have recoiled, but it was the smell of her Gramps and to her it smelled like kindness.

Then, the bright resonance of a clarifying thought came to her. The only times the Zenith had ever come on was when Donna was scared, afraid or sick, and even then, only when she entered the utility room in such a state. The hundreds of times she had come and gone from the room unburdened with such care, the set had been quiet. Donna stood up and placed both hands on the set and wondered, could it be? Donna was a practical woman, a child of Maine, raised to shun the fanciful notions that now swam freely inside her head. Life was about the here and now, ghosts stories and all who told them were for unserious dreamers or crazy old men. Yet, as Donna looked down at the Zenith she heard her voice asking softly, Gramps? Is it you, Gramps? It’s me. Donna. I’m here.

She lowered herself down to her knees, touched the screen with her fingertips, and felt a static shock and heard the soft crackling sound as she brushed the screen with her hand. Gramps, I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you when you were sick. I so wished we could have said a proper good-bye. Donna felt the tears begin to well up, felt the longing of loss even after so many years. Such was the divine attachment that little girls forge with their grandfathers. 

The tiny, starlike beam of light sprang forth from beneath Donna’s hand and soon spread itself out until the entire screen was a snowy white. She quickly withdrew her hands from the screen. Gramps! It’s me, Donna. I’m here. I love you so much. But Gramps...it’s ok. I’m ok now. I’m married now. You would love him. He’s a wonderful man. I have three boys who you would have adored. My life is everything I hoped it would be.

Then she pulled a tissue out of the box on the shelf above the dryer, wiped the tears from her face and placed one hand on the set. Gramps, you don’t have to worry about me anymore. God has taken very good care of me. You can go now. It’s time for you to go back home, back where you belong.

Donna heard the sharp metallic click. The screen went dark and never came on again.

Good Days and Bad Days

Yesterday was a difficult day for my friend. Her prognosis is still great, in fact, this week has been notable for good news in that regard. But sometimes after major surgery the enormity of events hits you out of the blue. Most days don’t lend themselves to introspection because you’re too busy scrambling to keep up, but other times when you reach a resting place it hits you just how scary a path you have walked. It happened to me about three weeks after my emergency open heart surgery nearly 18 years ago. I remember waking up one morning and thinking...What has happened to me? Yesterday was such a day for my brave friend. There wasn’t anything I could say to her, no magical incantation that I could whip up that felt right for the moment. So...I went for a risky joke:

If you think Thursday is depressing just wait a couple of days...it will be a sadder day.

I know, I know. Pretty horrible. But it was all I could think of. Luckily she knows me well enough to know that this is what you get from me sometimes. It’s part of the package. So, this morning, when I woke up at 5 am for some God awful reason, I had a little extra time to hunt for jokes. I felt a special obligation to redeem myself for yesterday’s performance...

Did I tell you about my buddy who’s wife is a horrible cook? Yeah, the other night she asked him for some peace and quiet while she cooked dinner. So he took the batteries out of the smoke detector.

Heard they are making a movie about the Coronavirus...it’s going to be directed by Quinton Quarantino.

Just went in to Starbucks and the barista was wearing a surgical mask. I asked him “why are you wearing a surgical mask?” He said, “I’m not...it’s a coughy filter.”

My wife says that I don’t give her enough privacy. At least that’s what she said in her dairy.

She hasn’t responded yet. Probably still asleep. Hope she laughs. Hope she has a better day. Keep her in your prayers.

Man, Was I Wrong!

In a recent blog entitled Handicapping The Democratic Field, I offered my opinion on what the odds were of each of the candidates winning their Party’s nomination. In light of the results from Super Tuesday, one thing is clear. I should not give up my day job.

On the plus side, I did correctly gave Amy Klobuchar the longest odds at 30:1 and she is officially gone. I did give Bernie Sanders the best odds at 5:1 and although his results weren’t what he was hoping for, he is still one of the two remaining front runners. Which leads me to my worse take...the other front runner, Joe Biden. My remarks about Uncle Joe are impossible to spin. I said:

Biden entered this contest as the odds on favorite. He alone commands the mantle of his predecessor. He alone had the establishment’s full throated backing. And he is toast. 

Apparently, there is still quite a market for very old, very white men who have lost an awful lot on their fast ball. The Democratic Party primary voters don’t seem at all put off by his rambling, incoherent stump speeches, his temporary lapses of memory, and that incandescently blinding set of white teeth. 

At this hour Elizabeth Warren, who once upon a time was actually the front runner of this race, is now reassessing her campaign. Rumors are flying that fellow left winger Bernie Sanders will offer her the VP slot to unite the progressives against Biden. But people high up in the Warren campaign were quick to point out that their candidate was not interested in the number two spot and besides, her people naturally are hesitant to enter in to agreements with white men.

Another grave error I made was in my overestimation of the candidacy of Mike Bloomberg. Although the dude spent $500,000,000 he only won one contest...American Samoa. There is an awesome joke in there somewhere.

So, now I have to contemplate a contest between Donald Trump and Joe Biden. Wow. Almost beyond comprehension, if you want to know the truth. I will not attempt a prediction of the outcome. But I will say this...I better not hear any of my Trump supporting, conservative Christian friends make any disparaging remarks about Biden’s history of awkward, hands-y behavior with women down through the years. I’m thinking you guys should probably sit that one out!

Hey, maybe we’ll all get lucky and the Coronavirus will wipe us all out before we have to vote!

Nothing New Under The Sun

Pam and I have been engaged in a major cleansing of junk from our house over the past few weeks. Along with hundreds of things that took us all of two seconds to throw into the dump pile, there were other things that brought the entire effort to a standstill. Pam would come across some adorable piece of artwork from one of the kids, I would stumble across a stack of short stories and even poetry that I wrote 40 years ago. Suddenly we would be transported to another time and place, sitting cross legged on the floor lost in our memories.

Yesterday Pam found a journal entry that she had written 30 years ago on Earth Day, 1990.

First of all, Pam isn’t the journal keeper in the family, so this was a rare find. What was striking about her words were how familiar they still are 30 years later. Three decades ago, an entire generation, we were being told of pending environmental disaster, that had to be addressed within ten years or it would be too late. Doomsayers have always been with us and they have always been good at grabbing headlines and selling papers. But, I also notice positives from this journal entry. Pam said we were going to “look in to recycling” and we did. We have been recycling ever since. The fact is that we have become more aware of our responsibilities to the environment than we were in 1990...a very good thing.

I have always had my fair share of doubts about the dangers posed by climate change and global warming. I do think that the most extreme scaremongers out there have a whiff of the charlatan about them. I also think that many, but certainly not all, of the loudest voices on the environmental left are far more interested in the accumulation and consolidation of centralized political power than they are saving the planet, but that’s just me. On the other hand, I do believe that climate change is a very clear and present danger. To the extent that we can actually change the outcome favorably by changing human behavior we should make the attempt. Even if the threat is overhyped and overstated, wouldn’t it be awesome if because of the threat, we were able to find an alternative, cleaner form of energy than fossil fuel? The reason I have never bought in to anything that comes out of the doom and gloom crowd is the confidence I have always had in the creative, entrepreneurial nature of America. I have absolutely no doubt that there are men and women in garages from Buffalo to Tulsa to Albuquerque working on the next big thing right now. We have never heard of them. The advances they are perfecting are unknown to us, but one of them is destined to change the world. It has always been so throughout human history, never so much so than in these United States.

Looking at Pam’s list of changes we were planning on making on Earth day 1990, the results are mixed. We did start recycling, in fact it seems we recycle everything now. We did cut back on buying so many disposable things like plastic plates, cups and razors. Still use baggies though. The cars we drive now get much better mileage than the ones we drove 30 years ago. I have little doubt that the next car we buy will be electric and probably self driving.

But, the ten year window we had to save the planet came and went and the planet is still with us and today’s scientists still claim it’s not too late, so I suppose that’s good news.

Still, it’s a humbling thing to read something that the thirty year old version of yourself wrote all these years later and discover that not much has changed. The Old Prophet told us all those years ago...There is nothing new under the sun.

Worst. Dad Jokes. Ever.

On this fine Sunday morning, I have searched the far reaches of the internet for another batch of Dad Jokes. I feel confident that this particular collection is right down there with some of the worse I have ever produced. You’re welcome. If, on the way out, you will click on an ad it will help compensate the author for his time and reward him for his stamina...sort of like a tip jar. I will use the proceeds to defer the costs of future searches!!

My wife and I just found out she's pregnant with our first child. To celebrate, we invited all the family and friends we could to my parents' house and then made the big announcement. Everyone was ecstatic and my father in particular was driven to tears. At a certain point during the night he pulled me aside and led me into his study, which I had never really been inside until this point. He opened a safe and produced cigars a bottle of whiskey and a large, beautifully bound book.

"I could never have asked for a better son," my father said, lighting the cigars and pouring the whiskey. "I hope you think I was a good enough father to deserve you."

"Of course, Dad," I said, "You were all I could've asked for and I wish my son admires me even half as much as I admire you."

"Now I've shared with you nearly everything I know," he said, "But not this one thing. This is the Big Book of Dad Jokes. There are many like it but this one is special. My father gave it to me when your mother and I first found out she was pregnant with you, and I studied it and studied it, learning all the dad jokes I could and mastering book's secrets. I hope it serves you as well as it served me in being a father... No... I know it will serve you well. I love you, my son.

“Dad... I don't know what to say... I'm honoured..."

“Hi, Honoured, I’m Dad.”

My wife volunteers as a school crossing guard.

I tell everyone she’s into human trafficking.

The Star Wars series is coming out with a new female villain. She will be able to use the force to move things up and down.

Her name will be Ella Vader.

I would make fun of necrophiliacs who are into beastiality and bdsm...

...but that would just be beating a dead horse.

Some guy broke into my garage last night and stole my limbo stick.

I mean...how low can you go?

Last week I went to a dog zoo with my kids. It only had one dog.

It was a Shih Tzu.

What do you call a dictionary on drugs?

High definition

The John Lennon Airport has been quarantined.

Imagine all the people...

Tired of Winning

I’m getting tired of my daughter winning. Perhaps an explanation is in order.

Ever since she became a teacher in the public school system she has been winning awards. First it was first year teacher of the year finalist, then new teacher of the year when she moved to another state. After that she won district teacher of the year. Now, her school is winning awards due in no small part to her efforts in the classroom.

But, in the public school system they do things totally differently than they do in the private sector. In the private sector, when you perform at a high level they send you, all expenses paid, on exotic trips. You do a great enough job at something in the private sector and they stack dead presidents in your bank account, give you stock options and raise your pay to keep the competition from swooping in and stealing you. In the education business, when you win something you get the privilege of adding five new responsibilities to your work schedule for exactly zero additional compensation. Your school’s test scores go through the roof? Congratulations!! You get to put together an hour long power point presentation to teach all the other teachers how you did it and make your presentation on Saturday...when you were planning on grading papers. Win teacher of the year? Awesome, your reward is a three year commitment of being paraded around the district like a prize pony at the state fair giving speeches and posing for pictures...when you were planning on working on lesson plans. Then, once the administration realizes what a gifted speaker you are, you’re picked to make every presentation that comes up for the rest of your natural life.

If you’re my daughter, you do all of these things with a smile and 110% effort because that’s who you are and you know no other way to operate. You remind your father that teachers aren’t in it for the income, but rather for the outcomes. I am at a loss of how to respond to such a statement. Why in Sam Hill aren’t teachers paid more income when they produce better outcomes? Instead, public schools have a system that actually produces negative incentives for excellence. “You sure you want to be teacher of the year? I mean, it's a shiny trophy and all but it adds seven extra hours to your work week for three years.” On the other hand it will look good on your resume when you eventually burn out and start looking for a job in the private sector so you can have your weekends back.

Dumbest thing I’ve ever seen...

Out With The Old...

Yesterday morning at exactly 8 o’clock, a guy named Kory showed up at my door with two large tool boxes which he sat on my front porch. Kory, a man of few words, informed me that he and his young assistant were here to install my new carpeting. This short declarative sentence would be the only words to pass between us. I asked if there was anything he needed for me to do before I went to work to which he replied with an emphatic head shake...no. I barricaded a very nervous Lucy downstairs with a series of gates and headed into the office. Around 11:30, I returned to this...

These dudes had disassembled practically every piece of furniture upstairs and crammed it all into our bedroom. They were laying down carpet like their very lives depended on it. When Pam got home from work around 4:00, Kory and his helper were long gone, with my check for $1,150. Pam was thrilled with the result..

Of course, the big question would be...how would Miss Lucy like the new carpet? When released from her downstairs jail, she made her way warily up the stairs and began her sniffing tour, walking very slowly, tail down, ears back, looking for trouble. Despite a generally favorable reaction, we soon discovered that although the new carpet is sooo much softer and comfortable under foot than then old stuff, where does she still insist on making her headquarters???

Add It To The List

This morning, I’m up earlier than usual. Carpet installation day has arrived. The downstairs of our house looks like an episode of The Hoarders. Lucy is in high anxiety mode as a result. It promises to be a crazy day.

So, I opened one of my favorite sites on my laptop and was greeted by a screaming ad that asked the question...Worried About Your Liver?

Ok...I must here confess to you that never once in my almost 62 years have I ever given my liver a moment’s thought, so the answer is “No”. But, thanks to this provocative question at the bottom of my laptop screen I’m thinking...Wait, should I be worried about my liver? I mean, I have never been a heavy drinker, but who knows...maybe there’s some new liver threat out there that I am unaware of. I decide, oh hell, why not be worried about my liver?! I can just add my liver to the ever expanding list of body parts about which I am gravely concerned.

So far that list includes but by no means is limited to:

1. Weird bump on my left kneecap that hurts like nobody’s business when I lean it against something.

2. Three random hairs that have begun to grow on the end of my nose. I mean, what the heck?

3. The strange thing that’s going on with two toenails on my left foot.

4. Why in the name of all that is holy is my right eye all of a sudden turning on the water works?

5. Why is my back always tight, as if it is on the brink of locking up?

6. What’s the deal with this little skin fart thing that has sprouted on the back of my left thigh?

7. It is no longer tenable to say that my hearing is “fine.”

8. My left foot is home to some sort of nerve thing that burns like fire and will not allow me to point my toes outward.

9. Now, dry-mouth is becoming a thing.

10. Short term memory completely unreliable, long term memory highly selective.

11. My liver

So, thanks to the demonic parasites who inhabit Madison Avenue, I have a new concern, my heretofore blissfully ignored liver. Of course every item on my list is probably irrelevant since the Coronavirus will kill me long before that skin fart thing becomes an issue.

Lucy’s Meme

I woke up around 4:30 this morning and noticed that Lucy wasn’t sprawled out at the foot of our bed taking up every square inch of leg room like she normally is. I got up and made a trip to the bathroom, then couldn’t find her anywhere else upstairs. Odd. Not like her. So, I walked downstairs and found her messing with my laptop...

She immediately closed it and sheepishly slunk away and back up stairs while I admonished her. “How many times have I told you to leave my computer alone!!”

We both went back to bed. When I woke up at 6:30 and opened my laptop, I found this...

What am I going to do with this dog?

Being a Blessing

It is one of the inevitabilities of life that the older we get the more accustomed to death we become. Now that I am in my 60’s, most of my friends and clients are also in their 60’s, which means that each year I hear of death and disease far more often than I did 30 years ago. This past year has been especially difficult in this regard, having lost four dear clients over the past 8 months. By now it should not surprise me, I shouldn’t be so shocked by mortality...but I still am.

Far too many times recently a grieving widow sits across the desk from me at my office clutching a tissue as she sorts through the relentless stack of paperwork authenticating her loss. Whatever words of mine intended to encourage fall flat. I try not to make it worse by saying the wrong thing or something too flip, desperate not to make matters worse. It is not a skill that improves with practice. I am just as halting and awkward now as I’ve ever been around grieving people.

I hate to admit such a thing, but when the deceased was a difficult person...its easier. There is a part of me that thinks that some sort of divine justice has been served. I know that this is a horrible, judgmental notion, but it comes anyway. What’s far more difficult is when the loss is some wonderful, loving and caring human being. The person sitting across the desk from me is not anguished over the fate of their loved one, just devastated by longing and overcome by the prospect of life without them. Their faces are darkened by the specter of loss. The financial problems that my work solves offers them no cure for loneliness. 

My friend with cancer recently received great news after her surgery...no cancer found in her lymph nodes. But her cancer is a relentless and persistent enemy. Her doctors want one more year of chemo to guard against its return. So she will face it because she wants to live, has so much to live for. She fights with grit and tenacity. I cheerlead with stupid jokes, feeling more and more useless as she plows on valiantly through every setback in her path.

Why does it all make me so angry? What right do I have to anger in the face of mortality? It is the way of the world. People are born and people die every single day. The important part is what we do between these two events. I know this in my head, but when presented with death and dying, a part of my heart rages at what Dylan Thomas called...the dying of the light.

My dad used to tell me that my goal every day should be to “figure out how to be a blessing to someone today.” In other words, every day we live should count for something more than merely making a living. Life should be so much more than pursuing our narrow self interests. Some days are easier than others. Dad was a natural at being a blessing to others. For me it takes intentional effort. But in this season of life where it seems each day brings fresh news of loss, it’s more important than ever for me to get the hang of this being a blessing business. People are depending on it.

The Evolution of My Addiction

I had my very first cup of coffee on the morning of my 13th birthday. The rule in the Dunnevant house was no coffee until you became a teenager. So, I saddled up to the breakfast table and watched Mom pour me a cup from the silver percolator coffee pot that looked like this.

I loved the smell, and had long looked forward to becoming like my dad and taking mine...black. That first sip was one of the most profound disappointments of my short life. Of course, I wasn’t about to let my mother know. I finished that first dreadful cup in what, up until that time, was the single bravest act of my life. As I drank I remember thinking, Are you kidding me? This stuff is horrible! How do they stand to drink this every single morning of their lives?? It was the first time I entertained the prospect that grownups might not, in fact, be very smart after all. Of course, eventually I grew to love coffee, but the evolution hit another snag before beginning in earnest.

A couple years later I was spending the weekend with some friends. Saturday morning, I gathered around the breakfast table with my buddies and watched one of their Moms plop one of these on the table in front of me...

Ahh yes, I was about to discover that the only thing worse than percolator coffee was instant coffee. But, following the lead of my friends, I spiked it with cream and a teaspoon of sugar, which served the purpose of helping me stave off the embarrassment of not finishing the stuff.

But, then came my college years and this...

These were the years of 4 hours of sleep a night, if I was lucky. The warehouse where I worked had this stuff next to a tea pot with scalding hot water and styrofoam cups. After a couple hours of building wooden pallets I would pour my first cup...cream, no sugar. At quitting time I poured another and drank it while driving home to fortify me for a long night of studying. I was ignorant. I didn’t know any better. Then I met Ron Roop, my sister’s new boyfriend, who introduced me to this...

It was my road to Damascus moment. The scales fell from my eyes. I discovered that coffee came from actual coffee beans, and not freeze-dried crystals!! My first cup of freshly ground coffee was something called Kona, and I was transported to a whole new world. The rest is history.

I bring all of this up because of a recent trip I made into that great symbol of consumer excess...Starbucks. The only time I ever go there is to buy one of those fancy coffee drinks for my wife and her teacher friends. There’s a Starbucks right up the street from where she works, so recently I went in to pick up something for her. Usually I order whatever the featured special is, for one simple reason—there is a brief description of what it actually is. But on this day, there were no specials, so there I was scanning the menu boards trying to make sense of the smorgasbord of ridiculousness that was before me. Because Pam and I both are on something resembling a diet, I decided to go with something that had the words non-fat in the description. Later, I discovered that whatever it was I bought her was positively dreadful. It was the thought that counted.

But it got me to thinking. How in the name of all that is holy did we get from this...

To THIS...

...in fifty years? Progress? Marketing? Capitalism? Or just simple addiction?

Think about it...while I go pour a cup.

Cleaning Out The Museum

Yesterday was like a day at the museum, actually more like a day in the basement of the museum. See, after 21 years in this house we are finally replacing the carpeting upstairs. In order to do so, we have to clean out five closets. They are as follows:

Study closet—the place where the archives of our entire lives can be found, including the paperwork from every trip we’ve taken, every lesson plan Pam produced during her teaching career as well as every single document produced during her 13 years of working in Children’s Church at Grove Avenue Baptist Church.

Toy closet—every Halloween costume our kids ever wore, every Discovery Toys game they ever played, two armored divisions of army men, every Disney VHS movie ever made, the obligatory slinkie, American Girl paraphernalia, every CD of every choir concert either of our kids ever performed in.

Patrick’s closet—you just don’t want to know.

Kaitlin’s closet—what you would expect to find in a closet shared by Anne of Green Gables and the Baby-Sitter’s Club President.

Our closet—the only one of the five being used daily so the only one not a complete disaster.

By the end of the day, I had hauled four absurdly heavy giant contractor-sized black garbage bags outside to the garbage, made one trip to Hope Thrift with a car full of donations, and dumped $92.52 worth of coins into The Coin Machine at Publix’s.

Along the way, Pam would take photographs of items she either didn’t recognize or was unsure what to do with. We have caught grief from our adult children in the past for previous purges, and were taking no chances this time around. So Pam would hand me something and say, “Hold this!” Then she would take a picture and send it to the kids. Here are two such photographs:

My daughter laughed at one of these and replied...Dad’s face!!! Hahahahaha...

I fail to see the humor.

Along the way, we found our Passports, which was nice. Also, I stumbled across a sizable stack of short stories, forty year old journal entries, and a shocking amount of poetry with my name listed as the author...very little of which I remember writing. Several times, I found Pam sitting on the floor cross-legged amidst a pile of papers, lost in thought and close to tears. At the end of the day, as we sat in a booth at Casa Grande eating supper at 8 o’clock, we both were lost in thought at the trail of years we had just plowed through. It was the smallest artifacts which prompted the strongest feelings...finding Patrick’s Boy Scout troop badge, the three ring binder Pam put together for Kaitlin’s college search trip, and these two hand made treasures... 



This was how she spent her weekends leading up to the arrival of our two kids, back when cross-stitching was a thing. 

Over tacos we thought about our lives together, what a whirlwind it has been. Where in the world did we get the energy to make it through Little League, choir concerts, field days, back yard Bible Clubs, ski trips, summer camps? And that’s just the pathos produced by TWO CLOSETS!!

Here’s the advantage of finding, loving, and holding on to one another for 36 years. On a cold night in February 2020, we can smile across the table at each other and silently know that it’s been a good life, one that we wouldn’t trade for anything.

Handicapping The Democratic Field

In past election years in this space I have offered opinions on the relative chances of Presidential candidates actually becoming President. It was my amateur attempt at political handicapping. I feel that since we are now actually counting votes—or in the case of Iowa, attempting to count votes—I should probably offer up the 2020 version. If you are interesting in my tract record at prognostication, check out the archives from 2016 and 2012. (Hint: It ain’t bad.) Keep in mind as you read this that I make no judgements about the political proposals of these men and women. This is merely a discussion of their chances of winning their party’s nomination. Not being a Democrat myself, I have no dog in this fight, just the trick knee of someone who has been paying attention to Presidential elections since 1972. If you’re keeping score at home, that’s 13 of these babies. So, like Farmers Insurance, I’ve seen a thing or two.

Candidates: (in alphabetical order)

Joe Biden

- Not chronologically the oldest of the four septuagenarians on the Democratic side of this race, but it sure seems that way. Biden entered this contest as the odds on favorite. He alone commands the mantle of his predecessor. He alone had the establishment’s full throated backing. And he is toast. It’s difficult to watch a man who has clearly rounded the bend and is now barreling headlong down the backstretch to diminished mental capacity. When you listen to Biden speak its as if there is a giant disconnect between his brain and the words that fly out of his mouth. He knows what he wants to say, but simply can’t string together the right words in the correct order.

Chances of winning the nomination 25:1

Pete Buttigieg 

- This 38 year old small town mayor has an impressive resume in everything except government. Served his country in Afghanistan, a Rhodes scholar, and easily the brightest light on the stage. His tenure as mayor isn’t exactly where he would begin an auto-biography. If he was smart he would avoid talking about it altogether (check out the crime statistics in South Bend). And he IS smart. From my perspective, Mayor Pete is the only Democratic candidate who actually seems to...like people. Would I want to have a beer with this man? Absolutely. Wild horses couldn’t drag me to a bar with any of the rest of them. Being the youngest candidate to come along in  quite a while, he probably is the only one who actually remembers that dreadful week in senior US Government class when we all learned...How A Bill Becomes A Law. He seems to understand that to get anything meaningful done in Washington much more often than not requires forming coalitions which usually involves actually convincing someone on the other side. He has the temperament and seemingly the will to at least attempt to find compromise. But, he is a gay man, and that is not an inconsequential fact in 2020, despite the rapid evolution of our country with respect to sexuality. My estimation is that there are at least 25% of the population (democrats and republicans) who will not vote for a gay man. I think that is too high a hurdle to clear.

Chances of winning the nomination 20:1

Michael Bloomberg

- The 60 Billion dollar man, 200 million in to his ad blitz was streaking across the democratic firmament like a ground breaking epiphany. Then he walked out onto the Nevada debate stage exuding all the personal warmth of an iguana. His performance was so pathetic, he made Joe Biden look eloquent. Still, he, unlike Mayor Pete had many successes as mayor of the most difficult city in America to govern. The amount of money he has already spent amounts to nothing more than a rounding error of his personal wealth...so there’s a whole lot more where that came from. But he’s going to have to do a better job of faking sincerity and defending himself in debates if he wants to win.

Chances of winning the nomination: 10:1

Amy Klobuchar

- The reasonably aged 59 year old senator from Minnesota has been a surprise. Given no chance of success by all the usual suspects, she has carved out two decent showings in the early contests and does a good job in the debates. In an environment of unreasonableness she seems ruthlessly reasonable. I can imagine her being able to hammer out compromise and forging coalitions...in Senate subcommittees, but not in the White House. She needs another four years to develop into a President-sized talent. Meanwhile, I would be willing to bet large sums of money that she will be the VP nominee.

Chances of winning the nomination 30:1

Bernie Sanders

- The proud Socialist is unique for many reasons. He’s the only Democratic candidate who is not an actual Democrat. He’s the oldest in an old field. And he is the clear front runner, much to the bowel-stewing consternation of the Party big shots. He is carried aloft by mostly young people who aren’t old enough to remember his behavior in the 1970’s when he was most famous for his consistent apologetics for the Soviet Union and any other enemy of the United States, most famously with his classic, “Bread Lines are good!!” Its hard for someone like me who has been listening to this guy bitch and moan about this country all of my life, claiming that every single one of our enemies were morally superior to America, now watching him celebrated as some sort of champion of democracy and freedom. But, right now his Socialism is chic and unless he has another heart attack or the Democratic establishment figures out a way to cheat him out of the nomination, he’s going to win it.

Chances of winning the nomination 5:1

Elizabeth Warren

- A former front runner with a strong organization and even stronger leadership team has been a disaster as an actual candidate. Her brand of hostile, technocratic coldness might work in Massachusetts, but so far, national voters just aren’t into this finger jabbing scold. Yes, she cleaned Bloomberg’s clock in that debate and is good in debates generally largely because she is smart as a whip. But, is it just me or does she give off the impression that she really really doesn’t like people very much. Listen, she wouldn’t be the first elite politician who didn’t particularly care for their constituents, but the really good politicians, not to mention Presidents, are the ones who do a better job of hiding the disdain. Ronald Reagan was great at it, Bill Clinton even better. Elizabeth Warren, not so much. I still think she has a shot, but she needs a win...badly, and soon.

Chances of winning the nomination 15:1

The Great Physician

Throughout my friend’s long ordeal with cancer, her worst day was probably around the middle of January. She had spent all day at UVA, meeting with all five doctors on her treatment team. It was that day when she was told that all five of them were united in their opinion that there was cancer in her lymph nodes. Although they wouldn’t know definitively until they operated, they were fairly certain of what they would find and they wanted her to know so she could mentally prepare herself for what this dark news would mean...one more year of chemo. My friend felt devastated, defeated by the news. Uncharacteristically, she lashed out in anger and frustration. The entire tirade lasted all of ten minutes, then she was back to her old, confident self.

When I read the note she wrote to her family last night before the surgery I smiled at the familiar optimism, marveled at her confidence in the Great Physician. Whenever she prayed during these last six months it has always been with this bold, uncompromising absolutism, steadfastly refusing to allow the Almighty any wiggle room with her requests. There would be none of this...if it be God’s will...temporizing. No, she prayed with a supremely confident faith, placing all of her bets on our Savior’s observation that...You have not because you ask not. So, despite the horrible consensus of her doctors, she continued to pray for a complete healing. 

It was around midday when I received the text from the family...NO CANCER IN LYMPH NODES!!!

I placed the phone down on my desk and tried to gather myself. It was exactly what she had written 24 hours ago to her family...Tomorrow, I will be cancer free...the Great Physician will heal me and use this cancer for his glory...

Yes, the Great Physician had lots of help. Her team of dedicated professionals deserve great praise. The course of chemo treatments clearly did their job. My friend helped her case by following their advice to the letter—most of the time. But these same professionals were all convinced that they would find cancer in multiple lymph nodes, so sure of it that they painted the most negative scenario they could to prepare their patient for the reality of her condition. The only one who didn’t lose confidence after that long hard day in January...was my friend. 

Then, just a few minutes ago I got the news that no cancer was found...anywhere...no residual cancer cells.

It will be several more days before I get to speak with her. I can’t wait to hear her southern drawl telling me how she knew that her Savior would deliver her all along! Knowing her...I will never hear the end of it.

My Friend’s Big Day.

So, tomorrow morning around 7:30 my friend will arrive at UVA hospital to have her cancer surgery. For the past six months I have been pretending to distract her from so heavy a burden by telling her jokes and making her laugh. But what has actually been happening is every morning I get to witness her steadfast faith in God on display. Every morning I get to watch her overcome setback after setback with unfathomable endurance and good humor. Every morning, I am encouraged. Every morning I am reminded that I have no excuse to complain about anything in my life. By comparison, I win the lottery every morning I wake up without cancer. Every morning, she wakes up with cancer inside her along with the poison she has had to ingest to fight it. But by some miracle she has attacked each day with smiling confidence.

This picture was taken three years ago when we were at a dreadfully dull meeting someplace and I was doing what I do at such affairs...not paying attention and being a bad influence on people like my friend, the rule follower, who was trying to listen like a grown up. We attended 30 years worth of these meetings, and somehow she’s still my friend!

So, for those of you who are so inclined, it would mean a great deal to me if you could lift prayers up all day tomorrow for my friend. The procedure might last up to eight hours. There is a lot at stake. Just knowing that total strangers will be praying for her would mean the world to her.

She sent me a note she wrote to her family:

“Tomorrow, I will be cancer free—no residual cancer cells—the Great Physician will heal me and use this cancer for his glory. Cancer has stolen my hair, my fingernails, and the skin from my fingers, given me anemia, fatigue and lots more. But it hasn’t stolen my faith and my ability to pray and worship...”

Our last text conversation wasn’t nearly as profound...

But, that’s just me. That’s how I deal with tragic moments. The truth is that I don’t have as strong a faith as she does. I wish I did. I wish I could come up with profound, healing words that fit the moment. But...jokes come out instead. Nevertheless, tomorrow morning and throughout the day I will be praying for my friend. 

I hope you will too.

Our Weekend

We returned home today from our Valentine getaway thoroughly rested and less eager to reengage the real world tomorrow than we were to disengage from it last Friday. Absence does not always make the heart grow fonder. Our accommodations at The Inn at Riverbend were elegant in an understated way. Giles County, Virginia is the very picture of a back water outpost, a postcard view out of every window, the layout of the towns of Pearisburg and Pembrook a collection of everything from the sublime to the ridiculous, in dire need of a competent zoning commission. Luckily for us, these twin towns had the three things vital for any successful four day/three night adventure, a local pizza joint, a Walmart, and a delightfully quirky top tier restaurant which could only be reached after a death defying 5 mile drive through Deliverance-inspired line-less country roads, which insured that upon your arrival you were not only ready for a good meal, but a stiff drink.

Our Saturday 4 mile hike to Cascade Falls was maybe the best hike I have ever taken. At every step along the way there was something marvelous to see. When we arrived at the falls, an hour and twenty minutes from the parking lot, it took our breath away. A kind stranger took our picture.

The Inn itself met all of our needs. Perched at the top of a large hill with a 180 degree view of the New River and the surrounding mountains, the place made you wish you had come there in the summer. We would loved to have spent our leisurely hours sitting in the rocking chairs just outside our door taking in everything, but it was much too cold for that. Instead, we had to settle for the comfort and almost oppressive silence of our beautiful room. There was a small book collection in the shelves surrounding the fireplace out of which I plucked Ian McEwan’s Solar on Friday afternoon. I can’t remember a weekend where I had enough unencumbered time to start and finish a book. It was a delight.

What I really enjoyed about this weekend adventure was not so much the thrill of adventure itself but rather just spending uninterrupted time with my wife. After 36 years together, there is still something comforting about reading a good book in bed and being able to reach over and touch her soft, warm hand. 

When we arrived back home, Lucy greeted us with her customary enthusiasm. But after an hour or so I got the distinct impression she was weighing her options. Were we, in fact, better caretakers than her favorite dog-sitter, Becca? One gets the impression sometimes after she spends several days with Becca that Lucy has come to the realization that perhaps we aren’t as awesome as she once thought. Becca gives her undivided attention and dotes over her every idiosyncrasy, (and probably is much more liberal with the treat jar). But, like all dogs, Lucy is incapable of holding a grudge. In no time she was back on my lap in the recliner giving me a thorough debriefing sniff.

I opened my laptop to see what we missed while in the internet-challenged mountains of western Virginia...

Bloomberg Considering Hillary as running mate.

China next in line for plague of locusts.

Nevada Democratic Primary bracing for count irregularities 48 hours before Vote.

Woman Allowed to bring service-horse onto first class section of plane.

....I see that our nation’s headlong plunge into insanity continued unabated by our absence.

Getting Away

My wife of nearly 36 years is quite clever. The other day she texted me out of nowhere with this observation:

“Hey, I have next Monday off. Any chance we could swing a Valentine’s Day weekend out of town?”

The woman knows me better than I know myself. She knew exactly what would happen. Her text was the equivalent of waving a red flag at a bull. She knows that there is nothing I enjoy more than spontaneous, last minute trips away. Sure enough, the next morning I sent her a text of my own informing her that we were headed to this place:

It’s out in Giles County near a little town called Pearisburg. That’s the New River at the base of the hill. There are great restaurants within 25 minutes, fun stuff to do all over the place. All that was left to do was get in touch with our dog whispering friend, Becca, who as fate would have it was available and thrilled to get to spend three nights with Miss Lucy.

Pam has put up with a lot from me over the years. In so many ways we are total opposites. My odd personality quirks frustrate her. My lack of organization skills, my inability to focus, my aggressiveness and lack of appropriate caution all befuddle her. The existence of this blog for the past ten years has been a source of endless anxiety...Good Lord, what has he written now?!

But, it’s not like I have brought nothing to the table. When I came into her life she was assured that it would never be boring. I’ve done alright in business. I’m a decent vacuumer, and although I never do it to suit her, I wash the dishes after dinner every night. That’s gotta count for something! 

But, my finest husbandly virtue is that I can take a hint. If this beautiful woman wonders aloud whether or not it might be possible to go away for the weekend, I don’t have to be told twice.

I win at life!