Statues and History

The really cool thing about history is that a proper understanding of it makes confusing current events less intimidating. Take the business of people tearing down statues, or if you prefer, the dismantling of history. It’s been going on for a very, very long time. It goes something like this. A government or some other organization wielding power decides to erect a monument celebrating some such thing that they feel worthy of celebration. Years and years later, the government changes, the once powerful organization has lost its power and influence, and the next thing you know...BAMM!! That sucker comes down. Here are just a few examples...

Here’s a New Your City mob back in 1776 yanking down a statue of King George. This particular giant lead piece of history was melted down to make musket balls for rebel soldiers.

It took this band of exultant Hungarians in Budapest about ten minutes to dismantle this giant statue of Joseph Stalin once their rebellion began against the Soviet occupation in 1956. They ripped it to shreds and the parts were paraded all over the city. The Soviets eventually sent in the tanks to restore order, but the point was made valiantly by the Hungarian people...Thus always to tyrants.

What a grand time they had!!

Remember this? Wasn’t that long ago. April of 2003 in Baghdad. American soldiers pulled down a huge statue of Saddam Hussein and then the locals, yet another mob, went wild.

I had forgotten all about this beauty. May, 1991 in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, literally two days after Communist strong man Mengistu Mariam left town, the locals were taking pick axes to the adoring statue of Vladimir Lenin.

One of the lessons of these paintings and photographs should be that...to the victor go the spoils. Generally speaking throughout history it is a rare thing for statues to go up celebrating the losing side of a great conflict. Another lesson from these paintings and photographs is that when statues do come down it is seldom during a picnic with dignitaries dressed in their finest, listening to speeches and cutting ribbons. It is normally a hot business with violence and gleeful vengeance in the hearts of the participants. 

I am not making a moral equivalence argument here, I am simply pointing out that A. Statues are erected only to eventually be either torn down or replaced, and B. Mobs are always present when it happens. History tells me so. Although I would rather be in the business of building statues than destroying them, at the end of the day you can’t have one without the other.

What Took Us So Long?

This day promises to be a screwed up mess. I woke up at 3 o’clock in the morning, came downstairs and enjoyed the peculiar delicacy of watching the gyrations of the Asian stock markets, not something I recommend for the uninitiated. It’s like watching digital grass grow. Then I got myself fully up to speed on the latest labor negotiations between the billionaire owners and the millionaire players of Major League Baseball. The urge to strangle them all with my bare hands is strong at 4 in the morning, I learned.

After a couple of hours of this, I began to get sleepy again, so I went upstairs and laid down for what I thought would be a quick nap. Just woke up at 8 o’clock, my daily routine in pieces on the floor. It’s cloudy and wet outside, a gloomy forecast in place for several more days, and my Governor has created yet another paid holiday for State workers, Juneteenth, a day that celebrates the Emancipation of slaves in America. Say what you will about Ralph Northam, dude knows how to make up for blackface photos in a yearbook. We get it, Governor. You’re really sorry. But, setting aside the foibles of our witless Governor, why has the Emancipation of African Americans not already been a State holiday? I mean, its one of the seminal events of our nation’s history, ending as it did the legality of human bondage. I would have thought if Columbus gets a day, why not the ending of slavery?

So, yesterday I played 18 holes of golf at Royal New Kent, my first full 18 holes of the year. I played with my good buddy and business partner, Doug Greenwood. We played in a misting rain the entire time. We had the entire golf course to ourselves. It was great fun. I started off terribly. As one might expect after so long a layoff, a couple of 8’s in the first six holes. Then my body became reacquainted with the game of golf and I settled down and played quite well. Shot a 40 on the back nine to shoot 88, losing to Mr. Country Club-I play nine holes after dinner every night-my golf clubs cost more than your car, Greenwood by one lousy shot! If my friend Tommy Thompson is reading this, I need a putting lesson, bro. I missed every single makable putt, which I define as anything inside 10 feet, except one six footer. Dreadful. But it felt great to get out and play a round of golf. Really great.

The Oven Light Kerfuffle

36 years of marriage produces lots of stories. What follows is one from yesterday. If you are a veteran of a long and happy marriage, and you are a man, you will appreciate this one. If, on the other hand, you happen to be a woman, it will most likely produce much eye-rolling, so proceed with caution.

While at the grocery store, Pam sent me the following text which I produce here in its entirety: 

Pam: If you are at home, can you please unscrew the oven light and send me the details on what kind to get?

I was home, so I immediately went into the kitchen, opened the stove and looked inside. The fact that the light bulb was on when I opened the oven door gave me pause, but if I have learned anything in 36 years of marriage it’s not to question a clear directive from my wife. There is always method to her madness. So, I get down on my knees and stick my head into the oven trying to reach the bulb which was located in the back left corner, encased in a protective contraption that I struggled mightily to remove. Once that was done, the actual light bulb was burning hot, so I had to unscrew it with an oven mitt on. Again, the fact that I was burning my fingers unscrewing a working light bulb per my wife’s specific instructions was indeed puzzling...but mine was not to question why, mine was but to do or die. As soon as I finally retrieved the bulb I texted her back:

Me: 40 watt. Clear bulb...also, it’s working.

Pam: ??? Was it loose or something.

Now I was thoroughly confused. Something inside me was sensing a problem. I looked once again at her text instructions. I had followed them to the letter. I answered cautiously, employing an artful but harmless untruth:

Me: Yep. I think it might have been loose.

Notice the clever turn of that phrase. “Think” “might have been”, all prevarications that might come in handy later.

Anyway, I hear nothing further from Pam until she gets home, at which point she discovered that I had taken out the wrong bulb! The bulb that wasn’t working was the one underneath the microwave, the one that lights up the stove top. She pounced, “Honey, why did you take a working light bulb out of the oven when it was clearly the stove top light that was out? I told you to unscrew the “stove light”

Me: Um...no you didn’t. Your text specifically instructed me to remove the OVEN light.

Pam: Why would I ask you to remove a completely working light bulb?

Me: Indeed...it was perplexing, but you were very clear.

At this point, she is confident that I am full of crap and misread her text. She whips out her phone to show me how stupid I was and then discovered that...I was right.

Pam: Ok, but you should have known not to unscrew a perfectly good oven light!! You are supposed to be able to read my mind. What’s the matter with you??

After giving the above incident more thought I have come to the conclusion that if I had it to do over...I would still unscrew the working light bulb in that oven. Sure, it might seem stupid on the surface, but when Pam gives me specific instructions, I don’t want to fall into the bad habit of trying to interpret her intentions. That is a fool’s errand and nothing good can come from it.

So, we now have a spare oven light bulb, the stove top still struggles along in the darkness, I actually was right about something, and Pam got to exercise her eye roll muscles. Win, win.

COVID Madness

So, yesterday Pam and I received an email from our intrepid real estate people at On The Water In Maine. The owner, Tiffany Ford, had clearly labored carefully over this particular email since it was her attempt to share with us the final edict from the Governor of Maine with regards to the rules for out of state visitors. Tiffany’s frustrations were evident throughout as she tried her best to explain the unexplainable. The upshot of the Governor’s ruling will be a severe blow to her business and she knows it. 

I will not publish the entire email here but I will summarize it’s salient points, which I believe to be sand-poundingly ridiculous. What follows is a perfect example of government overreach, cover your ass bureaucracy, and anti-scientific reasoning made to look like prudence. Here goes:

If I plan on vacationing in Maine I will have to self quarantine for 14 days, a shelter in place order that prohibits even trips to the grocery store. If we desire food and groceries we must avail ourselves of limited delivery services. Since the majority of rentals with On The Water In Maine are less than two weeks, this would mean that all out of state visitors to the state would be faced with a very quiet and isolated vacation. However, the good Governor, in her grace and wisdom has offered us an olive branch. If we desire to avoid the two week quarantine we can get tested for COVID no later than 72 hours before our arrival in the State. If the test is negative, we can skip the quarantine!! But here’s the sand pounding sophistry part...nobody in Maine is authorized to demand to see our negative test while we are there because of...HIPAA laws. When I say nobody I do mean nobody. Not the cops, not our rental agency, not anyone who owns a restaurant or store that we are about to enter. The results of our COVID test then will be our little secret. So the entire project will be based on the honor system. Let’s set aside for a moment the worthlessness of such an exercise and turn our attention to the science involved here. If someone gets a negative test for COVID, all that tells us is that he or she did not have the virus on the day they were tested. It provides no such reassurance that he or she may not have been exposed to the virus during the long trip to Maine. Any number of  virus-y things may have happened during the 72 hours after the negative test was acquired. Moreover, while we are in Maine, we might pick up COVID while pumping gas, eating a lobster roll, or standing in line at RiverDucks Ice Cream. So, what public health purpose does this totally confidential, 72 hours old negative COVID test serve the State of Maine, other than making her Governor look like a loopy gasbag? 

It should be noted that the entire State of Maine has had fewer cases, hospitalizations and deaths than....Henrico County, making these draconian, business-crushing mandates especially hard to comprehend.

What has been my response to Tiffany Ford and my friends at On The Water In Maine? I fired off the following email late last night...

Tif,

 Pam and I have read through this email which I’m sure was very difficult for you to have to write. My wife will reply with more detailed thoughts, but I wanted to answer myself as well, since I have plenty to say.

First of all, we have no intention of cancelling our reservation. Although it is very clear to me that your Governor clearly does not wish us to come to Maine, and will be extremely distressed if we do, my answer to her is an emphatic, “NO.” I will not cancel my four weeks in Maine. There are many reasons why, not the least of which are the many many fine businesses that we have grown to love over the years in the Camden area to which our cancellation would do great harm. The Smiling Cow, Once Upon a Tree, Hazel’s, The Waterfront, Camden Deli, The Droughty Bear, Riverducks ice cream, and...On The Water in Maine.  We both know how important the short tourist season in Maine is to these and many other wonderful businesses in the Mid-Coast area. To bail on them because of this nonsensical government overreach would be unconscionable. Also, our July in Maine isn’t just a vacation, it is a crucial part of our lives and the lives of our family. The central role that OTWIM has played in so many of these trips has been something that we highly value. Your great care an attentiveness to our needs while we are up there has made everything so much easier and care free. There’s simply no way we would back out on ourselves OR you.

So, we will get tested and go about our lives. We will obey all the rules for social distancing and mask wearing. But we will NOT back away from our commitment to come to your beautiful state, despite your Governor’s wishes.

God Bless,

Doug

Fearing The Lion

I am contrarian by nature. I was born contrary and it’s gotten worse through the years. 2020 is not a good time for contrarians. If you’re the type of person who always feels bad for the Wildebeest, not because he’s always being pursued by the lion but because he has to stay squarely within the herd in order to survive, then the last three weeks has been a discomforting experience. Examples abound:

- At the beginning of the Coronavirus, I was uncomfortable being ordered into the confines of my home by a State-mandated quarantine. The mandate rubbed up against my sensitivities as a free man with agency, making me feel like the hapless Wildebeast. Compliance with the edict was difficult for me and although I followed the instructions laid out for me by the authorities, I did so under official, if silent protest.

- Now, with the murder of George Floyd and the resulting banishment of COVID-19 from the headlines and airwaves, it seems like suddenly everyone has decided that the virus no longer exists. I walk through stores surrounded by mask-less citizens who roll their eyes dismissively at me as they hurry past, much closer than the suggested six feet. So, just about the time that everyone around me seems ready for a robust game of Twister, I’m now suspicious that we have all gone for the headfake, exposing ourselves to imprudent risk from a virus that hasn’t gone anywhere, is still killing people, and for whom there is still no cure. 

- Several years ago when practically everyone I knew was defending Confederate Statues as beautiful art and part of the fabric of the history and attraction of Richmond, Virginia, I began to question if they might be more appropriately displayed somewhere else rather than Monument Avenue. The racial makeup of the city and the message that the prominent display of men who fought for, among other things, the preservation of slavery might be suggesting to African Americans played a big role in my change of viewpoint. Now, the wholesale, lawless dismantling of these same statues with the tacit approval of law enforcement strikes me as wrong. In other words, now that more people have come around to my way of thinking, I am uncomfortable with the process.

- At a time when the entire country seems to have awaken to the persistent reality of racial injustice, I find myself in agreement with this new awareness. I freely admit that being born white in America has benefits, indeed, conferring on white people like me some privilege that black and brown people do not enjoy. Each day brings new admonitions on Facebook and elsewhere informing me of my privilege and how it needs to be checked. Advice memes have popped up addressed to white people, advising us how to and how not to interact with our black friends. I have found many of these suggestions helpful and indeed enlightening.

- I also, simultaneously, find myself resisting some of the new chic thinking on race. The blank, black box that many people displayed on Facebook last Tuesday is exactly the sort of thing that a contrarian like me hates. Again, the Wildebeest. Listen, I didn’t tie yellow ribbons around my mailbox when our embassy in Tehran was overrun, I didn’t display an American flag in my yard after 9/11. I just don’t do hashtags out of stubbornness, I suppose. But, although I acknowledge that white privilege exists, I refuse to go along with the notion that it defines me. Yes, being born white brings privileges with it, but not as many privileges as being born rich does. Although being born super smart is nice, it doesn’t guarantee either success or happiness. The world is teeming with miserable smart people. Neither does the fact that I was born white explain away every success I have enjoyed. Some of it was a result of good parents, a measure of self discipline, a work ethic, and an unwillingness to accept defeat. In addition, admitting that America suffers from racism and that some of that racism is indeed systemic does not mean that I have to accept the notion that the entire American experiment is a fraud, designed exclusively for the purposes of establishing and promoting white supremacy. Every episode of cultural upheaval has moments of overreach. This sort of reductionism is an example of such overreach. I wholeheartedly reject it, which in my opinion does nothing to lessen my desire for constructive change.

All of my life, I have resisted any new fashion or idea which starts to sweep the nation and culture. The more something starts being promoted as the next big thing, I find myself drawn to the counter argument. It’s exactly why I have always been attracted to the Gospel of Jesus Christ while being repelled by most of the churches who claim to represent him. You will search the annals of history all of your life and not find anyone as counter cultural and revolutionary as the Son of God. Equally, you will find it very difficult to find an institution so invested in the status quo as many churches. It is a paradox.

If I had been born a Wildebeest, I would have hated the herd. The strict conformity of such an existence would have driven me nuts. So, yeah...I would have been the one who decided to drift away from the pack to check out that cool looking bush in the distance. You know what happens to him. So, I get it. My opinions here might bother some of you. But, you can’t live your entire life fearing the lion.

My Missing Opinions

Preparing to leave your life behind for a month takes a lot of planning, coordination and hard work. It’s not easy to walk away from a business for a month. So, generally speaking, the weeks leading up to a month long vacation are jam packed with the tyranny of the urgent sort of things. That’s where I’m at now. I know, I know...poor, poor, pitiful me, right? The only reason I bring this up is as explanation for why I have been largely silent on a number of momentous, if bizarre, topics in the news of late. I have withheld comment mostly because I haven’t had the time to do enough research to comment intelligently, but partially because I’m tired of opinions of any kind. 

Looking back over what I just wrote there is a totally unintended joke hiding in that last paragraph. “I haven’t had time to do enough research to comment intelligently.” Holy crap, that’s hilarious. This is 2020 social media...since when is research a prerequisite for anything?

Be that as it may, I’m old school enough to think that I should at least dig a bit deeper than a meme-level understanding of a topic before I dive in with a take. Therefore, I have had nothing to say about:

Defund The Police

Seattle’s Autonomous Zone

The wholesale tearing down of monuments by night in my city and other cities around the country and indeed the world.

I’m not likely to write about any of these things in detail anytime soon. We leave exactly two weeks from today, so time for reflection will be in short supply. Once I get to Maine, a blessed cone of silence will descend over me, which will allow very little extraneous interference in. There will be no television. No newspapers except the Village Soup and the Camden Herald, the two local beacons of all news that’s fit to print. Yes, I will have internet, but mostly that will be used to keep a lifeline of connection to my business and clients open, in case of emergencies. Occasionally, especially during then first few days of adjustment, I will follow world events via my cell phone. But as the days go by and Maine begins to sink its talons into me, I will lose interest in anything that doesn’t involve fishing, swimming, eating, writing and the grandeur of God’s creation. So, that doesn’t leave a lot of time to form opinions. Consequently, the world might have to get along without Doug Dunnevant’s view of whether or not defunding the police is just another groovy revolutionary-chic catch phrase typical of the loopy left, or actually an idea with public policy merit. 

Somehow, I believe that the Republic will survive without this Blogger’s insights.

The Power of a Photograph

So, I told you about my big brother falling down a flight of stairs a couple of weeks ago. He broke his glasses, and was very sore for a few days, but luckily didn’t break anything. The problem has been that he has been in quite a bit of pain ever since the fall, raising concerns with his doctors. On their advice, he went for an MRI the other day to see if there was something else going on. The Doctors needed to rule out any cognitive impairment, a tricky proposition with we Dunnevant men since it is so difficult to tell. Are we cognitively impaired or just plain weird? There isn’t an MRI machine in the world powerful enough to answer that question. Nevertheless, there he was yesterday laying in one of those open MRI machines, since the big baby couldn’t handle the regular kind. Anyway, instead of finding mental problems they discovered he had sustained a torn rotator cuff. Well, I thought, no dang wonder  he’s been in so much pain! Poor guy. There’s no pain like rotator cuff pain, not to mention the fact that now he’ll have to give up his dream of making it to the big leagues as a flame-flowing closer for the Nationals.

Over the past couple of days I have come across two amazing photographs. The first was a picture of the recent Black Lives Matter protest in Hollywood, California.

My reaction upon seeing this was, “Ok, if we don’t see a huge surge in Coronavirus cases in Los Angeles in the next three weeks, I’m going to demand some answers from the folks at the CDC and WHO!!”

Then there’s this...

Yes friends, this is the mother of all photo ops, a picture so run through with symbolism and pathos it boggles the mind.  Democrats taking a knee just outside the Congressional cafeteria. I’m told that they held this pose for 8 and a half minutes, the same amount of time that George Floyd had to endure a knee to the throat from that racist Minneapolis cop. 

I’m sorry. I just can’t. I think that if Webster’s ever publishes a completely illustrated version of their famous Dictionary, this photograph will serve as the definition of pandering. I mean, it’s perfect. Except, what’s up with...who is that, Jerry Nadler...the white dude standing up? What’s his story? What, you got a bum knee or something Jerry? The nerve of that guy!!

Oh...and Nancy has got a lot to learn about how to wear a face mask.

Now, I know what some of you are thinking. Doug, aren’t you being a little harsh? Aren’t these Democrats just trying to do the right thing here, strike the right conciliatory tone in contrast to Trump’s nihilistic blather? Sure, there’s always that possibility. But everything in my 62 years of education, training and experience practically screams at me that this was a focus group tested publicity stunt. The good news is that at least during these eight and a half minutes, these men and women weren’t up to any legislative mischief. Well Doug, you’re just a cynic, then. Well, if by cynic you mean that I generally question the integrity and sincerity of the political class, and believe with all my heart that their primary motivation is their own self interest, then yes. I am a cynic. But I didn’t come by my cynicism by chance or some quirk of fate. It has been earned by a half century of duplicitous, self dealing men and women from both parties who have attempted to manipulate me with such photographs.

Speaking of stagecraft propaganda photo ops...

Alec, I’ll take “books Trump has never read” for $1000.

One more for the Webster’s Illustrated Dictionary...under despicable...

Famous People and Twitter

I have been shocked at the number of people who have lost their jobs and reputations over the past few weeks over comments made over social media platforms that have suddenly become lethal. It’s really not a new phenomenon, but has gained momentum in this post George Floyd world. Some have decried the First Amendment implications and the Brave New World thought police nature of it all. Others have pointed out that the First Amendment protects us from governmental suppression of free expression, but does not shield us from the consequences of the words we speak. Fair enough, but something tells me that this will feel like a distinction without a difference to the guy who gets crucified over a remark that three weeks ago wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow...see: Brees, Drew.

But, then it occurs to me that this very blog is probably chocked full of ill-considered ideas, phrases, and expressions that could destroy me if I were a public figure. The Tempest is over ten years old. I have written over 2000 posts, a whopping 1,300,000 words covering every topic imaginable. I have no doubt that there are plenty of inappropriate, over the top insensitive remarks on any number of hot topics. Heck, I even had a two part argument with myself over gay marriage back in the day. I shudder to think how that would have gone over in this environment. The thing is, I also have no doubt that I have been wrong about a lot of things I’ve written about. The Doug Dunnevant of today would probably take issue with the Doug Dunnevant of 2013. But, that’s the nature of the human experience. We grow and mature and our opinions change, hopefully for the better. We discover new information and make changes in our views. We meet someone who brings a fresh perspective on an issue that helps us understand better. For Christians like me there’s also the influence of the Holy Spirit, as he whispers to us, a whisper that we often don’t hear because of our stubbornness, but when we do changes how we see and understand the world. So, I will offer no apologies for what I have written here. It was an accurate and honest reflection of what was in my mind and heart when I wrote it. To the extent that it may have been boneheaded and tone deaf, well...that’s how we roll as human beings, ever striving ever changing, ever edging closer and closer to the truth.

But seriously? If I were a famous person? I would run away from Twitter, Facebook, Instagram so fast it would make your head swim!!

T-18

Monday morning. Another week of to-do lists, appointments and commitments to honor. The week starts with glorious weather, a big help.

Meanwhile, my country is still convulsed by protests, statue toppling, and now streets being painted with giant yellow letters promising to DEFUND THE POLICE. It’s my opinion that if we’re going to start defunding stuff we should start with the Commerce Department, then work ourselves down to the police, but I suppose that’s a subject for another day. I shouldn’t quibble. This is the first time I’ve heard hardly anybody in the public square come out for defunding any part of government since the 1980’s. Progress.

We haven’t talked much about COVID for over a week now. Good and bad. Good because the relentless wall to wall doom and gloom with regards to the virus was suffocating. Bad because despite the fact that we are no longer talking about it as much, it’s still out there, people are still dying and there’s still no vaccine.

Then there’s Wall Street. I do this for a living and I still can’t explain the unexplainable. I get this a lot, “Doug, with all of this turmoil and chaos how can the stock market be going up??” My answer is usually something technical and complicated like, “Beats me.” The only thing I should point out about the stock market is the fact that there’s a big difference between the economy and the stock market. Sometimes they move in tandem, often times they do not. Additionally, stock prices are leading indicators, not lagging indicators meaning that the market for equities is set by what traders see in the future, not what is happening now. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the extent of my expert opinion on this subject that I am willing to share on this blog for two reasons. First, I started this blog ten years ago as an escape from my real job, and second, the quickest way to bore people to tears is to start talking about economics.

At the Dunnevant Compound it is T-18 days until Maine launch. All systems are not go. There are a world of details to attend to before the great adventure can begin, not the least of which is staying healthy. All I ask the rest of the Country is to try to hold itself together for just 18 more days. Once Pam and I are safely ensconced in our lake house, you are free to do whatever the next crazy thing you have in mind happens to be.

Too Soon?

Often on Fridays, I have taken a break from the momentous conflicts and catastrophes of our world to offer really terrible jokes for all of you to moan and groan over. It’s my way of reminding everyone that no matter how despicable a place this world has become, awful Dad Jokes are still quite exquisitely funny. This particular Friday morning caused me to hesitate. Is it the right time and place to be posting cringeworthy attempts at humor while all around us, man’s inhumanity to man is on the march?

After careful consideration, I have determined that it is the perfect time for what follows. These jokes are so bad they have the power to unite us all: black, white, liberal, conservative, Republican, Democrat, carnivore, vegan, devout, pious, straight, gay, married, single, Boomer, Millennial, yankee, southerner, even dog and cat..in a collective eye roll.

What happened to Bullwinkle when he was pulled over for speeding?

He was charged with a .....moosedemeanor.

The police found a chickpea that was smashed.

But after looking at the evidence, they have ruled out....hummuscide.

What do you call it when someone hates riding to work with his coworkers over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge?

Carpool Tunnel Syndrome.

What kind of prize do you give someone who hasn’t moved a muscle in a year?

A Trophy.

I had a dream last night that I knighted an electric fish.

It was Sir eel.

Mike Tyson gifted little metal cups to his friends.

When they asked what it meant, he said it was a thimble of friendship.

They say that Argentina is cold.

But actually it would be more accurate to say that it borders Chile.

Confederate Statues

Woo Hoo! Thanks to our Governor, my Facebook feed will be filled to overflowing with rants about Confederate statues for at least a week, or until some fresh new abomination appears to divert our attentions elsewhere. This is 2020, after all, and every time we think it can’t get any worse, 2020 says, “hold my beer.” I will have nothing further to say on this subject. I have written about it at least three times that I can recall: 

https://doug-thetempest.blogspot.com/2017/08/my-assistant-is-well-known-for-her.html

https://doug-thetempest.blogspot.com/2017/08/hurricane-harvey-is-set-to-pound-coast.html

https://doug-thetempest.blogspot.com/2017/08/a-brief-follow-up-to-yesterdays-post.html

But maybe there have been more that I don’t recall. I will say that this is one of those subjects about which my opinion has changed over time. How I felt about the Confederate statues on Monument Avenue as a thirty year old was different than how I feel now. That’s happened to me a lot over the years. Things happen. History unfolds for me, it is an ongoing, dynamic thing, and how I think about it also changes. I have friends who as far as I can tell haven’t undergone a single change in opinion about anything over their entire lives. I marvel at their impenetrable resolve, their unflappable confidence in opinions forged as a heady adolescent that were able to withstand decades of challenges undeterred.

Of course, I am also no weather vane, constantly pulled this way and that by every idea of the moment. Some things I have been resolute about, even become more convinced of their truth; the Gospel of Jesus Christ, my Mother’s love, the power of kindness, the perfection of sausage, the beauty of music, the magic of art, the supremacy of baseball, and the allure of Maine.

But when it comes to politics and history, I am swayed by events and the preponderance of facts. I am moved by the story that raw numbers tell. I tend to judge issues based more upon their actual results than their intentions. Because of this, my views on a few things have changed because of...new information...not available to me ten, twenty, or thirty years ago. But that’s just me.

So, no pontification from me on the removal of statues this week. If you want my views, try the three links above. Meanwhile, I have sausage links to think about!

Has Anyone Been on a Virtual Doctor’s Appointment Yet?

We interrupt the regularly scheduled dystopian nightmare that is 2020 to bring you this special edition of The Temptest:

VIRTUAL DOCTOR’S APPOINTMENTS

Recently, my brother took an unfortunate tumble down a flight of stairs. He’s a big guy, 6’4” and probably 230. The bigger they are, the harder they fall, so it was quite a trip. By the time it was over he was bruised up pretty badly, his glasses were broken and his face covered in blood. Don’t worry, he’s ok now but for a while there it was scary. I’ve probably told him a thousand times to walk down stairs, but he’s the oldest. Does he listen? Of course not.

Anyway, yesterday he sends the family a text getting us caught up on the latest. In this text he told us of a virtual appointment he had just had with his doctor. The minute I hear “virtual doctor’s appointment, I didn’t hear anything else. What a concept. My mind—a carnival fun-house of the bizarre in the best of times—began churning with the possibilities. While everyone else who received the text was asking him follow up questions about his recovery and being appropriately engaged, I found myself typing this:

“Wonder how a virtual appointment with a proctologist would work? ...‘ Nurse, bring me Mr. Dunnevant’s file. It’s in the back room, near the rear of the office. Yeah, I’m thinking that virtual proctologist thing would be difficult...no if’s and’s or butts about it.”

I could actually feel the collective eye roll from all the women in the family, none of whom would even dignify my take with a response. But my big brother gets it. He shot back with:

“I wasn’t particularly impressed with the magazine collection in his virtual office.”

To which I thought, but did not respond: “Yeah, how many times can you read 2017 issues of Rectum Illustrated?”

Once allowed to go down this tricky proctologist road, my mind wandered back to when I was seven years old in our cramped New Orleans apartment watching our grainy RCA black and white television with the tin foil wrapped around the rabbit ears. It was a Sunday morning and I was sitting crossed legged on the floor waiting for my family to leave for church when I turned the set on and was introduced for the first time to one Earnest Angley, faith-healer.  Dude was dressed from head to toe in a white suit, complete with white shoes and a white belt. His sweat covered face was staring into the screen, his hands extended towards the camera as he implored his viewers to believe that they could be healed. He was so confident on this point that he explained that the viewer did not even have to be in his live audience to be healed, that his miraculous powers could work through the television set....

“I am asking you to believe and claim your healing, friend. Get up from that sofa and place the part of your body that afflicts you on your television set and I will heal you!!”

With this odd, 55 year old memory brought into my head for reasons that defy understanding, I imagined some guy with hemorrhoids backing up into his television set waiting for his miracle. Then the famous words of the prophet from 4000 years ago came to mind...There is nothing new under the sun. Indeed, virtual doctor’s appointments aren’t new at all. Earnest Angley was doing them years ago.

Now, we return you to the regularly scheduled pandemic and civil unrest.

An Opportunity Lost

I left the house around 3:30 yesterday to take out my building frustrations on a bucket of golf balls. It’s hard to watch your city being torn apart. But as much as I hate the violence and destruction, what I hate even more is the sight of a police officer’s knee on the back of George Floyd’s neck. I throw my dusty golf clubs in the back of my car and drive the peaceful streets of Short Pump to hit golf balls at Bogey’s Sports Park to forget about it all for a while.

But I can’t. When I pull into the parking lot I notice a black man, middle 40’s maybe, with his two elementary aged kids playing putt putt. For the Christians in this audience what follows will be familiar. For everyone else it will sound weird. That’s ok. I get it. Anyway, as soon as I saw this dad and his kids, the Holy Spirit whispered very clearly to me that I should reach out to this man, offer words of encouragement, let him know that in fact, his life and the lives of his children very much mattered. But the logistics were all wrong. He was on the putt putt course and I was headed for the driving range. Lost opportunity.

As I pounded 8 irons at the 150 yard target with wildly different outcomes I kept thinking about what I would have said if I had the chance. It might have gone very badly. He would have been excused if he just wasn’t in the mood for chit chat with a 62 year old white guy right about now. He very well might have let me have it. But even if he was gracious, what would I have said? What words would have been the right words?

I could have started by saying that his life mattered, that what happened to George Floyd was an outrage, and the fact that it continues to happen is a stain on our country. But then I thought how empty and insincere it sounded, more like a sound bite than an encouraging word. Too much like staged pandering. The last thing I wanted to do is come off as a patronizing liberal.

I took the driver out of my bag and hooked the first one badly, then slowed my swing down a bit and eventually striped one on a beautiful arc, slightly right to left against the brilliant blue sky. Slow down. Think. What that 40-something black dad really needed to hear was an apology. I could have apologized for my silence. I have watched his people getting mowed down like this for half my life. I could have apologized for my indifference. I could have admitted to him that even though I consider myself a Christian and know that racism is one of the vilest of sins, from time to time I recognize its existence in my own heart. I could have confessed that to him. They say that it’s good for the soul. 

By this time my hands were getting raw. Swinging a golf club hasn’t been a thing since this pandemic started, I could tell. I picked up my bag and headed to the parking lot. As I turned the corner around the edge of the building I saw him and his kids heading from the parking lot to the driving range loaded down with golf bags. They were headed right for me. The Holy Spirit again. This was my chance. As they got closer we made eye contact. He said “hey” about the same time I did. Then everything seemed to be in slow motion. I opened my mouth, he passed by and it was over. I whiffed. What a coward.

I’m convinced that for race relations to improve it will require a million such conversations started between strangers. Yes, criminal justice reform is an absolute necessity, but it will require so much more than that. Guys like me are going to have to start reaching out of our comfort zones to start uncomfortable conversations with total strangers and the couple who live down the street. And those conversations are going to require some contrition and humility...and the one ingredient that I sadly lacked yesterday afternoon at 4:30 on a bright, sunny day....guts.

But today is another day. Maybe I’ll get another chance. Maybe this time I’ll man up.

The Prayer of St. Francis

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace,

Where there is hatred, let me sow love;

Where there is injury, pardon;

Where there is doubt, faith;

Where there is dispair, hope;

Where there is darkness, light;

Where there is sadness, joy;  

 

O Divine Master,

Grant that I may not so much seek

To be consoled as to console;

To be understood as to understand;

To be loved as to love.  

For it is in giving that we receive;

It is in pardoning that we are pardoned;

And it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.  

Difficult Truth or Comfortable Lie ?

Yesterday, my day started with virtual church on the deck, proceeded to a sun-splashed 4 mile run around my peaceful Short Pump neighborhood, and ended with Leonardo’s pizza for dinner and the last fire of the season.

The juxtaposition of the peace of my day, the soft glow of the fire, with the destruction, chaos and raging fires burning in cities all across this country was not lost on me. In fact, these days it’s hard to avoid the contradictions of American life. On a weekend that found American cities engulfed in hatred and flames, an eccentric billionaire scientist/entrepreneur managed to put two astronauts into orbit and eventually place them in the International Space Station flawlessly, a feat never before accomplished by a private company. But this has always been the story of America, one of outrageous contradiction. On the one hand, limitless opportunity for the bold and daring, on the other bitter divisions and deep racial hatreds. My countrymen are capable of heroic selflessness, unparalleled innovation, breathtaking art. But we’re also capable of pettiness, silly unserious leadership, epic waste, and virulent racism. Within us lie the seeds of greatness and the stain of our original sin. What an impossible, miserable, maddening mess we are.

In the middle of this year, 2020, with all of its disappointments, I’m writing another story. The gist of it centers around the following question. What would happen to someone if all of a sudden they no longer had the ability to A. Knowingly tell a lie, and B. Resist the temptation to speak the truth at all times? In other words, what would life be like if no insincere word ever crossed your lips? So far, my protagonist is having a heck of a hard time. I guess the idea for the story came to me because of how much truth has been devalued over the past few years. Everyone says they want the truth, everyone decries the fact that it is so damn hard to know what the truth is anymore. But, do we really? Suppose we aren’t nearly as interested in the truth as we think we are? Suppose what we really want is the attractive and far more comforting...lie? Indeed, how much of our daily lives are dependent upon the lies we freely tell each other? The more I write this story the more difficult and uncomfortable it feels. Sort of like...2020.

America Burning

100,000 dead from the Coronavirus. 40,000,000 have lost their jobs because of an unprecedented 2 and a half month long economic shutdown. Now, cities across America are in flames over racial injustice and police brutality. Meanwhile, the President of the United States continues Tweeting like a Middle School bully. Oh, and this afternoon, a private Company will launch men into orbit for the first time in history. Welcome to America in 2020.

Recency bias is the temptation to think that the most familiar thing is either the worst or best thing to ever happen. It is seldom true. America has lost over 100,000 people in pandemics before. There has been unemployment rates higher than we are seeing today, and in my lifetime there have been at least four times where race riots have swept through American cities. So, none of what we are witnessing is terribly new. Well, that’s not accurate either. We’ve never tried to shut down an entire economy before, no American President before Trump tweeted fifty times a day, and what the heck is TESLA?? What is new and terrible is that all of this is happening at the same time. Scary.

I posted a blog yesterday about the George Floyd murder and subsequent violence that had broken out in Minneapolis. In it I offered two observations, one that although I could never condone violence I could certainly sympathize with the rage and hopelessness that the protesters feel after seeing yet another member of their community murdered by a clearly bad cop, and second that although the majority of police officers are good people doing a difficult job under horrible conditions with courage and nobility, there are far too many bad cops doing unspeakable things and when they do, they need to be brought to justice, not shielded by some mysterious thin blue line claptrap. For reasons that are beyond my ability to comprehend, many people disagree. So, I’ve been thinking it over and trying to come up with a more effective way to communicate the principle at play with regards to police misconduct. After much thought, here goes.

I love teachers. I’m married to one. My daughter is one, as is my sister. Teachers have been huge influencers in my life. They do fundamentally vital work, they fight ridiculous bureaucratic headwinds, and are paid an embarrassing wage compared to the importance of the job they do. However, when one of them gets caught having sex with a student, I’m sorry...I want them in jail. I don’t want to hear some Teacher’s Union hack at a press conference using wishy washy language about stress or mitigating circumstances. I’m not interested in listening to some education bureaucrat talking about complicated relationships and how we have to stand by our teachers. No, no...he had sex with a child. His career as a teacher and his days of being a free man on earth are over!!  Taking this position about this teacher/rapist does not change a single thing about the fact that I love, respect and honor teachers. It simply means that I will not under any circumstance tolerate sex between teachers and their students. 

There. Is that better? Have I made it clearer?

Then there’s this...We need to not rush to judgment. We don’t know what might have provoked this officer to place his knee to the neck of this unarmed man for 8 and a half minutes until he was dead. 

Have we seen video from every angle showing the entire encounter between these four cops and Mr. George Floyd? No. No we have not. But, let me ask you...what could a single unarmed man possibly have done to four heavily armed police officers that would justify the reaction we all DID see on video? Did he take a swing at one of them, resist arrest? Maybe he did. So then, its ok to jab a knee into his neck and sit on him for 8 minutes while he is NOT resisting arrest in response? Why on earth is this such a difficult concept to understand? Was reasonable force exercised by the cops here? If you think so...I just don’t know what to say.

Here’s what I know this morning as my country burns. We, people like me and most of my readers, are going to have to start listening to black and brown people. We are going to have to do a better job of trying to put ourselves in their place, and try to imagine what it’s like to have to live with injustice. We are going to have to develop our underused empathy muscles, the ones atrophied by partisan politics. We need to stop listening to the voices of bitterness and resentment and start listening to the voice of our Savior who died not just for us but for everyone of those angry people in the streets of Minneapolis, Atlanta, Louisville, Oakland, Portland....and Richmond.

Enough.

In the ten year history of The Tempest I cannot count the number of times I have written about a black man getting killed by a police officer. Ferguson, Baltimore, now Minneapolis. Then I wake up this morning and see this:

There was a time when I would have decried this sort of anarchy, criticized the destruction of private property and pointed out the pointlessness, even the counterproductive nature of such behavior. Indeed, if I were the owner of the Arby’s in the above photograph I would be rightly furious of the wanton destruction of my livelihood. But honestly, after the last ten years, I have to ask myself a difficult question...What would I have African Americans do? Call their Congressman?

Here’s the thing...I am a law and order guy. I generally support the police. They perform one of the most difficult and dangerous jobs in America for low pay. However, the overwhelming majority of them are finding it next to impossible to do their job precisely because of the presence in their number of too damn many bad apples. And when some of them get caught committing some heinous, racially charged murderous act, the odds are that their actions will be protected by a system that circles the wagons around bad actors and rules cold blooded murder as justifiable homicide.

It’s impossible to put myself into the mind of a 25 year old black man in an inner city of America. But when I make the attempt, I feel myself filling with rage at the injustice. If I were that 25 year old black man, you would have a hard time convincing me that the lives of  African Americans are thought to be as valuable as the lives of whites in the suburbs. Anybody who thinks the justice system available for George Floyd is the same justice system available to Doug Dunnevant is living in a fantasy world. This fact is what is driving the violence right now, the feeling that nothing will ever change so, screw it...burn it all down.

I am not condoning violence. The scenes above are horrific and represent failure on everyone’s part. But neither am I going to clutch my pearls and wag my fingers at those hopeless protesters. Are there simple opportunist among them who don’t give a s**t about the death of George Floyd, but see a chance to raise hell and loot? Sure. But most of the people on those streets are just fed up. So this time, I’ll take a hard pass on making a law and order argument until these folks get some justice.

Enough.

Anxiety Eating

I have learned recently that I am an anxiety eater. 

Over the past couple of weeks a new development has introduced itself into my life which has supplanted the COVID pandemic from its post atop my worry list. As a result, and unbeknownst to me, I have started to anxiety eat. Apparently when high stress/worry scenarios appear in life some people lose their appetite. Other people...eat. Count me among the second group. And we are not talking broccoli and cauliflower here people. For me it’s been chili cheese fritos, cappuccino fudge ice cream, caramel popcorn and anything else that can easily be shoveled into my pie hole. Despite putting in over 15 miles of road work over the past ten days, two days ago I tipped the scales at a robust 202 pounds, 10 pounds heavier than I was before the lockdown.

As a result of this extra poundage, I immediately swore off...snacks. It has now been 48 hours since I have indulged my craving for these guys:

This has not been easy. The popcorn isn’t that great actually, but it’s crunchy and sweet and satisfies some previously unknown weakness in my character. The ice cream...cappuccino fudge blast...is a sinful late night temptation. But, friends, that little number in the middle is perhaps my greatest weakness. I would read you the list of ingredients but, I would be ashamed. Chili cheese Fritos have absolutely no nutritional value. Their only purpose is to tempt you with their worthless yet diabolical deliciousness. With each handful you can literally feel your arteries hardening. Nevertheless, whenever I happen to walk past the pantry no matter what time of the day or night, I feel like Odysseus sailing past the Sirens. But I have no one to tie me to the mast, so my arm involuntarily finds itself being thrust down...down into the crusty, burnt orange abyss of fat larding nirvana. 

So, why is this half empty bag still in the pantry, you ask? This is a fair question to which I have no satisfactory answer. Despite its presence, I have resisted now for 48 hours. At some point they will be stale.

Who am I kidding? Stale or not, in a moment of weakness I would be on that bag like a fat kid on a box of jelly doughnuts. I should throw them out now. And I will. I swear.

At some point...

The Month of Nerves

Thirty days from today, Pam and I will leave Short Pump at some as yet to be determined hour of the night to make the drive to Maine for a month of lake living twenty minutes from the Atlantic Ocean. Due to COVID-19 concerns we will be making the drive up straight through for the first time in probably twenty years to eliminate the need for a hotel. I’m thinking we will leave around 1:00 in the morning which will put us at or near Camden, Maine somewhere around 4:00 in the afternoon. However, this arduous journey is the least of my worries.

It’s probably a dangerous reality of my life that I place so much significance on my time in Maine. It is the central event on each year’s calendar, the measuring point for everything else. How many days before Maine? is a question that is eternally asked in my house. In recent years even the month of July isn’t enough to scratch the itch, so we’ve added a two-three week fall trip. This year its even worse. I’ve thought of little else for the past eleven weeks of this insufferable pandemic. But now that it is so close I can practically smell it, the reality of the risks we face have become clear and are as follows:

1. Suppose one of us gets sick in the next thirty days? 

2. Suppose someone we love gets sick in the next thirty days?

3. Suppose there is a catastrophic surge in cases nationwide that forces another lockdown quarantine to be declared A. Before we leave or B. Once we are there?

4. Suppose one of us gets sick after we arrive in Maine—where the medical facilities aren’t as numerous or as well-equipped?

I’ve often thought that it was possible to love something too much, to desire a thing with too much intensity, transforming it into something close to an idol. For me, my time in Maine is getting close to that status. So, this year, I want it even more, which means that for the next thirty days I will be sweating bullets. June will be a month of nerves, a time of great caution in the Dunnevant household.

Maine has been and continues to be my get out of jail free card. Can’t imagine losing it in 2020 of all years.

Memorial Day Picnics in the Age of COVID-19

Today, the Dunnevant Clan comes out of its COVID cocoon for the first time for a Memorial Day picnic. In true Dunnevant fashion, it will be a groundbreaking event since it will be the first such picnic to take place...in shifts.

So, depending on where you stand on the wisdom of reopening the country, what follows will either terrify you or cause a spontaneous eye-roll of derision. That’s ok. We are a divided nation. I’m ok with both reactions. I also care not a whit for what you think about our picnic. The fact that my crazy family has managed to go nearly three months without a gathering of any kind is a testament to something...I’m not sure what. I wouldn’t have thought this family had it in us to obey any government mandated rule for this long, but we are a family full of nurses, teachers and germophobes.

The family mover and shaker, my big sister Linda Schwartz, sent out a family email announcing her intention to host the event several days ago. The stated purpose of the email was to seek consensus on the particulars and to insist that nothing would happen until and unless all of us agreed to the format. After a deluge of back and forth emails, it was determined that we would arrive...in shifts as follows:

12:30...First crew consisting of Jenny, Matt, Darcy and Bennett, Paul, Christina, Ezra and Evelyn. This is the younger crowd, the test run, the guinea pigs. Any deadly errors which might occur in this time slot will be corrected in time for the...

2:30...Second crew, including Pam and me, Paula Ron and Ryan and Linda and Bill. Each family unit will sit at an appropriate social distance. Linda will help everyone’s plates while wearing appropriate protective gear. Dinner will be provided by a local BBQ joint in Ashland and will be ladled up with a six foot extendo-spoon that Bill found on the internet. Survivors of the first crew will stick around for no more than 15 minutes of greeting time upon arrival of second crew, then beat a hasty retreat. Once the younger crowd is gone, Bill and Linda will haul out the heavy liquor. 

It should be noted that Becky, Ruaridh, Ava and Cameron will not be in attendance because of Ruaridh’s asthma. My son and daughter and their spouses live entirely too far away, while my big brother and his wife will not be able to make the drive from Maryland, without running afoul of that State’s much more draconian lockdown laws, which include but are by no means limited to, confiscation of all personal property and forced attendance at all future Baltimore Orioles home games.

It goes without saying that this entire affair will take place outside in the back yard. Anyone who insists on entering the house to go to the bathroom will only be allowed to do so in full hazmat gear with a rope tied around their waist. 

So, if national polling is to be believed, roughly 55% of you will think that we are being ridiculously over-cautious. 40% of you think we are taking entirely too many chances with this selfish gathering. The remaining 5% want to know what kind of heavy liquor, exactly?

The answer is...I lied. Linda and Bill are teetotalers.

Imperfect Algorithms

So, yesterday I received this in the mail...

I wondered, “That’s odd. I don’t remember writing him.” But, it’s not every day when you get a letter from the President of the United States, especially one that requests in bold red letters that you reply at once. It’s no secret to the readers of this blog that I’m not exactly a big Trump guy. Nevertheless, Presidential communications still have the power to stir the imagination. I sat myself down in my library where I traditionally open letters from Presidents and carefully opened it, being careful not to damage the envelope for posterity.

I have highlighted for the reader several undeniable truths found in this intuitive and prescient letter.

1. I am among a select group of conservative grassroots leaders.

There can be no question about this. Select indeed, since last I checked there are no conservatives of any kind left in the Republican Party. Well, maybe Rand Paul might let slip a howl of protest about the trillions of dollars of new spending and sovereign debt piled up over the last couple of years every once in a while, but everybody knows Paul is a crank. No, We’re all Keynesians now.

2. My active political involvement.

Indeed. I have been known to vote from time to time.

3. The experience I bring to the table is critical to our Party’s success.

The word our is carrying an awful lot of weight in that sentence. Pam and I have never been registered Republicans in the 36 years of our marriage. As a single man, I have never been a registered anything, although I think I did register for the draft at one point. It is true that I have cast votes for many Republican candidates, some who won and some who lost. But is also true that I have voted for a Democrat or three along the way. Still, I must confess that I do bring a lot of experience to the table...mostly concerning my photographic memory of Beatle lyrics and a skull full of baseball trivia.

4. As someone who has their finger on the pulse of your community.

Undeniably true. I have always had my ear to the ground and nose to the wind for all things Short Pump. I mean if you want to know who serves the best hot pastrami sandwich around here, it’s Boychiks, am I right? If you need a heads up on speed traps, I’m your guy.

Listen, I might have my finger on the pulse of my community, but the rest of my hand is always grasped firmly around my wallet when it comes to anyone asking for political contributions. When I finally arrived at the purpose of this executive communication...seen at the bottom of the page, I must say I was a little let down. 

When I asked my son about this letter and why it was sent to me of all people since I am none of the things this letter claims me to be, he pointed out that the algorithms that political parties use to compile their mailing lists aren’t perfect. Data is often conflicting but the algorithm only sees...this guy has a blog and seems to have conservative political inclinations...not...this guy’s blog has been making fun of Trump for the past five years. He also pointed out that the poor saps who happened to give money to Obama in 2012 and Trump in 2016 are probably getting deluged with letters right about now!

Memorial Day Plans and an Update on My Friend

The family received an email from my big sister, Linda Schwartz last night announcing tentative plans for a socially distant Memorial Day BBQ at her house. I use the word tentative since it will be the first attempted gathering of the Dunnevant Tribe since COVID’s rude arrival nearly three months ago. Linda asked for our input on ideas for making the affair safe and acceptable for all. “Perhaps we can break up into two groups to stay under the 10 person group limit, half of us coming for lunch, the other half for dinner,” she offered as a suggestion. No worries, we all replied. Since it will be outside and the tables will be arranged far enough apart to accommodate CDC protocols, having all of us at the same time would be fine, we reasoned. Then someone suggested that to get around the 10 person group limit, we could simply declare ourselves a church to stay within the law. Of course, I couldn’t pass that up...

“I like the church idea. We could call ourselves the First Church of the Perpetual Holy Ghost Barbecue COVID Cure Congregation.”

To which my wife responded: 

- Covid Congregational

- Pandemic Presbyterian 

- Quarantine Quakers

- Masked Methodists

I immediately saw this for what it was...a cry for help! It was my wife’s way of saying...Oh My God I have been quarantined inside this house with this man for entirely too long!! I am TURNING IN TO MY HUSBAND!!!

But, I have to say, when I read her email I was overcome with great pride.

Speaking of pride...an update on my friend.

So a couple days ago she was out for her daily walk when she took a nasty fall, scraping up her knee and landing awkwardly on her shoulder. Luckily one of her neighbors was out in her yard, saw her fall and came running to the rescue. At first she thought she might have broken something in her shoulder but it turned out to be just a bruise. This bit of news came on the heels of yet another potential setback in her recover when a suspicious polyp was found and biopsied. That too proved benign, a great blessing. But honestly when she shared all of this with me I felt like screaming at God. Her story sounds and feels more like Job every day and occasionally I get angry about it. But she remains supremely confident in her recovery and in the sovereignty of her creator. She is a marvel. A few days ago when Pam was preparing our anniversary slideshow she ran across these pictures from back in 2006...

That’s her and her husband, Johnny.

This is a group picture taken the same night down in Amelia Island in much happier times. My friend with her two big brothers from Short Pump.

Keep her in your prayers. She is tough as nails, but despite that strength needs all the prayers she can get.

36 Years

 

For 36 years now, this woman has endured this man.

Can I get an Amen?

Sofa Church, Socially Distant Umpiring and a Wedding Anniversary

It’s May 18th and there’s no baseball. The MLB is presently in negotiations with the players trying to cobble together a shortened season for 2020, the year of dashed hopes. Meanwhile, my wife and I have pretty much exhausted the present supply of watchable shows on Netflix, Amazon Prime, Hulu, and Starz. On the plus side of the ledger, our COVID-19 Rummikub tournament continues uninterrupted. As of this hour my wife is slightly ahead on points due to her diabolical sandbagging talents. Yesterday was the 10th consecutive Sunday that we have attended Sofa Church. The Live-streamed service is fine. Our staff tries really hard to do it well. It still sucks. When your communion elements are grape flavored Sparkling Ice and a sandwich thin, something of the poignancy of the moment gets lost. 

But, there’s always good news lurking out there if you know where to look. The State of Maine just lifted the quarantine rules for out of state visitors effective July 1. That means that we will not have to confine ourselves in the lake house for the first two weeks of our stay! It had been originally through the month of August so this is a huge relief. Of course I can think of many fates worse than being quarantined here:

With this view every night:

So, I’ve been thinking about how baseball can possibly have a season, even a shortened one, in the world of COVID-19. The first item on the agenda will be...how is anybody going to get professional baseball players to refrain from...spitting??? Assuming that miracle can be performed, how is it possible to maintain social distancing between the catcher and the home plate umpire. If the umpire has to move six feet behind the catcher, his ability to maintain a consistent strike zone (already damn near impossible) will be hilarious to behold...

UMPIRE:  STRIKE ONE!!!

CATCHER: Dude...he hasn’t thrown a pitch yet!!

 The complete elimination of sunflower seeds from the dugouts of the big leagues will be like asking Congressman to go a week without hogging a microphone. It will be like asking Donald Trump to quit Twitter. Unthinkable.

Tomorrow is a big day. It will be our 36th wedding anniversary. It will be pouring down rain. Our kids will be hundreds of miles away. No restaurants will be available. I have yet to come up with a proper plan for the evening. But, we will celebrate nevertheless. She is the love of my life, the one indispensable person in my world. She was my best decision, the one thing about which I am most proud. Although a couple of nights ago, she gave me pause. I happened to be walking through the den and there she was watching a television show about celebrities watching television. She was giggling and chuckling, throughly enjoying herself. I said, “what the heck are you watching?” She replied happily, “Its so funny...there are all these famous people being filmed watching television, just regular shows.” It might have been the very first time I have ever been embarrassed to be married to Pam Dunnevant. Then I thought that after 10 weeks of COVID-19, I should cut her some slack. Right now I suppose we all take our entertainment wherever we can get it.

Anyway, I’ve got 24 hours to come up with a plan for our wedding anniversary. Wish me luck.

His Eye Is On The Sparrow

I was walking around the culdesac yesterday afternoon when I saw one of my neighbors firing up his grill. I walked up his driveway and struck up a conversation. I was interested in how his wife was holding up in her job as an ICU nurse. It was crazy hearing about the protocols they go through each time she returns home from a shift. But then he told me about her very first survivor of COVID-19, a 54 year old man who just recently was taken off the ventilator after five weeks. It looks like he’s going to make it. Every other case they have had has been fatal. The one bit of information I forgot to ask was, how many cases they’ve had? Next time I see him, I’ll remember to ask. He did say that some of the cases have been otherwise healthy people, one guy who was an avid runner. But, think about this 54 year old man who spent five weeks on a ventilator, heavily sedated, isolated from every single person who ever loved him. Think of his wife and children, unable to see him, comfort him as he lay in a hospital bed fighting for his life. Think of the disorientation he must have felt to wake up and be informed that it’s been over a month since he was admitted!

The past two evenings Pam and I have sat out on our deck in this marvelous weather we’ve enjoyed, as the sun has set behind the houses in the distance. We are able to lounge around for hours out back thanks to the wonderful people at the Mosquito Authority, by the way. Best money I’ve ever spent. Both nights right around 8:05 every bird in the neighborhood begins singing all at once, a mad, frantic chorus. Each night it happens just before sunset. Our bird watching son in law informs us that it is their night song, an instinct inbred in birds of all kinds which causes them to herald the rising and setting of the sun. We listen to the delightful sound and marvel. Then it becomes dark and the sun catching lanterns on the railings of our deck come on, having stored up solar energy all day, and now illuminating the stained glass cardinals...

In a minute, the stars will come out and the birds will be silent. Then the crickets will begin their dull chirping, rhythmic and enchanting. My wife lifts her cell phone skyward and watches it’s screen reveal the constellations with a new app she has downloaded. Here is Capricorn, there Sagittarius. I watch her face lit up by the soft glow of the screen and ponder my great good fortune that I am not the 54 year old man on the ventilator, or the avid runner who’s life was snuffed out by a virus.

The birds and the crickets know no such virus. They chirp and sing at every sunrise and every sunset all the while running the risk that some creature larger and more powerful than they will devour them. For them, every minute of their existence is a risk. And yet we are told that their creator takes notice when even one of them falls. As I sit in the darkness of my backyard, listening to the hum of the crickets, I take great comfort in the fact that...his eye is on the sparrow.