A Cloudy Tour

Went into Camden this morning. While Pam was busy spending our kids’ inheritance at Once A Tree, I roamed the town in a thin cool mist taking pictures of various landmarks.

The best beer joint in town has fallen victim to COVID-19. Cuzzy has left the building.

The Owl and Turtle is thankfully still in business but closed on Sundays.

I wish our bank and Post Office looked like these guys.

Very disappointed to learn that The entire summer season of concerts, plays and shows at the Opera House were cancelled because of COVID. Town offices are still open, however.

The A-Frame on the left is, believe it or not, a Walgreens. The small building right next door somehow survived the great shutdown of 2020. Zoot’s Coffee Shop is a favorite and my daughter will be happy it still lives on!

The corner of Mechanic’s Street and Elm Street, an intersection prominent in the Academy Award nominated movie Peyton Place.

A memorial erected at the base of the flag pole in the center of the town Commons...right besides the Church with the iconic steeple seen from every house in town.

While taking pictures in the Common I heard muffled voices singing. I followed my ears and found this hearty congregation around the back of the church braving the elements for a worship service.

Since the Owl and Turtle was closed, We drove into Belfast to shop at Left Bank Books. Bought a couple of novels with either Maine themes or Maine authors. That should be enough to keep me busy for a couple of weeks.

 

Pierre

We have been in Maine for eight days now. It has been sunny for two and a half of those days, the rest either cloudy or rainy. This morning it’s raining again. It’s also been...chilly. Yesterday, July 4th, I was in long sleeves, wrapped in a towel on the dock, a breezy 66 degrees. But, it has been my experience that...the weather...is at the top of a long list of things about which I can do absolutely nothing. Other items on that list would include, traffic backups, toll booths, stupid people and the continued existence of yogurt. Try as I might, I can affect no changes to these things. Traffic backups will continue to happen at the worst possible time, the sand-pounding idiocy of the toll booth will frustrate me for the next millennia, stupid people will always be among us—they turn up everywhere— and people will continue to claim that yogurt is wonderful, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, especially its rancid, foul smell...like a teenaged boys sneakers drenched in sour buttermilk. Nevertheless people will persist, loading it up with fruit, granola, and anything else that helps them choke the stuff down, all the while claiming that it’s delicious. 

Much has been made of the giant pink flamingo who lives at the next camp over from us. Pierre, first appeared in a photograph I took the day we arrived...

Unfortunately, due to all the inclement weather, Pierre has been totally ignored, having gone eight days without use. Consequently, Pierre is going through the various stages of grief, having gotten stuck on depression, as these troubling photographs attest...

The neighbors have even gone to the trouble of bringing around Pierre’s child to cheer him up...

...so far to no avail. I will keep you all posted on his recovery.

I’m thinking that I’m ready for another trip into town. We’ll grab some breakfast at either Camden Deli or Mariners, then stop in the Owl and Turtle to pick up a few books and who knows what else. We’ll take more pictures this time. Camden is the type of town that is beautiful no matter the weather.

The House Library and July 4th

Every house we have ever rented up here has had one thing in common. Books. If you live in a place like Maine where it isn’t fit for humans half the time, books are a necessity, not unlike food and water. What else to do when there’s a foot of snow on the ground and more on the way? Each house has a collection of books, some of them bought for renters to read. I can tell because their spines are straight and unwrinkled, usually John Grisham or Elin Hilderbrand. Isn’t that what people read over the summer? But sometimes I stumble across a gem.

The first week at Loon Call I found one that frustrated and a second that beguiled. That’s always the chance you take when you open an unknown book. The first one I picked up was Kingdom of Fear by the frustrating Hunter Thompson. The Gonzo-Journalist who had appalled and amazed me 40 years ago with Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, now frustrates me. Where did all of his nihilism and arrogant self indulgence get him? A self-inflicted gunshot to the head. The older I get, the less patience I have with narcissism, no matter how talented a writer the narcissist may be. Reading Thompson at 62 is a much different experience than reading him at 25.

Then, as if God knew I needed a mental shower, I stumbled across this book...

It was stacked under several Ken Follett books. When I saw the endorsement from Oprah, I almost passed. In truth, this is by far the most girlish book I’ve ever read. I don’t say that as a criticism, just an observation. The author was unknown to me, a German named Nina George. This book was written in German, later translated into a couple dozen languages. Parts of it were tedious, other parts too predictable for my taste. But it was so beautifully written, even as a translation. Incredible. And, unlike Thompson, entirely hopeful and celebratory of life. 

I do this every time I come up here. I plow through a half a dozen novels...because I can. I have the time. My attention isn’t divided. But now, the library at Loon Call Cottage has been exhausted and I must hit up the Owl and Turtle for reinforcements.

Pam just left the house in her morning kayaking outfit, a bright pink athletic ensemble with a sky blue Camden, Maine baseball cap. She will disappear into the  fog and by the time she returns it will have lifted. It will be time for breakfast. Then, who knows? It’s the 4th of July, a national holiday which has suddenly fallen out of favor in our woke new world. The people around this lake still celebrate it if the booms, cracks and pops from last night are any indication. We will celebrate it too. I’m still grateful for my citizenship, if a little less triumphant. The sins of America do nothing to dampen my appreciation for her virtues. Show me another country without flaws and I’ll show you a country without great responsibilities or accomplishments. We struggle with our past sins. We wrestle with how to atone for them, but we move forward with gratefulness.

Larry, Louise, and Jeremiah

This is the Dunnevant Compound on Crawford Pond. Unfortunately, it is nearly impossible to take a photograph of anything out on this lake that doesn’t feature the increasingly forlorn Pink Flamingo lurking in the background. Nevertheless, I thought you might like to see where we spend most of our time here on sunny days. Yesterday was picture perfect in that regard, perfect in every way except for the item which appears in the extreme foreground of this photograph. Yes, my lucky lure has lost his luck. Still, I will persist, since the idea of fishing is nearly as much fun as catching actual fish. At least for me. The waiting, the anticipation, then the startling surprise when you feel a strike, it’s all part of a process that can be endearingly slow. In that slowness you find rest and joy. It’s a mystery that someone with my antsy temperament would find it so satisfying. Maybe its the things you see while fishing...

Meet Larry. Or maybe this is Louise. It’s maddeningly difficult to distinguish the sex of loons from a distance. It’s also difficult to get a high quality close up of these majestic creatures. They are camera shy and mercurial. As soon as your camera is ready they slip under water with one silky flick of their head, then they are gone for a minute or so before they pop up just as silky 25 yards away, having done God only knows down in the depths of the lake. Our cove is the domain of Larry and Louise who prowl this terrain with confident nobility. When we first arrived, on one of our first appearances on our dock, both of them rolled out of the deep just off the end of the swimming dock to inspect the new arrivals. After satisfying themselves that we were harmless and not from Massachusetts, they both went about their business. It may be the most comforting part of living on a Maine lake for a month, the fact that our presence is acknowledged by a pair of guardian loons who are keeping an eye on us.

Oh, one more character you all should meet. Unfortunately, I have no photographic evidence of his existence, but believe me, he’s here. He lives in the reeds and lily pads just off the the right of the walkway to our dock...Jeremiah the Bullfrog. This guy sings to us...LOUDLY...mostly in the evenings. We can hear him all the way in our upstairs bedroom 100 feet up the bank on the hill. He has a deep baritone and only knows one tune, one note, but he has that note down and sings with great enthusiasm. When his inelegant grunt intermingles with the the plaintive call of Larry and Louise, well...it is something else in this world.

Picnic, Anyone??

Yesterday, the weather broke. After almost three days of rain, the clouds cleared and released us out on the lake in earnest for the first time since we arrived. I took the kayak up around the big island towards the north end of the lake. They call it the 100 acre island. It was granted to the State of Maine many years ago by the three families who owned it in exchange for a pledge by the State that it would remain undeveloped and open to the public for exploring. I fished around the nooks and crannies and marveled at the beauty of a place that has been untouched by modern schemes of progress. To give you all an idea of the size of Crawford Pond, here are some photos to provide a frame of reference:

The blue dot is Loon Call Cottage. In our little cove the view is blocked. We can only see our cove, but paddle in a kayak for three minutes and suddenly the entire expanse of the place opens up. To travel the entire circumference of the lake would be 11 miles. The surface area of the lake is 596 acres, it’s average depth is 50 feet.

In this shot, the blue dot is Crawford Pond. It’s a 27 minute drive to Camden and the harbor of Penobscot Bay. I have circled the other lakes we have stayed on in this beautiful part of the State, Hobbs Pond, Meguntecook, and Quantabacook. Pemiquid Pond is just south of this map near Damarascotta, where we have also stayed.

This map of the entire State gives you an idea of why they refer to this part of the State as Mid-Coast Maine.

So yeah, this was my kayak adventure yesterday, a 3.66 mile meandering get to know you paddle which included a lot of gawking, a bit of fishing, and some picture taking. One particular picture stands out. It is so thoroughly Maine...I laughed out loud when I saw it. The people who live on Crawford Pond, like all lake livers, mark areas of shallow water with buoys of some sort, sometimes with colorful retired lobster trap buoys, sometimes with simple plastic milk jugs. But, in a beautiful cove towards the north of the lake, I turned a corner and saw THIS:

Picnic, anyone? When I got closer I noticed the lovely touch of plastic roses in a vase secured somehow to the center of the table because...well, what’s more inviting than a centerpiece of roses on a picnic table in the middle of a lake?

I. Love. Maine.

Rainy Days and “the look”

Yesterday was a rainy day and a cool 64 degrees. Maine in June. I hear that my friends in Short Pump are simmering in the heat. If I were a more empathetic person I would feel for them. I should work on that.

So, after a gorgeous Sunday, we are in for a three day rainy spell it would seem. Tomorrow will at least have some sun, along with a thunderstorm later in the day. By Thursday the forecast brightens considerably for the Holiday weekend, sunny with high temps in the 70s. Glorious.

My fisherman skills seem to have gone the direction of ethics in politics...they have disappeared. So far, I have landed exactly one fish! Meanwhile, I have hooked five others, only to see each one leap out of the water and shake free. Embarrassing. Of course, I only go fishing when I’m in Maine, so what skills I have atrophy while I am in Virginia. I’ll get better by the time it’s time to leave. Eventually I will send photographic evidence of success.

This photograph is something of an embarrassment. Whenever the huge Dunnevant/Roop/Schwartz clan goes to the Outer Banks for vacation there is always a snack table. There are close to 20 people in the house, it’s vacation, so we all just let our freak flag fly when it comes to eating. You will find no gluten-free, lactose intolerant paleo-vegans in our tribe. It’s a free-for-all. So, when this much smaller family heads to Maine, we have a snack table too. But with only two of us, this seems excessive. We comfort ourselves with the notion that...”yeah, but soon the kids will be here, what about their needs?” Still, there’s enough artery-clogging trans fats on this table to last two people the rest of the year. The table should come with a disclaimer, something like:

Warning: The Surgeon General has determined that if the snacks on this table are consumed by any human being, that human being is screwed.

But, look closer at the picture. You probably missed it at first glance. There is evidence that the table was assembled and organized by wife. Do you see it? Yes...that’s a pump bottle of hand sanitizer. Sure, we might gain ten pounds here, but ain’t nobody catching no COVID on her watch!!

Speaking of Pam, she’s still asleep. She already has the look, that shine and sparkle that comes over her face when she gets to Maine. It’s truly remarkable. I think we might drive into town today. It’s not really raining, just a fine mist and low clouds. That makes for a beautiful view of Penobscot Bay from the porch off the back of the Camden Deli. Maybe it’s time for blueberry pancakes. Besides, I need to buy a few books from The Owl and Turtle...

It’s the sort of bookstore you can get lost in for hours. Hope it’s open. Of course, I could always just go to the Library and hang out. That would be this gem of a building overlooking the harbor...

I’ll figure something out...

You Can Run But You Can’t Hide

It has been said by wise men through the ages that you can run but you can’t hide, a wise reminder that although we might change our exterior circumstances, what plagues us on the inside survives all of our schemes of self improvement. I was reminded of this truth at 6:00 am when I was confronted with THIS:

Behold, the bane of my existence. I plan and scheme. I plot my escape. I drive 800 miles away. And yet...within 24 hours of filling and hanging our old bird feeder we brought along for the Maine birds...this guy...flaunts his renewed presence in my life. No, this is not the common grey squirrel of Virginia, but make no mistake, this is a squirrel, the Maine variety, smaller, quicker, browner, looking more like a chipmunk than a squirrel, but every bit the diabolical fiend of his Virginia cousin. This one has designs on the delicacies inside the bird feeder. Meanwhile, I am without my trusty Daisy Powerline 35. However, I can look forward to watching him fail in his efforts to steal nuts, and he will...no squirrel has ever solved the riddle. The difference with this bird feeder is that failure for the squirrel will result in not your ordinary fall, since this thing hangs from the upstairs deck of the cabin, 30 feet above the ground. I will try my best to get that blessed event on video.

Last night it started to rain after we went to bed. The sound it makes on the roof of our upstairs bedroom is magical. Looks like today will be rainy as well. This will mean a more relaxing day for us. The first two days or so are usually filled with chores, yesterday was our initial grocery run along with my continued efforts to make the outside of the property more efficient for our needs. So, now that all the heavy lifting is over, today we will slow down, do some reading. I might write a chapter or two of my latest book. If the rain lets up, Pam will probably take out her new SUP out for another trip around the lake. 

Special Note:

I have a friend in Nashville I met years ago when Patrick was an undergraduate at Belmont University, one of his professors...Deen Entsminger. He’s a really cool guy and we hit it off from the first day. Anyway, Deen is one of those friends who, because of circumstances and geography, I don’t get to see very often. But, like all good friends, that never seems to matter much. Several years ago I got a cell phone call at literally 5:30 in the morning from him where he gleefully began telling me about this amazing woman he had met and was going to marry! It was so random a thing to do, and exactly the sort of thing I would expect from Deen. He did marry her, for what it’s worth, and we would both agree that Kim Daus was the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Anyway, for some reason that I can’t explain, while I was kayaking around the lake taking in the grandeur of Crawford Pond, the thought came to me that I should return the favor. So, out of the blue, I FaceTimed him. This time it was my turn to tell him about something amazing that I had found that had made me terribly happy. Deen, being Deen, totally got it. It’s nice to have people like him in your life, isn’t it?

Arrival and First Foggy Morning

I had forgotten how early the sun rises up here...4:56. Not only was our bedroom filled with the early morning light, but also a loud chorus of birds began serenading us at that ungodly hour. I woke up and walked downstairs to make my coffee and saw that the lake was shrouded in dense fog. But yesterday evening I managed to take this picture of the view from our deck...

We did make it down the dock to catch our first sunset and while there spotted a rare bird specimen from the north country, the great Maine flamingo...

From four o’clock until ten c’clock Pam and I labored to whip Loon Call Cottage into shape. It needed lots of love. Apparently, the owners have not been here so far this year, and it showed. The deck was a mess, the gas grill is unusable, but thanks to the guys and girls at On The Water In Maine, a new one is on its way today! The inside of the cabin is beautiful but still needed to be Pamercized, all of the adjustments needed to make the place compatible with her sensibilities. This morning it looks much more like home. The deck is now ready for much lounging, coffee drinking, and general Lolly gagging...

Al Fresco dining has been arranged...

This morning’s breakfast will be eaten outside in the fog and in long sleeves. It’s a wonderful thing.

Ok, full disclosure. When we first arrived, I was disappointed in the place. This is our first stay on this lake and in this cabin. It's biggest flaw is that it’s not Loon Landing. But, mostly the place was not ready for us, which was a surprise, not something we are used to with On The Water In Maine. Yes, the inside of the cabin was clean and ready, but the outside was a disaster which I wore a blister on my hands fixing, a result of the strenuous overuse of the sorriest excuse for a broom I have ever had the privilege of working with!

I mean...seriously?

But, this morning the place is looking much more like home. Had our breakfast on the deck then went to the end of the dock and made my first cast of the season and immediately hooked a bass who rose out of the water and shook free of the hook. I’m out of practice! But three or four casts later I caught an 8 inch small mouth, so all is well. Now, awaiting the arrival of Dan the Man from DuckTrap Kayaks with our two rentals for the month. Later, we will attempt to inflate Pam’s SUP for the first time and launch her on her maiden voyage...if the fog will ever life.

We’re finally here, where we’ve wanted to be since we last left. So happy and grateful.

Annnd....we’re off!!

Heading up north in an hour or so. Beyond excited, if for no other reason than to see something that isn’t this house, Short Pump, or my office. I have absolutely nothing against those three places, but enough is enough. Lucy is deeply troubled inside her doggy soul at all the packing, all the frantic preparations going on around her. She has done much apprehensive pacing these past 24 hours, and sleeping with one eye open. Poor girl can sense that this time, she’s not coming with us. Lucky for us, Lucy is a dog, not a cat. Otherwise, she would be permanently scarred, and hold a grudge for years at this betrayal. As it is, she will whine for a while, then be sent into ecstatic spasms of joy when Bernadette arrives this afternoon to be her new best friend for the next month. Dogs are so straight forward. It’s wonderful.

A word about my wife. On a recent run, I tweaked my back a little, so as a precaution I have been moving slower the past couple of days. I do 100% of the driving to Maine and I have a history of back issues. So, Pam has had to pick up some of my slack as we have prepared to leave. Some men like women who are dainty, delicate flowers. I have no problem with that. I get the attraction. But not me. I’ve seen it time and time again over 36 years, my wife is as feminine as it gets, but in crunch time, she is a freaking boss. There’s nothing delicate or flower-like about her when there’s a job to be done. She can out-hustle, out muscle, and out work any five men I know. She is a relentless dynamo when the stakes are highest, the kind of person you want in your foxhole during a crisis. I am in awe of her grit and determination. And I’ve got to tell you...it’s quite sexy!

Ok, wish us luck as we brave the two day, hopefully no more than 14 hour trip. Hope to stay in a Homewood Suites somewhere near Hartford tonight, then head into Maine by tomorrow afternoon.

...Oh, a shoutout to my sweet sister, Paula, who came over for five minutes last night to wish us luck and drop by a couple of gifts for my kids. Paula has always done this sort of thing for Patrick and Kaitlin ever since they were born. Every time they were home on break from college she would always send them back to school with a $20 bill pressed into their hands. She loves them as if they were her own. I come from a family of such people, generous and loyal. Thanks so much, Sis. You know they adore you, right?

My COVID Test Adventure

Today I have a relatively short To-Do list. I’m also very nervous. It’s this way every year on the day before we leave for Maine. I’m walking on eggshells afraid I’ll throw my back out packing up the car or something. Here’s what Pam wrote down for my To-Do list today:

1. Pay last minute bills.

2. Pack up your work computer.

3. Leave compliant away message on your business phone.

4. Cut grass

5. Pack car

6. Do not throw your back out

Just kidding...she didn’t leave me that list. She didn’t have to. She implies number 6 with her intense stare every time I do anything strenuous the day before we leave.

So, yesterday Pam and I went to Patient First to get our much ballyhooed and dreaded COVID tests. Much has been made of how horribly painful the test is what with a six inch long swab jammed up your nose all the way to your freaking brain where it could be doing God knows what. 

We even heard some moron suggest that he wouldn’t ever get a COVID test because it was all a government plot to implant a micro chip in your brain that makes you vote democrat or some such horses**t. Be that as it may, I was still quite apprehensive as we drove up into the parking lot and saw the little white tent. What made my apprehension even more acute was the fact that my wife was in the car. It’s important to my fragile male ego that I not show any weakness in front of her, so my worst nightmare would be throwing some kind of duck-dying fit in front of her as Nurse Ratchet jabs me with the swab, while Pam comports herself with calm grace by comparison. That’s the sort of performance it might be dang near impossible to live down.

So, the instructions were to remain in our vehicle, and present a picture ID when approached by the nurses in the hazmat gear. When they emerged from the tent, I have to admit to much trepidation. They looked like star fighters with their face shields but the talkative one was all business. She didn’t ask for my ID, she just asked me to blow my nose. Her exact quote was, “remove as much snot as possible.” I would have thought there would have been a more technical term for that like mucus...but she played the snot card. Ok. Then she took my temperature with one of those jabber things you place under your tongue. When she first whipped that baby out I thought I was a goner. What?? It’s made out of metal???!!! Then Nurse Ratchet turns to her assistant, Broomhilda, and says, “These people seem nice, lets not use the long probes on them.” Then she proceeds to place a regular looking Q-tip thing up both of my nostrils, swish it around a little, and she was done. Just like that, it was over. No pain, no discomfort, and no fatally embarrassing meltdown. And, as far as I know, no new found admiration for Karl Marx.

But seriously folks. The COVID test was the biggest nothing burger ever, in this, the Age of Nothing Burgers. So, let not your heart be troubled.

My Dad on Race

Woke up at 4:30 this morning. The closer I get to departure day the worse I sleep. I reached over for my phone and saw that my crazy pal from North Carolina (God bless her craziness) had sent me a text: So, for NASCAR I guess no noose is good news! What an awesome way to start your day, am I right?

It was a relief to hear that the whole thing was a misunderstanding/hyper-sensitive overreaction and not an honest to God noose left in a black driver’s garage! I mean, Holy Crap, are there still people out there playing the noose card? So yeah, it’s very good news.

I was thinking about my Dad the other day trying to remember the few times he and I ever talked about race. Dad was born in 1924, grew up in an entirely different era where ideas about race relations were far different than today. Honestly, it wasn’t a topic he enjoyed talking about much. He would talk about it sometimes in his sermons, but not an awful lot, like most people of his time. But I remember once when I was in college asking him what he thought about racism and he told me a story that I have never forgotten.

Dad grew up in the sticks of Buckingham County, Virginia. His Dad, my grandfather worked a farm as a share cropper. One of the other sharecropper families who also farmed for the same landlord was black and had sons my father’s age. Each year when it was time for harvesting, the families shared the combine and worked together. Dad told the story of the first time in his life when he realized what racism was. He said he was about ten years old, maybe twelve. He was working together along with all the other men when it was time for lunch. The first day lunch was served at the black family’s house. The next day lunch was served at his house. Dad said how confused he was when all the black men were served their lunch out in the yard under the shade tree, while all the white men went inside to eat. Dad ate his lunch outside with his friends but remembered feeling a strange sense of guilt. That night he asked his mother this question, “Mom, how come at lunch today my friends had to eat outside while everybody else went inside?” 

My Grandmother was born towards the end of the 19th century, over 120 years ago, and her answer was the best she could do. She looked at him with what my father described as a tired sadness and said, “Emmett, I don’t know why other than to say that’s just the way its always been.” My Dad, ten years old, confronted for the first time with one of life’s many injustices replied, “But, Mom...they worked just as hard as we did in the same hot sun...” 

And that’s where the story ended. No other explanation was offered. It’s just the way it had always been...was the best she could do. My father never forgot that moment because it was the first time he ever remembered understanding the concept of sin, the irrefutable truth that there was a right way and a wrong way, fair and unfair, just and unjust.

My father was no crusader. If he were here to speak for himself he probably would say he should have preached on the topic of racism more than he did...or maybe not. Dad wasn’t a man of many regrets. But for most people, the feeling you get in your stomach when you read of nooses being left in NASCAR garages was the very same feeling that stirred within the heart of my ten year old father under a shade tree in 1934. Some things are forever wrong, for all time.

A Metaphor

The death toll from the Coronavirus in the United States now stands at 120,000. Worldwide the number is fast approaching a half a million. While progress has been made in many states, others are experiencing a resurgence of cases. There is currently no vaccine. But around the world, the scientific community is working around the clock to find one. To that end, the Coronavirus is dominating new research, and gobbling up medical resources and rightfully so since it is killing people all over the world and the only way to stop it ultimately is to find a vaccine.

This doesn’t mean that scientists and researchers no longer care about heart disease or cancer. It doesn't mean that HIV suddenly doesn’t matter or that diabetes is no longer a horrible killer. It’s just that, right now, there’s an emergency, so all hands are on deck to stop the spread of this thing and find a working vaccine. Sure...all diseases matter, but right now, the priority is COVID-19.

I am losing patience with this All Lives Matter foolishness and those who persist in making the argument. 

“Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? And yet one of them shall not fall to the ground without your Father seeing. The very hairs of your head are numbered. Fear not, therefore, you are of more value than many sparrows.” Matthew 10: 29-31

Of course, all lives matter. We are all made in the image of God and we have inherent worth and value as human beings. So why is it so hard for so many people to acknowledge that, right now, at this moment in America, it doesn’t seem that black lives matter nearly as much? It in no way diminishes me as a white man to agree that Black Lives Matter. It is just an acknowledgment of the imbalance in the justice system that still, stubbornly persists. It doesn’t mean I have to support every single item on the agenda of the BLM movement. It doesn’t mean that I support the looting and violence that has happened at many protests. All it means is that when I see a police officer with his knee on the throat of a black man for 8 and a half minutes, when I see a black man get murdered for the crime of jogging through a white neighborhood and weeks go by without an arrest, I am agreeing that if Black Lives Mattered MORE, this wouldn’t be happening over and over again, all across the country. That’s all.

So, yes. All diseases matter. We still acknowledge that cancer, heart disease and diabetes are horrible afflictions. But, right now, we’re trying to stop a pandemic, so we will be trying desperately to fix COVID-19 for a while. Is that ok? Are we good?

Nothing To See Here, Move Along, Folks...

This is the week we’ve waited for all year. This is Go Week. Pam has laid out the battle plan...

Now all we have to do is execute.

I’ve got a lot to get buttoned up at the office, last minute things to get wrapped up. Maine is so close now I can taste it. This, being 2020, allows for the opportunity that some last second catastrophe, geo-political earthquake, or meteor attack might come out of nowhere to thwart our plans to leave Short Pump. If it does, this will be me...

So, last night I received FaceTime calls from Patrick and Sarah, Kaitlin and Jon wishing me a happy Father’s Day. These are the four people who make me a father. Of course I share fathering duties with Andy Upchurch and Robert Manchester for my daughter and son in law, but I view both of them as my kids too. That’s the way it works in my family, once you’re in, you’re in all the way, like it or not! The hardest part of being a parent these days is being apart from them. I envy my friends who’s kids all live either in the same city, or at least the same State. They can pop in for dinner, or drop by for lunch. We have to sit close together and stare into a jumpy computer screen at their digital faces. Hugging a laptop leaves a lot to be desired, I’ve learned. But in July we will spend 10 days with Kaitlin and Jon, 7 days with Patrick and Sarah, and 4 glorious days all together in our favorite place in the whole world. There will be great food, much kayaking, swimming and canoeing on the lake, many sunsets to watch from the dock, and fires to sit around while solving all the problems of the world. There will be no Fox News, no CNN, no Drudge Report. If something horrendous (notice the hopeful “if”)happens, the readers of this blog will have to inform me, since we will be unplugged. I will continue to provide dispatches from paradise via The Tempest. 

96 hours and counting.

Tick Tock...

Lucky Enough

Pam went for her normal walk this morning. She starts out with Lucy tagging along, but after a bit of that she drops Lucy back at the house and starts the second, more aggressive part of her walk. She wears ear buds when she walks, usually listening to an audio book. But this morning she had a ton of things on her plate and was especially anxious. My wife is a worrier, a planner, a meticulous organizer, who thinks about things, sometimes to excess. That verse in the Bible that says, Let not your heart be troubled, I am convinced was put in the Bible specifically for her.

Anyway, she gets back from her walk this morning in a decidedly upbeat mood, almost light hearted, a rarity in these days of pandemics and social upheaval. Then she told me her secret, “You know what I listened to on my walk this morning?” I’m trying to think of some Jodi Picoult book when she burst out with, “Christmas music!!!” She has now left the house after spending all day making these treats for her dad...

These are the world famous Molasses crinkles, a staple of the White family...Christmas tradition. Pam made three dozen or more, all the while with Nat King Cole, The Carpenters, James Taylor and Harry Connick Jr streaming through the kitchen speakers. She’s like a different person. Her plan now is to listen to Christmas music until we leave for Maine. It transports me to a different place, makes me think of happier times, makes me concentrate on what’s really important, she explained. Hard to argue with a woman baking cookies.

Oh...and there’s this, perhaps the truest words ever placed on a piece of wood. For us it will be true for six weeks this year...

Seven Days

One week. One week from today. Actually, more like one week from this very moment, Pam and I will be backing out of our driveway to begin the two day, 15 hour road trip to Loon Call Cottage in Union, Maine. At least that’s the plan. Something inside of me won’t quite let me believe that it will actually happen, visions of some last second national emergency stay-at-home order being proclaimed from on high keep dancing around in my head. So, I will believe it when I’m on the road.

We both will get our COVID tests on Wednesday the 24th, 72 hours before our planned arrival in The Pine Tree State, as per their Governor’s directive. We will check in to our cottage on the afternoon of the 27th. The first 24 hours will be filled with unpacking, making the place our own, arranging things to best accommodate our living preferences, buying groceries, organizing the inside and the dock to our liking. It will probably be the morning of the 29th, a Monday, when we will wake up and realize that ...we made it, we’re here, and now everything will be alright!

For the duration of the month of July, most of my Blog posts will be about our experiences, filled with pictures. Many of you will enjoy reading all about it, a lot of you won’t. Which is fine. You can’t please everyone. Speaking of which...

Yesterday’s post about the whole Aunt Jemima thing was crazy. It was the most read post I have written all year, but it was completely unique in one way. Never in the ten year history of this blog have I written such a widely read post that produced virtually no comments. Usually when something pops like that people have lots to say about it. This one?..crickets. I can only assume that most of you read it out of curiosity and didn’t agree with my conclusions but were too polite to say anything. That’s ok. It happens sometime. We don’t always see things the same way. I just found it strange, the silence.

The next seven days are going to be the slowest of my life...

Aunt Jemima...Seriously??

Just when you thought that life couldn’t possibly get any worse, news breaks that Aunt Jemima is being forced into early retirement because of the scourge of political correctness sweeping the nation. In the wake of the murder of George Floyd and the reemergence of the Black Lives Matter movement, the limp-wristed, gutless invertebrates at Quaker Oats have caved to the jackals of the left and stolen a cultural icon from white America. Oh, and George Soros is somehow involved...

At least that’s the impression I’m getting from Facebook and Instagram.

I would like to propose a slightly different explanation for this Aunt Jemima thing that involves advertising as a reflection of societal norms and how they have constantly changed, often rapidly, throughout the past hundred years. I should also point out the fact, apropos to nothing really, that Aunt Jemima is a truly awful imitation of real maple syrup and shouldn’t even be mentioned in the same breath.

Ok, so here’s a advertising campaign from the year of my birth, 1958...

Who doesn’t long for the days when a man felt entitled to beat his wife for the mortal sin of serving him stale coffee?

Well, maybe she can open it, but who’s going to be there to show her how to pour it?

Absolutely nothing worse than a poor, fat woman, am I right?

Good to know that there will still be plenty of women’s work in the exciting new space age!

And the ones who don’t are clearly savages.

Why, indeed?

Colored kids?

Wow...good to know that inside his unfortunate dark skin beats a white heart!

Ok, here’s the thing. If any of these advertisements caused you to wince, and I would hope that all of them did, you now understand that our society has evolved from a time when these types of stereotypes were perfectly acceptable to vast swaths of the buying public. No company doing business in 2020 would dream of running ads like these. Why? Because the assumptions behind them have been rejected by the vast majority of their customers. So what about dear old Aunt Jemima? Even she has changed through the years...a lot!

So...tell me again why Quaker Oats’ decision to finally retire the Aunt Jemima Mammy routine is such a horrible example of political correctness? 

Listen, for some of you, the picture of her on a plastic bottle of corn syrup with 16 artificial flavors is a comforting, harmless icon from your childhood and you just can’t understand what all the fuss is about. I get it, I really do. But, I would imagine she represents something else entirely to an awful lot of African Americans. Ask yourself this, if you think it’s wrong for a company to use words like, “Happy days is here. Time fo’ my Dee-licious pancakes ready mixed fo’ you.” Then maybe you can understand why a symbol from an era where that line was thought to be funny and clever might rub modern ears the wrong way.

I think that somehow the world will survive without Aunt Jemima. Chill out people!