The End of Isolation

Yesterday, for the first time in almost 14 months, my big, fat, goofy family got together for a gathering at my sister’s house. No masks, no social distancing, and no politics. It was supposed to be a picnic, but it was freezing cold outside so Linda somehow shoehorned 20 of us around her ginormous kitchen table.

The kid’s table in the back left corner was especially rowdy and obnoxious, but they have all earned their rowdiness, having endured a year of virtual education. And because it was Memorial Day, Linda supplied all the patriotic decor. A couple of speeches about family members who paid the ultimate price to preserve our freedom were made. The food was spectacular. There were burgers and dogs of course, but also plenty of old family favorites like the aptly named pink fluff, (a concoction that our Scottish import Ruaridh can’t bring himself to try), and Nanny’s old ice cream cake. But mostly the afternoon and evening were spent hugging each other, it having been so long since we had been together. In this regard we are very lucky. Most families this large and diverse don’t get along as well as we do and would have considered an 18 month pandemic induced separation a godsend! For us it felt like an interminable and unholy thing.

After dinner we all gathered out on the deck and enjoyed a fire and several slices of ice cream cake. A thousand conversations were had, jokes were cracked, unmerciful teasing and exaggerated tales of family lore broke out like mushrooms after a week of rain...

Its funny how much my brother Donnie has begun to look like Dad recently. I’m glad. Makes me miss him a little less. Mom and Dad were surely smiling down on us yesterday. This was the kind of thing they lived for.

Not everyone was able to make it. My kids and their spouses were missing. So was Donnie and Baby’s son Sean, as well as our west coast operation of Lauren and Catherine.

But this was special. Someone made the observation of how grateful we should be for all the brilliant scientists, doctors and nurses who worked their fingers to the bone keeping us safe and finding the needle in the hay stack vaccine that made this day possible. Yes. God bless them everyone.

WARNING: Attempt at Humor Ahead

There is no getting around the fact that we are living in the Age of Woke. I have no idea whether it is a passing fancy or the wave of the future. To hear some people tell the story Wokeness is merely good manners and greater sensitivity to the feelings of our fellow man/women/ persons of more esoteric gender classification. To others its a minefield of new rules of human interaction where one false word can land you in a three week sensitivity class. A little like walking on eggshells in your Birkenstocks. Nowhere is this tension more acutely felt than in the arena of humor, or in my case...attempts at humor.

Yesterday, for example, I tried out a joke on my much more hip and with it executive assistant, Kristin:

Why did the cross-eyed teacher get fired?

Because she couldn’t control her pupils!

Kristin’s response was sure and swift, “You’re not gonna put that on Facebook are you? Please tell me you didn’t post that on Facebook!”

So, as a result of the hyper sensitive atmosphere that pervades the public spaces these days, much internal debate has gone on inside my head about publishing what follows:

I personally find this cartoon hilariously funny. Maybe its because I grew up in the world of Loony Tunes. Elmer Fudd was always a personal favorite. However, practically all of the laughs his character generated were at the expense of his speech defect, and as I understand the new rules, making fun of any sort of disability is frowned upon in Woke circles. So, I thought long and hard about what I should do...willy, willy hard. In the end I decided to go with it because its just a great strip.

If that makes me a waskle, so be it!

At Least We’re Not Mexico

I have often bemoaned the sorry state of political discourse in this country. I have also complained here many times about the rancor and partisan bitterness that has overwhelmed our politics. Well...at least we’re not Mexico!

“On June 6, Mexico will celebrate the largest subnational election in its history since there are 500 federal lawmakers, 15 governorships, 30 local congresses, and 1,900 city councils to be elected,” so states a story in a Mexican magazine article I read this morning. Apparently, the Mexican election season is even longer and more ridiculous than ours since it is reported that candidates have been been running in this election since early 2020. But the headline of this particular article was what caught my attention. So far 88 politicians have been killed.

Think about that for a minute. We probably haven’t had 88 politicians assassinated in the entire 245 year history of the Republic. And I thought we were the ones with the gun problem?! For many years now the nation of Mexico has been governed not by politicians at all but rather a confederacy of drug gangs and cartels. One can only assume that the cartels are taking out any candidates they view as hostile to their interests ahead of time, not willing to take a chance on the vagaries of the democratic process. But...88?? In America, a mob of a couple thousand disgruntled MAGA fanboys storm the capital and the entire country recoils in anger at the desecration. In Mexico, candidates for public office have been dropping like flies for months and this is the first I’m hearing about it.

Maybe our politics isn’t as bad as I thought.

Happy Birthday to the Buena Vista Flash

It turns out that three really special people in my life share this day, May 25, as the day of their birth. My son Patrick, the fearless leader of our small group at Hope Church, Chip (the Chipster) Hewette, and my dear friend, Pam Cole, the Buena Vista Flash. Regular readers of this space know Pam as the woman who was given a scary cancer diagnosis nearly two years ago now. Back at the beginning I made a promise that I would send her Dad Jokes every day until she got better. These jokes served several purposes, but primarily it gave me an excuse to chat with her every day. More importantly, it served as excellent training, serving as it did to toughen her up for the difficult days of chemo. She figured that if she could endure three of my jokes every day, how bad could chemo be?

On her birthday I would like to acknowledge her epic victory over the insidious enemy of cancer. While there may be no such thing as “back to normal” as a cancer survivor, Pam has made it through every phase of her treatment like a boss and is now getting back to the business of living her life. Along the way she has been carried along by an amazingly devoted husband, two wonderful kids and a bunch of grandchildren who think that she hangs the moon. She has also benefitted from a team of supporting and loyal friends. She has benefited from the skills of a team of brilliant doctors and nurses at UVA. But an awful lot of readers of The Tempest who have never even met her have spent much time praying for her recovery. You have asked me for updates on her condition and have eagerly kept up with her progress. I thank each and every one of you for that.

So, I warned Pam that I was going to embarrass her with a Facebook birthday salute via The Tempest, and asked her to send a current picture. She said she didn’t have any good ones, her hair is still too short, yada yada yada... but she finally sent this one which was taken this past Sunday before she and her grandkids and Johnny headed out to the lake for the day...

Trust me, underneath the brim of that cap are two very happy eyes!

Phil Freaking Mickelson

Professional golf gets my attention four times a year, during the playing of the four majors. I can be counted on to faithfully watch The Masters, The U.S. Open, The British Open and the PGA Championship. The rest of the time I wouldn’t be caught dead. Why the majors? Because that’s when the very best players compete, the courses they play on are insanely difficult, and history is being made. Nobody cares who wins the Waste Disposal Open, but you win the British Open and you’re set for life. So yesterday there I was on the edge of my seat watching 50 year old Phil Mickelson trying to win his 6th major title. Literally...on the edge of my seat...

 

Phil Mickelson. In the golf world players are about the most boring people on the planet. Sure, there are exceptions like the mercurial brilliance of Tiger Woods or the brutish power and eccentricity of Bryson DeChambeau. But there is nobody like Phil Mickelson...unpredictable, affable, goofy, thumbs-upping the gallery after every decent shot Phil Freaking Mickelson. He is that rarest of commodities, an entertaining golfer. Watching him trying to win a golf tournament can be excruciating because the man is capable of anything. The same guy who can hole out from a green side bunker can also be counted on to duck-hook a drive into the water at any moment. Even yesterday when he was up by three with three holes to play I’m thinking his chances were 50/50. But then, with all the pressure in the world on him, he steps up to the16th tee and hits the longest drive of his career, a 366 yard bomb that split the fairway. His playing partner, Brooks Koepka was literally in diapers when Phil Mickelson won his first tournament. It must have galled him to be consistently out driven by the old guy. Did I, as a 63 year old who sometimes grows tired of hearing how better the newest version of everything is over anything that came before, take vicarious pleasure in seeing Phil sticking it to all those flat-bellies? You bet I did.

Making Allowances

I don't know about you but sometimes I get some of my most interesting thoughts about important things while cutting the grass. Today was no exception. But I’m about to do something that is probably not a very good idea and that is...write about an idea before I have taken the time to think it through. I’m doing this so I can remember the idea while it is still fresh in my mind. If the reader finds logical inconsistencies in what follows it should not come as a surprise to anyone. The subject at hand is the notion of making allowances and how when we do, life is much more pleasant and agreeable and when we don’t we get modern life in America.

Only the most rigid and inflexible among us don’t ever make allowances. Some of us make more allowances than others. But we all make them. Here are the three examples that ran through my mind as I was using my string trimmer on the edges of my back yard mulch beds:

EXAMPLE NUMBER 1:

You are settling in to your seat for a four hour cross country flight when you notice a row of extremely loud, obnoxious blowhards sitting across the aisle. It’s four of them, all in their early 30’s and even though its only 8 am in the morning they are already harassing the flight attendant for bloody Mary’s. To make matters worse they are making rude and sexist remarks about every female passenger who walks past them. Imagining what your next four hours are going to be like, what do you do? I can’t speak for you but I would attempt to put a stop to this...like, this instant! First I would confront the idiots as politely as possible and if that didn’t work I would try my famous sarcasm and mockery. But the point is, I would at least try to do something about their abhorrent behavior. 

But, suppose you’re getting on that flight and instead of semi-literate A-Holes, you discover that a young single Mom and her two out of control toddlers plop down across the aisle. You notice that in addition to the toddlers, the woman is holding an infant who begins to scream out her discontent. The thought of spending the next four hours next to this is just as disconcerting as the earlier group. So, what do you do? If you’re a decent human being you make allowances. You don’t complain to the flight attendant. You don’t confront the frantic mom and demand that she get her kids under control. I would like to think I would react like the man flying in first class a while ago who I read about. When he heard all the commotion of screaming babies back in coach he got up from his seat and walked back to find the single mom. He saw that she was in great distress so he introduced himself with a kind, understanding smile, then suggested that perhaps he could help with the infant. It seemed that as a brand new grandfather himself he had quite the knack of getting fussy babies to fall asleep. The exhausted mother, grateful for any help at that point handed her baby to the kind man with white hair and a beautiful silk tie along with a burb towel. After a five minute walk up and down the aisle of the plane, the baby was fast asleep. When the man returned to give the baby to his mother he found that she was asleep as well. So, he kept walking the aisle, not wanting to wake either of them. Everyone on the plane suddenly became invested in this beautiful moment of grace and humanity. In other words, everyone made allowances for the young mother.

EXAMPLE NUMBER 2:

You live in a wonderful neighborhood and you love your home. Then one day some new neighbors move in. They are a middle aged couple with no children and no pets and seem nice enough, but it takes no time at all for you to discover that they are both slobs. Within weeks of moving in they have transformed their yard into what looks like a bomb went off in the middle of a yard sale. Its an epic eyesore and the entire neighborhood notices. Soon complaints are made to the Home Owners association and the battle eventually gets joined by your new neighbor’s contentious lawyer who claims that their third world mess is an expression of their free speech rights.

But, suppose instead that your new neighbors are a young couple with three young kids all under the age of 10. They are all adorable and full of life and unlike many kids their age, they spend every spare moment outside doing the same things you did when you were a kid. Before long, their yard is strewn with bikes, balls, games, stuffed animals etc etc...the place always looks like every kid in the county just had a sleep over! So, what do you do? You make allowances. You don’t fuss at them to clean up their yard. You don’t call the Home Owners Association. They’re kids doing kid things. Instead, you lean into it. You learn to love them AND their stuff. They end up loving you in return.

EXAMPLE NUMBER 3:

You’re at church on Sunday morning in your familiar seat when you notice an odd sight. A man has just entered the sanctuary dressed in filthy clothes, smelling of whisky and rotten fish. His eyes are bloodshot, his hair dirty and disheveled. He looks like he’s at the end of his rope and about as out of place as Bernie Sanders at a Chamber of Commerce picnic. If this man, after closer inspection, turns out to be your senior pastor, your church is in heap big trouble. 

But, suppose that the man is just a guy at the end of his rope who has never set foot in a church before and out of desperation has walked into yours? What do you do? Hopefully, you make allowances. You don’t tell the guy that he needs to clean up and buy some decent clothes and try again next week. You maybe even ask him to sit beside you. Who knows what this guy has gone through. So, you make allowances.

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As I’m cutting the grass all of this is going through my head. There were plenty other examples...we make allowances for disabled people by building ramps, we make allowances for kids who don’t speak English in school by using English as a second language tools to help them along. When we see old ladies struggling with revolving doors, we stop what we are doing to see to it that she gets through. We make allowances all the time. Only, in America we never seem to make allowances anymore when it comes to politics or race. Even writing about it has become risky. You can actually lose friends over a political opinion these day. But its even worse with race. For example...

Nobody likes Affirmative Action. Seriously, nobody. Even those who have benefitted from it always know that everyone around them knows they were a quota hire and probably got the job over a more qualified candidate. The pressure of that can’t be a lot of fun. The reason we don’t like it is that we prefer to think that we live in a merit-based society. We certainly hope that the guy who designed the bridge we are driving over wasn’t a quota hire!! But, anyone who has a basic understanding of history acknowledges that for many many years blacks and other minorities were discriminated against in hiring practices in every industry imaginable. The deleterious effects of those years of exclusion are still felt by many minorities today. As I understand it, Affirmative Action essentially was an attempt to make allowances for the injuries of the past by giving those in the present a leg up. Although I think it was a bad program which has probably done at least as much harm as good, I am in total agreement with the idea behind it...making allowances. I get it and if Affirmative Action has flaws, I say fix them or try something new. 

With regards to politics we have become a nation where compromise has somehow been transformed into a character flaw. Anyone who proposes to find some sort of common ground across our political divides is accused of being a sell-out. This is largely a result of the demonization of the Left by the Right and the Right by the Left. It’s been going on for years and it has to stop or we will end up killing ourselves as a nation. As a conservative, libertarian man I naturally recoil from those who propose the empowerment of government to solve all of our ills. But cannot I make allowance for the fact that those on the Left see things like Social Security and Medicare as great achievements for the betterment of life in America. Because of these successes, its only natural that they would lean towards government solutions. It doesn’t mean that they want to enslave the country and send us all to reeducation camps. Cannot those on the left make allowances for the fact that conservatives and libertarians have good historical reasons for being suspicious of centralized power and that deficit spending and endless stacks of government debt might not be a viable option for our grandchildren? It doesn’t mean we hate poor people and don’t want paved streets. Can we not try to understand and empathize with the foundational motivating principles of each side and use the best of both to forge a middle way? If so, we can only do so if we all...make allowances.

Taxes and Texas

Here’s a subject that will send most of you to the delete button...taxes, specifically taxes and fairness. Before I begin this particular sermon I probably should declare my biases. I am an old school budgetary hawk. I hate deficits and deficit spending. I am for lower taxes, a far more simple system than the one we currently employ, and in general would prefer that people get off the public dole. For someone who believes these things, the current environment of trillion dollar spending sprees coming out of Washington feels like a horror movie. Indeed, the past decade has seen our National debt double to a mind-blowing 22 TRILLION dollars. It is incomprehensible.

But here’s my problem, it’s difficult to talk about our national finances without it turning into an austere and arrogant put-down of recipients of welfare. While the welfare apparatus in this country is a hot mess of disincentives and unintended consequences that is in desperate need of top to bottom reform, at least it has the noble intention of trying to help...individual human beings navigate the sometimes catastrophic vagaries of modern life. What really sends my blood pressure skyward isn’t the existence of welfare cheats. What turns me into a raving lunatic is the welfare that gets thrown around to rich people and insanely profitable corporations. Although I could choose among literally thousands of examples to illustrate this outrage, lets just talk about energy and the state of Texas.

Thirty years ago The Texas legislature unanimously passed an enormous tax break and subsidy to the oil business, the natural gas business to be precise. Back then these natural gas wells were considered difficult and chancy propositions and very hard to develop. What was needed, argued slick lawyers for the oil industry was to slash the tax on natural gas wells. The bill was passed unanimously. Back then Texas only got around 3% of its gas from natural gas so the “cost” of this tax giveaway to the Texas treasury was insignificant. Then fracking technology revolutionized the extraction of natural gas to the point where today 61% of all gas produced in Texas is natural gas. But guess what? That tax break is still on the books and costs each Texas family $169 dollars a year.

With delicious irony, last week lobbyists from the Oil Business started their whining campaign against subsidies for the renewable energy business being debated in the Texas legislature. 

What the actual hell???

I thought the business community was against planned economies? I thought conservatives were against the government trying to pick winners and losers in the free market?? No, big business is fine with government subsidies for themselves, just not so much for their competition!

Of course, this mess only exists because of a 500 million page tax code that gets mined for freebies 24/7 by expensive lawyers for the well connected. A flat tax with NO DEDUCTIONS for ANYTHING would wipe out all the cronyism overnight...but that’s an argument for another day.

So, by all means, lets reform welfare. But how about we start by kicking the Oil Business off the public dole?

37 Years

Winn’s Baptist Church, May 19, 1984.

I look at these two people and I don’t know what to think. They were so young and so incredibly unprepared for and ignorant of the ways of the world. They had no idea what they were doing or what they were in for. But you would never know it to look at them, all smiles and giddy expectations. They were in love. They had that going for them, and precious little else. My memories of that day aren’t as precise as Pam’s. I remember being terrified in the minutes leading up to my entrance into the sanctuary. I was down in the basement with my best man, Al Thomason, with sweaty palms trying to remember to breathe. When I got my cue I begin ascending the stairs from the basement into the church with my heart beating hot in my ears. I walked to the duct taped X on the red carpeting where I had been instructed to stand, took a deep breath and scanned the audience. Practically anyone who had been important to me in my 26 years on the planet were there all smiling back at me. Then suddenly a loud series of notes from the organ and everyone stood. That’s when I saw her...

It’s really the only clear moment of the proceedings in my recollection 37 years later. She was standing next to her Dad in the back of the church. The sight of her took my breath away, and for the first time in weeks I was calm. This thought passed through my head...I might have screwed up a lot of things in my life and I’m sure I will screw up a lot more before I’m done, but...this woman...I got this right. It was the most clear-headed, steely eyed thought to ever enter my mind before or since. And it is still manifestly true. 

If I had it to do all over again...I would.

The Nashville Trip

Our Nashville trip was a raging success. The weather was glorious. We ate delicious food. We got to see our kids in their townhouse for the first time, a place they have transformed into a home, filled with warmth and plenty of creative graces. We got to spend part of an afternoon with a dear friend on his enchanting farm. We attended a baseball game for the first time since the pandemic hit. But best of all, we got to visit this very good boy...

Frisco clearly prefers my company more than anyone else’s, a fact driven home by his reaction to our arrival...

On a side note, Patrick and Sarah got me to try something new. This is a common practice with my kids, who are constantly goading me to expand my horizons...

Kids: Dad, try this awesome new board game where you spend two hours working together to end world hunger!!

Me: I’d rather endure a root canal without Novocain...

Kids: (group eye roll)

But, as the old expression goes...When in Nashville...

Yep...Sushi. If memory serves there were four different kinds on this admittedly beautiful plate, crunchy shrimp, California roll, spicy tuna, and some crab number whose name I can’t recall. I tried three of the four, soaked in soy sauce, and must admit that they were not horrible. 

My favorite pictures from the trip are displayed below:

Me and my boy entering a baseball stadium. Almost heaven.

No caption required...

Four-wheeling with Deen...

Five-Daughters doughnuts.

Happy Birthday

Today is my daughter’s birthday. I will not extol her many virtues again here. Some people grow weary of such Facebragging on my part with regards to my children, and I have great sympathy for that reaction, but at the end of the day I couldn’t possibly care less about anyone’s feeling who would begrudge a dad the joy of bragging about his children. Nevertheless, there will be no listing of accomplishments here, no heart warming vignettes, only a declaration that on this day in 1987, the world became a far better place when she entered it, perfect and pink with her ten fingers and ten toes (I was frantically counting), transforming her parents’ lives forever. She has been transforming lives ever since.

Happy Birthday, Kato.

A Lump in my Throat

Today we were driving over to my in-law's house to celebrate Mother’s Day with Pam’s family. The drive always takes me by the house I spent my formative years in from roughly 1968-1981. Every time we come out of the trees on the downhill stretch of road just before you reach Winn’s Baptist Church in Elmont, Virginia I always glance to my left at this old house...

Lots has changed over the years. When we lived there, there were no sidewalks, and that white addition at the far end was a screened in porch. What caught my eye today staggered me a bit, so much so that as soon as we arrived at Russ and Vi’s place I told Pam that I needed to go back and take a picture. I still don’t know why I was so compelled, but there I was, walking around in the yard I had not set foot on in close to 40 years.

When I was a boy there was a beautiful maple tree in the front yard, along with two dogwood trees on either side of the drive way, one pink, and the other white. Both are gone now. Several years ago, the power company committed a crime against humanity the day they, in their infinite wisdom, decided to string their power lines directly through the center of that magnificent tree, the one whose leaves came alive every fall in a burst of radiant yellow...

The results were about as horrific as it gets, but I took comfort every time I drove by that at least it was still alive and growing. I spent a lot of time underneath its branches to escape the heat of the sun when I was cutting grass or working in my Dad’s garden. But, yesterday, my heart sunk when I saw this out of the corner of my eye...

Maybe it was from the wind, or a lightening strike. But her days are numbered now. One day soon I will drive by and she will be gone.

I continued my walk around the yard. Nobody lives there anymore. It’s owned by the church right across the street. I think a Sunday school class or two meets in there. Everything looked different. The trees that were tiny saplings back when I was a kid were now huge and flourishing. One of the few things I recognized from the old days was our pitiful little grape vine which amazingly still persists...

But then I made the mistake of walking around to the back yard. That’s when I saw the back door that led into the old basement. It looked like a set of a horror movie, the door that the stupid blond girl never fails to enter even though everyone in the theatre is saying, No!! Not that door, you idiot!

It’s hard to describe what came over me when I saw this door with the overgrown bushes and the chipped paint. It was something very much like grief, a temporary yet overwhelming sadness. It was in this clammy basement where every summer when it got unbearably hot upstairs, Mom and Dad would allow me to set up a temporary bedroom. An old single bed, a desk and a single light bulb overhead. There was a small window only about three feet wide and six inches high which was open right above the ground right over my bed. At night I would prop up my old aqua colored transistor radio in that window and marvel at the play by play from big league baseball I could pull in from all over the place. On clear nights I could pick up Cleveland Indians games and even occasionally the St. Louis Cardinals. But it was so cool down there. Some nights I even had to get under the covers. I was 12 years old, maybe 13 and I felt safe there. I didn’t know a thing about the world, had no idea what was ahead of me. But in the morning I could hear Mom wake up and walk down the hall above my head from her bedroom to the kitchen. The old floorboards would groan and every now and again dust would drift down on my pillow. As I stood at the forlorn sight in front of me all of these memories came to life as if they had only happened yesterday.

Thomas Wolfe said, You can never go home again, and I think he’s right. Not because it isn’t there, but because what made it home no longer exists. Now, its just a broken down old house, but once a long time ago it was a broken down old house that was my safe refuge from a dangerous world. It was the place where I shared a bunk bed with my brother. It was a place where all six of us somehow had Christmas in that shoe box of a living room. It was the place where two adults and four kids shared one shower, where my mother cooked meal after meal for six people in that tiny Un-air conditioned kitchen. But now, the dogwoods are gone and the maple tree with the power lines going through its middle has just crumbled wide open and will soon be put out of its misery.

After taking these pictures, I walked back to my car, backed out of the driveway and drove away with a lump in my throat.

This Woman

I spent most of this morning searching for a picture of Mom and me taken years ago at one of our beach vacations. This picture has been on my mind since I woke up. It’s Mother’s Day and I miss her...

It’s a bit grainy. I don’t remember the year or much of anything else about the circumstances. Mostly I just remember her, the way she loved singing ancient hymns. She knew all the words. She would just start singing one and I would have to figure out what key she was singing in and catch up. Sometimes I would have to stop her and plead, “Wait, stop, Ma. I’m not gonna play “Showers of Blessings” in A flat. How about G?!” I would start it again and her alto would pick up right where I had left off, a step lower.

It’s been nine years since I’ve heard her voice, nine years since I listened to one of her speeches, nine years without arguing with her sometimes tortured logic about one thing or another. What I miss the most though is nine years without being hugged. When you got hugged by my mother, you were good and hugged, the kind that lingers on for hours, the kind that reassured you that you were loved no matter what you did. And I did plenty. When I was a kid Mom told me things about myself that nobody else knew...even me. It was Mom that warned me about the dangers of riches, because she knew that I was going to be successful in business before I even knew what business was. That was her way, her uncanny second sight, a sometimes creepy intuition about the future. 

Mom was the kind of person that I wanted everyone to meet, a rarity I suspect among most people who would rather endure a root canal with no anesthesia than have to introduce their mother to a group of their friends. But with Mom it was always, “You think that’s weird? You should meet my Mom!” Or, “There’s nobody else in the world like Mom.” Sure, there were times when her ideas or idiosyncrasies would embarrass me a little, but mostly I thought she was an amazing woman whose mind was alive with a thousand thoughts, and whose heart was filled with a deep and abiding love for all sorts of people, even strangers. This, the fruit of a Christian faith as deep as the ocean and and as free flowing as a river.

So, I miss my mother today, a bit more than usual. 

Mother’s Day

One disadvantage to having an eleven year old, 2400+ post blog is that there aren’t very many subjects that you haven’t already written about, sometimes more than once. Such is the case with regards to Mother’s Day. I’ve written a lot about my own mother, my mother-in-law and my wife. Of course the advantage of having such a prolific blog is that it offered me the chance to write about great women on their special day. Looking back over all of them, what follows was at the head of the class when I first wrote it and remains there to this day. I’m not sure I could add anything to it that would be an improvement, something I can say about very little of what I have written in this space since 2010. So, on Mother’s Day Eve, I offer this...

Making the Trains Run on Time

Tomorrow is Mother’s Day. Ever since my Mom passed away, it’s been the occasion of many fond memories, but also a bit of sadness. I suppose that this is a natural thing and as it should be and will be for the remainder of my life. At present there are but two mothers in my life, my mother-in-law and my wife. My mother-in-law’s claim to fame will forever be bringing my wife into this world and raising her so well. My wife, on the other hand, has been and continues to be a legendary mother. A few examples...

To say that the two of us had different parenting styles would be a world class understatement. But, it’s one of the things I believe helped produce two pretty amazing kids. We had different jobs. While their mother was busy demonstrating the cardinal virtues in word and deed in front of our children, I was busy teaching them how to field grounders and break up a double play. While Pam labored to instill a love of books and reading in them, I was upstairs giving them their baths and teaching them how to execute a proper armpit fart. Pam spent countless hours cultivating an appreciation of the arts in our kids, teaching them about what it is to love and cherish fine things. I spent countless hours perfecting the tickle-monster bedtime routine, complete with ethnic diversity twists like the dreaded Chinese tickle-monster....don’t ask. But, it’s not like I taught them nothing of lasting value...the wrestling skills they retain to this day? All me!

But, in our house it was always Mom who made the trains run on time. She’s the one who packed their lunches every day for 12 years, never failing to include a hand written note of encouragement, or an occasional corny joke. It was Mom who always filled out the endless paperwork of childhood, the bureaucratic paper trail of American adolescence. It was Mom who made sure their teeth were straight, their clothes were clean and that everything matched. Mom was the one who scheduled their doctor’s appointments, made sure they showed up everywhere on time. It was Mom who always was there when they returned from school, with a snack, demanding a full report on the day’s adventures. It was Mom who would not tolerate a bad attitude or an uncharitable remark. It was Mom who taught them the crucial importance of manners, an old school term which essentially means...respect. And it was always Mom who did all the worrying. While I always reminded her that...the kids will be fine...she put in a lifetime of 18 hour days making sure they would be. 

Watching my wife with our kids all these years has convinced me that motherhood is more art than science. There is nothing accidental about it. Being a mother, it seems to me, is an eternal commitment to the hard details of life. It is a relentless pursuit, a tireless advocacy campaign, whereby anything or anyone who gets between your children and their best interests is in for an existential fight to the finish. If you were dumb enough to pose a threat to our kids, there would be hell to pay. But, having said all of this, what made Pam so incredible as a mother was the fact that she steadfastly resisted the urge to hover over them. She wasn’t one of those insufferable helicopter moms who think it their job to insure that junior never skins a knee. Pam made sure our kids were prepared for everything, but success or failure was their job. Pam was willing to allow them to fail. 

I had my moments as a dad. Even though I was responsible for financing my family’s adventures, I never became one of those guys who was always too busy making money to show up at the game or the concert. My kids always knew that Dad would be there..at everything. But it is not a case of false modesty to say that in our house there was always only one indispensable person...Mom. The kids knew it. I knew it. Even Mom knew it, and she never buckled under the weight of the job.

What a woman...

                           

   

Best Bad Dad Jokes Ever?

It’s Friday, people. We have made it through another week. What better way to celebrate and kick off the weekend than a collection of some of the absolute worst Dad Jokes ever assembled in this space?

The wife left me because I have a fetish for touching pasta

Now I’m feeling cannelloni...

I finally got over my addiction to chocolate, marshmallows and nuts.

I’m not gonna lie, it was a rocky road...

What do you call Batman that skips church?

Christian Bale.....

My local barber was arrested for dealing drugs in my neighborhood.

I've gone to him for 5 years and I never knew he was a barber.

And now, as a bonus for all of my teacher friends out there, especially my daughter Kaitlin, who labors day after day filling young skulls full of mush with English grammar...

My wife: You need to do more chores around the house.

Me: Can we change the subject?

My wife: Okay. More chores around the house need to be done by you.

What’s the difference between a cat and a comma?

A cat has claws at the end of its paws, and a comma’s a pause at the end of a clause.

Immigration and...Wong’s Tacos

Every time Cinco de Mayo rolls around I get all sentimental about immigration, a subject that seldom provokes sentimentality any other time of the year. Most of the time I prefer not to think very much about immigration at all. It’s been a mess for years, yet another touchstone of raging argument in my embattled and contentious country. One of the reasons I don’t spend a lot of time on the subject is because my thinking is all over the map, and I generally don’t enjoy the angst of inconsistent ideas. I mean, I’ve got enough problems trying to remember where I left the car keys, let alone trying to figure out immigration policy.

The basic tension revolves around the word illegal. Where once it seemed perfectly understandable and defensible to prefer legal over illegal immigration, now even using the word illegal suggests malice and earns you condescending lectures from the woke crowd. No human being is illegal, they scream! Like I said...its a mess.

But then Cinco de Mayo comes. My wife has this thing about celebrating with food. Every St. Patrick’s Day its green stuff with soda bread, cabbage and corn beef. She loves themed meals. So naturally, last night she was all in on homemade tacos with some new recipe she had found. She gave me marinated chicken to cook on the grill along with corn on the cob which she transformed into this super yummy Mexican street corn dish. Then there was this special cheesy/spicy sauce she had made from scratch to season everything with. For drinks she served up lime margaritas—with or without alcohol. My sister Paula came over for dinner. It was fabulous.

Then I started thinking about what an amazing place America is. Here we all are in this giant place where literally nobody is from here. Even the so-called Native Americans aren’t from here, if the Anthropologists are to be believed. They stumbled across an ice bridge from like Mongolia or someplace thousands of years ago. As for everyone else? We are all from away, as my friends in Maine would say. My wife’s people came here from Ireland by way of Nova Scotia. My family’s story is a bit more complicated. It’s all a bit murky, but depending on which family historian you talk to we got here from either England, Ireland, or Germany. The more fabulous versions of the tale have my mother’s ancestors arriving via the Mayflower!! But, you get the point, everyone here today arrived on a boat.

For all of our history, the majority of those who have settled here have been from some sort of European extraction, although that majority status is less than it used to be. Still, from the beginning, we have always welcomed people from all over the world. When I say “welcomed” I’m not trying to suggest that we stood at the dock cheering. Far from it...we have welcomed immigrants grudgingly, largely because that is the way of human beings. We are always wary of “outsiders”, even if we ourselves were outsiders ten minutes ago. In the previous century, Irishmen and Italians took turns being the dreaded other. Now, its Mexicans, Hondurans and Guatemalans.

 

But here’s the thing...I think we are such a better country because of the Irish, Italians, Germans, Chinese, Koreans, Mexicans, etc who have chosen to make this country their home. Just think about all the delicious foods they brought here, not to mention the art, color, athleticism and brain power. Now, thanks to fusion cuisine, our favorite restaurant is a place called...get this...Wong’s Tacos. To me there is nothing more American than a joint called Wong’s Tacos! How awesome is that?

Yes, I know, it’s not as simple as this. Assimilation isn’t easy. Multiple languages, unskilled labor are all significant problems. But, looking at the big picture of our history, immigration has been a net plus...and it’s not even close.

The Gates Divorce

Yesterday the news broke that Bill and Melinda Gates were filing for divorce after 27 years of marriage. All of my news feeds were awash in photographs of the couple in happier times. I must admit that before yesterday I couldn’t have picked Mrs. Gates out of a police lineup. After being introduced to her by hundreds of photographs I can’t get her face out of my head along with the nagging suspicion that she might be somehow related to Caitlin Jenner. 

Be that as it may, the Gates divorce, on the heels of the 38 billion dollar Jeff Bezos settlement serves as further proof that money does in fact not buy happiness, not to mention the fact that two of the smartest men in the world sure could have used a pre-nup.

Of course, its easy to pile on the rich and famous when their personal lives start to unravel, especially here in America where we are so celebrity-obsessed. Sometimes the piling on can go too far as we forget that Bill and Melinda Gates are  human beings just like the rest of us. Human beings, whose money if stacked in $100 dollar bills would stretch 8,800 miles into space. Nevertheless, I intend to comply with their request to honor their privacy during this difficult time in exactly the same way that Microsoft applications honor my privacy on a daily basis.

Last night my son and I did something that was inevitable given the fact that he is my son and I am his father. I started it with this simple observation:

Me: Without Bill...Melinda will be just an...ionaire.

It didn’t take Patrick long to respond...

Patrick: Bill and Melinda are splitting up because Bill realized that marriage is a ....union

Then, we were off and running!

Me: Yeah, apparently Bill and Melinda couldn’t excel together so, bamm, the BSoD (blue screen of divorce)

Patrick:  

I hear they didn’t have enough nice...Words...for each other anymore, and reclaiming their separate identity was a PowerPoint

Me: Melinda wasn’t happy with Bill being at the Office365 days a year either.

Patrick: MacKenzie Scott settles her divorce with Jeff Bezos for 38 billion. Melinda Gates says,”Hold my beer.”

Me: Seeing Bill and Melinda Gates not excel at their marriage has me like “Word?” Here’s hoping their future has a better...Outlook.

But that’s it. No more piling on. I wish them both the best.

Larson is the Best

Even allowing for inflation, The Works is one heck of a deal.

Behind the scenes at the DMV...

Stop calling them farmers!

Meet Frisco...

Ok, there isn’t much I enjoy on Facebook more than pictures of all of my friend’s grandchildren. Seriously, I never tire of them. However, they do serve to remind me that as of this moment I have exactly zero grandchildren myself...which is fine, after all good things come to those who wait. But, what I do have are.....

Grandpups!!!

This is Frisco and yesterday he turned two. Not only is he a piece of work, he also happens to be the most photogenic pupper in history. I challenge any of you to find me a more adorable dog. I understand that he is beside himself with excitement that his Lolly and Pops are coming down for a visit in two weeks! I share these photographs with this audience because sometimes we all need a psychological jumpstart, something to jolt our brains away from angst and despair and into happiness and hope. This is essentially the job description of all dogs. It’s what they do. Frisco is happy to oblige.

You’re welcome...

Turning the Tables

Many of you know my friend Pam Cole for two things, first that she has been battling cancer, and second that she has had to endure over 3000 of my infamous Dad Jokes over the past year and a half. Most of you have a hard time imagining which one of those has been harder on her. Be that as it may, I am happy to report that she is doing great. In fact, yesterday she did something that she had never done before...she sent me a joke!!

A woman accompanied her husband to the doctor. After his checkup, the doctor called the woman into his office alone for a private consultation and said, “Your husband is suffering from a severe disease combined with horrible stress, and unless you do these things, he will die. Each morning fix him a healthy breakfast. Be pleasant throughout the day, and make sure he’s in a good mood. Make him something nutritious for lunch, and at dinner time be sure to make him his favorite meals. Don’t burden him with any household chores; he’s probably had a difficult day. And don’t discuss your problems with him; it will only increase his stress. In other words, do your best to satisfy his every whim. If you do this for the next ten months, I think he will make a complete recovery.”

On the way home in the car, the husband asked, “So, what did the doctor say?”

She looked him squarely in the eye and said, “You’re not going to make it.”

Yes, I feel confident that Pam is doing just fine!

His Eye is on the Sparrow

Today was to be my easy day this week. I’ve nothing on my schedule, no appointments, no paperwork to complete, no calls to make. Thursday and Friday both are packed but today was wide open. So, what do I do? Wake up at 3:30. Beautiful. When I was a teenager and would ask my dad how long I could stay out on the weekends he would always answer the question this way, “I can’t think of anything good that happens at 2 o’clock in the morning, can you?” That was his round about way of saying, “be home by midnight.” Well, I am here to tell you that nothing good happens at 4 o’clock in the morning either. Although, there was this...

I emptied the dishwasher around quarter to five. The sky was just starting to glow with the first faint streams of daylight. I had noticed earlier that it was in the low 60’s so I decided to step out on the deck. I was greeted by what sounded like a bird choir, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir of the Audubon Society. From every direction I could hear them. There must have been ten different songs going on at the same time yet they all blended together to make something beautiful. It was still too dark to make out even a single bird, but the evidence of them was in the air all around me. I stood still for a moment and closed my eyes. What a delight to hear such a thing in the early morning twilight. I wondered for a moment what they were saying to each other...Looks like its gonna be another scorcher...Little worried about the Dunnevant’s feeder, its getting a bit low...Don’t worry, they always take care of us... At least, I hope that’s what they think. They would be right. Every two weeks we reload that feeder with premium, no mess seed. Our feeder has been in the same location for over five years now, attached to the railing of the deck. The first couple of years the birds were more skittish, scurrying away every time we made an appearance. Now, they know us better, they understand that we won’t hurt them, so they come and eat even if we are sitting just a few feet away...

They’re right. It is getting low. I’ll be sure to fill it before the end of the day. 

The squirrels, fortunate enough to not already have been killed, always try to get at the bird’s food and always fail, often hilariously so. The birds in our neighborhood seem to understand that this is theirs. We get an endless stream, all day, every day. Every type of bird you can imagine in every color, shape and size. They are all endlessly fascinating. Sometimes there will be half a dozen are more at the same time. Two or three will be eating while the rest wait on the railing in a line like people at the DMV, only much more patient and better dressed. Sometimes when I’m watching them I think of that old verse in the Bible, “Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them fall to the ground outside your father’s care.”

His eye is on the sparrow.

So are mine.

How to Write Bad Jokes

Getting that coveted second shot today at a Kroger in Mechanicsville. Pfizer. One step closer to normal...or one step closer to being subconsciously manipulated by the sinister machinations of Bill Gates’ microchips. Speaking of Mechanicsville...

A friend of mine happened to mention this in a recent text conversation, “We stayed in an Airbnb in Mechanicsville last week.” My reply was that that statement sounded like the punch line of a joke, like:

How can you tell when the travel restrictions of COVID have finally driven you mad?

When you realize that you actually stayed in an Airbnb in Mechanicsville last week.

Lots of people have asked me where in the world I get the thousands of jokes I have shared in this space and others over the years. Well, probably 80% or more of them I have gotten from a handful of awesome dad joke sites. But the rest I have cobbled together myself, mostly using a rather simple formula. Think of the punch line first. Then work backward. For example, the other day I was thinking about Maine and the time I took the family out on a lobsterman boat in the Penobscot Bay to watch a demonstration of how that business works. So, I naturally stated thinking about the lobster pot buoys, of how each lobsterman has his own distinctive color or design to differentiate his buoys from all the others. Then the phrase good buoys popped into my head. The joke that proceeded from this thought practically wrote itself:

You hear about the Lobsterman in Maine who redesigned all his pot markers to look like the face of his dog?

They were very good buoys...

To which my son responded...

..........

By the way, here’s a picture of that Lobsterman boat trip on the Lively Lady:

Raising Them Right

The above text conversation took place yesterday as I was driving down Pump Road. The parking lot in question was at the corner of Pump and Broad. Just in case you’re wondering, it was an entirely hands-free conversation thanks to blue tooth technology. After I read her messages and made my comments, I pulled back onto West Broad Street heading east. Then my daughter couldn’t help pointing out my lack of Instagram Awareness:

I can always count on my kids to point out my social media failings. Honestly, I’ve never been all that interested in Instagram. For one thing, I don’t really get it, and for another I think its balky and not easy to navigate. Be that as it may, Kaitlin was determined for me to find whatever it was that she had sent me on the thing:

What I found were two pretty hilarious Dad Jokes, one a video showing the Joker character as a dad joker, and the second a picture of a dad trying on a new pair of New Balance tennis shoes at a shoe store...

But then, the best part of the conversation was her reply to my fake conversation with the police officer trying to explain why I had caused a five car pile up by pulling over to read her Instagram post:

It’s times like these when I know in my heart that I raised them right...

That’s Embarrasing

Embarrassing Dispatches From the Aging Frontlines:

So yesterday morning I arrived at the office at the usual time and quickly fell into my normal morning routine. I unlocked the front door. I identified myself by typing in my password at the alarm system keypad, turned on the lights and headed back to my office. I checked the two messages on my answering machine, scribbled a note to myself then walked back to the kitchen to make the coffee. It was at this point when I realized that nobody except me had been in the office all day Monday because of the golf tournament that my partner hosted. Since I had left shortly before the mailman showed up I decided to go out to the mailbox and retrieve yesterday’s mail. Upon my return, I settled in for the day.

At approximately 11:45 I notified my intrepid assistant Kristin that I was leaving to go get lunch. She rolled her eyes and made a vague growling sound as she usually does whenever she is busy working and I am not. Then on the way out the front door I stopped briefly to harass Lindsey, our receptionist extraordinaire, which is something I never once have failed to do. Then...the adventure began.

I threw my briefcase onto the passenger seat of my Cadillac XT5, adjusted the rear view mirror out of habit, then casually pressed the ignition button. Nothing. This could only mean one thing...I had left my car keys in my office. Frustrating, but not all that unusual. I walked back through the front door, aimed a sarcastic comment at Lindsey, blaming her for not reminding me to bring my keys with me, then walked back to my office only to discover that my car keys were nowhere to be found. This couldn’t be right. I could not have gotten in the office without them and couldn’t possibly have driven to work without them. Where the heck were they? Perhaps I left them in the bathroom? Nope. Maybe I laid them on the counter by the coffee maker? Nope. Maybe one of my treacherous office mates had hidden them somewhere trying to be cute. Nope. I went back to my office and began a frantic search through every drawer, crack and crevice. Nothing. Then, in a flicker of embarrassed recognition, a thought occurred to me. I quietly slipped out the back door, retracing my steps from four hours earlier...

Lucky for me no one with felonious intent happened to walk by and notice the Cadillac key fob not twenty feet away from my bright shiny red XTS, proof that God indeed looks after children and the feeble minded.

Insomnia

I’m hoping that two nights does not a trend make, but my history of sleep issues suggests that I might be starting a streak. Two nights ago it was crazy, catastrophic, soul-crushing dreams. Last night it was that feeling that you never once actually fell asleep, you just laid there all night dosing in and out of consciousness. In both cases you wake up totally spent, not a pleasant experience.

So, what exactly do you think about when you’re laying in bed wide awake at 2 o’clock in the morning? Quite a lot, actually. For me it always begins with things left undone. I need to borrow Ron’s power washer and clean the mildew off the front steps...I can’t keep putting that off! Then usually...inevitably, the mind drifts to business concerns. Did I send Client M that quarterly statement they asked for? What the heck is wrong with Capital Income Builder? When was the last time I put together a head shot and bio? Have I ever?? Somewhere during these interminable nights I will begin mulling over past mistakes, missteps, blunders. There’s a long list. Next comes plot lines for a novel I’m writing. Then finally, just before I give up on sleep, I start pondering the mysteries of creation...where did matter come from? It would be one thing if insomnia involved images of beauty or replays of the best moments off my life. But tossing and turning all night while contemplating existential puzzles is exhausting.

I’ve talked to people who say that they go to the kitchen and make themselves a sandwich. Others have claimed that they actually drink warm milk, which I don’t believe for a minute. The last thing I need to accompany insomnia is vomiting! But, once my feet hit the floor, its over. If I’m to have any chance of falling asleep I have to stay in the bed. So, no midnight sandwiches for me. Some people drink a glass or two of wine before bed. But I’ve heard both sides of that argument. For some people it helps them fall asleep, for others it has the opposite effect. 

When you Google Insomnia you find a lot of helpful hints like:

-No TV, cellphone use, or internet surfing while in bed

-Don’t eat right before bed

-No heavy workouts just before bed, but daily exercise is a must

Check, check and check.

Probably the best way to kick insomnia is to not write a blog about it two nights in, which might serve the purpose of elevating it to a place of importance that it does not yet deserve. It’s only been two nights. Of course now that I have, Lord Darth Zuckerburg will bombard my inbox and newsfeed with advertisements for every sleeping aid ever devised by the mind of man for the next two weeks.

But thats a heck of a lot better than warm milk! 

Minneapolis on the Brink

The week of April 19th has the potential to be a terrible one for the nation. Closing arguments in the trial of Police Officer Derek Chauvin, accused of murder in the arrest of George Floyd, are scheduled for today, after which the case will go to the jury. The city of Minneapolis along with many other large cities across the country are like tinder boxes. Adding to the woes in Minneapolis is the recent killing of Daunte Wright during a routine traffic stop by an officer who thought she was using a taser instead of her sidearm, with disastrous results. Giving all of this an even more sinister backdrop is the spate of mass shootings that have sprung up like mushrooms after a week of rain in the past couple of weeks, making America seem like a nation of lunatics. Considering the fact that police officers who go on trial for killing people have a remarkable record of being acquitted, I’m not terribly optimistic that the city of Minneapolis won’t be on fire by the end of the week. If I owned a business within a five mile radius of Brooklyn Center right now I would be double checking to make sure my insurance premiums were all paid up.

Whenever the subject of police behavior comes up in this country its not always wise to offer an opinion. Whatever you say will infuriate a bunch of people. Unfortunately most people have rushed towards the two extreme positions and will accept no compromises. On one end there’s the ridiculous defund the police crowd. At the other end are the obsequious back the blue folks. I am neither. I suppose it fair to say that I do lean towards a more pro-police position than the average citizen of Minneapolis. But my support and defense of law enforcement abruptly ends when excessive force is used. What exactly is excessive force is the question. Although I am a laymen in these matters I would assume that shooting a fleeing suspect in the back would qualify. But, time after time even this action gets explained away as a justified response...so what do I know?

Still, one would have to be living in a flag-draped fantasy world not to suspect that something is terribly wrong with us as a nation. There isn’t another advanced nation on earth with the amount of gun violence of America. No society on earth murders each other at the pace that we do. In addition—and this should not be swept aside in this discussion—we are the most heavily policed nation in the history of civilization. How many separate police departments do you have to answer to? For me its the Henrico County police, the City of Richmond police, the Virginia State police and the National Guard should they be summoned into my neighborhood. If I were to drift into the surrounding counties I might run afoul of Hanover County’s finest or the dreaded uniforms of the Town of Ashland police force!! Our police industry comes complete with SWAT teams and even armored personnel carriers and in some cities...tanks, or something that closely resembles tanks. I suppose when your legal code is five times thicker than the Bible it takes that many police departments to enforce the law. OR, we have gone off the rails as a society.

So, the nation awaits the George Floyd verdict with great fear and trembling. If Derek Chauvin walks I fully expect two weeks of destruction, riots and chaos from Richmond to Los Angeles. If he is found guilty and the cities still burn, like West Virginia porch sofas after a Mountaineer victory in a frenzied celebratory rave, then I give up!