Our Trip to Cozumel…Part I

The American Airlines jet pulled away from the terminal at 7:05 in the morning destined for Dallas, Texas. I had managed to wedge myself into the middle seat of row 25, while Pam sat in her cramped middle seat on row 33. This was just one of the many new twists in air travel I was about to learn flying for the first time since COVID—when flying in “basic economy” being married does not guarantee you a seat next to your beloved. The second twist made itself known a few minutes later when the pilot came on the intercom with news that the flight path was being changed for unknown reasons and there would be a delay while everything got sorted out. And hour and twenty minutes later while still motionless on the tarmac at RIC, the pilot announced that we were free to proceed and that he would do his best to make up for lost time while aloft. Unfortunately for the bewildered couple from Short Pump, the delay cost us any chance of making our connecting flight into Cozumel. By the time we landed in Mexico, my body had to be painfully unfolded like a rusty pocket knife. A fellow passenger informed me that AA had refitted their planes a while back to make them even less comfortable for normal sized humans. Sweet.

Perhaps United Airlines would be an improvement, I thought as we settled in for our return flight from Cozumel six days later. For starters, our jet was an Airbus and gone were the pigmy seats. I had the legroom of old and was sitting on the aisle along side Pam. All would be well. Alas, a series of unfortunate circumstances conspired against us, turning what was supposed to be a 7 hour trip into a 14 and a half hour odyssey. My back of the envelope calculations inform me that on our two voyages to Cozumel and back we spent a total of 10 hours and fifteen minutes in the air and another 13 hours being buffeted about from one interminable line to another trying to make sense of a steady stream of screens, flashing lights, an impossible to understand signs pointing us forward, backwards and sideways. In the midst of one particularly Byzantine cattle call Pam says to me, “Question: would you rather fly to Cozumel or drive up 95 to Maine?” We smiled at each other. 

But, how was the actual trip, you ask?

Wonderful.

Whenever you travel somewhere then get home and start looking at all the pictures you took, you realize that photography is very hit and miss. Pictures distill your memories into frozen, one-dimensional images which you are glad to have but just don’t quite communicate what you were hoping to capture. So the best you can do is pick out the best of the lot and offer context which is what I will now attempt to do.

For most of our time at The Occidental this was our vantage point—the dwindling beach on the Caribbean Sea, the body of water that separates Cozumel Island from the mainland of Mexico and the Yucatán Peninsula. By the time we left some of the palm trees were holding on for dear life as the rough seas battered them relentlessly the last two days.

While most of the guests preferred the pool that was just beyond the stone wall behind us, we loved our spot just feet from the crashing waves. The place had a magnetic pull on us all week.

The resort seemed to have been cut very delicately out of the jungle. Each walkway was surrounded on all sides by thick vegetation including this bunch of bananas we passed under on our way to breakfast every morning.

Pam and I discovered that we very much like the all-inclusive concept whereby you can eat and drink anything your heart desires, anytime you want. This is especially nice when the view from your table looks like this…

Another advantage to resort living is the fact that every single time you leave your room in the morning, you return to a beautifully clean and freshly made bed. If only the help around here was as efficient.

While this tiny little patio might not look like much, it came with the advantage of jungle-insured privacy and a near constant delightful breeze…

On one of the rare occasions when we managed to pull ourselves away from the beach, there was a rented Jeep involved. With it we decided to explore the east side of the Island where there exists no electricity and no indoor plumbing, but lots of great shacks serving adult beverages and native cuisine, not to mention breathtaking scenery of rocky beaches. They were right about the shacks and the breathtaking scenery…

This blog has gotten a bit long, so I will wrap it up here and finish the rest of the story another time. Bottom line is that we had a great time just being together in a beautiful place with nothing to do.

Ashamed

Its been less than 24 hours since the school shooting in Nashville. There aren’t enough facts to make definitive and informed statements. We don’t know what was in the mind of the shooter yet. We don’t know very much about the victims. We see snippets of information, some family photographs. More will be known by the end of this day, still more by the end of the week. I have no profound insights to add. My thoughts on the subject at present are driven by emotion. I would rather wait until more is known before commenting, when the blood isn’t running so hot.

But there’s this…

Pay particular attention to the fine print at the bottom of this ghastly map. This is the United States of America in the first 86 days of this year. I would think that this map would be an abomination if it was for the last five years. But this is us…in less than three months.

Maybe the only other place on the planet that can compete with us at the moment would be Ukraine. This is what American Exceptionalism has come to mean for many people around the world. We’re the place where mentally disturbed people armed to the teeth with powerful weapons walk into schools and start killing kids. This is our unique story. There isn’t another civilized nation on Earth with numbers like this…

This chart includes only shootings where at least 6 are killed and covers the twenty years between 1999 and 2019.

Whenever something like this happens I hear people say, “There are no words…” Although, I understand what they are trying to say, I disagree with the sentiment. Actually, there are lots of words. Words like, ashamed, furious, sad, horrified, failure.

But right now? Mostly…ashamed.

Lucy To The Rescue

Lucy is 8 years old now, but she still loves to catch the frisbee from me out in the back yard. I’ve thrown it to her so many times every throw is pretty much perfect, just like she likes it, up high coming in from right to left at a 45 degree angle. She always times her leap so she can catch it as far from the ground as her springy back legs will launch her. It is a very graceful thing to behold. But…she’s 8 years old now. A few days ago she leapt athletically into the air, grabbed hold of the frisbee tight in her teeth, but landed awkwardly. When running back to me she stopped half way and let the frisbee drop to the ground, signaling that she was through. Later that evening she developed a noticeable limp. She has been limping ever since. I have felt every inch of the leg from her paw pads to her shoulder and she never winces, never offers any protest, and yet I have to carry her down the stairs, the limp getting worse almost each day. My worthless vet can’t see her until this coming Tuesday, although I am on the cancellation list. 

Then this afternoon we began to notice an improvement in her limp, not as pronounced as before. Unfortunately she has developed a very rare case of diarrhea. Poor girl had an even more rare inside accident, thankfully on one of the cheap rugs, while Pam and I were working at Hope Thrift. Lucy is a dog who rarely gets sick with anything. Compared to Molly, she’s Super Dog. And yet, 5 days before we are scheduled to fly to Cozumel she has the runs.

…Oh…and our Refrigerator is busted again. New ones cost north of $2000, I’m told.

So Pam and I settled down tonight after dinner and watched the American movie adaptation of the Swedish novel, A Man Called Ove. We both read the book while we were in Maine, then watched the Swedish movie made a couple years ago a while back. We were worried when we heard that Hollywood was doing an Americanized version of the book, even with Tom Hanks playing the lead. We weren’t sure he was right for the part. Once again, Tom Hanks proved me wrong. He was great, the movie was wonderful. We both loved it. Do yourself a favor and get yourself a copy of the book first, then watch the movie. You’ll be glad you did.

Of course in the last fifteen minutes of the film, Otto has several heart-related health scares, exactly the kind of thing I didn’t need to watch. I kept telling myself that the character of Otto is a much older man than I am, so its apples and oranges. Then towards the end, the screen fills with a shot of his tombstone and I see “Otto Anderson 1955-2022”. Two years older than me. HA!!

Actually I’m getting better. I still worry, but less and less each day. So many of you have offered kind words and wise advice. One of the things that has helped honestly is Lucy coming up lame. Its amazing how your outlook changes when you find someone else to care for and worry about. Watching my sweet girl limp around the house has helped take my mind off my own problems. Funny how that works…thinking about the problems of others helps you forget yours. There’s probably a lesson there.

Fighting Off Depression

You have no right to depression. It seems a self-indulgent luxury inappropriate to the circumstances, a reaction born of weakness and self pity. And yet when you wake at 1:00 in the morning with heartburn, you feel its weight like a flak jacket draped over your shoulders. You spend the morning slouching around your office waiting for an opportunity to go home and escape interaction with anyone. You’re already tired of talking about it. But these are the very best people in your life. You should want to be there. But you would rather be anywhere else.

You go home and sit at the desk in your library and try to get busy with preparations for the week, but your ability to concentrate enough energy for the task fails you. You think you feel the slightest of flutters, maybe a skipped beat. But it was probably your over sensitive imagination.

You try hard not to overreact. You keep reminding yourself that nothing is ever as bad as it first appears to be. A couple of banks fail. The details are sketchy and convoluted. But the episode takes away a measure of your confidence.

Its been a long time since you have worried about your heart. After the surgery twenty years ago, you eventually taught yourself to ignore every little flutter. The worry was killing you. But you got over it in time, and now the worry is back with a vengeance, like it never left.

The weight of your work has become oppressive. The thought enters your mind that you might be done. Maybe 41 years is all you have to give to your work. But the time isn’t right. Didn’t you always plan on staying at it a couple more years until your Social Security mandated full retirement age of 66 years and 8 months? Didn’t you tell yourself that you needed 18 more months of growth, 18 more months of throwing money at your investments? No, you’re not done. It was just a random thought that came into your mind as you sat on the edge of your bed in the darkness at 1:00 in the morning fighting off heartburn. Mustn’t overreact.

You remind yourself of how many times you have fought through darkness before. There have been hard times far worse than this and you found a way to pull through. You have always been able to pull from some hidden strength reserve in a crisis. Your faith has sustained you through much worse, and this is no different. Only, you were a younger man then. Maybe your reserves have limits. Maybe toughness and endurance have a shelf life, a use-by date.

It doesn’t matter. You won’t quit. You never have quit. You will see it through. You will keep grinding until 66 and 8, probably longer because that’s what you do. Its who you are.

But you’re going to have to find a way to make it through without letting the anxiety and fear kill you first. Where have these new emotions come from anyway? What have you ever had to be afraid of? Nothing, that’s what. Fear was for the weak-willed and faithless, a dangerous emotion for a businessman to indulge. You have more money than ever. You are more financially secure than you have ever been. Why has worry suddenly overtaken you?

The last thing you need at this moment is the news that a former President is to be arrested in New York City this week. But when you give in just for a minute to depression its where your eyes go, to the gaudy headline with his black and white photograph staring back at you. As he tries to rouse his rabble on Twitter your mind wanders to 2024, trying to imagine just how humiliating that election will turn out to be. You cannot imagine a Joe Biden—two years older—campaigning in anything besides a walker with the Presidential Seal attached to the front. You wonder if he will bow out and what chance in hell Kamala Harris will have. Then you try to imagine a Republican challenger and your troubled heart sinks further into the murkiness of the unknown. When you read the Elon Musk Tweet about the former President winning in a landslide if he gets arrested, you hope that this isn’t one of his moments of brilliance.

So, you must fight back. You have to find a way to fight off this anxiety and fear. You must find a way to bring back confidence and optimism. Step One will involve a benign word from your cardiologist after a month of tests. Step Two might be some sanity to return to the financial markets. Step Three would include some time away to a tropical location with the love of your life.

But, there’s always the chance that none of these three are in the cards. Maybe something is wrong with the heart. Maybe chaos is the new normal in financial markets. Maybe you’ll have to cancel the trip to Cozumel.

If so…you will find a way to grind through.

My New Thing

No. This is not some new age three dimensional tattoo, and no, this isn’t the latest trend in body piercing. This is a heart monitor that I will be wearing for the next two weeks. I am assured that it is the newest, most advanced version of this technology, which I am sure to be reminded of when I get the bill. 

There are two ironies at play here. First, this happens a mere 17 days before my 65th birthday, as if to remind me of my mortality. Second, all of this treatment and its resulting costs come a mere 15 days before I am covered by Medicare, as if to remind me that timing is everything. The last two weeks of my Anthem coverage will feature me meeting my $5000 annual deductible—just in time for the coverage to end without any of this costing those guys a penny!

Without going into any of the boring and inappropriate details, suffice it to say that while running five miles on March the 9th I was blindsided by a sudden and unwelcome pounding of my heart accompanied by the mother of all dizzy spells, which resulted in me on all fours on a sidewalk in Wellesley. Luckily I was only .7 miles from home, so I walked home and made a call to my old cardiologist from my heart surgery days from 20 years ago to see if I could set an appointment. The friendly receptionist informed me that my cardiologist retired over 5 years ago, which tells you just how faithful I have been to my every other year echocardiogram regime. Be that as it may, I was able to secure the appointment at a competing practice with the intervention of an emergency room doctor friend of mine, who wanted to know why I hadn't immediately gone to an emergency room or at least called 911. My answer was something along the lines of…Because that would have been the wise and prudent thing to do, and I always prefer the stupid and sketchy approach to medical surprises.

So, for the next two weeks I will wear this device, schedule a stress test, echocardiogram, and blood work, then come back to see the doctor on April 12th to find out what’s happening. In the meantime, while he approved of our trip to Cozumel, he forbade me from any running for the next 30 days. I fully expect to put on ten pounds while waiting for this odious edict to be lifted.

The beating of one’s heart is something that you are seldom aware of. Its like breathing. Back when I had that heart operation years ago it took me then longest time to get over obsessing over my heart. Every little cough or flutter would result in rising anxiety. But eventually I got over it and went back to being blissfully unaware of the functionality of my heart. Right up until March the 9th at 2:47 in the afternoon. Now, unfortunately I am right back where I was mentally 20 years ago. Every beat, every rhythm, every hiccup is magnified beyond recognition. But, I will get over this just like I did before.

But if I look ten pounds heavier the next time you see me, no wisecracks please!

Beyond Angry

First Republic Bank Executives Sold $12 Million in Stock in Months Before Crash

This was the Wall Street Journal headline that greeted me this morning at 6 am. Although I wasn’t in the least bit surprised, this sort of thing still has the ability to send me into a spittle spewing rage. We see a photograph of some kid from the projects looting a case of beer during a riot and we clutch our pearls while decrying the death of culture, while the grand theft of these bankers gets relegated to a judgement free article in a business newspaper…while I sit here seething.

Nearly every executive at First Republic Bank sold off large blocks of their own bank’s stock in the first three months of this year, just weeks before that stock got destroyed by events of the past week. Unless you believe that this group of incompetents are just lucky investors, you must come to the undeniable conclusion that they acted on information in their possession that was unknown to the general public. This is known as insider trading, and it is illegal and if convicted of it, you go to jail. Just ask Martha Stewart. Don’t hold your breath waiting for the likes of James Herbert II, Robert Thornton, or David Lichtman to do any hard time. They all have expensive lawyers.

I have been a beneficiary of living in a capitalistic country all my life. Although no economic system is perfect, and capitalism certainly has flaws and weaknesses, it has been responsible for more human flourishing and wealth creation than any economic system ever devised by mankind. But, capitalism is only as good as the ethics of those who participate in it. I am in a business which requires me to act as a fiduciary, in other words, I must always act in my client’s best interest and never my own. If it is discovered by regulators that I have been lining my pockets at my client’s expense, I lose everything. I am exposed to various audits more than once a year to insure my compliance. So are banks. And yet, this sort of thing keeps happening. Either the bankers are smarter than their regulators, or the regulators are incompetent or on the take. I say this  not out of animus, but rather the fact that some of the banks that are in the most trouble at the moment had just recently received clean bills of health by these alleged regulators. This marks the third banking crisis this country has endured in the past 40 years. The lessons of the past keep getting forgotten, and each time, the government has to swoop in bail them out. Moral hazard, anyone?

My Dad used to say that “character is destiny”. At the end of the day, no matter what economic system you operate in, success and flourishing only happen when human beings operate as fiduciaries. As simple as it might sound, “Do unto others as you would have them do onto you” is called the Golden Rule for a reason. It is the basis of every successful financial interaction. When we forget this and act out of self-interest like these despicable executives at the First Republic Bank, everything goes to hell in a hurry.

The Dad Joke Creation Committee

A couple of days ago I called a meeting of the Dad Joke Creation Committee at my house. After three years of churning them out, the cupboard is a bit bare. So we gathered around the table and started throwing out ideas. Here’s how it went…

Me: How about this? What do you call a herd of sheep falling down a hill?

Member A: ….a Baaaavalanche?

Member B: …no. A Lambslide.

Member C:…I’m gonna have to insist on knowing the number of sheep who fell. I’m counting on it.

Me: None of ewe are making any sense.

Member C: Its a bad joke…but I guess its better than mutton.

Member A: For one thing, the joke isn’t very believable. Sounds like somebody spinning a good yarn.

Member B: This is shear madness.

Member C: You mean shear maaaadness.

Me: Wool you guys fleece put a sock in it now?

Member A: Getting back to this hill…was it a sheep decline?

Member B: I just hope they all had their last Wool and Testament made out before anything baaaaad happened.

Member C: I heard that over twenty of them died. It was a terrible scene at the bottom of that hill. The clean up crew took them away in a special vehicle.

Me: What special vehicle?

Members A, B, and C: A Ewe Haul

Me: This joke will have ram-ifications.

Member A: Yes, making jokes at those poor sheep’s expense is a slippery slope.

Member C: No kidding. Especially since the rumor is that at the bottom of that hill there was a shear cliff.

Yeah, I’d say it was a very productive meeting!

Inertia and Body Odor

I have a difficult relationship with CVS Pharmacy. I have been filling my prescriptions there since before I can remember. At first it was because it was so convenient to my office. But over the last couple of years the place has gone downhill in practically every way. Its gotten junky, they’ve started bombarding me with texts, and the decidedly unhelpful crew that man the pharmacy have taken on the vibe of the bar scene in Star Wars. And yet, I still shop there, for the same reason that I still bank at Wells Fargo…inertia.

There might be no other force in the universe with greater influence over our day to day lives than inertia. Poorly run enterprises count on its power to keep them in business. Am I tired of the manifest incompetence of Wells Fargo, not to mention their admitted malfeasance? Of course I am. But the very thought of shutting down all three of our checking accounts there, re-establishing a whole host of auto-deposits and debits gives me migraines. Am I unhappy with the service and cleanliness of CVS? Of course I am. But, going to the giant hassle of calling the doctor’s offices and changing pharmacies feels like a gigantic chore…and they are right across the street. So in both cases I put up with a lot of unpleasantness in exchange for convenience.

So yesterday at CVS I experienced a new low. I was there around 4:30 in the afternoon to pick up two prescriptions and various toiletries. I knew full well that 4:30 in the afternoon was a horrible time to pick up prescriptions at CVS, so that’s on me. I found the toiletries without incident, then made my way to the back of the store where the Pharmacy is located expecting a serpentine line waiting on the one forlorn and irritable clerk. Instead, I was pleasantly surprised to see that I was the only customer.

Over the past couple of years CVS has taken to hiring an assortment of tattooed, body-pierced, wool cap-in the middle of summer-wearing folks to man the registers. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, I suppose. Its just a marked change from the mostly young and energetic people I’ve become used to. The new people hardly ever make eye contact with you and when they do it is to communicate epic levels of boredom and constitutional disenchantment. But, I put up with it because…well, that inertia thing. So when I see the woman with the thick wool sack covering her entire head at the register I stroll up to tell her my last name and birthdate. I am, after all, a seasoned veteran and know the drill. But when I leaned in to pass on this information my momentum was abruptly stopped in its tracks.

People…as someone who has done his share of hard manual labor around other men, and as someone who has a lifetime of experience inside male locker rooms, I know a thing or two about body odor. But nothing I have ever encountered prepared me for the stench that greeted me at the CVS pharmacy counter. I was so stunned by the smell that I literally stepped back from the counter. A younger version of me would probably have blurted out, “Whoa!! Who died??” The mature, grown up version of me simply withdrew myself to a safe distance while wool cap girl entered my data. But, there was a problem. She couldn’t spell my name and asked for a clarification in a beautiful middle eastern accent. I cautiously leaned in to say, “D-U-N-N”. It was excruciating. When she disappeared around the corner to fetch my medicines I glanced at her co-workers across the way and one of them caught my eye and shrugged her shoulders at me as if to say, “You think you’ve got troubles? Try working with her all day.” Although this woman smelled like a cross between George Kennedy in Cool Hand Luke and the janitor at a Turkish bathhouse, she was efficient and friendly.

As I was driving home I started to wonder about her. Is she even aware that she smells? Is it a cultural thing with people from the Middle East? Maybe for them, I smell bad. My morning routine involves the generous application of a wide variety of distinct smells, from my shampoo to my body wash, deodorant and aftershave. Maybe when someone from Egypt encounters me I smell like some kind of rancid walking fruit salad. Its all what you’re accustomed to, I suppose. 

Maybe next time I’ll use the drive thru.

Doing My Job

Finding top quality Dad jokes has become much more difficult of late. Perhaps the reason is that I have published literally over a thousand of them over the years, using up the known supply. Nevertheless, I continue the search for all of you, knowing how important they are to your physical and mental health—-especially Sherri Matthews….

Old World Virtues

This has been a week. I’ve had refrigerators stop working, kids getting jobs, kids applying for jobs, having to learn new technologies at the office, a parade of appointments—most effective, some not so much—and now I face the week ahead packed with appointments set by my intrepid assistant who has now officially abandoned me for the sunny beaches of the Dominican Republic. Thank God its Friday.

In the midst of everything, two observations from my week:

My wife is fond of deriding me for my unhip musical taste. She never misses a chance to remind me of how old I am with her favorite put down, “You don’t like any music unless it was recorded at least 40 years ago!”  Although uncharitable, her comment is not entirely wrong. It is true that most of the music and musicians that I like tend to be my age or older. So, sue me. I can’t help it that I grew up listening to The Beatles. Is it my fault that the Eagles and James Taylor were huge stars when I was in High School? Am I to blame for the fact that just about the time my hormones were at the height of their destructive power I was introduced to the three Goddesses that were Emmy Lou Harris, Linda Ronstadt, and Bonnie Raitt? And what self respecting fan of great music should have to apologize for going nuts for the Count Basie Orchestra and Frank Freaking Sinatra?? So, guilty as charged. I bring this up because thanks to Spotify, I have once again fallen into a loop of some great music these past couple of weeks from the Emmy Lou Harris station. The aforementioned Goddesses are featured prominently and all week I have been treated with a memory lane of terrific songs. Among my favorites are two from Ms. Harris—Two More Bottles of Wine, and Gold.

The second observation involves the power of a kind gesture. A few nights ago, my wife hosted the first in person, face to face meeting of our neighborhood HOA since COVID—at our house. There were ten or so of them around our dining room table. I stayed clear of the proceedings, but they were busy down stairs for the better part of two hours. Of course, Pam being Pam, she had made brownies and made sure their were pens and notepads at every chair. Anyway, the next day when I came home for lunch there was something sitting on the front steps…

A beautiful orchid. My first thought was that one of the sweet pups from next door had put it there. That sounds exactly like something they would do. Later Pam found out that one of the members of the HOA board had placed this gorgeous thing on our doorstep to thank Pam for hosting the meeting and for her good work on the Board. 

Never, ever underestimate the power of simple kindness. Many times in life its the little things that matter most. Thoughtfulness, kindness, gratitude, an encouraging word are the grace notes that interrupt our otherwise transactional world. All of us need to do a better job of seeking out opportunities to exercise these old world virtues more often.

The Longing

Whenever the calendar flips from February to March I start to feel the first rumblings. Its been months since I’ve allowed myself the privilege. I’ll just call it what it is—the longing. Four months from today we go back.

So far in 2023 I have been working hard. The winter months are spent immersing myself in the complexities of my profession. Appointments, meetings, schedules to keep. I grind against a wall of equations. I devise strategies and evaluate columns of large numbers. I’ve been doing it for 41 years. I know this terrain like the back of my hand. It is not a bad place to be. I like my job, even enjoy it at times. It has been good to me and my family. I’m grateful that I landed in it over four decades ago.

But, there’s another place. Its a place I inherited from my wife. I knew nothing of it 40 years ago. While chasing her I found the place where she was born and raised. Like her, I have been in love with it ever since.

Readers of this blog have been overwhelmed with a thousand pictures of the place. You’ve all seen the water, the sunsets, the sunrises, our smiling faces, and yet we keep posting new ones because a place like this can’t possibly be adequately illustrated by a thousand pictures. Here’s what I mean…

This is the Fraternity General Store in Searsmont, Maine. Its the closest such store to Quantabacook, about a five minute drive from the cabin. This is where we go to get essentials that we forgot to get at Hannaford’s in Belfast. Its also where we order pizza, sandwiches and whoopie pies. Its also a handy place to pick up fishing supplies and a cold beer.

Sometimes we will grab lunch here. There are a thousand general stores like this throughout Maine. This one is ours. You will notice the hobby horse beside the wood stove and the cribbage board and decks of cards on the stovetop. In the summer usually those double doors, or at least one of them, are open because the place isn't air conditioned. Hardly anyplace is in Maine.

Sometimes a stray chicken will visit, and when they do you realize how far from Short Pump you are.

This is Amanda. She is responsible for making all of the baked goods and running the kitchen. The donuts, whoopie pies and blueberry muffins that she makes fresh every morning are delicious, and if you get there at the right time, still warm! I frequent FGS probably on average twice a day.

Can you blame me?

Lucy’s Idiot-syncrasies

Our Lucy is now eight years old. She has thankfully grown out of many of the psychotic disorders that plagued her youth, most of which have been well chronicled here at The Tempest. But, there is one bizarre behavior that she clings to, unmoved by eight years of education, training and experience. It involves the stairs in our house.

Neither of us are aware of anything in her past that may have prompted this particular variety of insanity. We don’t recall Lucy having ever having fallen down the steps. She has never witnessed either of us falling down the steps. And yet, every single time she happens to be upstairs and wishes to come downstairs…she insists upon a personal escort. This morning was a perfect example.

During the week, both of us are early risers. But sometimes on Saturday Pam will sleep in—this morning until a little after 9:00am. Lucy’s custom is that she never comes downstairs in the morning until both of us are awake. But 9:00am is super late for the Dunnevant house. It had been a full 13 hours since Lucy’s famous last pee call the previous evening. No doubt she had to go like the proverbial Russian racehorse. But when Pam came down the steps, she asked if Lucy had been let out yet and I replied—“Of course not!” I walk over to the foyer and there she is, in the identical position she is in every morning of her life:

Yes, her eyes always straddle that last post. She has no doubt measured out the exact spot and makes sure to stand there and no place else. At this point, there are two options. I can send Pam up to coax her down—always a bad idea. For Pam, Lucy takes her stubborn intransigence to ridiculous levels, ending in Pam yelling at the top of her lungs while attaching the leash to her collar and pulling her down the stairs. For me, its much easier. Still, she will not budge until I walk up the stairs. When I arrive at the landing just six steps away from her, she will NOT budge…

It is at this point when I must put my right foot on the next step up from the landing, lean forward, extending my right hand close to her nose and then snap my fingers …twice. Then, the spell is broken and she merrily makes her way down the steps like any normal dog would, completely without incident every single time.

The alert reader will notice the blue skids on each step of the hardwood stairs. Those were not a fashion or decorating decision. Several years ago Lucy decided that coming down the steps at all was a non-starter. With the addition of the skids we at least got to the point we find ourselves in now. I should point out that when we take her to Maine she bolts down any and all fights of stairs with reckless abandon, showing not the least bit of hesitation. Even when we took her to the Owl’s Head lighthouse and its crazy long and dizzying steps she had zero trouble…

In case the reader is wondering, she has no hesitation going up the stairs. 

I know, I know what you are all thinking. “Who is training who here??” This is a fair point. However, Lucy is about as stubborn an animal as exists on Planet Earth. If we did not escort her down the stairs, she would just stay up there and soil the expensive carpeting. Life is too short.

The Fog of War

The following is a list of things I have read in various news outlets over the past three days:

1. Vladimir Putin is consolidating his grip on power by dispatching his rivals and going all-in on the war in Ukraine.

2. Vladimir Putin is fast dying of an as of yet unidentifiable disease.

3. Volodymyr Zelensky is a petty autocrat who has moved to shut down religious freedoms, and has done absolutely nothing to curb the rampant corruption of his government.

4. Volodymyr Zelensky is the new Churchill, a symbol of freedom and champion of Democracy.

5. Russian forces are making headway and may soon overrun the overstretched Ukrainian lines.

6. Ukrainian forces are bravely holding the line despite being vastly outnumbered.

7. The feckless stance of America’s pro-Ukrainian stance in this conflict has created a new partnership between Russia and China which will have devastating consequences for the West.

8. Chinese leader Xi is headed to Moscow over concerns with Vladimir Putin’s leadership.

9. Russia has plans to soon annex Moldova, Belarus, Finland, and Poland.

10. Almost the entirety of Russia’s standing army plus conscripts are on the Ukrainian border, poorly led, running out of missiles and ammunition, with morale at an all-time low.

11. Men of draft age in Russia are fleeing the country in mass to avoid being rounded up and conscripted into the fight.

12. Interviews with the “man on the street” in Moscow shows overwhelming support for the war and frustration at the timidity of Russia’s high command.

13. Joe Biden’s secret, surprise trip to Kiev was a game changing and heroic show of support for a beleaguered freedom fighting people.

14. The air raid sirens that began blasting the minute Joe Biden appeared in public on the streets in Kiev were fake and had no military value other than making Biden look brave.

15. Joe Biden promised the Ukrainian president that the United States would continue its financial and military support for “as long as it takes.”

16. Many in Congress from both sides of the aisle are steadfastly against anything approaching a blank check for Ukraine.

This, I believe, is what is known as the fog of war.

Thank You, Mr. President

Most of America is closed today for President’s Day. Few of us will actually celebrate this oddest of all excuses for a day off, unless it is to take advantage of one of the many President’s Day sales afoot across the fruited plain. Much of our detachment from President’s Day no doubt is a result of the most recent occupants of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, who haven’t exactly inspired us with their intellect, imagination or energy. But it has not always been so. At various times in our nation’s history we have been blessed with incredible men who seemed perfectly matched with the gravity of their time. No one more so than Abraham Lincoln.

I have chosen to reproduce his second inaugural address below in honor of the day. It is one of the most beautifully written, honest speeches ever given by an American President, before or since. Reading it 160 years later, it has lost not one ounce of its gravity or its beauty. It still causes me to feel a mixture of shame and pride. It also makes me long for this combination of intelligence, humility and brevity from a leader.

Fellow countrymen,

At this second appearing to take the oath of the Presidential office there is less occasion for an extended address than there was at the first. Then a statement somewhat in detail of a course to be pursued seemed fitting and proper. Now, at the expiration of four years, during which public declarations have been constantly called forth on every point and phase of the great contest which still absorbs the attention and engrosses the energies of the nation, little that is new could be presented. The progress of our arms, upon which all else chiefly depends, is as well known to the public as to myself, and it is, I trust, reasonably satisfactory and encouraging to all. With high hope for the future, no prediction in regard to it is ventured.

On the occasion corresponding to this four years ago all thoughts were anxiously directed to an impending civil war. All dreaded it, all sought to avert it. While the inaugural address was being delivered from this place, devoted altogether to saving the Union without war, insurgent agents were in the city seeking to destroy it without war-seeking to dissolve the Union and divide effects by negotiation. Both parties deprecated war, but one of them would make war rather than let the nation survive, and the other would accept war rather than let it perish, and the war came.

One-eighth of the whole population were colored slaves, not distributed generally over the Union, but localized in the southern part of it. These slaves constituted a peculiar and powerful interest. All knew that this interest was somehow the cause of the war. To strengthen, perpetuate, and extend this interest was the object for which the insurgents would rend the Union even by war, while the Government claimed no right to do more than to restrict the territorial enlargement of it. Neither party expected for the war the magnitude or the duration which it has already attained. Neither anticipated that the cause of the conflict might cease with or even before the conflict itself should cease. Each looked for an easier triumph, and a result less fundamental and astounding. Both read the same Bible and pray to the same God, and each invokes His aid against the other. It may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just God’s assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of other men’s faces, but let us judge not, that we be not judged. The prayers of both could not be answered. That of neither has been answered fully. The Almighty has His own purposes. “Woe unto the world because of offenses; for it must needs be that offenses come, but woe to that man by whom the offense cometh.” If we shall suppose that American slavery is one of those offenses which, in the providence of God, must needs come, but which, having continued through His appointed time, He now wills to remove, and that He gives to both North and South this terrible war as the woe due to those by whom the offense came, shall we discern therein any departure from those divine attributes which the believers in a living God always ascribe to Him? Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondsman’s two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said “the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether.”

With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation’s wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.

 

A Visit From the Firstborn

My sweet daughter came home for a visit this weekend. She had planned to attend a Valentine’s lunch planned for all the women in the family by my sister, but it got cancelled last minute by that pesky be-spoiler of plans—COVID. But Kaitlin decided to drive the five and a half hours anyway, arriving here at one o’clock in the morning after a long and tiring week of teaching 7th graders. She will drive back sometime this afternoon, having spent a mere 36 hours with us. This is what it is like to have grown children who live in other places, other states. Even the briefest of visits become special. So…how did she spend her time with us? Basically it involved eating, talking, and watching reruns of The Middle.

Pam fixed breakfast yesterday and Kaitlin got us caught up on all the news from Columbia over homemade waffles and crispy bacon. We heard about work, her small group and church happenings, the latest with Jon and Jackson. We got to see her new car. 

Then they both showered and announced that they were going to head over to Panera’s for a quick lunch. I immediately understood the real meaning of “quick lunch”, having long ago cracked their code. There would be nothing “quick” about this lunch. As soon as they left, I looked down at Lucy and said, “you’ll get your dinner before they get back.” I have no idea what they did for the four hours they were gone, but it probably involved lots more talking and catching up.

For dinner I had planned to take Kaitlin to the New Mexican restaurant that opened up where the old Casa Grande used to be. She loved it. By the time we got back home it was around 8 o’clock and before long her mother and her had assumed their position of choice during these rare and too short visits home…

They snuggle up on the sofa under blankets while Lucy tries to figure out her spot in this new configuration. They turn on the television and pick a show to watch. Since Kaitlin loves psychological thrillers, we suggested the show Pam and I have been watching recently…The Servant. Kaitlin was hooked after the first five minutes and insisted on watching three episodes, interrupted only by a hot chocolate break. Around 11:00 I headed up to bed, knowing that I couldn’t keep up with the two of them. I have no idea when they finally went to bed.

This morning there will be breakfast and church, either in person at Hope or sofa-church watching Midtown’s service on live stream. Then more lounging around. Then lunch out someplace.

If this all sounds boring and uneventful to you, I imagine that you don’t have children. If you do, chances are that they live fifteen minutes away and are always dropping by for no particular reason. Our kids never just drop by, so when they do it feels like a holiday—because it usually is! But not this time. She just left school Friday afternoon, got a haircut, grabbed something to eat, and then drove up 95 for almost six hours so she could spend a day and a half with her parents. Easily our best weekend of 2023.

Oh…about the Christmas tree. Yes. We haven’t taken it down yet. It is the only vestige of Christmas in our house. We have every intention of taking it down and we will…any day now. Don’t judge.

Beauty That Surprises

The most memorable beauty is that which comes as a surprise. You are engaged in the most mundane task, then look up and are stunned by something indescribable. Human beings in 21st century America are perhaps the most overstimulating in all of human history. We are bombarded by images 24/7 by technological advances that didn’t exist for 99.99% of recorded history. And yet, we still have the capacity for wonder when we are presented with something like this…

I was on my way to Mission Barbecue to pick up dinner this Friday evening. As I pulled out of my driveway I noticed a strange light reflecting off the leafless trees across the way. It had been cloudy all day, but now it was breaking up and the setting sun behind me was piercing through the gloom. I stopped the car, rolled down the driver’s window and marveled. Then I took the picture.

By the time I got on  interstate 64 at the Gaskins road exit I had to pull over to the edge of the road. It was a stunning sight. I was dazzled and suddenly getting dinner at Mission Barbecue seemed unimportant.

The rest of the drive had my head on a swivel as the miraculous canopy swelled all around me. I’m not sure I’ve ever been more distracted while behind the wheel of an automobile. By the time I pulled into Mission’s parking lot the beauty was at its peak…

I went inside to order brisket and pulled pork, along with mac and cheese with kickin’ collard greens. When I walked back outside with our dinner in a paper bag, it was gone—all the grandeur and majesty vanished without a trace. Luckily, the same technological advancement that bombards us with filth and anxiety also doubles as a decent camera. I was able to capture some measure of the glorious beauty that came out of nowhere around 5:45.

What is this thing, the human capacity and hunger for beauty? Sometimes we don’t even realize how much we need it. Most of the time we trudge along without it. But then it appears like a gift, out of the blue, when we least expect. And we are mesmerized, taken away to someplace golden, if for only a few fleeting moments.

Thoughts on the Super Bowl

I managed to do something exceedingly rare yesterday. I watched an entire football game, including every second of the halftime show, for probably the first time in ten years. I’m not even sure why, since I’m not a huge pro football fan and I didn’t even have a rooting interest in either of the teams. But the Super Bowl is a cultural moment in America and a great excuse to eat delicious food with no discernible nutritional value—always a bonus. Plus, we had a house guest for several days leading up to Sunday, which although enjoyable, tends to tire you out. Once he left Pam and I both were in need of some mindless down time on the sofa, and there is nothing quite as mindless as watching the Super Bowl.

Pam put together all of my favorites for the spread…

Reuben dip

Pigs in a blanket

Veggies with spicy cheese

Mozzarella sticks with marinara sauce.

Of course, since I am surrounded by teachers, there had to be some sort of football bingo game played via texting with my teacher sister and her husband. The stakes were high, the loser having to buy Sunday lunch for the winner next Sunday. When I finally got five in a row and exclaimed BINGO!!!

At that point, Ron casually says, “Paula already got two bingos”

How are you supposed to respond to such a statement? Have these people never played BINGO before? It does nobody any good to simply get a bingo. Without shouting out BINGO!!!, or in this case, typing BINGO!!! In a text—you don’t got Jack, am I right? Since I was the first one to declare my BINGO!!!, I was the clear winner. To which, my clueless brother-in-law says, “We’ll call it a draw.”

The actual game was pretty good. Before kickoff I had told Pam that I thought that the Eagles were the better team, but that the Chiefs had the best player and since that player was their Quarterback, I thought that the Chiefs would win. Since that was exactly what happened you can make of that what you will.

As far as the commercials were concerned, I found them disappointing. None of them made me laugh. Many of them I found confusing. Not a single one of them made me more or less likely to purchase anything. Sitting here this morning I honestly can’t remember any of them very well. And yet, companies still eagerly shell out millions for their chance at thirty seconds of our attention.

Then there was the halftime show featuring the singer, Rihanna. It featured a very cool floating stage concept that thrusted the singers high above the field to dizzying heights. It was something to see, a true visual spectacle. As far as the performance was concerned, I was hampered by the fact that I didn’t know any of her songs, so for me they all melded together and sounded like one long song using the same four of five notes over and over again. Other than the spectacular floating stage thing, the rest of it seemed like a female singer dressed in a fire engine red balloon-y costume being chased by over a hundred amazingly coordinated dancing men in identical white balloon-y costumes, looking for all the world like sperm trying to hit an illusive target. Trouble was, she was already pregnant. Anyway, for the marketing colossus that it is the National Football League, I am not the target audience. This halftime show, in fact, the entire night wasn’t designed with 64 year old men in mind. So, basically my opinion doesn’t matter. But I imagine that if you were already a Rihanna fan you loved it. If you were unfamiliar with her or her work you were probably blown away by the stage levitation thing and confused by the rest of it, like me.

But, I made it through all four and a half hours of the thing, so I’m feeling a bit more American this morning.

…and just a little dazed and confused.