Moving Day

Yesterday saw the return of something that had been missing from our lives. Hard work. Moving day on Quantabacook isn’t easy. When we pack the car to come to Maine we have two days of driving before we have to unpack. Moving day is when you have to pack, unpack, and organize an entirely new cabin in one day. I know what you’re thinking, “Boo Hoo!! Poor vacationers had to actually do something besides swim and fish for a change!! Boo Hoo.” Excellent point! Suffice it to say that thanks to my hard working wife, Loon Landing is in top form and ready for the arrival of Jon and Kaitlin this evening.

During the night a heavy downpour hit. The sound that rain makes on a tin roof is about as soothing a sound as exists in this world. It doesn’t actually wake you up, but as you lie there in your bed you become aware of the rain and you are comforted. Lucy knows Loon Landing and is completely at home.

I have posted many pictures in this space of this fabulous place. Although much smaller than Summer Dreams, what it lacks in space it more than makes up for with an abundance of charm. When I drink my coffee in the morning, this is my view…

This wall of windows is maybe 20 feet from the edge of the water.





These pictures were taken from the loft bedroom upstairs and it gives you an idea of the proximity to the water. And yep, there was no way Pam was going to bed last night without setting the table!

So, this is our home for the next four weeks and we couldn’t possibly be more grateful.

A Vacation Miracle

Wednesday, the 12th of July, was the very first real Maine day of our vacation. By this I mean it was the first day that felt like Maine is supposed to feel. The weather was transcendent, bright blue sky, a steady refreshing southerly breeze in our faces all day, with not a hint of humidity. Consequently I made the decision to play golf in the morning.

Although the conditions were perfect and I was paired with a delightful couple from Marietta, Georgia, I played terribly—like a blind man with epilepsy. I had one birdie and four pars and a host of other scores so horrifying that I didn’t even bother keeping my score. But what made this the worst golfing experience I’ve had in years was not the level of my play, but what happened to me just after I shook hands with Wayne and Kathy as we walked off the 18th green. I reached in the left pocket of my shorts to retrieve my wedding band and found nothing. 

Ever since I got married nearly 40 years ago I have always removed my wedding band before a round of golf. The reason is because if I leave it on I end up with a blister. Yes, yes…I know its because I grip the club too tightly, but it is what it is. So, before I play I take the band off and place it in my left pocket—never the right, always the left. Sometimes I perform this ritual in the parking lot, mostly I do this on the first tee box, occasionally I remember as I’m walking down the first fairway. But…I always remove it. So, when I reached in the pocket and discovered it missing, something like panic and nausea visited me simultaneously. 

I had played with very nice rented clubs so the first thing I did was search every nook and cranny of the voluminous bag. Zilch. Then I walked back to the first tee box, since I was 70% certain that I had removed the ring before hitting my first tee shot (one that I hit out of bounds left, incidentally). The very kind starter along with the threesome on the first tee—all men—dropped everything to scour the area. They all gave me knowing looks of solidarity, knowing that if I didn’t find that ring I was sure and truly a dead man walking. One of them even mumbled, “losing your wedding band is one thing…losing it while playing golf is a f**king disaster” After an exhaustive search we found nothing. As I trudged back to the clubhouse the futility of my situation began to dawn on me. There was a very real possibility that I did, in fact, place that ring in my pocket on the first tee box, which means it could have slipped out of said pocket anytime I reached in there to remove my cellphone throughout the round…probably three times that I could recall. Since the entire round I walked 5.6 miles up hill and dale, there was literally no possible chance anyone was ever going to find that ring. I explained my nightmare to the woman at the clubhouse cash register who looked at me as if looking at a man condemned to die. I gave her my name and cellphone number on the no chance in hell possibility that somebody found it. She wrote it down carefully and posted it on the bulletin board with feigned optimism, then briefly touched my arm as I turned to leave. “You never know, dear.” That’s Yankee speak for…bless your heart.

I was not ready for the genuine grief I experienced while driving back to camp. I wasn’t really worried that Pam would kill me. I simply felt so much anguish over the fact that I had lost my wedding ring. I am not a jewelry guy. In fact, that wedding band is my only ring, my only any kind of adornment. But a wedding ring isn’t just a piece of jewelry, its part of who you are. It tells the world that you are married and that there is someone else out there who you would kill for. And now, mine was laying somewhere on the grounds of Rockland Golf Club, most likely in deep rough!

I got back to the cabin and tidied up a bit then joined Pam on the dock. No. I did not immediately tell her. I gambled that she wouldn’t notice, perhaps for days. That would give me time to craft an acceptable narrative. I merely gave her a kiss and sat down in the Adirondack chair next to her soaking up the perfect Maine day.

Then my cellphone rang. 

I didn’t answer. In the two weeks I’ve been here I have received no fewer than 20 random calls from unknown numbers from people trying to sell me this thing or that. If it was important they would leave a message. This one did…

“Mr. Dunnevant? This is Beverly at Rockland Golf. Just wanted you to know that someone found your wedding ring. I’ve put it here at the front desk. You can pick it up anytime you want. Congratulations!”

I turned to Pam with a sudden burst of confidence in my communicative abilities. “You are never going to believe what happened to me today at golf!!” She listened respectfully without expression then when I was done said, “Good thing you found it. No way you were going to get rid of me that easily!”

Week One. A Summary

We begin week two with indifferent weather. Clouds have dominated so far, although we’ve had a few gloriously sunny days mixed in. You take what comes on the lake, the good and the bad, while never having to worry about the ugly because there is none. The highlights of Week One are as follows…

Yesterday I fished this spot to within an inch of its life. Everything I threw at it, they devoured. Must have caught a dozen or more 1-2 pound bass in just 45 minutes. Since the water levels here are quite high I had to stand on the ledge of the dam, feet submerged in very cold water. Small price to pay. Pam would have had a heart attack watching me shuffle along the edge back and forth being careful not to slip and fall, busting my assets. But there’s just something about this spot. Its at the far south end of the lake, just over a mile from the cabin, with no sign of civilization anywhere, just the roar of the rushing water. 

I’ve plowed through three books already, thanks to the clouds. Two John Le Carre spy novels, and a third spy-themed WWII home front novel by Mary Anna Evans. Now I’ve started a third, an Eric Larson spellbinder about the Chicago World’s Fair of 1893 called The Devil in the White City. Fabulous.

Then there’s the girls in my life. These two…

Safe to say they are both living their best lives right now. Lucy’s days are a blur of fishing with dad, sniffing the treasure trove of smells wafting off the lake, and swimming for literally hours along side Mom on her paddle board. She has no complaints about Summer Dreams, has designated six different locations around the house as her official sleeping spots, like she owns the place.

Then there’s this beauty…

She will probably kill me for posting this photograph. Up here she does nothing with her hair, just washes it and lets it dry on its own. She hates it, I absolutely love it, mostly because I think she looks amazing but partly because it takes off 45 minutes from her prep time getting ready in the morning! Once again Pam is the queen of the lake. She has established herself as a paddle boarding fixture along with her morning kayak trips. She has organized the kitchen like a boss, prepared killer meals and spent hours and hours cross-stitching her heart out…

Last night we closed out the week by going to church…kinda. We sat down on the sofa and watched Hope’s live stream on YouTube. We saw Isaac playing his guitar on stage, then listened to Pete deliver the message from The Beatitudes. Looked like they had a packed house.

I have no earthly idea what the plan is for today and neither does Pam who at the moment is sound asleep as any self-respecting vacationer should be at this hour. Once she’s up something will come to us. Maybe brunch at The Hoot and a trip into Belfast?

Art, Books and Strawberries

So, yesterday was an adventure day since there were two local Festivals afoot, one in Lincolnville and the other in Camden. We left the cabin around 9:30. To get to Camden you first have to drive through Lincolnville, which was hosting their annual Strawberry Fest. I had to stop for gas and the only gas station available was at Drakes Corner Store which offered regular for $3.59 without any identifying brand name for the gasoline you bought. I simply had to take their word for it as I tried to figure out their circa 1960’s pump handle. Drakes is a mile or so outside of town and served as the rendezvous point for the Strawberry Fest Parade. The parking lot was filled with fire trucks, streamer-festooned pickup trucks and one flatbed containing a gigantic plastic lobster. Since the proceedings weren’t scheduled to begin until 10:00, we made the fateful decision to head in to Camden for the Arts and Books Festival and catch the Strawberry deal on the way back. Unfortunately, when we did, the excited lady at the Community house informed us that for the first time in Strawberry Fest history, they had been wiped out by noon! Every strawberry, every upside down cake, every muffin, biscuit, loaf of bread, every cake, pie and scone—all gone, a complete sellout. even the strawberry ice-cream sandwiches had been devoured by the great unwashed who had descended on this sleepy town like a plague of locusts. The only evidence that there even HAD been a strawberry festival was the giant red flags draping from the town hall windows…

In retrospect however, this shocking turn of events was the only thing that saved me from bankruptcy because of what transpired roughly between the hours of 10 o’clock and noon in Camden.

After a lovely breakfast at the Camden Deli, Pam and I attended the annual Arts and Books Fair. This Fair is no stranger to us, both of us having fallen for its considerable charms many times before. Basically, all the streets and grounds around the Camden library are filled with white tents featuring artists and craftsmen from all over Maine selling their wares…

The misty conditions did nothing to dampen the crowds. Pam’s eyes had that certain dangerous sparkle they get when she is surrounded by art. Its funny since she has never been a museum girl, but you put her at an art fair where she can listen to the actual artist explain how they created their work and what their inspiration was, and she goes into something very much like a trance. Unfortunately, this trance-like state involves a great deal of credit card usage. When she found this one particular booth I thought she was going to wipe them out! “Oh, I love this! And look at that!! I just have to have that!!

By the time she was done, she nearly had. Pam and the artist have a lunch date for next Thursday!

But she wasn’t done. I’m guessing that in total there were close to 100 booths at this Fair and my wife toured them all. When she finally was satisfied with her haul on Day 1 (this is a two day event—gulp), I was carrying around a bag of stuff heavy enough to give me shoulder cramps. I got a text from Capital One warning me of excessive use of my card, and wanted confirmation that it was indeed us. I relied with…Pam at Arts and Books Fair in Camden. They responded with a knowing…Never Mind. 

On the positive side, Pam did get an early start on 2023 Christmas shopping.

What We do When it’s Hot

So far I’ve told you, faithful reader, what we do here when it rains.  Today I will inform you about what we do when its hot in Maine, or HIM for short. First of all a definition of what exactly qualifies as hot. Yesterday’s high temperature in Searsmont was 89. While depending on where you live and humidity levels this might not seem particularly severe as hot goes. There have been many summers in Short Pump where any day not in the 90’s would seem pleasant by comparison. Not here. In Maine high 80’s qualifies as brutal heat for one simple reason—the absence of air conditioning. Take last night for example.

By the time dinner time rolled around Pam had already fled the premises to Belfast for an iced coffee and AC time at Reny’s. Heat is my wife’s mortal enemy, the bane of her existence. It is the only force in the universe capable of turning her to the dark side. She got out of the shower yesterday afternoon and immediately found herself covered in sweat. I knew she wasn’t long for the cabin. Her two hours reading and drinking iced coffee lounging in the soft seating inside Dunkin worked wonders for her psyche. She returned to the lake her delightfully reliable self. 

At this point I knew that there was no way she was going to cook anything that required her to turn on the stove. I wisely volunteered to head over to Fraternity General to pick up one of their fabulous pizzas. Since it was near six o’clock I know from experience that you need to call first, then allow thirty minutes before making the 3 mile drive to pick it up. I called again and again for ten minutes and the line was busy every time. Throwing caution to the wind, I drove there without ordering first. Upon arrival I noticed a sign on the door:  Due to extreme heat, the kitchen is closed to anything that requires an oven. Cold sandwiches available.

Now, I know what some of you are thinking…Oh, thats adorable! Poor Mainers can’t even handle a couple of warm days!! Nothing could be further from the truth. Fraternity General is a 100+ year old colonial structure built without air conditioning. The kitchen sits in a windowless, low ceiling section of the first floor. It is roughly 10x12 and has two pizza ovens and one regular oven. The girls take your order at the counter. When I walked in the place last night it was 85 or so outside with a lovely breeze that had come up. But inside that store it had to be 100. The two cooks had bright red faces covered in sweat. I noticed on the glass covered turn table a piping hot pepperoni pizza that looked of relatively recent origin. “Can I have five pieces of this one?” I asked. I walked out with the last pizza of the day, feeling like the great white hunter.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Pam had lowered the blinds across the front of the house to shade the interior of the cabin from the bright reflection of the setting sun now blinding us from the surface of the lake. But now the wind had picked up nicely and she had turned on every ceiling fan available and had the floor fan on the maximum speed. It sounded like the tarmac at LaGuardia but it was cooler. The hardest part of a HIM day are the hours between 5 and 9.

The rest of our HIM day was spent on the water. I fished, kayaked, and floated around on the float. Pam spent lots of time escorting Lucy around the lake on her paddle board. I swam…a lot. It was delightful. Today, the weather people are unanimous in their opinion that another scorcha is in the works. High temperature of 87 with a 40% chance of thunder storms late in the day. After that it looks like we will be in the 70’s for the next four days.

Freaking Poker Game!!

The weather here has turned sunny and fair for the last couple of days and this has been the occasion of much celebration here at vacation central. With the appearance of the sun our schedule becomes dominated by the lake. We spend almost all of our time either in it, on it, or gazing at it. What follows are just a few examples.

Around 6:00 am I took my morning coffee on the dock with Lucy who patiently waited for me to stop Lolly-gagging around and start fishing already. This was my view…

By 9:00 or so I was ready to head out in the kayak for a more serious fishing excursion a mile and a half north of our dock. Shortly after heading out I encountered a traffic jam when I met up with this beautiful woman…

Incidentally, the White House in the background of this photograph has been a consistent irritant to me ever since its construction several years ago. We have watched it’s progress each year with a mixture of admiration and resentment. Because it sits on an island, most of the heavy work gets done in the winter when the lake freezes over and heavy loads of lumber and such can be driven across the surface of the water by truck. The final result of all the work is a fine house with commanding views. The thing that sticks in my craw however is the way in which the owner of this house came about obtaining the large parcel of land where his lovely house rests—he won it in a poker game. I must admit to a small degree of bitterness at this mindless, haphazard stroke of luck. Every time I paddle by the place I mumble to myself, “freaking poker game!!” But, what’s done is done.

At this point I feel it necessary to introduce a new physical ailment that has visited my rapidly deteriorating body. I think there might be something wrong with my left hip. Whenever I find it necessary to sit down for anything longer than thirty minutes, like driving long distances or fishing from a kayak, the offending hip begins to protest rather violently. The pain is quite intense and gets progressively worse the longer I go. So yesterday’s two and a half hour expedition was a very bad idea—a literal pain in my ass. Half way in I had to find a spot to park the kayak so I could go for a swim in the cold water. Had I not I doubt I would have made it back to the dock. So, for the rest of my time here I will limit my fishing paddles to less than two hours and will make generous use of muscle relaxers, heating pads, and this nifty device I got for Christmas…

Even in THIS picture, the Poker House mocks me!

But, enough about me! On lake days I have a steadfast companion. Miss Lucy had a day of days yesterday. She swam about all morning at Pam’s side as Pam took the paddle board out for a spin. She literally never tires of swimming. Could stay out there all day if we let her, and we nearly did. Later in the afternoon  we took the swim floats out and Lucy came out with us stopping every now and then to rest her head on my float so she could let her paws hang free in the water. She then closes her eyes and lays there taking a snoozle while I scratch her head. Finally after a very long day of great fun she laid down on the dock looking like a furry life guard…

Around 5:30, we drove into Camden for dinner at Sea Dog and ice cream at Riverducks. Our food and our view at dinner was first rate, and Riverducks never disappoints…

Who knows what today will bring?

What Do We Do on Rainy Days?

The last couple of days have been very rainy with lots of fog and flood warnings flying about. The forecast is for more of the same until mid-week. Everyone around here says that its been like this for at least six weeks. So what are we doing? Yesterday was fairly typical for a rainy day.

We decided to head into Camden for breakfast at The Deli. Its nice when the owner of the place greets you by your first name despite the fact that he hasn’t seen you in seven months! The blueberry pancakes were sublime along with some delicious coffee…

Then we putzed around the damp streets for a while stopping in to some of our favorite stores. On our way back to the lake we stopped at Lincolnville General Store to pick up some coffee from our favorite Maine photographer, Dan Dishner, owner of Coffee on the Porch—Camden. The store is an absolute beauty.

But, it ain’t cheap. One pound of coffee cost me $16! Oh well. Its only money, then you die.

Right across the street from the General Store is a place called the Red Cottage. Since we drive through Lincolnville Center on our way into Camden, we have watched this place blossom from a run down shack to the loveliest little shop you’ve ever seen over the past four years. But we never stopped to check it out until yesterday.

The proprietor, Janis Kay and her husband saw potential in this shack several years ago and put in a bid to buy the place. They outbid a contractor who was planning to tear it down and build a new house. After four years of hard work and lots of sweat equity, the Red Cottage is a gem. Pam saw several things she just had to have, and we made a new friend.

For the rest of the day and night Pam worked on her latest cross-stitch project. I enjoyed a world class nap and nearly finished my first book of the trip, John Le Carre’s The Spy Who Came in From the Cold. When it was time for dinner Pam whipped up some tacos and a salad made from vegetables she picked up at a farm stand in Belmont. After dinner, courtesy of Roku and the wonders of technology, we settled down on the sofa with Miss Lucy to watch the Livestream of Hope’s worship service from yesterday morning. At that point the rain was coming down in torrents, slashing the metal roof above us and making a sound like none other. This morning we woke to 60 degrees.

I imagine that today will be much the same. Lots of reading, a little fishing with Lucy down on the dock. We might wander into Belfast later on. Or not.

Here

I was the first to spot the green bridge arching in the distance through the fog at one o’clock in the afternoon. But this was real fog, not the noxious Canadian smoke we had been driving through for two days. Pam took a photograph, like she does every single time we pass under the green iron rails of the Piscataqua river bridge. She says that crossing the bridge is when vacation starts. Once on the other side she busied herself with making a grocery list. She will want to make a quick run into the Belfast Hannaford before the Saturday crowd descends.

By the time we exited off 295 just before Augusta, the sun had come out. The sky was a radiant blue, the temperature an idyllic 74. Despite the sharp pain radiating through my left hip and hamstring—an unfortunate physical staple of post-60 long distance driving life—I felt my spirits soaring. We were less than an hour away. Lucy, as always, lay curled up in her space in the back of the car, oblivious to the glorious sunshine. Then, I made the turn onto New England Road, ten minutes away from the lake. Lucy stood up and began sniffing the air, big goofy smile on her face, staring out of the rear window, ears perked up expectantly. How could she know?

Its hard to explain the feeling that comes over us when we see the lake for the first time every year. Quantabacook can’t be seen from any State road, one of the few Maine lakes for which this is true. In fact you don’t even see it when you first pull off the dirt road into the driveway. You have to clear the overhanging trees first. But once you do, there it is, bathed in sunlight, the water glistening as if on fire. Dan the Man from Ducktrap Kayaks has delivered as promised. There are brand new Adirondack chairs on the dock. The girls at On The Water In Maine had dropped off the package that Pam had shipped to their office—something she had bought for the trip but worried would arrive at home after we had already left. They are used to this with us. One year Pam left her contact lenses at home. Another year it was all her bathing suits! We don’t even have to ask tell them anymore. “Hey, you guys have a package. We can bring it out there or you can pick it up the next time you’re in town.” Customer Service isn’t some strange and novel concept to OTWIM. Its how they roll.

I texted this photograph to Tif, the owner of OTWIM, upon our arrival. She replied with one of her own from her front yard on Owl’s Head, a forty minute drive down the road…

“ ohhh. You have sun!!” She said.

“Well, I specifically ordered it for my arrival,” I replied.

I woke up this morning at 5:20. I always wake so early up here. Pam is still asleep and Lucy has hardly acknowledged my presence…

Yes, we cover the sofas here with her favorite blankets, she being a creature of quite specific habits. Plus we don’t want her getting dog hairs all over the furniture. Summer Dreams is such a delight. Anyone lucky enough to own a place this lovely deserves to have it taken care of. If this place or Loon Landing ever come up for sale I would write a check so fast, Wells Fargo would have a hernia.

Last night we slept with the windows opened. Its foggy out and cool. The only sounds are the occasional loon call, a persistent chickadee and the pulsing bellow of a bullfrog at the water’s edge. I’ve finished my first cup of coffee. The fog seems to be lifting, the sky  brightening. Or maybe it’s just my imagination. 

“We’re Goin to Maine”

Its quite a lot like waking up on Christmas morning, only there aren’t any presents, just piles of stuff that needs to be organized, folded, stuffed and crammed into the back of a car. I still have several items on my checklist but make no mistake about it—this is the day.

Pam told me the story of how when she and Sharon were little, they slept in the same bed and on the night before they were to leave for Maine they would whisper to each other, “We’re goin’ to Maine…we’re goin’ to Maine.” Since Pam isn’t here this week I’ve been whispering it to Lucy. She knows.

I texted a friend who lives in Lincolnville, Maine yesterday and she said that she hoped we brought good weather with us. The entire month of June has featured gray fog and rain. The most recent 10 day forecast has just one day with a temperature above 80. However, it should be noted that a ten day weather forecast in Maine is about as worthless as a campaign promise. The weather will be whatever the hell it wants to be and there’s not a thing we can do about it.

So whether its this:

Or this:

It’s not going to matter. There will still be the call of the loons, blueberry pancakes at the deli, the comforting aroma of the Smiling Cow, lobster rolls at Hazel’s, and the stillness of Quantabacook at dawn.

Hiding In Plain Sight

This poem has been hanging in our guest bathroom for years. We found it in a shop in Camden. The text seemed a perfect representation of a place that we have grown to love deeply. But although I’ve glanced at this a hundred times I never noticed until today. The author’s middle and last name…Melcher Heart.

I’ll say!

I suppose the lesson is obvious. Pay closer attention to life. There are incredible things all around you hiding in plain sight.

A Responsible Adult?

It feels weird around here this morning. Just Lucy and me. Pam left yesterday for Hatteras Island with my extended family. I couldn’t go because I have too many things to get wrapped up at work before we leave for Maine on Thursday. If my dinner last night is any indication, I’m in big trouble. It consisted of a re-heated chicken breast I cooked on the grill Friday night and two fluffier-nutter burritos I just threw together last minute. I washed it all down with a glass of Arnold Palmer Lite half and half. 

Lucy is confused and disoriented. She had been on pins and needles over the last several days as Pam was packing for the beach trip as well as setting up her famous Maine staging area. Lucy isn’t a fan of disruption. She abhors nothing quite so much as turmoil in her house. The sudden appearance of piles of trip gear results in much harrumphing and heavy panting. So when Pam pulled away from the house yesterday in a fully packed vehicle without us, she was not happy. Luckily, I happened to have a nearly empty peanut butter jar at the ready. When I offered it to her, she gladly accepted then retreated up the stairs to her special peanut butter jar licking spot for half an hour, distracted and happy. For the rest of the day she just slumped around the house stopping at every window, looking perplexed.

I am not confused, but I too am disoriented. This is the second time this month that Pam and I have been apart, the first time a couple weekends ago when she drove down to Columbia to help Kaitlin set up her new classroom. And now this. I’m a big boy. I can handle living alone for a while. But that doesn’t mean I like it. What is it that the Bible says? It is not good for man to be alone. I agree. One of the last things she did before leaving was to give me a quick tutorial on how to run the dishwasher. Yes, I realize that sounds pathetic. My experience with that particular appliance is with the loading and unloading thereof. I can count on the one hand of a three fingered clown the number of times I have actually run the thing. So, there she was patiently walking me through the three step process. I kept saying, “I got it”, when in point of fact I will probably play it safe and wash dishes in the sink for the next 4 days. Pathetic.

Because we will be leaving for Maine in less than a week, I won’t be taking any undo chances while she is away. When I am alone and don’t have to explain to Pam my plans to run sixteen miles while wearing a weighted vest, I tend to push the envelope. Since if she were here the aforementioned run would be rejected out of hand, there is a certain freedom that comes with not needed to get her permission first. But Maine is T-Minus 4 days and counting. Now is not the time for free-wheeling asshattery. I have a 15 hour drive in my immediate future. Its time to act like an adult. 

That is not to say that I won’t slip away to walk nine holes of golf at some point, or head over to Wong’s for one or three cold beers and their spiciest tacos. The difference is that I will remember to stop by Publix to pick of a bottle of Pepcid on my way home….like a responsible adult.

The Countdown Has begun

The Dunnevant household is now official in countdown mode. We both have long to-do lists to navigate over the next 7 days. In all honesty, Pam’s list is longer than mine, even though she will spend most of next week at the beach with my family, while I get in a few more days of work at the office. Here’s the plan…

Pam heads to Hatteras on Saturday. Thursday morning of next week she drives back to Short Pump. When she arrives around noon, she will throw a load of laundry in the wash while unpacking and repacking the car. When the car is ready, we gather up Lucy and leave Short Pump somewhere around 4-ish and drive as far as we can without falling asleep, maybe as far as Scranton, Pa. Then Friday morning we hit the road early and hopefully arrive on the shores of Quantabacook around 4:00 in the afternoon. We pulled off a similar schedule a couple years ago so we know it can be done. I’m just hoping we don’t have a repeat of last year when after two days of driving I managed to throw my back out while unloading the car a mere thirty minutes after arrival!! The only one of us who will have zero difficulty surviving this two day trip will be Lucy. She will curl up in her cramped space and sleep 90% of the way, then bound out of the car fresh as a daisy when she says the lake. Pam and I don’t exactly bound out of anything these days. For us its more like we attempt to unfold our stiff and creaking bodies like rusty pocket knives, then spend ten minutes stretching trying to restore feeling to our extremities. But, its all worth it. Every sore muscle, every frayed nerve is simply a means to a marvelous end. After unloading the car and setting up the kitchen I’ll drive over to Fraternity General Store to pick up a pizza and say hello to Amanda. That night we will sleep like babies. When we wake up Saturday morning it will dawn on us that we are finally in Maine. Hopefully our first full day will be sunny and inviting. But if not that’s ok. We have six full weeks. The weather always sorts itself out. I hear the lake is high this year from all the spring rain. That means the fishing will be incredible. I also hear that there’s a new and improved boardwalk in Camden down by the harbor master’s shack. We’ll have to check that out on our first trip to town…

My Wonderful Fathers Day Weekend

My Father’s Day weekend featured a visit from these people. The two grownups on the left are my daughter and her husband while the two grownups on the right are their best friends from Columbia, Matt and Bailey Wolfer. The two boys belong to them, from left to right, Theo and Milo. A wonderful time was had by all. However, once they all left we both took long and disorienting naps, the kind where when you wake up you’re convinced that you have a paper due in the morning, despite the fact that you graduated from college over 40 years ago!

Its hard not to get the impression that you were considered a potential problem by all parties, when your wife hides your BB gun in the garage two hours before the arrival of our guests. Then once the Wolfer’s arrived, Bailey the Mom spends the first thirty minutes smiling nervously while giving you the side eye. What could my daughter possibly have told this poor child about her father? I thought I would break the ice by suggesting the educational opportunities that witnessing a squirrel murder or two might offer to the boys. Nervous smile firmly in place she says, “No, no. I’m sure the time and place for that will eventually come but this weekend is not either.” Or, words to that effect.

Despite having to overcome the clearly prejudiced houseguests, it wasn’t long before we were all having a blast. Friday night featured an opportunity to school young Matthew in the fine art of cooking meat on a Weber grill. Matt’s grill of choice apparently is something he literally picked up on the side of the road, so witnessing the miracle of fire harnessed for the Godly purpose of grilling hamburgers was quite the eye-opener. 

Saturday was jam packed with outdoor and indoor activities featuring loads of sugary treats. The boys soon embraced me warmly, despite all the negative pre-trip publicity…

Although, there was one unfortunate incident for which I was briefly placed in time out. Honestly, I don’t remember what the infraction was. No doubt, some trumped up charge.

When Saturday finally drew to a close it was my turn to read the bedtime story. I must confess that I loved every minute of this time, especially when I got to introduce little Theo to the world famous Mr. Doug’s Tickle Monster Adventure, a bedtime tradition my kids enjoyed for all of their formative years, which no doubt explains their superior development as fine human beings. Of course, my daughter couldn’t resist a mean-spirited MEME at my expense…

One of the sweetest moments was Sunday morning, after an amazing breakfast of chicken and waffles, after which I took the following photograph of Theo and Lucy in the back yard. When the boys were first introduced to Miss Lucy, they seemed a little scared of her. But like everyone else who meets our Pup, they eventually fall under her spell…

Everyone left just before noon on Sunday morning. The house is suddenly toy-free and as quiet as the grave. We all miss the energy and love that fills a house with the introduction of children. Matt and Bailey are amazing parents doing the hard work of raising children in today’s confusing world. Knowing that Kaitlin and Jon have their friendship makes the fact that live 6 hours away from us much more tolerable to accept.

One more thing—Matt is a graphic artist by trade and as such decided to put his skills to good use on our driveway…

Searching For a Caption

Two weeks from today Pam and I will arrive on the shores of Quantabacook in Mid-Coast Maine to begin our six week sanity break. Along the way we will entertain six different guests. Two of them will be Kaitlin and Jon. This is a photograph that she has in a frame in her dining room. I’m pretty sure that Pam took this one. Its an all-timer because it perfectly captures the essence of Maine and what we do there. This is the vibe. The lake is where we all get a chance to just…be, to spend time talking about anything and everything. I have often thought about writing a caption for this picture. What were we talking about?

“No Dad…you can’t call someone from the Middle East a ‘towelhead’!!”

“The designated hitter rule is ruining baseball.”

“Just so you know, father, that hat is not flattering.”

“Then I turned to the Oriental waitress and I said…”

“No dad, no…that’s not good either. Its ‘Asian”. 

“I’m worried about Mom. She only spent six hours on her paddle board yesterday.”

So, why do Irishmen make such great bankers?

I have no idea, Dad.

Because their capital is always Dublin.

…sigh.

Coping Mechanisms

Life isn’t easy. No matter who you are, where you live, or even how you live, life comes at you hard some days. Even the best of us have a hard time keeping it together. Sometimes the problems are momentous and overwhelming. Other times the issues are as insignificant as a wayward breeze. One minute you feel like the captain of your ship, the next you feel like an imposter hiding in steerage. 

Much of the angst of life at my age comes in the form of a growing sense of your own mortality. A health setback reminds you that you are much nearer the end than the beginning. You eventually get over it. Its too exhausting to keep turning it over in your head. Some people turn to therapy, start visiting mental health specialists, paying them hundreds of dollars an hour to listen to the great unburdening. I have a different coping strategy…

What did one DNA say to another DNA?

“Do these genes make me look fat?”

The other day I was walking through the parking lot at Publix and noticed a woman sitting alone in her car with the engine running, crying into a handkerchief. For a second I thought about stopping to see if she was ok. I pictured myself tapping on the window asking if there was anything I could do. But then I thought better of it. She was a woman and I am a man. It might have been awkward. She could have been mentally ill and my intrusion might have triggered an even bigger problem than whatever was causing her distress. So I kept my head down and walked into the store to buy English muffins. When I walked back to my car the crying woman was gone. I sat alone in my car for a minute wondering if I might have missed an opportunity…

How many telemarketers does it take to change a lightbulb?

Only one, but he can only do it while you’re sitting down to eat dinner.

I have a neighbor who has two little boys. Almost every night I see him in his back yard throwing whiffle ball pitches to his baseball loving son. He’s done it so much he’s worn a bare spot on the lawn where he stands to pitch. I’ve watched them night after night. I hear the sound of the ball against the tinny aluminum bat. Each day the little boy gets better and better. Every once in a while he’ll really get ahold of one and it sails over the fence into my yard. I throw it back and tell him how great he’s doing. It brings back a thousand memories of Kaitlin and Patrick in our back yard at the old house. I think about the first time Kaitlin powered one over the fence. The look on her face was magical. Then there was the time that Patrick blasted one over the roof of the house. He wasn’t nearly as impressed as I was. Just me and my pups playing ball in the backyard. I watch my neighbor and it all comes back like it was yesterday. But it wasn’t yesterday. It was nearly thirty years ago…

I spent a lot of time, money and effort child-proofing my house.

But, the kids still get in!

You discover that a rift has developed between a couple of people you volunteer with. Its nothing serious but its not nothing either. You hear that there have been hurt feelings and even tears. It bothers you deeply for some reason. Its not the end of the world. People disagree, even good people. Sometimes, especially good people. You wish you could fix it but it doesn’t even concern you, just something that happened. You know that it will work out with a little time, most things do. Time has magically curative powers. But lately you’ve developed a sketchy relationship with the concept of time. Its not something you feel that you have a lot of, so you’re more protective of it, you don’t want to waste it. You want to make every second count for something. You feel like nobody has time for hurt feelings…

What do you call a snitching scientist?

A lab rat.

You’re driving home from CVS where you picked up a couple prescriptions for your wife. You get to a stop light just up the street from your neighborhood and you see this sunset. It isn’t spectacular, but just a second earlier the dying sun had set a metal fence along Three Chopt ablaze in orange light. Now you sit waiting for the light to change and you watch it lowering itself into the trees and it makes you sad. Sunsets can be that way. They are the end of something, not a beginning. You think about the woman in the Publix parking lot and wonder if she’s alright…

I saw a sheep driving a pickup truck through town the other day. Finally a cop pulled him over.

Gave him a ticket for making an illegal ewe turn.

The thing is, everyone figures out a way to deal with the hard edges of life. For me, I have found great peace, purpose and meaning in my faith and the pursuit of the redemptive power and transcendence of the Gospel. But that’s big picture thinking, and while there’s certainly nothing wrong with that, I have found that where I require the most help are in the small details of each day. Human beings are great at developing what behavioral scientists call coping mechanisms. Mine has always been the escape of humor, even poor attempts at it. Its hard to explain really, but thinking of a cheesy joke while dealing with hard things helps to soften them. Sometimes it doesn’t work, but most times it does…

What did the French chef give his wife for Valentines Day?

A hug and a quiche.

I was reminiscing today about the beautiful herb gardens I had when I was a kid.

Good Thymes.

The Home Stretch.

It is about time I issued my annual public service announcement warning readers of The Tempest of what is to come. 2023 has been the year that I cut back on the number of posts here. However, in a couple more weeks this space will be filled with photographs and commentary from our Maine summer vacation. I will be providing a running monologue of events from the shores of Quantabacook. There will be photographs and videos of the many stunning vistas of Mid-Coast Maine. I will write about fishing and sunsets and the adventures of Lake Dog Lucy. I will regale you with stories of great food eaten at amazing restaurants. I will offer observations on the oddball ways of Mainers. I will brag about Pam’s paddle boarding skills. There will be way too many pictures of loons.

I will go on and on about our favorite shops. There will be close-ups of lobster rolls and frosty mugs full of Baxter IPA. When we have guests, you will hear all about our abilities as tour guides. When my children get here there will be lots of pictures of all of us lounging on the dock huddled around charcuterie boards. I will brag about the weather (I hope!). I will write a lot about the strange magic that seems to arrive with the morning fog and drift through the trees in the afternoon. Eventually you will notice a change in my writing. It will become less hard headed, more whimsical. I will hope that what comes across is not boring, repetitive or vain but rather a profound gratitude that I get to come to a place like Maine. We actually get to live here for most of our summers. When we do we try our best to fit in, not to transform this place to suit us. We make no demands of this place. We never want it to change, to become more like home, mostly because in a very real sense it is home. All of the differences, all of the idiosyncrasies are exactly what make it magical.

I will lavish money on a series of local establishments that we have grown to love over the years. I will not complain about the prices or the taxes. Its only money, after all. I will give free advertising to all of them, going on and on about their friendliness and excellence. I will enjoy living six weeks away from national chain anything. Instead I will do business in places with names like Hazel’s, Fraternity General Store, and Hoot. I will have coffee not at Starbucks but at Zoot instead. If we need emergency things, we won’t go to Walmart, but Reny’s. When I buy gas it won’t be at a Sheets, but Maritime. And if something goes wrong with either of the beautiful lake houses we have rented I will rave about the service and professionalism of On The Water In Maine, who will have it fixed practically before I hang up the phone.

So…you’ve now been fair and truly warned. This space is about to become the no negativity, all Maine all the time Blog. Ready or not.

A Jolting Week

What a week. A jolting, disquieting week of routine violence and even more routine Washingtonian stupidity. To make matters worse, Pam was away on a visit to our daughter, leaving Lucy and I to fend for ourselves.

It started with the shooting at the Altria. A nineteen year old kid gunning down a father and son in cold blood, injuring five others. There isn’t a single person I know who was shocked or surprised by the killings. Why would we be? What exempts Richmond, Virginia from this plague? Nothing. In fact these two deaths weren’t even the only ones of the day involving teenagers and firearms in the city. It has become as commonplace as jaywalking. We are desensitized to the barbarism of it. Besides, it was a Richmond city school. What did we expect, right? I heard more than one person comment on the fact that the eighteen year old victim was only eighteen years older than his father—who wasn’t even his father, but a step-father—further proof of the mishmash that the black inner city family has become. I hear these things and part of me admits to the truth of the underlying assumptions. I am aware of the horrifying statistics. But, another part of me recoils from such an emotionless, utilitarian disregard for the value of a human life snuffed out thirty minutes after his high school graduation. It was Huguenot High School…what did you expect? Not this. That school is filled with a thousand human souls of great nobility and infinite worth, everyone of them created in the image of God. The day that we all blithely expect a shooting at a graduation ceremony is the day that hope dies. Then I hear Richmond’s hapless mayor repeat the question twice to a group of reporters, as if we all didn’t hear him the first time—-“is nothing sacred anymore?” Come now, Mayor Stoney. You know the answer to that question.

Then, the only man in America with the power to upstage literally anything, Donald Trump managed to wipe the Huguenot High School shooting off the front pages with the news that he has been indicted on over 30 counts of espionage and gross mismanagement of classified documents and lying about said handling. He will be arraigned next week. Now the country will have to endure the embarrassment and folly of the government of a sitting President trying to convict the top rival for his job with crimes that could lock up The Don for the rest of his life. Sigh…Do I think that Trump will serve one day in jail? No. Do I think he is guilty of gross misuse of the secrets of the United States of America? If his own recorded voice is in fact him, Yes! The couple snippets I heard sounded like a middle school boy trying to impress his friends—“I probably shouldn’t be showing you this, in fact you shouldn’t get too close to this map!!” To what end would any President, even this nihilistic one, carry off truck loads of sensitive and classified documents and then store them haphazardly in his home which doubles as a resort hotel teeming with Saudi’s? I can think of no rational reason for anyone to behave this way. But then again, I have never been able to understand 45 using rationality. Will this be the end of him? No. Somehow he will survive. He always does. Once he is dead and gone, I am sure that he will find a way to scandalize us from the grave.

But, as disconcerting as this week was it has gotten infinitely better since Pam got home. Lucy is finally calm and secure. When one of us is away, she never knows quite how to relax. She is a herder of her people. We must all be in our place before she can rest. I’m exactly the same way when Pam is away.

The Most Underrated Form of Literature

One of the benefits of life long church attendance is exposure to that underrated category of literature known as the church bulletin. When I was younger and far less spiritually mature (last month), the bulletin provided me with a diversion whenever my mind would wander. The preacher would be going on and on about the immoral Amorites who were always slaying one thing or another, while I would be busy checking out what was coming up in church-world in the week ahead. At other times I would use that short little pencil attached to the pew in front of me to color in all the O’s. Sometimes I would make killer paper airplanes out of the bulletin which was always the perfect shape for such a project. Then it was everything I could do to resist turning that thing loose during the offertory prayer. 

But the most fun thing to do with the bulletin was scanning the thing for mistakes, misspellings, grammar errors and other hiccups that often made for some hilarious reading. What follows are some of the all-time classics of the genre.

National PRAYER & FASTING Conference: "The cost for attending the Fasting and Prayer Conference includes meals".

"Ladies, don't forget the rummage sale. It's a chance to get rid of those things not worth keeping around the house. Don't forget your husbands."

The Sermon this morning: "Jesus Walks on Water". The Sermon tonight: "Searching for Jesus".

Don't let worry kill you - let the Church help.

At the evening service tonight, the sermon topic will be "What is Hell?" Come early and listen to our choir practice.

Scouts are saving aluminium cans, bottles and other items to be recycled. Proceeds will be used to cripple children.

Please place your donation in the envelope along with the deceased person you want remembered.

Attend and you will hear an excellent speaker and heave a healthy lunch.

The church will host an evening of fine dining, superb entertainment and gracious hostility.

Potluck supper, Sunday at 5.00pm - prayer and medication to follow.

The ladies of the church have cast off clothing of every kind. They may be seen in the basement on Friday afternoon.

Low Self-Esteem Support Group will meet Thursday at 7pm. Please use the back door.

Weight Watchers will meet at 7pm at the First Presbyterian Church. Please use large double doors at the side entrance.

The 8th-Graders will be presenting Shakespeare's Hamlet in the church basement on Friday at 7pm. The congregation is invited to attend this tragedy.

The Associate Minister unveiled the church's new tithing campaign slogan last Sunday; "I Upped My Pledge - Up Yours."

You’re welcome, and have a good week!

Where Are All of These People Going?

Yesterday morning I left the house around 8:30 on one of my inexplicable pedestrian quests. This time the goal was to walk farther than I had ever walked before, return home without broken bones or other medical issues, then brag about the accomplishment the rest of the day. Two hours and six minutes later I did just that. Having wandered a circuitous 8.2 mile route around greater Short Pump. The goal will now be to complete the same circuit in a better time than 2:06:42. Even I am starting to think this is stupid. (See ridiculous map at the bottom of this blog)

After a delicious lunch at Tazza kitchen with Pam, I was looking forward to a long afternoon nap with Lucy. But then Pam announced that there was a cool thing happening at Bryan Park that she wanted to check out, something having to do with the Richmond Symphony and quintettes. Before I knew what was happening, Chip and Lynn Hewette were in the back seat of my car and we were on our way to a park I hadn’t visited since I was in my 20’s.

Where in the heck are all theses people going? Apparently, there is an appetite for classically trained musicians who are willing to perform under little tents spread out along a one mile trail in the woods. First up was a brass group, then woodwinds, then strings etc..

Each stop along this walk was a delight. There was classical music, some American standards, and even a Beatles song in the mix. All free of charge.

The only drawback was the fact that it was the hottest day of the year. Consequently, shady spots to stand or sit were at a premium. We found ourselves hustling along to the next tent before each mini-concert was over to find a spot. But other than that it was a fun afternoon. Bryan Park wasn’t anywhere close to how I remembered it. Of course, my memories are 40 years old and most likely unreliable.

Now its Sunday morning and time for church. David is preaching, I know because this week it was my turn to prepare the discussion guide. Its an interesting topic that was challenging for me for a variety of reasons. Can’t wait to see how he delivers this one. If you are a member of Hope Church and reading this in your pajamas debating whether or not to come or watch it on livestream, take a shower, get dressed and stop doing that…forsaking the gathering together…thing!!

*ridiculous map

Three Thoughts From This Memorial Day Weekend

Notes on this Memorial Day weekend:

- Yesterday morning I headed out for another long walk. While still within the confines of my neighborhood I came upon an inspiring sight. There was a young father pushing a stroller. There was a boy in the stroller maybe 2 or 3 years old with a death grip on one of those cheap 10 inch balls you always see in big wire cages at Walmart. Walking along with these two was an elderly man, maybe the younger man’s father. He was stooped shouldered and shuffled along with the help of a walker which was making a terrible racket on the rough surface of Aprilbud Drive. I nodded at them as I passed on the other side of the street as a smile came to my face. Watching the three of them together made my day, if you want to know the truth. There they were, three generations making accommodations for each other, like you do when you’re part of a family. I’m sure that Dad would have preferred walking along faster without the grating noise of his father’s walker. I feel certain that the old man wished he didn’t need the walker. He probably would have preferred sitting in his recliner taking a nap. The little boy wasn’t going anywhere without his ball, probably would have been perfectly happy kicking it around in the back yard. But there they all were taking a morning walk together. I thought about them for most of the remainder of my walk. I identified most with the Dad. It seemed like just yesterday when that was me. But truthfully, I’ve much more in common with the old man. I might not be hunched over and using a walker, but my day is coming. I wondered about the little boy. Did he have any idea how precious a thing it is to spend time with your father and grandfather? What will this little guy become? Maybe he will be the one who finds a cure for cancer. He might end up being an artist or a businessman. His future is sprawled out in front of him for the taking. I wondered what it must feel like for the old man, what emotions were at play as he walked beside his son—walking his son. I imagine a mixture of pride, gratitude, and bewilderment at how fast time flew by from his days as a boy. 

It brought to mind this photograph, the only one of its kind that I’m aware of, probably over 30 years old now…

-  Speaking of running, yesterday I determined that I would replicate the 7 mile walk from a week ago for which I took lots of heat on Facebook by the usual suspects, namely, my sister Paula who opined, “What is this compulsion you have to push yourself?!? Good grief. Chill out.” I should point out that this is nothing new from her. She always has something snarky to say whenever I do something fun or dangerous. But, I must admit that she asks a good question. The problem is that I have no satisfactory answer to the question of why I have always been thus, always pushing myself to do better, do more, go faster etc…But, yesterday my goal was a second 7 mile walk, only this time I would concentrate of walking as fast as I could possibly walk to discover how much time I could shave off. The original walk took an hour and 50 minutes which upon reflection seemed embarrassingly slow. So yesterday I finished in only an hour and  thirty nine minutes…eleven minutes faster, baby!

So, what was the point, you may fairly ask? I’ll tell you what the point was—I set a new personal best time for walking seven miles! That’s the point! I proved that I can do better. Until actually doing it, the possibility of improvement is only a theory. The proof is on this little scoreboard. I’m sure that this explanation will not satisfy my opinionated sister or any of the other naysayers and worry warts out there who will warn me of future replaced hips and knees. They may all be right. To which my response is, so what? YOU go out there and walk seven miles at a pace of 14:11 per mile! 

-  Last night our social calendar was full. First off was a baby shower held out in Hanover County, then a dinner out with three other couples to celebrate a birthday down in Chesterfield County on the western end of Midlothian. Both events were great fun. The baby shower thing featured one of my old Sunday School students from the Grove days, along with his older brother and sister, also kids I was close to back in those youth group days. To look at these three siblings now and see their lives flourishing despite the considerable headwinds they have faced is one of life’s greatest rewards. But despite their hard earned adulthood status, when I see them I still think of them as adorable, fun and mischievous kids. Always. I suppose that will never change and I’m fine with it.

Batting Cage Fail

Every once in a while in my profession I am presented with a vexing case which doesn’t lend itself to easy remedies. I spend hours and hours pouring over the details, trying to pick the right strategy. Which risk do I want to remove? Which risk am I willing to tolerate? Whenever this happens I feel the need to do something sporty to distract my mind. Sometimes I’ll go for a run or walk 18 holes while carrying my clubs, anything that will wear me out because when I’m exhausted I stop thinking obsessively about everything.

So this afternoon I threw my golf clubs in the back of the car and drove over to Bogey’s Sports Park to hit a bucket of balls. It was nice. I hit the ball well and the weather couldn’t possibly have been any finer. As I was preparing to leave I looked up the hill and noticed the batting cages.

I have a history with batting cages. Years ago when I was just starting out in business and well and truly broke, I used to use my lunch hour over at the batting cages just south of Ashland on Number One Highway. Back then they had a 90 mph cage and I used to wear that cage out until I was dripping wet with sweat. Of course, now that I’m 65 my days of putting a 90 mph fastball in play are over. Besides, nobody has a 90 MPH cage anymore. Anyway, before thinking my decision through properly, there I was buying two tokens, walking up to the cages with a too skinny, too light aluminum bat and one of those one size fits all helmets. Upon arriving I noticed that only two of the cages were open…70 MPH and 80 MPH. Gulp.

I dropped the first token in the 70 MPH machine and prepared for the worst. To my astonishment, I only swung and missed once in 20 pitches, fouled off maybe 4 or 5 and laced the rest of them right up the middle. For a brief and unrealistic moment I let myself believe I was a kid again.

One more token. Twenty more pitches. I determined that the 80 MPH cage was my destiny. How much harder could 10 lousy miles per hour be? But this was when I realized that I was out of breath and sweating profusely. Yep. Still 65 and not fooling anyone! So I sat down at one of the picnic tables to gather myself. I noticed that both of my hands were red and raw looking after only 20 swings. Better loosen the grip on the bat, I thought. Then it was time to step in against Mister 80 MPH heater.

When I finished, my hands were stinging and cramped with pain. My shirt was soaked through and thankfully there was no one up there to witness my pathetic performance. I managed to foul tip maybe four or five. I did put exactly six balls in play—all ground balls toward the second base side. The rest of the pitches were giant whiffs. Pretty humiliating, but my strategy had worked—I was no longer thinking about my troubling case.

When I arrived back home I cleaned up, then opened my computer to check the closing numbers on Wall Street. Thats when I saw the picture. It had popped up on my Facebook wall, a memory from 8 years ago, back when I could have done much better in the cage…

It’s probably my favorite picture of her. We were in the Cayman Islands, getting ready to go out for dinner. I took the photograph of her on the staircase in the front of the hotel. I studied it carefully and it brought back memories of that wonderful week. She is elegant, graceful and approachable. Her smile isn’t forced or tired. She is charming and fun, the kind of women who would never embarrass you. Her beauty is natural, never overdone or showy. She is tender hearted and kind, always thinks the best of people sometimes to a fault. The best thing is…that girl belongs to me.

My difficult case will take care of itself. Later tonight when my back starts to tighten up and my hands start pulsing with pain, she will look at me, knowing that I brought it all on myself and roll her eyes. 

But, she loves me anyway.