Speaking of Great Books…

 New Year’s day, I spent three hours alone in my office cleaning out the clutter. I’m the kind of person who doesn’t like to leave anything on my desk when I go home each day so throughout the year, lots of stuff accumulates in every drawer of my desk and credenza. This year it was three tall kitchen bags full since I haven’t purged in several years. In the middle of this project I came across something that’s been with me in that office for nearly 30 years. For some reason I dropped everything and sat there staring at it wondering where the years have gone…

My daughter was five years old when she made this for me for Father’s Day. Her Mom helped her with the words since she could hardly write legibly at that point. But the story and the drawings were all her. The plot was simple enough. She was out to prove the title of this book with examples of my awesomeness…

I can attest to the accuracy of her account. I, in fact, did play the guitar for them often during bath time. Back in those days, this amounted to the sum total of quality time I had with them. I was working my tail off trying to provide for them the best I could in a business that offered zero guarantees, so I wasn’t with them very much. Bath time was wonderful.

Yes, I did. This probably explains the chronic back pain I suffer from to this day. But, what fun this was!

You might be wondering why I have kept this little book close to me all these years. Maybe in the darkest corner of my mind I think, Well, when I die and if it turns out that salvation comes from works after all, I’ll hand this to Saint Peter! 

Correct. I always gave them treats when they visited me at the office, because it was always the highlight of my day and cause for celebration.

I’m sure this particular aspect of the story will be troubling to my younger readers. I must confess that I did tell my kids some pretty terrifying stories. Some of them might have been a tad too graphic for five year olds. But, the moral of the stories was always the same—the world is full of danger, bad people and things, and the best way to live your life is with both eyes wide open…and never stray too far from your Dad because he and he alone can save the day. 

This might be the only embellishment in her account. The word always there is doing some serious heavy lifting in that sentence.

This is my favorite part of her story. My Dad told me once that the best thing I could ever do for my children was to love their mother. He was right.

But that doesn’t mean you have to share everything with Mom. These special treats of which she speaks were often just between the two of us!

So, there you have it. One of the finest works of literature you will ever read. Only one copy known to exist and it belongs to me.

The Latest Book News

On this, the most overhyped day on the Gregorian calendar, I thought I would update you all on the most recent book progress.

As of December 31, 2023 the editing process is finished. The proofreading is nearly complete. Now all attention is on two things, writing the teaser for the back cover and picking cover art, both inside and out. The single most surprising thing about all of this is how much fun it has been. Usually in my life when it comes to details I am a mess. Details bore me. The grind of working out the mechanics of a thing is usually something I happily delegate. But in this endeavor, although I have lots of talented people helping me, ultimate decision-making authority is mine along with all the responsibility that comes with it. So Mr. Dunnevant, describe for me in 200 words or less the driving force of your story, making sure to make it interesting and provocative, something that will grab a potential reader by the throat and compel him or her to buy your book!” No pressure. No pressure at all! Here’s what I came up with on my first attempt. I am currently awaiting the edited version:

Percy Hope had an extraordinary talent that earned him a fortune and the affections of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. 

Although his otherworldly talent had laid the world at his feet, Percy would soon tire of the lifestyle, and in time, he would lose it all, his talent, his fortune, his beautiful but troubled wife, and his will to live. After an unsuccessful suicide attempt he moves back home to take care of his dying parents and try to rebuild his life. That’s when the dreams begin.

A Life of Dreams is a story about a man who has it all and a women who took it all away, leaving them on the edge of despair, neither of them able to discern what is real and what is a dream, both of them wondering how it all went so wrong so fast. But its also about the miracle of forgiveness and the power as well as the limits of redemption. Its a story about healing and renewal where the agent of the supernatural just might be a stray dog named “Sam”.

But, compared to writing a teaser, picking cover art is so much harder! The art department at Atmosphere Press has sent me three different covers for review. I rejected one of them out of hand but the other two were both terrific. How to chose? Right now they are working on a couple of tweaks I requested along with coming up with a fourth attempt of an idea I’ve been kicking around in my head for a week or so. It’s from one of the central scenes from the book that I though might make a pretty cool cover. Sometime in the next couple of weeks I will have to make a decision. Although I have asked for a couple of minor changes, this is the one I’m leaning towards at the moment:

So…would you buy this book?

The Christmas Wrap-up

Christmas is finally over. I could break it down for you, tell you what happened each day since Christmas Eve, describe every event in detail to help you understand just how overwhelming it all was. But in order to do that I would need a better short term memory than I currently possess. The truth is I have forgotten exactly what happened on which date over these past four days. Nevertheless I will attempt to piece it together as follows:

Sunday, December 24th

We drove downtown to the Altria Theatre for our church’s Christmas Eve service at 9 o’clock in the freaking morning. When the service began with a fake-candle Silent Night, the world seemed to be spinning out of control, temporarily detached from its axis. It’s weird enough to be attending a Christmas Eve service in the morning, but to have it open with what is normally the show-stopping final number was quite disconcerting. Besides, the irony of singing the words silent night at daybreak seemed lost on our leadership team. However, the rest of the service was phenomenal. The music was inspired and skillfully performed, Pete’s spoken word was beautifully written and expertly delivered, and David’s message was pitch perfect for the moment. Still, having to squint into the brightness outside after the service was a reminder that it was now 10:00 and our brunch reservation at Tarrant’s West was calling. Since I had parked on the street instead of the time-suck parking garage, I made a hasty retreat and was sitting comfortably in the restaurant long before Paula, Ron and Ryan finally showed up. My breakfast pizza was exquisite. 

This is where it starts to get fuzzy. I can’t quite remember what we did after brunch but before our digital Zoom appointment with Patrick and Sarah that evening. I’m pretty sure I took a nap somewhere in there, but everything else is a blank.

Christmas Eve night featured the very first virtual stocking opening in Dunnevant family history. Due to circumstances beyond our control, Patrick and Sarah were not able to make the 9 hour drive home for Christmas this year, so there we were watching them opening Christmas pajamas live and in living color via a very jumpy internet connection which featured several screen freezes. It is quite possible to be in awe of and extremely grateful for modern technology while at the same time finding it annoying.

Monday, December 25th. Christmas Day.

Santa did not arrive at our house. Somehow the old man knew that the four of us were not having Christmas on the 25th. Instead, we would watch Patrick and Sarah open presents and let them watch us opening the presents that they sent us. Afterward, everyone went in to full-time slave labor mode as we launched ourselves into preparing our house for the arrival of the White family for Christmas. There would be fourteen of us for a huge lunch with all the trimmings, then several hours of gift exchanging and merry making. By the time everyone finally left, it once again gets a bit hazy. I seem to recall watching bits of a Christmas Carol, the animated version with Jim Carrie and Gary Oldman. Then some scenes from Elf, after which everything went black again.

Tuesday, December 26th.

The four of us along with the two very good dogs, Lucy and Jackson, finally were able to enjoy our Christmas together. We opened presents. We took a break to have the traditional breakfast featuring scrambled eggs with not one but two different flavors of hot sauce, lots of crispy bacon and Pam’s world famous orange cinnamon buns. After this amazing meal, we all felt sufficiently renewed to attack the unwrapping of the Christmas stockings. This is a long process that almost takes longer than unwrapping the regular gifts at Casa Dunnevant. We were finally done around 1:00, after which another killer nap was indulged. Christmas night Pam made steaks on an iron skillet with this killer butter and rosemary sauce drizzled over everything. Amazing. The drive around town looking at Christmas lights while eating donuts thing didn’t pan out, largely because no donut businesses were open!! 

Wednesday, December 27th

I actually made an appearance at my office this morning to take care of a couple of death claim related issues, a bummer of an intrusion of my real life into our little Christmas fantasy. But soon I found myself in the car driving out to Bill and Linda’s for the extended Dunnevant Clan Christmas. This involved a “light lunch” of chili, Italian beef sliders and a host of other deliciousness, followed by a desert cafe. In between all the eating, we all opened more presents and all us grownups looked on at the kids in amazement at how big they are all getting. Seems like only last week when they were all a bunch of ankle-biting toddlers. Now, they are all taller than us and speaking in complete sentences about subjects that none of the rest of us can understand.

As we were all packing up to head home I couldn’t help but think that Mom and Dad would have been proud of us…I think.

Tomorrow morning, Jon and Kaitlin will head back to South Carolina. Pam and I will hit the road to North Carolina to attend a wedding. The real world is growling at the door.

And So it Begins…

It’s Sunday. Christmas Eve. A disconcerting combination. When I was a kid I always hated it when either Christmas Eve or Christmas Day fell on a Sunday. When your Dad was the pastor this meant that church attendance played havoc with Christmas fun. Instead of opening presents we would all have to trudge off to church and listen to all the other miserable kids singing Christmas carols ten times slower than they were meant to be sung. Of course, now that I’m no kid anymore I actually like it when Christmas falls on a Sunday. It feels more authentic, holier even.

So this morning we will head down to the Altria Theatre for our Christmas Eve service at 9:00 am. I’m told its a sellout. I also informed my household that AIS time is 8:10 am. We’ll see how that goes. It takes forever to park down there and we don’t want to be late. It’s just Kaitlin and Jon this year, Patrick and Sarah will miss Christmas at home for the first time since he was born—another disconcerting reality. Nevertheless the four of us will join 3,500 others for what will be a delightful experience. Hope Church always does a beautiful job at the Altria.

Then it will be on to Tarrant’s West for brunch with the Roops, after which we will head back to the house so I can enjoy my afternoon nap. Pam will no doubt be busy with a million things like always. I will not feel the slightest ounce of guilt for taking a snoozle since I have done everything asked of me in the weeks leading up to these festivities. Besides, nobody likes a tired and grumpy dad at Christmas. The last item on today’s agenda is a trip out to the Christmas Eve service at Winn’s. This will be the first such service I have attended there since the days of my youth when I was that miserable kid waiting for it all to be over with already so I could tear in to my presents. I will see lots of people from the old days. It will be nice to be with Pam’s parents and family.

Christmas Day will be weird. The first half of the day will be a chaotic mess since we will be all-hands-on-deck preparing the house for the White family Christmas celebration. They will arrive for lunch at 1:00 then presents. By the time they all leave, the four of us will have our first ever virtual Christmas with Patrick and Sarah. Their faces will smile at us from the television in the corner as they open their presents from us and ours from them. Odd.

The day after Christmas will be time for the four of us—plus Lucy and Jackson—to celebrate Christmas. The day after that, its off to my sister’s house for the Dunnevant family Christmas extravaganza. Then Kaitlin and Jon will pack up and drive back to Columbia, and Pam and I will hit the road for Raleigh, North Carolina to attend Lizzy Fort’s wedding. We will finally arrive back home to an empty house on New Year’s Eve. If this all sounds like a dizzying convoluted mess of a schedule, you are probably right. That’s why yesterday was so special.

Yesterday there was nothing planned. We spent all day doing regular things. I got up the leaves. Pam and Kaitlin made cookies all afternoon. We even had time to get ice cream last night at the Blue Cow. Pam made two incredible meals. 

This amazing thing for breakfast:

Don’t know what its called but it was stuffed with eggs, sausage and cheese.

Then she whipped up Chicken Caprese for dinner:

Merry Christmas everybody!

The Home Stretch

It is Monday morning, the 18th of December in the year of our Lord, 2023 which means that we have entered the home stretch of the Christmas season. We officially no longer have plenty of time. In point of fact we are pretty sure that we will not get it all done. It won’t even be close. But that is always the conclusion at the beginning of crunch time. Then, my wife presses her nitro button, launching herself into overdrive, snatching victory from the jaws of defeat. By the time the clock strikes midnight on Christmas Eve everything will be in place and buttoned up. But right now, this morning? There’s no stinking way its gonna all get done.

My job this week is to provide aid and comfort to the hardest working woman in America. If she needs someone to pick up something at some store, I’m her guy. When its time to clean the house and give Lucy her Christmas bath I’ll be all over it. It’s the least I can do since she has purchased 90% of the presents that will get opened on Christmas morning. Then there’s this…

This used to be our dining room table, but for the next 7 days it will serve as the present wrapping station, and most of that wrapping will be done by yours truly. I actually enjoy the work, although on particularly long sessions, it plays hell on my neck and back. A small price to pay to take this portion of the labor off of Pam’s plate. Of course, Pam sometimes decides to intervene in the process by adding ribbons and bows to selected packages because she simply cannot help herself. I don’t have any problem with it since they always look better when she does.

One more thing. In our house we have not fallen prey to the annoying curse of the Christmas Elf nonsense. But thats not to say that there isn’t some innocuous thing that keeps getting moved mysteriously and just won’t go away. There is this…



Several weeks ago Pam purchased this menacing piece of equipment which is designed to troubleshoot the yearly problem of burned out Christmas lights. I will not here detail the mechanics involved, although it should be said that we have found it ineffective. But for reasons that confound, Pam has refused to throw away the…packaging…

Not only will she not dispose of this packaging, she is constantly moving it from place to place around the house. For a while it lay in the middle of the present wrapping table. Then it reappeared on the counter in the kitchen where the barstools are. Then, this morning I found it snugly positioned on the hearth of the fireplace…

Now, if I were to ask her why she decided that the hearth of the fireplace was the perfect spot for this I am sure that she will have a perfectly illogical reason. But, I will not ask. This is simply above my pay grade. That information is on a need to know basis only and I clearly do not need to know.

So, good luck to you all as we enter the week that try men’s souls. I will hopefully see you on the other side.

The Roots of Road Rage…Cell Phones

Today is Saturday, nine days before Christmas, in Short Pump, Virginia. The three essential facts found in that sentence reveal an awful lot about what I can expect if I am unfortunate enough to have to leave my neighborhood for any reason today. Anyone from around here knows that what I am about to describe is the God awful truth. It may be the same in your town, I’m sure of it actually, because this is Christmas in America.

Since there are now only six shopping days left before the big day, panic has started to course through the veins of Short Pumpians. There is so much still left to do and time is short and getting shorter. Luckily for us, almost every store on our list is located within the tight square mile I have highlighted below:

Within the parameters of this red circle lies Dante’s 9th level of commercial hell. On the one hand, everything that anyone might need for human flourishing can be found within this slab of real estate. If not, it can be ordered then scheduled for pickup by a series of wide-eyed sales clerks that inhabit the thousand shops, stores and outlets found here. According to the 2020 United States census, there are 27,385 souls who live in Short Pump. However, over the next nine days there will be at any given time roughly twice that amount crammed, wedged and packed within this red circle, either in parking lots, stores or clogging every road, street and boulevard in town, all looking for that hard to find gift for cousin Billy that he will either lose or destroy by New Year’s Day.

In the map above, my home is the little blue dot at the bottom, safely out of harm’s way…but barely. Unfortunately, at some point over the next week or so I will have to leave the confines of my peaceful neighborhood and venture out into the abyss. When I do I will encounter a teaming mass of automobiles, bumper to bumper in all directions. I will spend what seems an eternity sitting still at stoplights, and every single time I do the following will happen.

It matters not whether I am three cars back from the light or ten cars back. The car at the front of the line and generally the car right behind him will have one thing in common. Their heads will be tilted down, eyes locked on their cell phones, their little thumbs and fingers tapping out frantic messages. Accordingly, when the light finally turns green they will be clueless to this vitally important change in their reality. Since the guy right behind the first guy is equally engaged, both cars sit stone still while everyone else in the queue starts to get annoyed and restless. Under normal circumstances we drivers usually give the guy in front of a stoplight lane three seconds of grace. But, this is Christmas and we are fresh out of grace. As a mental and emotional experiment, close your eyes and imagine that you are in this line and you see that the light has changed from red to green. Now start counting off the seconds in your head. At what point would you become alarmed if there was no movement? For me its five seconds. At second six my horn is blowing like Mount Vesuvius. If you think this is unduly impatient, I challenge you to do the thought experiment I just described. Six seconds at a standstill waiting for some jackass to put his cell phone down and move feels like a freaking eternity.

Multiply this incident times a thousand and you will quickly understand why road rage is an actual thing. I like to call this traffic jam inducing phenomenon cell phone cellulite. The most astonishing thing about the traffic at Christmas in Short Pump is that it is still this bad despite the boom in internet shopping. We are constantly being told about the increasing percentage of business being conducted by people in the pajamas sitting on their sofas. And yet, the streets of Short Pump still look like rush hour in Manhattan. Maybe that can be explained thusly:

Pam: Ok honey, I just found that kumfinator thing on Patrick’s list at the Target near Yen Ching. It says it will be ready for pickup at 2:00 this afternoon. Can you go get it for me?

Me: Why didn’t you have it shipped here?

Pam: Are you kidding? That would have cost 6 bucks, silly.

Me: You do realize it will take me an hour to get over there and back in this traffic.

Pam: And your point is……?

So, I drive down Broad Street stopping at seven stop lights and watch seven different idiots texting on their cell phones after the lights change, which makes me increasingly furious and brings me to the very edge of road rage a mere two weeks before we all celebrate the birth of the Prince of Peace.

A New Christmas Tradition

It is generally true that when it comes to thinking up great ideas which enrich our family life, Pam comes up with way more than I do. Its not that I am worthless in this department, most spur of the moment getaway trips are my idea, “No, you are not cooking dinner tonight, we’re going out”—me. But when it comes to great ideas that make a huge impact on all six of us, its Pam. I’m mostly in finance.

So it was this Christmas season when Pam presented us with this:

This is an advent puzzle. This is the one she bought for the two of us. She sent a different advent puzzle to each of the kids. Each day of advent, we are to open the corresponding box and put that portion of the puzzle together. each day’s pieces come with that day’s number on the back of the piece. That way, when its done, the pieces can be placed back in the appropriate boxes and the process can be repeated next year. Only, there’s a wrinkle. Next year, we are all instructed to bring our puzzles home for Thanksgiving where we will swap them out so each of us will have a new puzzle to put together in 2024. Thus, this will be a great idea with a three year shelf life. Brilliant.

Here’s the thing about puzzles. I’m late to the puzzling game. On the Dunnevant family beach vacations puzzles have been a thing for two decades now. Mostly, I stand around drinking coffee watching Ron, Bill and Ryan putting them together. I’ve just never been all that in to puzzles. It requires far too much sitting. But a couple years ago Pam started bringing them to Maine and I’ve started to warm up to them. With this advent thing, it has been all me so far. Strange. It arrived late for one thing, so we had to play catch up. Honestly, Pam has been running around like a one-armed paper hanger for weeks now and hasn’t had the time. So, I opened the box and got to work. To my great surprise, I have been delighted with the project. Each day I open a new box. It takes me about 15-20 minutes to assemble each day’s pieces. While doing so I find that every single negative thought that might have been inside my head disappears under the weight of fresh concentration. It functions like a mental health break. Everything slows down for a bit. I get lost in the impossibly idyllic scene in front of me. Unlike most 1000 piece puzzles, this one seems far less daunting. It’s organized into bite sized morsels and you think, “I can do this.” In this way it is a metaphor for life, isn’t it?

Advent puzzles. Our new Christmas tradition.

Ted Lasso for President

If you have never watched the television show Ted Lasso, you should. Sure, its a show centered around a sport that I couldn’t possibly care less about, and yeah it is often unnecessarily profane, using the f-word as every conceivable part of speech in the English language. But the lead character is as pure of heart as anyone played on television since Sheriff Andy Taylor patrolled the streets of Mayberry. In a world that seems to worship the morally bankrupt, Coach Lasso walks into the room spreading the gospel of kindness and it feels like a miracle.

A friend of mine sent me what follows and it made my morning. I remember every one of these lines from the show and everyone of them are the unvarnished truth. You’re welcome.

Things I learned from Ted Lasso:

1. "Be curious, not judgmental"

2. "Doing the right thing is never the wrong thing."

3. "I have a really tricky time hearing folks that don’t believe in themselves."

4. “Change Isn’t About Trying To Be Perfect. Perfection Sucks. Perfect Is Boring.”

5. "You know what the happiest animal on Earth is? It's a goldfish. It has a 10-second memory. Be a goldfish."

6. "For me, success is not about the wins and losses. It's about helping these young fellas be the best versions of themselves on and off the field."

7. "I think that if you care about someone and you got a little love in your heart, there ain't nothing you can't get through together."

8. “I think that you might be so sure that you’re one in a million that sometimes you forget that out there, you’re just one of 11.” 

9. "Taking on a challenge is a lot like riding a horse, isn't it? If you're comfortable while you're doing it, you're probably doing it wrong."

10. "I promise you there is something worse out there than being sad, and that's being alone and being sad. Ain't no one in this room alone."

It’s Complicated

I made the mistake of reading an essay this morning by Andrew Sullivan where I discovered that I am Exhibit A of something called the Oppressor Class. Mr. Sullivan was trying to explain the thought process behind the tortured answers given by those three Ivy League presidents to that Congressional Committee this week. Some idiot Congresswoman asked this pretty straight forward question, “Does calling for the genocide of Jews constitute bullying and harassment?” On these campuses its hard to imagine a crime more grave that bullying and harassment. The three women all sounded like lawyered up corporate PR directors with answers that when boiled down to their basics amounted to, “It’s complicated.” The actual answer was “It is a context-dependent decision, Congresswoman.”

So, Mr. Sullivan explained that this sort of squishy thinking comes to us from an invasive belief inside academia that every single interaction in all of recorded history comes down to only two realities. You are either an oppressor or you are oppressed. Essentially, even genocide can be contextualized if the ones calling for it are part of the oppressed class. And since the Palestinians are the oppressed and the Jews are the oppressors, then…its complicated.

Instead of delving into the whole Jews v Palestinian thing, I was challenged by Mr. Sullivan to examine my identity as an oppressor. The reason I am Exhibit A is because I check every single box. My mere existence practically screams oppressor, I’m told. First, I’m white, with European ancestry. Second, I’m a guy. Third, I’m heterosexual. Within the canon of critical theory this is basically the unholy Trinity of Oppressorness. So, because of this accident of birth everything I have managed to accomplish, while not completely illegitimate, at the very least needs to come with a giant asterisk. It is thought an impossibility that I have arrived at my current station in life without having somewhere along the line oppressed someone.

I have done a bit of soul searching on this point. I can’t recall any specific examples of me oppressing anyone. I would think that with my status as oppressor I would feel a bit more like a bad ass. Maybe not being aware of my oppressor role, I didn’t take better advantage. But then I learned, with Mr. Sullivan’s help that often oppressors are in fact oblivious to their oppressive behaviors. Its more like an innate part of our DNA and therefore, like breathing, it is an involuntary action, baked in to our character. So, if our laws catch up with this new theory, it will be super easy to convict oppressors of their crimes since no actual evidence will be required. But, like the Ivy League Presidents tried to explain, it really is quite complicated. 

For example, Although I am white, suppose I was also homosexual? White men are classic oppressors, but homosexuals have always been and remain oppressed. Which is dominant? Suppose I was a lesbian, but also white? Which one carries more weight? How about Asians? Most Ivy League schools have gone to great lengths to rig their admission systems to discriminate against this high achieving demographic. Are they considered oppressed or oppressors? Are they considered white or people of color? The most obvious member of the oppressed class I imagine would be a black, disabled women who is lesbian. However, there are other oppressed classes out there as well. The overweight who are everywhere being fat shamed. Physically unattractive people who are marginalized by our beauty-crazed culture. People who are either too old or too young and therefore oppressed by ageism.

Even though the list of oppressed classes can be daunting to keep up with, the number one oppressor class remains straightforward…whiteness. Getting back to the Hamas-Israel conflict for a minute, what makes the Jewish people the oppressors according to Andrew Sullivan isn’t their Jewishness but rather their whiteness. Since Hamas and the Palestinian people they represent are considered people of color, any behavior that springs from their oppression is justifiable, which helps explain the university president’s tortured responses.

But at this point I should bring up Andrew Sullivan’s status as a white homosexual man. Surely he is conflicted on the subject. He is very much against the entire construct of D.E.I. (diversity, equity and inclusion) which he considers an anti-democracy, anti-liberal racket designed by a bunch of tenured radical Marxists. He considers the university president’s performance this week a rare opportunity for the public to peek behind the curtain of what passes for enlightenment at the most prestigious institutions of higher learning in America. As for me, I’m just trying to banish any oppressor tendencies from my conscious and unconscious mind. But, since I’m 65 it’s probably too late.

I have learned at least one lesson today. Don’t read essays with titles like, The Day the Empress’ Clothes Fell Off.

Book Progress

So, I had an hour long conversation with my editor the other day. He seems like a decent guy, smart and reasonable. He suggested a couple changes he would like to see in the book. When he explained his reasons they made sense to me so I’ve been busy doing the rewrite. On the surface the changes seemed simple enough. He wanted me to introduce one of the characters earlier in the story. Then he wanted me to do a better job of providing additional background which might explain a portion of the plot that he found out of character. Both, reasonable requests. He gave me two weeks to make these changes.

Here’s the hard part. When its been ten years since you wrote something, then you re-enter the thing and start making changes, you feel like a time-traveler mucking around with their lives, screwing with them! I know that sounds ridiculous. These are make believe people in a make believe story. Still, for me the story was complete, its arc completed. Now I’m nosing around like some revisionist historian. Plus, its not as easy as it sounds—introduce this character earlier in the story. Ok, but if I do that, I have to make allowances for that character’s existence in a number of places throughout the story where before he wasn’t around. Its the ripple effect chaos that gets unleashed if you think about time travel too much.

Although making these changes has not at all been easy, I have had a surprising amount of fun doing it. Its hard to describe but its almost like bringing something back to life. I wasn’t sure how I would respond to the criticisms of an editor. It would seem natural to be defensive. It is, after all, my work. But the truth of the matter is that although I’ve managed to write four novels without an editor’s help, all of those efforts were for my own edification. I wrote them because I enjoyed it. I didn’t write them from the standpoint of what a reader might think. But as soon as the possibility of publication presented itself a bit of panic rose in me. Holy crap! Suppose this story is filled with errors and logical inconsistencies? Now suddenly people like editors and proof readers feel like saviors to me. So, if my guy thinks the dog in my story needs to enter the narrative much earlier then who am I to question him? He’s the pro. Not me!

I’ll keep you guys posted on the progress of this thing as we go. 

No Blockages!!

Well, it took them long enough, but I finally got the call to inform me that I have no blockages. I have been released to resume normal activities including all exercise routines from before. This is very good news. The removal of the possibility of blockages has done wonders for my overall sense of well being. So much so that I told Pam that I am ready to reclaim my status as the Stud of Aprilbud. Although I sent her this sentiment via text message I could almost feel the eye roll.

Of course, there is a chance I may once again feel some discomfort, tightness, and heartburn-like symptoms while exercising, and if so I may still have to have an exploratory catheterization at some point. But for now this is wonderful news. 

I feel better already!

The Worst Thing in the World

There are a whole host of things competing for my attention this morning. Consequently, the worst thing in the world just happened. But I bet I’m not alone. I’m willing to bet that this very worst thing has also happened to you at some point. What am I referring to, you ask?

So, you’re sitting in front of your iPad scanning the news while drinking your coffee. The first four emails are all making demands on your time. This leads you to shut that screen and check out the financial news, which then gives way to ESPN and the Atlantic, where you stumble upon an excellent article about the Russia/Ukraine war. Then…it happens. You pick up your mug and see that there is one more swallow left. You tilt the mug upwards as the thought enters your mind—might it be? Too late. It’s COLD. All of your reading and scrolling has taken longer than you thought. You have left that last sip of coffee too long in the bottom of the mug. As soon as it hits your mouth a shudder jolts your entire body. A split decision must then be made. Do I spit it back into the mug or swallow the tepid coffee? Either way, your morning has been ruined.

Look, I know that the kids today are all about their iced coffees, and honestly I’ve tried them a couple times and they are not horrible. But intentionally drinking cold coffee is one thing, being surprised by cold coffee is entirely another. Perhaps calling it “the worst thing in the world” is a tad overwrought, but its like being presented with what looks like a New York Strip steak then biting into it and discovering that its liver. It turns you into a cynic. What other grave disappointments are you in store for today?!

Speaking of grave disappointments, it has been six days since my nuclear stress test and I have still not heard the results from the Cardiologist. Yesterday I called the office requesting a call back to no avail. This morning I will do so again. There are several ways to interpret the radio silence. I had no blockages and am totally fine and since there is nothing wrong they are in no hurry to call me back. Or, they haven’t even looked at the tests results yet. Of course, the way my day started with the cold coffee disaster, it very well be that the office has dropped the ball altogether—the cardiologist thinking that his nurse practitioner was going to call me and the nurse practitioner thinking that the cardiologist was going to call! If thats the case I hope that both of them gag on that last cold sip of coffee.

The Power of Negative Thinking

Tuesday Evening: 9:36 pm

The past 8 days have been—with apologies to Norman Vincent Peale—a testimony to the power of negative thinking. On the 20th of November I honestly answered a question asked to me by a doctor concerning any new symptoms related to my heart that I had been experiencing. The truth was that I have had some exertion induced tightness in my chest along with potent heartburn. Immediately I was scheduled for a nuclear stress test. For the past 8 days I have been doing a very bad job of accentuating the positive. Discomfort and tightness in the chest for a 65 year old man doing strenuous exercise doesn’t have to mean blockages, stints, and a new bland diet of tasteless food. It could very well just be really bad acid reflux. But the human mind is an unreliable optimist, preferring as it does to play out the worst case scenarios during every fleeting moment of reflection. The wait has been intolerable. As soon as I heard the doctor use the word blockages, I have felt a barrage of discomfort in the chest area, the power of suggestion being the most powerful of drugs. At least I hope its the power of suggestion.

So, Pam made butter chicken for dinner tonight, my last meal before the big test in the morning. While we both stood around the Instant pot watching it come together she deadpanned, “Well, if the tests tomorrow don’t go well and you have to go on a bland diet, I figure we should go out with a bang!” Although I’ve always been the smart-ass in the family, my amazing wife has her moments.

What I know at this point is that this particular test takes 4 hours. It involves injecting some sort of dye into my bloodstream, a lot of sitting around waiting, then injecting various drugs into my bloodstream to speed up my heart rate to marathon running levels, then taking pictures of the blood making its way through all the valves and arteries surrounding my heart, then more sitting around waiting. This entire process is repeated as often as is required after which the professionals in charge of the test will hopefully be able to provide me with definitive news as to my condition—clogged arteries or too much spicy food.

I’m thinking that sleep will be fitful tonight, full of crazy dreams. Knowing me I’ll dream about shrimp creole, jambalaya, hot sausages, and Nashville-hot chicken, wake up ravenously hungry only to be reminded that I’m not allowed to eat or drink anything until noon.

Wednesday Morning: 7:30 am

Arrived at Henrico Doctor’s Hospital on Parham. Despite the fact that she would be sitting around in a waiting room for four hours, Pam had insisted upon accompanying me. We found the correct waiting room and I noticed how old everyone looked. This was not an encouragement. Within five minutes a nurse called my name and I made the first of what would be four different trips behind the curtain, this one to make sure that I was who I claimed to be and to secure an IV in my arm along with the aforementioned dye, after which it was back to the waiting room for me.

Wednesday Morning: 8:15 am

My second summons brought me to a giant machine called the NM/CT 850. My job would be to lay completely still with my arms awkwardly stretched over my head, while the rest of me was slid into the metal cylinder whose job it was to take a nine minute picture of my resting heart, followed by a minute long CT scan. This all was pulled off without incident and I was once again shuffled back to the waiting room where I discovered my wife in an animated conversation with a lovely church lady who used to work for Ukrops and dearly loved “Mr. Bobby.” By this time I was extremely hungry and quite done with sitting in the waiting room. So, I began walking the length of the hall outside the door. It was during one such walk that I discovered that my IV had sprung a leak. Perhaps too much walking and not enough sitting. I used a tissue to tidy up the drips and settled in for more waiting. On the plus side, I got my steps for the day in!

Wednesday Morning: 9:50 am

This was going to be the fun part. I was ushered in to a different room behind the curtain where I was asked to lie down and make myself comfortable—a ridiculous suggestion under the circumstances. Soon, a nurse practitioner, Jennifer, joined me as the technicians were about to inject the racing drug. I was told to expect a little shortness of breath. As is my custom during medical procedures of any kind, I close my eyes and keep my mouth shut. About a minute or so in Jennifer asked me, “How are you feeling?” I answered “Not good.” She replied, “well you look like you feel nothing!” The truth was that both arms and my neck were experiencing extreme discomfort. My head was hurting but there was no shortness of breath. Fortunately, the discomfort was brief and soon I was being offered a straw attached to a styrofoam cup filled with Pepsi. It was the most delicious soft drink I had ever tasted. Then they unhooked all the EKG monitors from my chest and escorted me back to the waiting room where I was instructed to stay for “about an hour”. In the one highlight of the day I was given permission to eat and offered stale crackers and peanut butter.

Wednesday Morning: 11:15 am

My last trip behind the curtain was for my last nine minute photograph of my heart post-test in the cylinder. Once this was completed I was told that I was free to go. My Cardiologist would read all the results and be in touch with me “probably by the end of the week.”

As we were walking to the car Pam asked me, “So, how was it?” My answer was, in hindsight, extremely dumb. I said something like, “That was like the worst kind of medical procedure ever, what with all the waiting around…” Pam’s response was pretty classic. Something like, “Seriously? That was the worst medical procedure ever??” After a timely pause she added, “It’s not like it was chemo!”

So now the test has been done and next up is…more waiting. For some reason I was thinking that they would be able to look at what was happening in real time and know exactly what the issue was right away. Apparently not. When I got home and had some soup for lunch I developed a killer headache that Tylenol was powerless against. It then dawned on me, (after Pam suggested the idea), that I hadn’t had my morning coffee. Problem solved.

Final observations:

Thanks to Medicare, probably 95% of the insanely inflated cost of this procedure will be born by my fellow American taxpayers, for which I would like to extend my gratitude. Secondly, as I lay there watching the nurse hook me up to the EKG machine it occurred to me that in this day and age where I can have a clear conversation with someone on the other side of the world using a wireless smart phone, where I can change the channel on my television using a wireless remote control, they are still hooking up EKG’s with what seems like a dozen cords. What the heck? But it was a medical procedure and I had my eyes closed and my mouth shut.

Revolution

When I was a kid we had one in our house. One television and one telephone. The television was a black and white model made by RCA. It had rabbit ears attached to the top that my Dad would adjust this way and that depending on the weather conditions and which of the four channels we happened to be watching. At the top of each antenna we had fashioned crumpled aluminum foil, back then known as Reynold’s Wrap, for additional reception. Our one telephone sat on the edge of the china cabinet in the dining room. It was a pitch black rotary phone whose one enhancement came the day my Dad sprang for a long cord that allowed us kids to have our brief conversations in the relative privacy of the stairway heading upstairs.

Almost everyone I knew had this same phone. You could always tell who the rich kids were when you would go over to their house and discover that phones came in colors other than black. The first time I saw that one of my friends actually had something called a Slimline phone in his bedroom, I discovered that wealth was indeed unevenly distributed!

I’ve been thinking about that old rotary phone a lot lately. In my lifetime we have come from the days of this ugly, heavy, corded beast to the age of the smart phone without the destruction and warfare that usually accompany such revolutions. While in my teenage years I might have averaged five minutes a day using the telephone, now the screen time usage on my Apple smart phone is an embarrassment to me. Ironically, I still only spend maybe five minutes a day actually talking on the phone. The other hours are spent inundating myself with endless streams of information, or scrolling through semi-literate ramblings of people I don’t even know, not to mention hours upon hours of hilarious puppy videos. Phone calls have been replaced with texting. The emails I am bombarded with have managed to almost render the hand written note or letter obsolete. If information is power, then I have more access to more of it than my ancestors could ever have imagined. 

So, why do humans seem dumber than ever? More accurately, why do I feel dumber?

Part of it is that ancient bugaboo that has stymied social planners for centuries—human nature. When humans are confronted with an enlightening article explaining how to create an organic flower garden, or one entitled Ten of Kim Kardashian’s most embarrassing red carpet moments,, the garden will just have to wait. When a man is given the choice between parenting hacks or free porn, well…the numbers don’t lie. 

The internet is usually dominated by the loudest, most provocative voices, not because they are more interesting or informative but rather because we have elevated them to their place of dominance because human beings are attracted by loud and provocative, not understated and calm. In the old days when newspapers were dominant in the information culture, those old editors understood that if they wanted the guy on the street to read about some unifying, uplifting story that might make life better they first had to get him to buy a paper—and that was done by the vitriolic screaming headline. However, with the internet and the smart phone, its not just a matter of good vs. bad content, its the addition of video, especially the live variety. Nothing can compete with the addictive live feeds on our smart phones. The entire world is one big train wreck and none of us knows how to look away. I wonder sometime if when Al Gore was inventing this thing he ever considered the fact that maybe the human brain was not created to hold and process all the information that his internet brings to our doorstep. Maybe its all just too much.

From where I sit in November of 2023 I see no viable way to lessen the universal dumbing down of human beings brought on by this astoundingly convenient and prosperous technology. Sure, we could all just stop using the internet. We could all throw away our cell phones and go back to the land line. We could give up the GPS for that old road map that nobody knew how to fold. We could give up our instant expert YouTube status in exchange for dusting off our old library cards. 

Who am I kidding? There’s no way that this genie is going back in the bottle. Each of us instead will have to decide how much we are willing to allow this new Information Age to define us. 

Thankful in All Things

Its 3:30 in the afternoon, two of my kids are on the Interstate Highway system heading home, and I am nervous. The other two are already here and when they were on the road it was the same feeling. I wonder if it will ever be any different, like maybe when I’m 80. Will I still be glancing at the clock? Probably.

Thanksgiving is upon us. It has always been my favorite holiday. Although I love the great meal and being together with family, the day also brings with it a measure of guilt. I don’t always have a heart full of thankfulness on most of the other days of the year. I find it a challenge to be thankful for bad news when it arrives. Nevertheless, my faith teaches me that I am to be, thankful in all things. I’m told that during times of crisis our faith is most valuable and our reliance on God most comforting. Recently someone from the pulpit of my church called the difficult seasons of life opportunities for growth. From past experience and intellectually I know this to be true. But there is a vast chasm between the mind and the heart at the first introduction of crisis. So, it is a very good thing that Thanksgiving is on the calendar, as a steadfast reminder to give thanks for the blessings of life…and every fresh piece of bad news.

This year the gathering will be at Linda’s house. She’s my big sister and she has the biggest table. Still, there will be three rooms, three tables, and 26 mouths to feed. Linda is great at hosting these types of things. Everyone feels at home the minute they walk in, and the food is incredible. How she manages it all is the question. The same way Mom used to. It must be in the blood.

Most of you can tell a similar story. There’s a place you go, a special dish that’s your favorite, that weird cousin and obnoxious uncle. Most of us, the vast majority of those who read this blog are blessed with supportive families. However, there are many families where the holidays are a minefield of hurt feelings, resentments and hostility. I always think of them when the 26 of us are holding hands saying the blessing. Then there are those families who are struggling to put food on the table. For them, there is no Thanksgiving meal. Any meal at all would be a blessing. Its these people who my church attempts to help through our partnership with various food banks in the area. The fact that within a ten minute drive in any direction from our church there are hungry people should shame us. So this week we hit our goal of delivering over 4000 pounds—two tons of food to The Henrico Community Foodbank. It is a wonderful feeling, but the need never ends. 

Let Us Now Celebrate the Colors

Judging by the deluge of leaves that have fallen in my yard this weekend I believe it safe to say that the days of beautiful fall colors are coming to a close. This Fall season has been a banner year for the colors. Since returning from Maine I have encountered some of the most stunning trees I can ever remember seeing before. Since its impossible to pick a favorite, I have assembled my favorites for this blogpost to save them for posterity. Here they are in no particular order of loveliness…

For my friends who live in places like Southern California and Texas who don’t get the benefit of this type of beauty, I hope you enjoy this little slice of Virginia. Of course, you guys don’t have to get up leaves twice a week for two months either, so nature always balances the scales. Ironically, this last tree grows out of the ancient soil of the cemetery behind Bruton Parish church in Colonial Williamsburg. Odd that something so beautiful thrives among the bones of 280 year old dead men.

Big News

Ten years ago this month I started writing my first novel. I had no real idea what I was doing. All I had was a partial story inside of my head. It involved a guy who was a gambling savant, blessed with an amazing talent for winning games of chance. The story grew from what might go wrong with such a gift. In my character’s case it turned out to be practically everything, resulting in a divorce, a suicide attempt, and financial ruin. Along the way, both of his parents die on the same day, he is befriended by a uniquely gifted stray dog and ultimately discovers the healing power of forgiveness.

In the five months it took me to write it, my characters never failed to surprise, delight and disappoint me. Once I finished it, I was hooked on the rush that comes from creating a universe of people, places and events that all come together to tell a story. So much so that I have since written three more and am now working on a fifth.

I bring this up because recently I was introduced by a friend of mine to a publishing company he had worked with. He had mentioned my name and my work to his editor who then emailed me to introduce himself. Ultimately we met virtually where he asked me to give him a plot summary of all four of the books I had written. Then he asked me to send him the manuscripts from two of them. About a week later, he contacted me to tell me that Atmosphere Press wanted to publish…A Life of Dreams…the story I summarized above. 

Since then its been a whirlwind, signing contracts, emails flying around, the assignment of an editor etc..I’m told that the entire process will take 4-5 months before the final product will be in my hand and ready for sale. I have a ton to learn about this process since I know virtually nothing. So far the people at Atmosphere have been amazingly patient with my ignorance. I’m sure that over the next 4-5 months that patience will be tested.

Exciting times!

A Fun Two Weeks

My son came to town to run in the Richmond marathon. It was his second attempt at the race and he killed it. He beat last year’s time by nearly 20 minutes and beat his all time half marathon time by 11 minutes…

Then last night his wife Sarah prepared her famous charcuterie tray for our dinner. It was exquisite…

They will be staying with us through Thanksgiving, working remotely as well as going on some day trips together. Their pup, Frisco, is also here gracing us with his exuberant presence.



Its gonna be a fun two weeks!

What a Great Idea

This past weekend Pam and I had the solo stove fired up on the deck one night. After the sun went down it started to feel chilly out so it was perfect timing. The great thing about a fire is its hypnotic effect. As you watch the flames rise and wiggle themselves skyward it calms you. After a while you realize that you have not taken your eyes off the fire for half an hour. All of the conversation between us gets spoken into the fire. The words you speak seem more meaningful when spoken into the dancing flames.

At some point Pam starts telling me about something she saw on television or the internet about Black Friday, that particularly American embarrassment of greed. She told of someone who said, “Look, we all have big screen TVs now. Why do they put them on sale for Black Friday? If they really want to put something on sale for Black Friday why don’t they discount groceries by 50% for 24 hours?”

What an awesome idea. The inflation of the past 18 months has driven up the cost of basic groceries to the point where some families are truly struggling. Pam sometimes comes home from the grocery store with three bags, shaking her head when she comes in the door. “Guess how much these three bags cost? $125! It’s ridiculous!” For us, the rise in grocery prices is an annoyance, not a crisis. For others every trip to Publix or Food Lion is a gut-wrenching cost/benefit analysis.

This morning I saw where a friend of mine posted an idea on Facebook. You know how sometimes grocery stores will do buy one get one free promotions on random items? Well, this lady told how her store had one of those promotions on bags of potatoes. She loves potatoes but they don’t eat them fast enough to use an entire bag before some of them have gone bad. So, as she was standing in the checkout line she noticed the family in front of her looked like they might could use some help so she says to them, “Excuse me, there’s a buy one get one free sale on potatoes but my husband and I will never eat two bags fast enough before they go bad. Could you use this extra bag?”

What a fantastic idea. My church does a monthly food bank drive. They hand out special bags with a shopping list inside that provides ingredients for multiple meals for a family of four for one week. We fill the bags and bring them back to church the following Sunday. Each month we take a 3000 pound load of groceries to the Goochland food bank. In November there’s a special full Thanksgiving meal shopping list for a family of four, another good idea.

As we enter the holiday season we all need to think about the folks around us in our communities who are struggling with tight budgets. We need to come up with our own ideas about how we can help, we who have been given so much. Yes…there are government programs that help and yes…we pay taxes that fund those programs. But, why should we let the government have all the fun? Besides, with every government assistance program comes paperwork and bureaucracy, and as a result many people fall through the cracks. That’s where people like us, like you and me come in.

Make a fire one night this weekend. Sit under the stars and stare into it, giving thanks for your great good fortune. Maybe a great idea will come to you.

Temporary(?) Insanity

I’ve got a million things going on in my head this morning, none of them good. In a life full of ebbs and flows, insanity is flowing like a river at the moment. Seriously people, sometimes when I read the news I think I am a spectator at a theatre of the absurd. I look at headline after headline with slack-jawed confusion and embarrassment. How can any of this be happening? 

Of course, its not like this every day…thank God. Most days I’m busy tending my own garden. Most days my thoughts are occupied by plans for the future, friends, and family. But when the pace of life momentarily slows I have time to catch up on the world outside my small slice of it—and I have to say—the world has gone mad.

There isn’t even any one thing I can point to that illustrates the point. Its not one thing, its a Cobb salad full of things great and small that bring me to the conclusion that mankind has lost any connection to reality. Either that or insanity is the new reality. Since I don’t want to believe that, I’m going with the reassuring modifier, temporary insanity.

This morning I was confronted with two stark and honestly terrifying photographs. Were they of mutilated bodies in the Middle East? The agonized screaming faces of refugees from the God forsaken Gaza Strip? No. I was spared that catastrophe. But these two catastrophes were bad enough…

I was introduced to the bi-vocational mayor of a small town in Alabama whose other job was pastor of the local Baptist Church. She/He made the news when they shot their self in the head after their double life as a cross-dresser with an appetite for trans porn was outed on a blog. My mind is simply unable to wrap itself around something like this. Later on in my news skimming I encountered this actual headline:

Author comes out as trans MAN after spouse comes out as trans WOMAN

Again, I have no frame of reference for this despite 65 years of education, training and experience. Therefore I don’t know how to respond in any meaningful way. So I sit here dumbfounded. Gobsmacked. Perplexed beyond understanding.

Then there’s the second picture. I am told that oddsmakers in Vegas tell us that this is the most likely matchup in 2024’s presidential election despite the fact that overwhelmingly it is by far the most dreaded by the American people. Now, I know that what I am about to say is probably over the top and certainly the most reductionist reaction possible. But, people…if this happens, if these two men are once again thrust upon us in an election, we are finished as a nation. 

On the plus side, Patrick, Sarah and this guy…



…will be arriving this Thursday for a two week visit! They will be working from home while mixing in lots of side trips around our beautiful state culminating in being with us for Thanksgiving. So excited!!

Let’s Try a Risky Joke

I have decided to do something very risky. I’m going to tell a joke, but not just any joke. This one features an Imam, a Priest, and a Rabbi, and I’m telling it in the midst of a war between Hamas and Israel. Why am I doing this? Well, for starters, I think its a really funny joke. But I also think that humor is for all seasons. We seem to be living through the Era of Hurt Feelings, as the historians will one day refer to the early 21st century in America. Everyone seems aggrieved about one thing or another and those grievances are being worn on our shoulders. But I still hold to the conviction that reasonable people should be able to coalesce around a decent joke. I did not come up with this particular joke. But I should point out that it was told to me by a Jewish man.

So, an Imam, a Priest and a Rabbi had a standing tee-time every Wednesday morning at the local golf links. They played early in the morning and they liked to play fast. But on this day when they arrived on the first tee they noticed that a single golfer along with his caddy had just teed off first, ahead of them. They thought, “no big deal, a single won’t hold up our threesome.” The problem was that this single golfer was the slowest they had ever seen. Every single shot the caddy would meticulously line him up and talk to him at great length about each shot…it was infuriating! It ended up taking the Imam, Priest, and Rabbi over 6 hours to complete their round! When they finally finished all three of them stormed into the Pro-shop demanding to see the head pro. They began their complaints—“What the heck, Pro? It took us 6 hours to play our round because of the single slowest golfer we have ever seen. Their was no martial, no nothing. This is an outrage!

The Pro leaned over his desk and said in a soft voice, “Look guys…you do know that that golfer is blind, right?”

Immediately the Imam and Priest, looked completely embarrassed and ashamed. The Imam says, “Oh Allah, forgive me for my insensitivity. I promise that I will give a month’s pay to the American Foundation for the Blind” Then the Priest says, “Oh Lord, forgive my uncharitable heart. I too promise to give a month’s pay and I will have my church take up a special offering for Helen Keller International.”

After a short pause, everyone turned to the Rabbi who had fallen silent. Finally he looked at them and lifted his palms upward, “What?! He couldn’t have played at night?”

The Covered Dish Supper

Growing up as the son of a Baptist minister brought with it many unique experiences, substandard housing, Sunday night services and living next to a cemetery just to name a few. Being Baptist, of course, meant that church wasn’t just for Sundays. As the child of the Pastor you were expected to be at church every time the doors were opened. For me that meant Sunday mornings, Sunday nights, plus that special service meant for the faithful few—Wednesday night prayer meeting. In addition, for the even faithful fewer, there was Tuesday night visitation. Thankfully, kids weren’t expected to endure that drudgery. So growing up the church building became like a second home for me. And what a strange place it was.

First, there was the smell of the place. Even though our church was meticulously cleaned by a team of janitors, there was a persistent odor that permeated every inch of the building. Perhaps odor is the wrong word. The smell wasn’t exactly a bad smell, rather it was unique inasmuch as I have never encountered its like in any other building I have entered in my lifetime. It was a baffling combination of mold, hair spray, and Aqua Velva…with hints of furniture polish and mothballs. To me that smell meant…church.

Then there were the odd names thrown about to describe sections of the building that I have never heard used in any other context. Words like narthex, vestibule, and the all important fellowship hall. Although I never got an understandable explanation of what a narthex was, I knew exactly what the fellowship hall was and what purpose it served. It was the place where from the day I was born until I graduated from high school, all the most prominent meals of my life were served. I am referring, of course, to the Baptist covered-dish supper. Some churches called them pot luck dinners, but rumor had it that it was mostly liberal churches that used that term. For us, it was covered dish suppers, and they were amazing. It seemed like we had one at least two or three times a month, usually either on Sunday nights or after the service on Sunday morning. The reasons given for having a covered dish supper ran the gamut from celebrating some significant anniversary to mourning someone’s death. Sometimes it seemed like any excuse would do. The thought was that people who eat together, stay together, I guess.

The work that went into a covered dish supper was done by a surprisingly small group of women. These were the ladies who actually ran the church, worker bees who could organize a meal for 150 people in a matter of minutes, with enough food to fill rows of folding tables for as far as the eye could see. Then, after it was over, they would drag their husbands in from the parking lot to put away the tables and chairs, carry out the trash and mop the floors. It was an amazing organizational and culinary feat.

But, the covered dish supper eventually disappeared from my life. First I started attending a much larger congregation where the sheer size of the membership made impromptu meals problematic. Then about six years ago I joined a Presbyterian church and apparently we don’t do the covered dish thing. At Hope, we have meals catered! I didn’t realize how much I have missed it until this past Sunday. I attended a retirement celebration for my Mother in Law, 25 years of service as the church secretary at Hunton Baptist church. It was my first time inside a Baptist church in a while…same exact smell. After the service we were herded through the vestibule, across the narthex, into the fellowship hall, where we were greeted by this…

The ham slices were half an inch thick. The fried chicken wasn’t from Chick-fil-A. Was it homemade? Maybe. Then came a plethora of macaroni dishes, mac and cheese, and mac and some such thing which I couldn’t identify. There were green bean casseroles, corn pudding, and three different options for potato salad. There were deviled eggs, black-eyed peas and a giant bowl of butter beans. There were only three beverage options, water, sweet tea, and coffee.

The dessert table was filled with pre sliced cakes, pies, cupcakes and cookies. Four types of pound cakes (I sensed that perhaps there was a backstory of feuding bakers), pecan pie, and one plate of brownies that remained untouched—no doubt a back story there as well.

It was a lovely meal and a joyful experience to revisit.

As we were leaving I tried to stay clear of the army of stern-faced old men as they lifted the tables and chairs onto racks and rolled them away. 

Probably stored them in the…narthex.

Thanks, Lucy

Each morning when I lift the lid of my iPad part of me is holding my breath. What horrors of human depravity might await me? What events hatched overnight from the four corners of this world will threaten my life and livelihood? This morning was relatively normal. The conflict in Gaza threatening to evolve into WWIII, the Maine shooter found dead at his own hand, Matthew Perry found dead in his hot tub.

This morning’s stories were made easier to process by the presence of…my dog.

Lucy picks and chooses her days. She doesn’t always hop up on the sofa beside me as I drink my morning coffee and read the news. She is a notoriously late sleeper, not a morning dog. But occasionally she finds her way downstairs and takes her place beside me as I read. More times than I can count Lucy will let out a loud and long sigh at the precise moment when I have discovered a particularly disconcerting story of man’s inhumanity to man. Unimaginative people will dismiss this as coincidence. But dog people know better. We understand this as more proof that dogs are angels. Each time I hear Lucy sigh I look at her and give her hip a scratch and I am comforted. I am reminded that she has everything that she needs, a warm house, loving people, good food and yummy treats at the ready. And so do I.

Thanks, Lucy