The Maniac is Back.

My tomato plants are growing like weeds, every morning the little green balls get bigger and multiply like rabbits. I live in the suburbs. You know what that means...yes, it's open season on that most diabolical of backyard rodents, that furry ball of menace, God's big mistake...the ground squirrel.

They sit up on their haunches up in the trees at the edge of my back yard casting their beady eyes on my tomatoes, plotting their evil schemes. The older ones stay away. They know the fate of their kind who dare to enter my yard. Many of them are still nursing wounds from past years from glancing flesh wounds administered by my Daisy Powerline 35. Squirrels know it only as the Swift Sword of Death. The older ones sit around in their little squirrel legislative assembly and try to warn the kids about the maniac who lives on Aprilbud Drive. But, kids being kids, they don't listen. Instead, they try their luck. They send probing parties around the perimeter of my deck. One such scouting party wandered in this afternoon, and were met with the merciless strafing fire of the DP35. It was over in seconds.

Word will soon spread in the squirrel community that the Maniac Is Back. But it won't matter. Every year there is some up and coming hot shot in the group who thinks he's the one born to take me out. He will rally a group of equally delusional idiots bent on fame and glory...and my tomatoes. But my aim is true. I will unleash old Daisy on this year's sacrificial lambs and my back yard will be transformed into the great killing fields of squirrel myth. Only it's no myth...the destruction will be pitiless. 

But, alas, every year one gets through, usually under the cover of darkness. I wake up to find little teeth marks surrounding a quarter-sized plug that's been taken out of my most ripe Better Boy who was just days short of the harvest. I will be apoplectic with rage. Prior to this outrage, my attacks have been purely defensive. But now, I start a revengeful hunt. My neighbors start to give me fitful glances when they see me back there, and clutch their young children close. But, at the end of the day, my garden will be protected from these freeloaders at all cost.

Semper Fi.

July is Coming

For the entire month of July, this will be my home.

This will be my view. It's called Duck Cove Cottage and it sits on Hobbs Pond in Hope, Maine, about an 8 minute drive from Camden and the Atlantic Ocean. If Hobbs Pond were in Virginia it would be called a magnificent lake. But in Maine it is dwarfed by hundreds of lakes much bigger and more grand, so pond it is. We will take rental possession of this beauty on July 2nd and leave on the 30th.

We have never done anything like this before. Sure, we have taken our share of vacations, many more than most people, I will admit. But, we have never gone away for an entire month before. It has taken a lot of planning and advance work. My profession doesn't really allow a complete hiatus, so my laptop and cell phone will be with me in case of some geo-political/financial market meltdown. 

Barring Armageddon though, professional concerns will rank approximately 16th on my priorities list.

It won't be easy, pulling this off. Ok, the hardest part is over since I've already paid the rent. But, we have never packed for a month before, have you? And, transporting Miss Lucy to Maine is going to be something like Dante's nine circles of hell. It will involve one pet friendly hotel stay in Conneticut, in case you're wondering. The drive takes 13 hours, which is like six months in dog years. Actually Lucy is very much the wild card of this adventure. Will her famous neurosis go to death-com five in 

a new, strange house, or will she, like everyone else, have herself transformed by Maine? Will living here chill her out?

I can already tell what many of you are thinking...What the heck would you do in Maine for an entire month?? The answer is a combination of anything we want, and whatever seems right. The best part of being in Maine is simply...being. The lake has a magnet in it. You swim in it, fish from it, kayak on it. But you also gaze at it, and listen to it. And if fresh water ever starts to annoy you, you get in the car and drive into Camden and eat a lobster and take in a lungful of salty sea air.

Or, you can climb to the top of Mount Battie, overlooking Canden harbor with a packed lunch and pick blueberries.

Mostly, you stay outside all day. Being outside so much changes you, recalibrates your mind and gives you a ravenous appetite which gets rewarded with amazing food cooked up on grills...again outside. Then, after dinner, you walk down to the edge of the lake, light a fire and sit around it, hypnotized.

We will have guests. At some point Kaitlin and Jon will be with us, and Patrick and Sarah, hopefully on the same week. Other family will come on other weeks. Maybe we will have a week by ourselves, maybe not. This is the sort of place that you want to share.

So, we will grind through all of the packing drama, and the hellish journey up I-95. We will arrange for house sitters and assure the timely cutting of grass here in Short Pump. But we will leave the 95 degree days and the suffocating humidity behind and enjoy four weeks of Maine..." the way life ought to be."

I Know There's a City...

One of the songs performed on Nashville Public Radio's Studio C program yesterday was a modern day spiritual written by a local song writer named Dan Hart. I have been obsessed with the thing ever since I heard the Portara Ensemble rehearse it over the weekend. For one thing, the guy absolutely slaying the piano is a white-haired old man who you would never guess could play anything with such soulful beauty. But what really gets me about this song is the lyrics.

There must be a well that's fed by an eternal stream of tears.

 And I have filled my cup there once too many times in my life.

  Where is your God? I have heard them say

   When they hear me cry every night and day.

But I know there's a city where sorrow is gone,

 and every tear wiped away.

Sadness in the streets I walk down, trouble everywhere I turn.

 And mourning in the hearts of those broken and bruised in this life.

  All through the night on this bed I lay.

   Longing for the light of a brand new day.

I know there's a city where the sun never sets,

 and every tear's wiped away.

I don't know about you, but there are times over the past year where I have felt these lyrics. Bearing witness to the degradations of modern life, with its cruelty and suffering, the nastiness and violent edge of our politics, makes these words come alive for me. No, our response to a screwed up world isn't simply to "lay on this bed longing for the light of a brand new day." If we see cruelty and suffering, it's our job to work to end it. Still, history teaches me that some of the evil in this world cannot be overcome. Some of our most intractable problems have no solution on this side of eternity.

But, I know there's a city....

Facebook is Liberal?? WHAT???

News broke yesterday that everyone's favorite social media hub, Facebook, has been cooking it's news feed. Several former employees spilled the beans that the algorithm that was supposed to be driving its "whats trending" section was actually a room full of newly minted Ivy League millenials who were picking the news items which they thought should be trending. To the surprise of absolutely no one with half a brain, the stories favored by Ivy League millenials tended to be very complimentary of progressive politics to the near banishment of "conservative news" with the exception of anything that might cast that philosophy in a bad light. This morning comes news that the United States Senate is opening an "investigation" of Facebook. A few observations...

I suppose it's disappointing to learn just how many people get their news from Facebook, but this is the world we live in. It is also a little disappointing that Facebook would try to pitch a room full of news curators in the scientific language of algorithms. But, there is no news here. I have held to a conservative/libertarian political philosophy for nearly 35 years now, and in all that time, most newspapers, and almost the entirety of television news has been dominated by people who disagree with me. With the advent of social media, nothing has changed. Mark Zuckerburg is a reliable progressive, and he has a huge platform. So what? It's his company. He can do what he wants with it. That a Republican senator would want to launch an investigation into a private enterprise nosing around in its free speech rights is a ridiculous overreach. You know who else has a huge platform? Rush Limbaugh. I remain fiercely opposed to the Fairness Doctrine precisely because it is not a function of government to cast about looking for inappropriate speech to suppress. If Rush can attract 20 million listeners to a program that espouses conservative politics, good for him. If Facebook wants to push liberal news stories, that's their business. Nobody is holding a gun to my head forcing me to listen to Rush or read the news feed on Facebook. There are plenty of other places where I as a free man living in the United States can go to get my news. I don't need my government to be mucking around with those options.

When I first read this Facebook story I thought...why?? Why would Facebook try to make it look like its news feed was produced by an impartial algorithm, when in fact it was a news-driving project? Why not just drop the "what's trending" tag and be done with it? Perhaps they thought that if they could convince their users that one way of thinking politically was what everyone was thinking it would advance the progressive agenda via the social pressure of group-think. Or maybe it wasn't nearly as diabolical as all that. Maybe it was the fact that the kinds of stories favored by young Ivy Leaguers reflect the near unanimous opinions espoused by those institutions. Either way, none of this comes as a surprise to me. Anyone who is surprised just hasn't been paying attention for the past fifty years.

My opinion? Leave Facebook alone. It's Mark Zuckerburg's job as CEO of Facebook to bring value to his shareholders. By all accounts, he has succeeded. If you don't like his liberal politics, ignore the what's trending newsfeed and go back to bragging about your awesome workouts and the off the charts accomplishments of your children...cough...

...maybe it was that.

First, the good news. I've got a couple of great kids. Getting to see them both over the last five days was tremendous fun. Seeing what kind of lives they are building for themselves made me quite proud. Although I still harbor a tinge of bitterness that they both settled so far from home, I have no right to complain. They are both accomplished, happy adults. What parent wouldn't want that?

Now, for the bad news. From the time I pried my stiff carcass out of the car upon arrival in Nashville, until that same stiff carcass rattled up the steps of my house a few hours ago, I have been in a death match with a three-day allergy attack. There were many contributing factors to my miserable condition. I will let the reader decide which was the actual culprit.

1. The weather in Nashville on Saturday and Sunday was probably the nicest two days that city has enjoyed in years; delightful breezes, crisp air, stunning blue skies. We arrived at Patrick's retiring house to see the van he had rented already in place and half loaded. There were only some large furniture pieces and neatly packed boxes left to load. We would be completely done with the loading and unloading by 12:30. However,....and life is always about the howevers, there was one problem. See, Patrick had shared this rental house for the past couple of years with two other bachelors, and a dog. A white dog. It was rumored that the house had a working vacuum cleaner, but no evidence of any kind that it had ever been deployed. Consequently, fluffy dog hair balls the size of large rodents drifted out from under every piece of furniture like roaches scattering in the kitchen when someone turns on the lights in the middle of the night. Maybe it was that.

2. Once we unloaded everything at his new place, I took a load of trash to the dumpster which was at the bottom of a small hill in a cul de sac just down the street from the apartment. When I turned around to walk back up the hill, I looked up and saw the bright sunshine illuminating a wall of pollen streaming down from the trees like an invading army of ants. A thick sludge of tree junk had been raining down all around me and I had only just now seen the evidence, thanks to the angle of the sun. This stuff made Short Pump pollen look positively polite by comparison. Maybe it was that.

3. Saturday night, high on Benydril, I attended a Nashville Sounds baseball game in the glorious dying sunset of a Chamber of Commerce day. We sat outside for the better part of two hours, all the while the invisible sludge was painting the inside of my respiratory system a lovely shade of lemon. Maybe it was that.

4. On Sunday morning, we went to Patrick's church, a glorious old stone building, with grand cathedral archways and stained glass windows a hundred feet above your head. The second I stepped into this beautiful building, I remarked to Pam how strange it is that all old churches, no matter their denomination, smell exactly the same...like polished wooden pews, candle wax and moldy curtains. Maybe it was that.

Somehow, despite this perfect storm of allergens, I was able by sheer force of will to stave off a full fledged meltdown. I took Allegra, and popped Benydril, which kept me in a slow motion stupor for much of the time, but I was somehow able to fight off the big one, that embarrassing, fifty sneeze extravaganza that leaves your eyes swollen shut and two boxes of spent Kleenex at your feet. I was just not going to allow anything to ruin my time with my kids. Now that I'm at home, I feel like I just ran a marathon carrying a fifty pound backpack.

Finally, a word about my son. This month he will turn 27. I watched him very carefully all weekend. The kid is...happy. He likes his job. He still pours himself into his music and is continuing to grow as a composer. We watched him during a rehearsal for a choir he is in and nobody on the stage seemed to be having as much fun as Patrick. He's also happy with Sarah. They fit each other so well. And now, he has his own place. The sky is the limit.

Now, if he can only learn how to run that brand new vacuum cleaner I bought him.

...She's one of THEM!

Yesterday we hit the road for Nashville a little after 9 in the morning. We were flying along making great time( a euphemism for 80 mph and no traffic ). Then, just west of Knoxville, interstate 40 became a parking lot. There were repairs on a bridge somewhere ahead. It took us an hour and ten minutes to go 4 miles. As you can imagine, I took this developement with measured grace and tranquility, never once losing my temper or my good humor...........

After we got unpacked in our hotel, we made the two minute drive to Sarah's apartment, where we were to meet up with Patrick. When she pulled a plate of cheese, fruit and home made cucumber sandwiches out of the fridge, I rolled my eyes and thought, Good Lord, she's one of them! That move was right out of the Dunnevant Women's Hospitality Handbook, Volume III. Lemonade was soon to follow. Pam was thrilled. In our tribe, hospitality is the coin of the realm. The women in this family are known far and wide for their outrageous feats of daring-do in the kitchen where guests are involved. It started with my Mom, who would disappear into the kitchen after unexpected guests arrived, and ten minutes later miraculously appear holding a twenty pound turkey with all the fixins! My sisters, Linda and Paula are just as bad. They can throw parties like nobody's business. And my wife might just be the worst of all of them, having been trained during my ten years in the Grove Avenue Baptist youth ministry. Thirty teenagers suddenly show up at the house at 9:00 on a Friday night? Before you could say, "Holy Crap, look at that gaggle of...", two platters of nachos would come flying out of the oven. And now, my son is dating a girl who goes to the trouble of making cucumber sandwiches? Mercy.

We had dinner last night with Sarah's folks out in Smyrna, Tn. The meal was wonderful, and they were delightful company. They made us feel welcomed and relaxed. We all kinda fell for their 13 year old beagle, Libby. Adorable! Gotta love dog people.

Today, we move the boy into his new digs. Pam will insist on a trip to several stores to buy him, ALL THE THINGS! Then we will take in a minor league baseball game in upper seventies weather, the Nashville Sounds, possibly the best named baseball franchise in history. There will be hot dogs, Cotten candy and beer. Can't wait!

A Great Night!

BRAG ALERT!!! If it annoys you to hear parents go on and on about the accomplishments of their kids, this probably isn't the blog post for you. So, save yourself the aggravation and go read about the latest Donald Trump ass-hattery.

Last night, Pam and I got to attend the teacher of the year banquet for the Richland II school district in Columbia, SC. Forty of that district's schools were represented by their winners. Among them were the five finalists for the district TOTY, my daughter being one of those five. There were many reasons to believe that she stood no chance of winning, not the least of which were the incredible accomplishments of the other four finalists. Kaitlin, as a third year teacher, was in her first year of eligibility, not to mention the fact that the outgoing TOTY was also from Muller Road Middle School. And yet, there she was standing at the microphone in front of over a hundred educators giving the most composed, articulate, heartfelt acceptance speech you've ever heard...with no notes. 

I was standing in the back of the ball room holding my cell phone up, live-streaming it on Periscope. They gave her a standing ovation. It occurred to me that my girl is a phenom. Three years ago, in her first year of teaching, she won New Teacher of the Year at her school in Henrico County, then became one of three finalists for that honor for the entire County. During the interview process, she informed them that she would be moving to Columbia, SC with her new husband at the end of the school year and would not be returning to teach in Henrico. Had she not mentioned this, she would have won. Now, in her first year of eligibility, she wins TOTY in her new school, new district, new state. The kid has a gift. 

Standing in the back of that room watching her was a moment, one I won't soon forget. I'm thinking...Pam and I must have done something right. But so did a lot of other great people in her life. Sure, she was gifted by God, but he gifts lots of people who turn out to be bums. What has made it work for Kaitlin is the relentless hard work, the striving to be the best, to make a difference. She has never been a place holder, someone who merely punches a clock. She is a passionate educator who lives to make a difference in the lives of her students. That doesn't happen without an awful lot of long nights, meticulous planning, and lots of love and care.

Now, it's on to Nashville to move my youngest into his first solo apartment. I'll try not to make the next few blog posts a gloat-a-thon, but I'm not making any promises.

Winning...

This morning felt like waking up from a weird dream where you were trapped in a really horrible comedy club where the punch line to every joke was Donald Trump.

All the wise guys told us back in June that he was a joke with no chance. They said he was just in it to sell hotel rooms. They assured us that he was just bored and decided to run for kicks. Nothing to concern ourselves with. This morning, the joke is the presumptive nominee of the Republican Party. Hoosier Daddy, indeed!

The media no longer has Ted Cruz to kick around. Last night he was like...eh, screw it! Maybe he was just being practical. Or maybe after Trump actually suggested that the elder Cruz might have had something to do with JFK's assassination, Ted just thought, alright, that's enough.

Now, the only guy left standing is John Kasich, winner of exactly one contest and still with less delegates than Marco Rubio who left the race two years ago. What kind of ego must one have to remain in a race in which you have elevated the art of losing to such Olympian heights? Is he angling for the VP spot?

Speaking of the VP, at some point soon attention will be paid to potential Trump running mates. I asked a rhetorical question on Facebook last night about Carly Fiorina's availability. Since the guy who picked her first is now gone, is she now a free agent, or once betrothed is she now off the market? No matter, finding a running mate for The Donald is not going to be easy. Most of the likliest candidates have been called every vile name in the book by the presumptive nominee, so the opposition ads practically write themselves. Here's some ideas:

Trump/Gingrich.....these two guys know a thing or two about dumping exes

Trump/Jeb.....no chance that Mr. Low Energy could every upstage the boss.

Trump/Bill Clinton....why the hell not? They do have a lot in common.

Trump/Condoleeza Rice....might help him with women and "the blacks"

Trump/Gilmore.....Jim was the only Republican candidate who Trump hasn't called a liar

Trump/Tom Brady....might help him with women

Trump/Christie....this might work, but Chris is going to have to work on his facial expressions

Here We Go America!

Here we go America! After tonight the Trumptrain will be leaving the station. His candidacy, which was once considered merely a vanity project, will take on the mantle of inevitability after yet another landslide victory in Indiana. Ted Cruz has made a valiant effort, and yesterday's confrontation with a handful of Trump supporters was stout-hearted stuff, but it's all over. Republicans are about to nominate the first Presidential candidate in the history of the world with his own line of cologne.

But, the man has all the right enemies. Every time there's a riot at one of his events, cable television beams images of angry, violent people carrying the flag of a foreign country into living rooms all over America. Forget nuance, forget the subtleties of the immigration debate...the guy with the Budweiser in his hand who worries everyday that his employer might outsource his job to Mexico sees Mexican flags flapping in the breeze in the background of a riot and thinks..."whoever those bastards are against, I'm for!!"

Trump has run a masterful campaign, masterful in its nearly flawless manipulation of the media. He has been so bombastic, so outrageous, they simply cannot look away. Every ounce of oxygen belongs to the Donald. He is about to prove true that old adage that says...there is no such thing as bad publicity. The fact that most of the media despise him only helps him, because the only people who Americans hate more than politicians are journalists!

So, the 2016 Presidential election will be a contest between a man who the media hates, and a woman who they support ideologically, but are rightly suspicious of. No doubt, they will hold their noses and at least try to circle the wagons around her. Trump will run an "us against the world" campaign. If it works, we're screwed. If it doesn't, Hillary Clinton will assume office as the most despised woman in America, having received more lesser of two evils votes than any candidate in history. But at least she's a woman, so we can check that box off of our national to-do list.

Christmas in May

This week is like Christmas in May. For Pam and me, the real Christmas initiates a four month spell where we don't get to see our kids. We might spend a day or two in Columbia to visit Kaitlin and Jon, but we never see Patrick during those four months. I use that time to concentrate on my business and curse all the horrible winter weather, then the hellacious pollen, and generally complain a lot about being abandoned by my children. But this week...all is forgiven.

We will pack up the car, turn the house keys over to our house/dog sitter and make the six hour drive  to Columbia, SC on Thursday to see Kaitlin. There is a teacher of the year banquet, where all of the winners in the district are recognized, and the district winner is announced. Despite being in her first year of eligibility, Kaitlin is one of the five finalists for the top prize. Since her husband is in the Grand Canyon for his annual park ranger training, she would be attending this soirée alone. Not gonna happen! If she dosn't win I intend to make quite a fuss at the injustice of it all. (Just kidding, Kaitlin. Let not your heart be troubled.) Afterwards, we will take her someplace to celebrate, then spend the night at her place with Jackson, the wonder dog. 

Friday morning, we will set out for Nashville, a seven and a half hour trip across the Blue Ridge mountains. Upon meeting up with Patrick and his girlfriend Sarah, we will drive to Smyrna, Tn. to have dinner with and meet her family. The real reason for our trip however, is to help our son move into his first solo apartment. Since leaving home for college eight years ago, he has always shared quarters with others in an assortment of dorm rooms, apartments and houses. Now, he has the resources to strike out on his own. So we will spend most of Saturday helping him move in and set up the new digs. I am led to believe that a minor league baseball game is in the works( the Nashville Sounds )and some special Mother's Day event. We will attend church with him on Sunday, get his pantry good and stocked, then head home on Monday, which will feature many tears being shed by my wife for the first 30 miles of the drive on interstate 40 with Nashville in the rear view mirror. Eight years ago, she didn't stop sobbing until we reached Knoxville! This time she will demonstrate much more composure, since July in Maine will be right around the corner.

Words Have Meaning

I just watched some footage of a riot that happened outside the venue of a Donald Trump event in California. There were hundreds of Mexican flags in the air, police cruisers rocking back and forth, and wild eyed young men perched on the top of street lights. A man wearing a Donald Trump t-shirt had a face covered in blood.

 

 Oddly, the term "riot" was nowhere to be found in the LATimes story. No, these were demonstrators, and what I was looking at was a protest. Later, on Twitter I found a photograph of the same intersection, hours later after everything was over, not a soul in sight. A reporter from the LATimes made this comment..."Looks like the Donald Trump storm has passed."

If at some point in the long, hot summer which we are facing, a picture emerges of a woman wearing a Hillary Clinton t-shirt with blood all over her face, I will be watching carefully for the word demonstrators, and the description of events as a protest. What I am much more likely to see are the words violence, and the more apt descriptor, riot.

See, I'm a word guy. Language has power, and the words chosen in a news story mean everything. When largely white college students celebrating their football team winning the Sugar Bowl destroy public property, they will most likely be described as revelers. But if the unhinged crowd is mostly black, the word thug will probably find its way into the story. On the other hand, if a young black man murders a white kid, the New York Times will go to great links not to mention either's race...if they report the story at all. But, if the victim is black and the shooter white, every reporter in the building is scrambling to trumpet the headline, because there's a Pulitzer to be won. 

When it comes to political protests, it matters very much who's ox is being gored. Let's not kid ourselves, the number of members of the mainstream media in this country who would ever be caught dead voting for a Republican are about the same as the number of Episcopalians who attend monster truck shows! For the media, covering a protest at a Donald Trump event is the journalistic equivalent of nirvana...something close to heaven. But something tells me that later this summer, when the temperatures and the rhetoric have both gotten much hotter, the media's objectivity, or lack thereof will be sorely tested. I'll be paying close attention to their language. You should too.

The Tiny House Craze

My son has been for some time now enthralled with that most millennial of obsessions...the tiny house. 

It's all a part of the sustainable living craze among the young. They see 50-something couples with no kids left at home building McMansions and are rightly appalled at the status hungry waste. They also look at their college debt load and reason,(incorrectly), that their future prospects for traditionally sized homes are non-existent. Tiny homes also fit in quite nicely with their generational regard for the environment. Since the planet is doomed because of global warming, carbon footprints must be greatly reduced. It has become a perfect storm where aspirations go to die. But, I digress.

I have looked at all the pictures he has sent me of these tiny houses and must admit that they are about the cutest things ever. The architectural prowess necessary for the sort of space utilization required to make these things work is quite impressive. And I'm sure that it would be a very cool place to live....if you were SINGLE. Among the host of practical problems I see with tiny houses, two predominate. First, all the pictures I see of the interiors of these places show houses that havn't been lived in. They are all like model homes, complete with tiny little flower arrangements on their tiny little tables. Let a particular millennial I know walk in to one of these places and throw his jacket, briefcase and shoes on the floor and the place would look a bit different. The only way these places can work is if those who live in them are pathological neat-freaks.

But my biggest concern is with the alarming number of young, newly married couples who are actually considering this arrangement. The hardest part about being newly married is learning how to actually share the same space with another human being. If that space is no bigger than the room that 

holds Hillary Clinton's pantsuit collection, you've got big trouble in River City, my friend. Then, there's this...

Ok, this is a delicate subject and much care must be taken when writing about it. However, I feel certain that every man reading this will understand....

Let's say it's a Friday night. You and the wife have made it through a long stressful week and are ready to kick back with a couple of adult beverages and a fine meal. About two hours after a feast of bratwurst and cabbage, nature calls. In the regular world of traditionally sized living spaces, I would have the ability to find an available toilet in the farthest reaches of the apartment or house, shielding my beloved from what is sure to be epic unpleasantness. But with tiny house living the only available toilet is some sort of cutting edge composting contraption and worse, it's only four feet from the sofa! Let's just say that Netflix is going to have to wait at least twenty minutes until this storm passes!

But, maybe this is the sort of price that must be paid for sustainable living. Maybe you would get used to it after a while. Or, maybe the divorce rate among millenials will skyrocket!!

Mz. Linda

The exuberant woman holding the strange pink wand...is my sister, Mz. Linda. This is the latest iteration of a children's choir of her creation called Praise Kidz. I'm not sure how many years she has been directing this choir, but I would guess close to 30 years. That's 30 years of helping elementary school kids fall in love with singing, 30 years of having way too much fun, and 30 years of musicals that never fail to choke me up.

I'm not exactly sure what inspired her to start this all those years ago. She teaches piano and she loves kids, so maybe that's it, but still...it's a lot of work. Over the years she has been aided by an army of volunteers, most of them grateful parents. And every year there's a musical. When my two kids were in the choir it was "The Secret to my Success." There were elaborate sets, crazy costumes and some memorable performances along the way, incredible solos sung by tiny little versions of what are now grown men and women. Little Andrew Hemby, now a hot shot millennial lawyer, singing his little heart out in a Christmas concert, Brittany Chapel's adorable turned up face looking for all the world like an angel. These are memories that everyone who attended Grove Avenue Baptist church for any length of time have been treated to by my sister's choirs.

This Sunday there will be another musical. Linda is putting in a wretched amount of hours getting it all together. She is frantic and exhausted. Yet, she still does it every year. It's part of her heart and her love of music and kids are in her blood. Although my church attendance has been spotty of late, you can bet that I'll be there. I have grown disturbingly cynical about church as I've gotten older, but there are two things that still have the power to break down that cynicism...a baptism, and a Praise Kidz concert. One because it serves as evidence that God is still in the business of changing lives, and the other because of the unbridled joy on the faces of children who sing not out of obligation but out of love for their Heavenly Father...and Mz. Linda.

What Americans Want

I am an observer of trends. It's sort of what I do for a living. What I mostly observe is my country and its culture. I'm not as smart as De Tocqueville or as witty as O'Rourke, and my conclusions may be vastly different than yours...but I have a blog and you don't.

Religion

The number of Americans who identify themselves as religious is declining, as is church attendance. As a result, many churches are casting about in desperation to curb the exit of members by recasting church doctrine to emphasize inclusiveness. Church music has become more hip, church teachings have become more chill, and yet the exodus continues. What Americans seem to want is religion that makes no demands of us, churches that require no changes in our behavior. Of course, this puts churches in a tough spot since religion is sort of in the behavior-changing business. But in a country where more than anything people want their lifestyles validated and celebrated, any organization that claims to be in possession of universal truth in the form of sacred texts or the Son of God, is in big trouble.

Politics

There has been much to observe in the politics arena over the past 9 months, much of it depressing. But I think our politics can be summarized thusly. Republicans seem to want someone, anyone who isn't a politician. The less experienced and more unmoored from reality the better. So fed up with conventional politicians are they that they seem determined to throw their support to a man with orange hair, bleached teeth and a tanning bed addiction. Democrats seem to want someone who promises to find a way to give them everything they want while finding a way to make someone else pay for it. The someone else always seems to be what for Democrats is that boundless fount of all grand entitlements...the 1%. In their hearts they wish it were Bernie, but in their heads they vote Hillary.

Food

Food has taken over television. It's like Hollywood has finally run out of stories and has now decided to make the preparation of food the new national pastime. It's worked! My wife watches practically all of them. My favorite is the Pioneer Woman, but there are a thousand of them, these new kitchen gods and goddesses. Now, they've dragged kids into the ubiquitous cooking competition shows, eight year old kids plotting and scheming to win at any cost a knock down drag out battle over which adolescent can whip up the fluffiest soufflé. New shows proliferate like the nika virus on the Food Network. One of them, Diners, Drive-ins and Dives, has ellevated the greasy spoon to cult-like status. At the other end of the universe, Ina Garten serves up haute cuisine for her 1% buddies in the Hamptons as the Barefoot Contessa. And we wonder why there's an obesity epidemic?

Sports

Soccer may be the world's game, but here in America it's the NFL...and everybody else. Professional football hangs over the sports world like a giant Zeppelin, blocking out the sun for months at a time. When we aren't obsessed with the actually games, we obsess over the draft, the combines, the commissioner, and the off season legal troubles of its biggest stars. My sport, baseball, is a footnote on Sports Center just after the ten minute report on Johnny Manziel's latest rehab stint. We Americans want...violence... in our pastimes. So what does Major League Baseball do? We eliminate the home plate collision. It's like football is run by Donald Trump and baseball is run by Bernie Sanders. 

A Box of Memories

In the top right hand drawer of my library desk is a faded wooden box which in its first life held an English Leather gift set. After that it served as the first aid kit for my post-high school multi-week trip out west with my best friend Al. Now it holds all of the yellowing photographs from that trip. For some reason I felt compelled to look at them this morning. That's when I stumbled upon...this:

This is exactly why we take pictures, so that one day while drinking coffee you can look at them and be astonished. That's my friend Al Thomason to the left. Back in 1976 neither one of us were particularly anxious to go to college just yet. He was 19, I was 18, and we were both idiots. We worked all summer after graduating high school at Lowe's hardware on Broad Street in Richmond, saved every dime we made, then pooled our resources, loaded up his Vega GT and hit the road. 

As you can imagine, this scheme of mine didn't go over particularly well with the folks. It didn't help that I sprung my plan on Dad in the midst of a 5 hour drive to visit Bluefield College. "So Dad, I fully intend to do the college thing and all, but first I've decided to blow all my money and six weeks of my life roaming around the great northwest." It was the first time I had ever seen my father at a loss for words. But, there we were, posing for a picture in the back yard in August of '76:

Fortunately, Al is blocking the now embarrassing Jimmy Carter for President bumper sticker that we proudly paraded around Montana and Wyoming. Youthful exuberance, indeed! But, getting back to 

that first picture. We were about to launch out on our first three day, two night hike in the Grand Tetons. We had boarded the ferry boat that would take us across Jenny Lake to the trail head, and the captain of the boat was kind enough to take the picture...probably because he sensed that at some point someone would need help identifying the bodies. We were about as green as green could be. Sure, we had a fair amount of experience hiking the Blue Ridge mountains in Virginia, but the Blue Ridge is to the Rockies what a Volkswagon is to a Lamborghini. We had no idea what we were getting ourselves into. Just look at us! Al, with his red bandana, which would come in real handy 48 hours later when it was SNOWING. Me, with my "Nothing is better for thee than me" Quaker t-shirt, the perfect shirt choice for a hike to 10,000 feet of altitude. I only wish someone had taken an after picture. Oh, and don't even ask about the hair...chicks loved it.

I often wonder what I would have done if either of my children had announced plans to do something so manifestly reckless as my 1976 voyage of discovery. The only thing my Mom said was that we had to call home every Sunday that we were gone at 1:00 eastern time. We did...from pay phones since cell phones hadn't been invented yet. When Dad asked me when we were expecting to come back home, I had answered, "when our money runs out." He had let out a resigned sigh then added this nugget.."When you get back, you're going to have to pay for your first semester at University if Richmond with your own money, understand?" That was it, his only protest.

The thing is, I blew $1,000 in 1976 dollars on that trip, and if I had it to do over again, I would. Yes, it was foolish, dangerous and irresponsible, but I had a blast. I needed to get it out of my system and I think my Dad knew that. Most of what happened out there will go unsaid. This is a family-friendly blog, after all. But, an 18 year old kid can learn an awful lot about the world roaming around the Rockies with a horrible perm. For one thing, Olympia Beer was a truly vile brew and leads to this type of decision making:

"You ok with this?"

Uh-oh....

Something tells me that my wife will not be happy when she sees this picture. Yes, that's one of our expensive new recliners in our expensive new library...and yes, that's Lucy acting like she owns the place. I was sitting at my desk quietly reading the box scores when suddenly my dog pounced up on the chair, then turned towards me with this curious expression on her face, as if to say, "You're ok with this, right?"

Well, no...I'm not alright with it. Miss Lucy is allowed on only one piece of furniture in the down stairs of our house...her, er, I mean OUR sofa. But, I know how this works. See, Lucy has never liked this library business, especially when Pam and I both are in here, because there's no chair big enough for her to sit with us. So, she paces back and forth nervously and frustrated until one of us gets up and heads back into the living room. So, plotting and scheming dog that she is, she saw her opportunity and she took it. Mom was in the living room, and it was just her and me in here. She pops up with no warning and shoots me that pitiful face of hers. 

After taking her picture, I tell her that if she doesn't get down, I'm gonna tell Mom that she's up on the recliner in the library and if she doesn't get down, there will be hell to pay. She gazes down forlornly at the floor, then back at me. I say, "Down, Lucy." She harrumphs down with all the drama she can muster, then throws herself down on the floor, letting out a heavy sigh.

Dogs rock.

My Allergic Weekends

I love Virginia. I love its sweeping mountain views, its beaches, its rich history, its violent felons voting. My state is a wonderful place. But for a few weeks in late April, early May...it doesn't love me. For two consecutive weekends, I have been freight-trained by allergy attacks that have reduced me to fits of sneezing, and nose-wiping, runny-eyed misery. Both weekends, the attacks came on Saturday evening, and carried over into Sunday, turning me into a zombie. Despite a daily Allegra pill, and copious amounts of Benadryl, nothing works...and nothing will until the pollen starts to clear out. This past weekend I even wore a mask while I was doing yard work, and took two showers to rinse off the yellow plague during the day....to no avail.

There's a car parked on a street in my neighborhood which has been sitting in the same spot for the past two weeks. It is covered with a gooey, sticky yellow film of pollen a quarter inch thick. Every time I drive past it I want to take a giant fire hose to the thing. It's disgusting. The owner has no idea what a provocation his car is to my sensibilities. Just driving by this seasonal eyesore makes me sneeze. If he doesn't wash the thing soon, I'm going to stop and write a message across the rear window through the goo...something like..."For the love of God, man! Wash this car!!" Or, "Move to Arizona!" 

Earth Day, Prince, and Harriet Tubman

I will be celebrating Earth Day by playing golf, digging up large swaths of it with my clubs. I will be doing so alongside my recently retired brother, the first such opportunity we've had to play together in several years. I'm sure that the greens-keeper at Mattaponi Springs is praying for rain to save him from the assault of the Dunnevant Brothers, but that's between him and God.

Prince is dead. David Bowie and Prince in the same year. Icons seem to dropping like flies. I wasn't a huge fanboy or anything. I always found Prince to be a weirdo, the quintessential flaky artist. But, the dude could flat out shred a guitar, and had phenomenal rock and roll instincts. When he stepped out of the shadows at the 2004 George Harrison tribute with a solo on While My Guitar Gently Weeps, it was pure magic, like all of the other big stars on that stage were looking at each other saying, "what just happened?" Of course, this morning the headlines are suggesting drug problems, the usual suspect whenever an entertainer passes. Regardless, we have lost someone important, a man of transcendent talent.

Harriet Tubman will soon replace Andrew Jackson on the twenty dollar bill. This is a good thing, not because Jackson was a bad guy, but because this is what happens to our currency from time to time. Before Jackson was on the twenty, it was Grover Cleveland. Jackson's been there since 1928. He had a good run. It's time for someone new. Tubman is a terrific choice. Here is a woman who not only escorted over 300 slaves to freedom through her Underground Railroad, but also served as a Union spy during the Civil War. More impressively, and much less known, she was the first woman in American history to lead a military raid...one which freed 700 slaves near Combahee, South Carolina. This was one tough, brave woman. She will also be the first African-American to grace our currency, something long overdue, and the first woman since Pocahontas made an appearance on the back of the twenty back in 1865. Anyone you hear complaining about this change and labeling it as political correctness run amuck...is an ignorant schmuck. Listen, somebody tries to take George off the dollar and replace him with Gloria Freaking Steinem, then you've got a case. But the removal of the white, Indian-killing, slave-owning founder of the Democratic Party, and his replacement by a bible-believing, gun-toting black Republican woman is fine in my book!

Who Is Hillary Clinton's Tailor??

Politics:

Bad night for Bernie. But, what in the Sam Hill was that hideous thing that Hillary was wearing at her victory speech??

It's like she has the same tailor as Chairman Mao.

Sports:

It's April 20th and Bryce Harper already has 7 homers and 20 RBI's. Apparently, last year was no fluke.

Health:

When I was a college student, I was forced to go to an allergist and be tested. It was determined that I was allergic to a lot of things which fly through the air this time of year. Consequently, I embarked on a year long regimen of weekly allergy shots administered with something close to maniacal glee by my nurse-sister, Linda. Since then, the number of allergy episodes I have had has dropped dramatically from one every two or three days, to one every six months or so. Until this year. 

For the past week or so I have felt on the edge of a full blown, 100 sneeze, tissue eating, nose blowing extravaganza. Every morning my nose starts to run. My eyes start feeling itchy. I pop a preemptive Benadryl. The attack is staved off by the little pink miracle. But, by bedtime, the sniffles are back, only, I can't take another pink pill before going to bed because while Benadryl makes most people drowsy, it amps me up. So I contort myself into an uncomfotable pretzel-like position that keeps mucus from gushing from my nose and pray for sleep. Needless to say, I can't engage my sleep apnea machine under these conditions, so, I wake up tired. Then the process starts all over again. Stupid pollen.

Go

Eleven Burning Questions.

Today the State of New York holds a Presidential primary. I'm told that Hillary Clinton will win comfortably and Donald Trump will win in a landslide. Further, the smart people all say that this will be some sort of turning point in this interminable ordeal, a crossing the rubicon moment whereby all prospects for a Bernie Sanders presidency will be dashed, and Donald Trump regains his stranglehold on the momentum lost in the past few week's hive of Republican Party insider hijinks. Color me skeptical.

There are simply too many media companies making too much money for either of these nominations to get wrapped up anytime soon. Politics has become America's most popular spectator sport. Politics has also become America's favorite soap opera. Consider these burning questions:

1. Will Hillary become America's first female president, once and for all time shattering the ultimate glass ceiling?

2. Is Bill Clinton suffering from the early stages of dementia?

3. Will Hillary ever be indicted by the Justice Department over her emails?

4. Are Hillary and Huma a thing?

5. What's up with Hillary's annoying cough?

6. How did a perpetually disheveled curmudgeon like Bernie Sanders score such a wonderful wife?

7. If Donald Trump becomes President, what will be the over/under on how long his current marriage survives?

8. When John Kascich finally releases his delegates, will they wind up supporting Ted Cruz or Hillary Clinton?

9. Will Hillary Clinton go all in on gender by nominating a woman as her Vice President? Someone like Elizabeth Warren or John Kerry?

10. Will Bernie Sanders counter by going all in on Commuism by nominating Van Jones as his running mate?

11. Will Ted Cruz become our first friendless President?

I don't know about you, but I'll be tuned in!

What Happens Next.

In the summer no one thinks about the snow. Sitting at a feast table no one recalls the famine. In the season of peace no one listens for the drums of war. No one except me. I am always moved on to the next thing. And the next thing is always different. It is tiresome to receive a gift of new shoes and only being able to imagine them with holes. But, my gift has benefits. A run of bad luck or ill health is always about to end. It's always on to the next thing. If life seems bright and grand, it's about to turn wicked and dark. But a sick child is about to recover, the long miserable winter is about to give way to spring, crushing grief is about to melt into tender memory. It's what happens next that matters. Always... what happens next.

Gardening in Suburbia

There's nothing I enjoy quite so much as getting dirty working in a garden. I have my Dad to blame. By the time he lived in a place large enough to accommodate a garden, I was the only male child still living at home, so I became his garden slave at the ripe old age of 10. Even though I whined about my servitude and begged for emancipation, over time I grew to enjoy it. Now, I live in a lovely suburban neighborhood in Short Pump, Virginia...not exactly 40 acres and a mule territory...so I must content myself with faux-gardening. That's when you head over to Strange's, pick out your tomatoe plants, herbs, and other flowering plants, then throw 3 or 4 big bags of garden soil in the back of your Pacifica. What follows is a wonderful day of planting cucumbers, peppers, and squash, digging your hands deep into a bag of soil, crumbling out the clods and inhaling that marvelous moldy aroma of dirt. It was a great day for it, sunny and clear with a refreshing breeze. We did well:

However, as it is with most good things in life, there's a downside to all of this communing with nature business. Inhaling all of that moldy earth, and spending nearly 5 hours sucking in lungfulls of airborne allergens began collecting their fee from me yesterday around 4 o'clock in the afternoon. It started with a few innocent sneezes. Then the corners of my eyes began to itch. I pulled my first tissue from the box of Kleenex around 4:15.

Two Pepto-Bismol pink Benadryl pills were popped around 4:30. This had the unfortunate effect of making me feel drowsy while I sneezed while doing nothing to prevent me from sneezing. The eyes were still running and I was going through tissues faster than a room full of women watching Fried Green Tomatoes. At 9:30 then, for no apparent reason, I popped two more pink pills and headed upstairs. Now I felt drowsy and nervous. My legs started feeling jumpy. But the best part was just getting started.

Those of you out there who suffer from seasonal allergies will understand and perhaps sympathize with what follows. Those of you who do not...might want to skip the rest of this paragraph. As I laid my head on the pillow, my nose began to run. I'm talking Niagra Falls scale running. This wasn't simply post nasal drip, this was Old Faithful putting on a show for a gang of Japanese tourists with Canon's buzzing. So, I began casting about for just how I was to lay my head on the pillow to minimize the flow. I tried laying on my left side. No luck. Laying on my right side was a non-starter...as soon as I did I sneezed so hard it flapped the curtains 6 feet away! I finally settled on an uncomfortable pose that featured laying on my back with the crown of my head making contact with the pillow, my hose and mouth pointing to the sky. If my mouth were opened wide I would have looked like one of those baby birds in the nest when Momma bird flies back to the nest with a worm. As uncomfortable as it was, I benefitted greatly from the gravitational impact. Now all I had to do was fall asleep. That's when the sleepy twitches began...in both legs. There I was, clutching tissues in both hands, my nose thrust skyward like Thurston Howell III, with leg spasms. Of course Lucy thought the twitching movements of my legs from under the covers was a fun new game I had invented whereby whenever I twitched her job was to find my toes and playfully chew on them. I thought about getting up and kicking her out of the bedroom, but I didn't dare move.  I feared that if I did, all of the built up mucus in my nose would be released. God knows what that cleanup would have been like. So, I just lay there, hoping I would at some point wake up and it would all be over. 

I did wake up. But, it's not over. I'm practically typing this one handed, my left hand is occupied with drip-control. If Trump wants to build a wall somewhere, he should build one inside my nostrils!

So, that's been my last 24 hours. At some point today, the waterworks will shut down and things will get back to normal. The good news is...in 70 days we will have a bumper crop of tomatoes!

THIS Is Why I Have This Blog.

A word about my last post entitled, Bryan Adams. Hypocrite Extraordinaire...

Wow! Yesterday, I spent the day in Charlottesville playing golf with three really good guys. As is my custom when playing this stupid game, I turned my cellphone off and placed it in a pouch of my golf bag at 8:00am. I retreived it at roughly 3:00 in the afternoon and saw that it was lit up with messages informing me of a spirited debate occurring on Facebook concerning the above post. I nervously began reading through the thread, nervous because I feared that the discussion might have gotten nasty. To my great relief, it had not. Kudos to each participant. There are things I could post in response to some of the points made, but I will not, primarily because I feel that since my blog reflects my opinion, anyone who goes to the trouble of posting their respectful disagreement should be allowed to do so without my interference. Perhaps the strongest criticism came from my cousin Danny, who informed me that Bryan Adams is not in any way "a washed up rocker." Leave it to the one legit rock and roller in the family to set me straight! 

Some who disagreed with some of my assertions made good points, viewpoints that I had not fully considered. I must now think the issue through again in light of these new arguments. It may change my mind, it may not. But I must consider the possibility that I am wrong, right? If I don't, if I dismiss those who disagree with me out of hand I have become an ideologue. If my mind gets changed every five minutes, I am nothing more than a weather vane. My opinions, therefore, must come from my education, guided by my experience, constantly seasoned by new information. I like to think that I am right more often than I am wrong. This blog has often helped me to discover the difference between truth and dogma, transcendence and my biases, largely from enlightened disagreement. For this, I have all of you to thank.

Bryan Adams. Hypocrite Extraordinaire.

One of the most famous scenes in cinema for men of my generation comes from Cool Hand Luke, possibly the hottest, sweatiest movie in history... when the Captain tells the inmates of his prison, "What we have here is failure to communicate!" No line in all of film describes modern American culture as well as this one.

The great divides in America feature entrenched camps of absolutists who either cannot or will not listen to those on the other side of the barricades. Any negotiation feels impossible and reeks of weakness, any accommodation seems like a betrayal. The biblical exhortation, Come, let us reason together has gone the way of the land line phone. A couple of examples...

Washed up 1980's Canadian rocker, Bryan Adams recently made news for the first time in over a decade by cancelling a show in Biloxi, Mississippi over that state's anti-LGBT law. While, I'm sure the fifteen people who had purchased tickets were devastated, Mr. Adams earned rave reviews for his courage from the social justice warriors of the left. 

“I cannot in good conscience perform in a state where certain people are being denied their civil rights due to their sexual orientation,” Adams wrote on his website.

The luminaries of the social justice warrior class immediately began singing Adams' praises...despite the fact that Mr. Adams' latest gig was a concert in that great bastion of tolerance for all things gay...Egypt. Apparently Mr. Adams' finely tuned "good conscience" had no problem whatsoever performing in a state that has recently taken to rounding up gay people in mass arrests. Pot, meet kettle.

But, it's not just washed up has-beens who have jumped on the boycott bandwagon. The very much not washed up Bruce Springsteen is now in the news for cancelling a sold out concert in Charlotte, North Carolina in protest of that state's new transgender bathroom law. So...Mr. Springsteen is refusing to provide his services to customers in North Carolina based on his sincerely held beliefs about sexuality and human rights. It is my view that The Boss is perfectly within his rights to boycott North Carolina. He is a free man and a businessman and can withhold his services from people willing to pay for them if he sees fit, right? Once again, his refusal has gained him wide praise from all of the beautiful people. 

But, what about the Indiana baker who refused to bake a cake for a gay wedding? She refused to provide her services from a willing customer based on her sincerely held beliefs about sexuality. For doing so, the indignant wrath of the entire progressive movement was rained down upon her, despite the fact that there were plenty of other bakers available to do the job. For concert goers in Charlotte...there's only One Boss!!

I have written in this space of my view of the Indiana case, my opinion being that just because one might not approve of gay marriage should not preclude one from baking a stinking cake. I'm just not a boycott kind of guy. However, the way the Indiana baker was treated by those who disagreed with her amounted to nothing more than bullying. Where on earth has the art of getting along gone? Why can't people agree to disagree in the arena of baked goods and 80's Rock and Roll? Why couldn't the baker have said, "Hey, thanks for choosing us to bake your cake!" Why couldn't Bruce have said, "Hey, I think your governor is a jerk for passing that bathroom law and all, but thanks for making my concert a sell out! Baby, I was born to run!" In other words, why must every encounter between people with different views have to be such a drama-queen s**t show?

Seriously Bruce? A guy from New Jersey wants to lecture the people of North Carolina about their discriminatory laws? New Jersey...home of possibly the most bribed legislature in all of the western 
world, where the number one export is New Jerseyans...you want to lecture North Carolinians about good government and human rights? Please. 

"Come, let us reason together..."

Golf is Stupid

So, a couple of days ago I ventured out onto a public golf course for the first time since last July. I picked Royal Virginia out in Hadensville since I knew nobody would be there. I have my first round scheduled this coming Friday, so I thought I should at least play 9 somewhere first, right? I pulled up into the nearly empty parking lot, rented a cart and headed to the first tee without considering a trip to the practice tee. A more prudent person would have loosened up first, but I have always detested trips to the driving range. There would be no prudence within a country mile of me today.

When I stepped onto the first tee, the wind was blowing a gale in my face. At least it wasn't raining. My first swing produced a rather severe hook. My next attempt was a topped five iron. By the time I arrived at the green I was putting for a double bogey from twenty feet. Of course...I drained it.

The next two holes featured more of the same. Brutal, ugly swings. Giant pieces of rust flying around everywhere. Then, like a scene from a terrible sports movie, I stepped onto the tee of my fourth hole, took a deep, cleansing, what-the-hell breath, and proceeded to stripe a long drive down the middle of the fairway of a very long par four. My four iron approach shot landed neatly on the green after a gorgeous right to left ball flight which I seldom see. Two putts later, I had a par on the hardest hole on the course. 

Walking back to my cart, I scanned the horizon for camera crews. Maybe this was some sort of trick ball that had been placed in my bag, maybe somebody was getting back at me for all my April Fool's tricks. The following four holes were more of the same. Out of nowhere, my hack-attack performance on the first two holes had been replaced by some strange game that featured long, straight drives, beautiful arching iron shots and stellar putting. By the time I walked off the eighth hole I had started to believe that maybe my long layoff from the game had allowed my natural innate abilities to rise through the clutter of horrible golf memories. Maybe this was the real me! Maybe I had to walk away from the game in order to shed the thousand small bad habits that had crept into my game. For a moment I imagined a future on the senior tour.

Then, the last hole of my day presented itself in front of me, a reasonably straight forward par four, which if I could get home in par would give me a nine hole score of 40, quite amazing after a eight month layoff. 

Anyone who has played this game for more than five minutes knows what happened next. I don't even have to write it down for you, right? As quickly as the game had come to me so miraculously five holes ago, it left in a huff. Big duck hook drive, shanked second, fat third, pedestrian fourth, then three putts from twenty feet for a triple bogey.

Still, 43 was about seven shots better than I had expected. Only, which golfer was I? The guy who was hacking the ball all over the place, or that dream-like guy on the middle five holes who could do no wrong? Neither. Golf is too stupid to analyze. 

The Big Wait

Now comes...bad April. The Masters is over, April Fool's a distant memory. Now comes the Big Wait.

Every morning, first thing, I open my iPad and search for...the email. When I get to the office and see the orange light pulsing on my phone, I listen for...the message. At some point over the next four days it will come. No, it's not results from blood work, or an MRI. This message will come from a guy named Carl, and like the last 35 such messages, it will be to inform me of just how much the privilege of my American citizenship will cost me this year.

Carl's a good guy. He's good at what he does. It's just that his annual bad news comes with his bill for professional services, adding salt to the wound. It's what he does. I will open the email when it comes with stoic resignation. My hands used to shake. My palms used to get clammy with sweat. Not anymore. Carl has gotten fancy. There's a password embedded in the email which unlocks my tax return from its cloud-based home. I go there and see the number just to the right of those bitter three words...amount you owe. I sign electronically. Very modern and impressive.

Usually, at some point in the thirty days leading up to April 15, I have one dream where my tax return gets delivered by a gleaming white flying unicorn. When I break the elaborate burgundy wax seal, I read the beautifully calligraphic words...amount overpaid, applied to your 2016 return! Then I bolt upright in bed, and the glorious fantasy evaporates.

While what I owe may not be my fair share, thanks to Carl, it's my legal share. No legitimate deduction will have been missed, no justifiable tax reduction scheme unused. No matter what the number is, it will be paid by the 15th. No extensions, no payment plan. I will stroke a check and be done with it. Because I have used honest numbers, there will be no anger or resentment. April 15th isn't a day for debates about fairness, it's a day when my obligation as a citizen of the greatest Republic on the face of the earth must be fulfilled. Besides, what does fairness have to do with taxes? The only people who think taxes are wonderful are those for whom money is theoretical, or those filthy rich enough to afford $50,000 a plate Hillary Clinton fundraiser dinners. For the rest of us, taxes are a necessary evil. Roads need to be paved, teachers need to be paid, and it takes a lot of expensive jet fuel to keep an F-15 aloft. So, we pay. Then we suffer silently when we hear politicians refer to us as "greedy."