Father's Day Thoughts

Father's Day is weird without Dad. I have no one to call. Now, I'm the one who gets called. Weird.

I often wonder what the day is like for people who have or had really horrible fathers. After all, there are lots of men out there who don't fit neatly onto a Hallmark card. In this regard I am fortunate. For all of my life I have been surrounded by men for whom fatherhood was their crowning achievement. My Dad. My uncles. The men who married my two sisters. My father-in-law. And now I see Facebook pictures of young men from my Sunday School classes from years ago holding infants in their arms, delighted and amazed. Then there are the men I've known who never had kids of their own, but instead became surrogate fathers to hundreds of other people's kids, those sainted teachers, coaches and encouragers without whom parents would be lost. I think of them on this day too.

Yesterday, my wife had her family over for a Father's Day picnic in the back yard. Despite the calendar, it was a perfect day to be outside...blue skies and no humidity. Because it was Pam, there was a theme...western bandanas with Slim Jim party favors! I grilled up beef and chicken kabobs on the grill with some teriyaki chicken thrown in for good measure.

After everyone left, I get an email from my daughter. She sent me a Barnes & Noble gift certificate so I could buy some books for my month in Maine. Then my son called to inform me that I must drive over to Havana Connection before 7:00 o'clock to pick up a package that was waiting for me.

After all of this, Pam and I were both exhausted. We had made plans earlier in the day for the Forts to come over to teach us some games to play while we are in Maine...something called Farkle, and the indelicately named dominoes game called Mexican Train. We hadn't seen them in a while and they would be spending a couple of weeks in Africa soon, and we wanted to see them before they left. We were so tired, we almost cancelled, but...it was the Forts, the easiest people in the world to hang with. So glad we didn't wimp out. Had a great time!

Now begins the sprint to the finish. Our preparations for Maine are officially on the home stretch. The finish line looms. Lucy knows that something is in the air, an ill wind is blowing. She looks at us suspiciously as if to say...What is this Maine of which you speak? Will there be trash cans and ceiling fans? If so, I must protest!

I'll keep you posted...

Peace and a Storm

It's easy to fall into despair as an American in 2016. Not because we aren't rich and powerful enough, not because we lack for anything, but because of the hash that those who presume to lead us are making of our country. The amoral, self-promoting narcissists at the top of the major party tickets remind me of what it must have been like in the waning days of the Roman Empire. Frankly, it's a national disgrace. Then, a storm rolls through and my despair is swept away with it.

All day Thursday the radio, television, Twitter, Facebook and my cell phone kept warning me that powerful storms would be passing through Short Pump beginning around 9:00 pm. There would be high winds, perhaps a tornado. Precautions should be taken. For me that meant securing my deck furniture and the administration of doggy Lorazepam to Lucy. For the longest time, nothing happened. But I could see the swirling green and red colors of the creeping storm on my weather app radar. It was close. I walked out onto my deck and gazed into the western sky.

It has always been this way with me and storms. Thunder and lightning have always drawn me like moth to flame. When I was a kid, I would stand at the screen door of the back porch when the thunderstorms came until I was damp from the rain, each flash of lightning filling me with both fear and delight. When my kids were little, I would take them out on our front porch and watch the storms roll through, holding them close and marveling at the raw power around us.

Thursday night, as I stared westward, waiting, I thought of our presidential candidates, with their monumental egos, Trump with his semi-literate rants about "winning" and Hillary with her smug, confidence, convinced that she's going to get away with it. That despite her habitual corruption, she will probably become the first female president, all her Rasputian scheming finally about to pay off. Then I hear the rumble.

A sound not unlike the sound that a Mack truck would make if it overturned it's load of gravel on a tin roof, violent and rushing. Heat flashes, still miles away, lit up the western horizon. The canopy of trees that line the fence at the back of my yard suddenly were parted by the wind, the limbs of the stately pines and mighty pin oaks thrashing about like Kansas wheat. The cold wind slapped my face, staggering me a bit. I felt the first drops of rain. Then a streak of lightning, closer now. Leaves began to swirl around me, small sticks ripped from the trees began dropping on the deck. My heart was pounding, but I couldn't look away. Directly above me I saw the front edge of the storm creeping across the heavens, a surging gray line like spilled paint, thick and milky. Then the first peal of thunder. Too close now. I must go inside, Lucy will surely be a mess by now...but I stay and watch until the rain comes harder. Oddly, it calms me, this storm. I watch how quickly my peaceful sky has been transformed into a maelstrom and I am assured in my heart that we control...nothing. There is a God in heaven and he will not forever abide our foolishness and vanity. This realization should be sobering. Instead, I am reassured. Strange.

This morning I will clean up from the damage, lots of limbs and debris everywhere. I will enjoy it. Things seem better.

My Pending Escape

In 15 days I will begin a month long sabbatical from reality. I will retreat to a lake house in Maine where cell phone coverage is spotty, Internet access is limited and air conditioning is non-existent. My days will begin early with coffee in a rocking chair on the front porch with the elegant warble of loons drifting across the water. I might take my coffee down by the dock. I might read a newspaper, the Camden Herald or the Courier Gazette. Whenever Pam gets up, we will take our breakfast on the

round table in the corner of the porch, overlooking Hobbs Pond.

For thirty days and thirty nights I will disengage from the pursuits of modern life in America. I will check in from time to time on the dumpster fire that is my country's politics, but only briefly, only with fleeting glances. The only deep internal argument I intend on having with myself while in Maine will center on that most contentious of debates...sausage or bacon, fishing or swimming, lobster or steak?

I plan on being a regular at the Hope General Store. They brag of their award winning pizza and their 142 different beers, and their continued, uninterrupted operation since 1832. I fully intend on getting my fill of blueberry pancakes at the Camden Deli, and clam chowder at Cappy's. I will eat lobster rolls. I will eat whoopie pies. I will enjoy more than one Allagash Coolship Red.

I will hike to the top of Mount Battie, pick blueberries and stare at the glistening harbor below. I will climb the stairs of the war memorial and take pictures.

I will set out from the dock in my rented kayak before the sun goes down for an evening trip around the lake. The water will be still and the color of stainless steel and so clear I will be able to see the mossy green edges of thousand year old rocks on the bottom.

In the evenings I will listen to the hiss and crackle of the fire. We will tell stories of the time when the kids were little and rolled each other down the beach at Dummer's curled up on the inside of giant tires. We will laugh at the memory.

I worry that the country I leave behind will intrude on me with some ghastly act of violence or stupidity. If some seventh century Islamic psychopath shoots up a bus load of seniors headed to Disneyworld, it will be difficult to know how to react while eating a fluffer-nutter. I will feel guilty that my countrymen are once again dealing with the disintegration of America while I am trying to decide between whoopie-pie or raspberry pie for dessert.

But, the truth is, I'm exhausted by America right now. It's all just too much. I need some time away from the drama of Obama-Clinton-Trump. A human being can take only so many gun control debates. At a certain point, the plight of transgendered bathroom access gets jumbled up with university safe spaces and too much money in politics and before you know what has happened, your entire world looks like the bar scene from Star Wars.

So, in 15 days the world will stop and let me off. My hope is that while I am away, a portion of my sanity will be restored. If the rest of you will somehow get your act together while I'm gone, it would be greatly appreciated.

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 15, 2016

My Pending Escape

In 15 days I will begin a month long sabbatical from reality. I will retreat to a lake

Orlando. What a Difference a Day Makes.

What a strange....

So, it turns out that upon further review, the shooter with the Middle Eastern-sounding name who mowed down 49 of his fellow Americans in a gay club Sunday, might not have been solely motivated by his professed allegiance to ISIS after all. He may have been gay himself?

Apparently, our killer was a frequent customer at the Pulse, where he was known to mostly drink by himself and when sufficiently liquored up would complain about the wife and kid back home. Odd behavior for such a devout Muslim, one who went to the trouble of making not one but two pilgrimages to Saudi Arabia, and regularly attended mosque. Further, it would seem that he was a frequent visitor to gay dating websites where he used the name Aries.

Does this new information change the story of Orlando? Should it? If it turns out that he used the ISIS 911 phone call as a giant head fake to hide his real motivations, then yes, it changes an awful lot. If he wasn't motivated by radical Islamist ideology, but rather was a self-loathing closeted Muslim gay man tormented by the profound contradictions of his life, then yes, everything changes.

No matter, the dude should never have been able to buy a gun. No matter, slaughtering 49 people is still an unspeakable crime. But maybe now we Americans will view the killer through a different lens. Most of us cannot in any way identify with a radical Islamist jihadist. But practically all of us can identify with a religious hypocrite.

Why Orlando?

A man with a Middle Eastern sounding name dials 911 and pledges allegiance to ISIS, then walks into a gay nightclub with a legally purchased assault rifle with a high capacity magazine and begins mowing down 50 of his fellow Americans and injuring 50 others. Witnesses claim he was laughing.

The dead have not been buried and we have already gone to our battle stations. The Orlando shooting is the fault of...

Muslims

Homophobia

Guns

Democrats

Republicans

Obama

Trump

Violent video games

Religion

What if it is none of these things? Suppose it's all of these things in varying degrees? What does it matter less than 24 hours after 50 souls have been snuffed out? Can we as Americans not go one day without turning every single tragedy into a political football? The answer is...no. No, we can't.

Trump was first on Twitter reminding everyone that he was right about his idea of a Muslim ban. Only, a Muslim ban would not have prevented anything in this case since the shooter was a US citizen.

Obama refused to concede the shooter's professed connection to ISIS saying only that it was an act of hate, further confirming his clueless and steadfast refusal to acknowledge the role that radical Islamic ideology plays in the ongoing terror of the 21st century.

Gun control advocates immediately laid the blame on lax gun laws. But, in a country with 200 million guns in circulation, who seriously believes that a radicalized terrorist would have been prevented from getting his hands on weapons by the existence of stronger gun laws? You and I maybe, but determined sociopaths? It's an absurdly naive notion. Besides, we already have rules in place that should have prevented the target of two FBI investigations over possible ties to terrorists from purchasing a weapon. What good did that law do? Still, reasonable people can and should ask why it is that private citizens in this country should be allowed to buy guns like this:

Seriously? What the heck would anyone need a weapon like this for? If you are using this for hunting then you're no sportsman and a horrendous shot. If you're using this to play Rambo at the local gun range, then you're very weird. If you want one of these to protect yourself one day from like zombies or hordes of rapist and stuff...whatever. But, if what you want is a gun that can kill multiple people with maximum efficiency, then well, this AR-15 is for you. Is there a way that people like me who believe in the 2nd amendment concede that the intent of the framers probably didn't include access to mass human slaughter automatic weapons? Just asking...

Some have laid all of this on Islam. Just weeks before this massacre a local Orlando Imam sermonized that gays must be killed...out of compassion. Others have tried to suggests that conservative Christianity's opposition to gay marriage is no better, so we Christians have no room to criticize Islam. When I hear this sort of sophistry, my blood begins to boil. To equate the peaceful opposition to a redefinition of marriage with the religious sanctioning of mass murder is beyond ridiculous and not worthy of a response. But neither is it responsible to assume that all Muslims agree with the ramblings of an Orlando Imam or even the views of millions of other Muslims. Have you noticed how many different denominations of Protestantism there are around the world? We Christians can't even agree on how to properly baptize someone. Heck, we can't even agree on what salvation even is half the time, and yet we ascribe to all Muslims the most heinous beliefs of the loudest and most radicalized few?

Here's the deal. Everything on the list above has played some sort of roll in the mess we find ourselves in regarding terrorism and the culture of violence that we are living in today. No one has clean hands. There is none who is righteous, no not one...All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God...The way forward will require some humility from all of us on both sides of every barricade. Is it possible? Are we beyond the ancient entreaty...Come, let us reason together?

The Struggle Continues

So, this happened yesterday morning. Three tomatoes, ravaged by tree rats while I slept. Infuriating. I went through the five stages of grief in five minutes, settled on anger, then stormed inside to Google a remedy. What I found on the interwebs is exactly what's wrong with America...

This thing showed real promise. It's called the tomatoe accelerator, and promises to create a miniature greenhouse around each plant while protecting them from nature. Only problem was that you can't buy one of these in a store, it's an online purchase and ships in 4-5 days. Plus, they run $16 per and I've got 4 plants to protect. For that much money I could buy three bushels of tomatoes from Martins and be done with it! Besides, I don't have 4-5 days!!

Then Google sent me to a host of natural remedies, you know, from the same sort of people who are always telling the rest of us to ditch the Windex in favor of spaying vinegar all over the Windows? From this hippie contingent, I discovered that the perfect repellant for squirrels is...fox urine. Apparently, they hate the stuff. So, where do you get the fox pee? I imagine from the same sort of place that sells eye of newt and crow's feet, but I have no desire to hunt down a witchcraft supply warehouse. Of course, I could go directly to the source, but that's problematic. First, I'd have to track down a fox, then get him to pee in a cup...not happening.

At this point I wandered into the PETA section of my search. I'll call them the "can't we all just get along" crowd. A proud vegan grandmother offered this suggestion..."I've found that the best way to guide squirrels and chipmunks away from my vegetables is to provide them with more desirable treats elsewhere in our yard." Ahh yes, let's guide the little darlings! This poor women actually sets out a basket of more squirrel-friendly fare to satisfy their appetite for destruction, in the vain hope that once filled, her tomatoe plants will be spared. Ladies and gentlemen, this is Neville Chamberlain-style appeasement that rewards squirrel thievery. Instead of confronting their destructive behavior, let's encourage more of it!!! This woman surely has a place in a Hillary Clinton administration.

Discouraged, I set out to find a solution closer to home. I visited three stores...Strange's, Southern States, and finally Lowe's. Finding no workable remedy, I decided to build my own...

It's sturdy and green. As soon as I finished building it I had a sinking feeling that I am about to be punked. What's to stop felonious squirrels from climbing over the top of this thing? Nothing, actually. But maybe it will discourage the lazier of their species. I could electrify it, which would be sooo cool...but that could have unintended consequences too horrible to imagine.

Oh, back to that first picture. Have you ever noticed that squirrels never ever finish eating a tomatoe? It's always a few nibbles. It's like the guy who takes a small bite out of six treats in the Russell Stover box and puts them back until he finally finds the chocolate nougat one. Well, it turns out that the reason they do this is...squirrels don't like tomatoes. But their little pea brains are so empty, they can't remember that they hate tomatoes. They're always thinking, "Hey!! These look awesome!!", then they take a bite, spit it out and move on. Worthless. 

Eating Well

I'm generally not a foodie. I don't often feel compelled to take pictures of what I'm about to eat, then plaster it all over social media to make other people jealous. But, I'm about to make an exception. Now, if you are on some sort of trendy diet, or gluten-free, or vegetarian, vegan, or into juicing or souping, or some such thing, you may want to go to your safe space right about now...

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, from where I come from, this is fine dining. First of all, it was a delightful 72 degrees with a heavenly breeze wafting across the confined back yard of our suburban estate. Any meal served al fresco is better than what you're eating inside.  Secondly, those are two New York strip steaks seasoned with some sort of amazing herb rub and grilled on my Commercial Series Char-Grill 2000, 7 minutes a side, flipped only once. There's also a serving of fresh corn, scraped off the cob fifteen minutes ago, then sautéed up in a pan of butter.

Now, I know what all of you are thinking...who eats pizza with steak?? Actually, I would be willing to try such a combination..what's not to like? But, that gorgeous pizza-shaped dish is not pizza at all. It's perhaps my favorite summer meal, number one on a long list of delicious concoctions that my sainted wife of 32 years is known for whipping up. It's called a Caprese Tart. It features tomatoes, mozzarella and parmesan cheese, with fresh basil and olive oil enveloped by a delicate, crispy crust. It tastes like summer exploding in your mouth.

I have no earthly idea how good or bad this meal was for us. I don't know the calorie count, am clueless whether or not the cow who gave the last full measure of devotion for this meal was free-range or not. For all I know, the corn and tomatoes might have been (gasp!) genetically modified!

Here's what I know, until fifty years ago this meal would have been literally fit for a king, since regular, ordinary people have historically never eaten this well. All of the ingredients for this feast were obtained at reasonable prices from a clean, well lit grocery store four minutes from our house. The line Pam stood in to buy this bounty was three deep at the high end. The entire shopping trip consumed twenty minutes of her time. I remember when the old Soviet Union introduced the world to three hour waits for daily bread rations. Today I read about the people of Venezuela standing in lines literally all day for enough food to keep them alive long enough to stand in line tomorrow. Over half the world is malnourished and we Americans beclown ourselves obsessing over the latest paleo/cro-magnon  diet while sipping our artisan craft water from environmentally sustainable containers. Instead of feeling guilty for living in a country of such abundance, how about we shed all this phony baloney false consciousness, and be grateful?

Oh yeah...that's sweet iced tea. And yes, with real sugar. God bless America.

Hope For America

Today, I would like to lay to rest two pernicious lies that have been circulated among the American people. Number one...that the Internet is a cesspool of worthless information that is making us all dumber, and number two...that Americans don't create things anymore, that we have forgotten how to innovate.

As many of you know, as a suburbanite, I fight a never ending battle to protect my house and my vegetables from squirrels. Up until now, my weapon of choice has been my Daisy Powerline 35...effective but inefficient, and increasingly unsatisfying. But now, thanks to the glorious Internet and good old American creativity and know how, I have discovered the greatest invention since the cheese straightener. For some reason the inventor has not (yet) attempted to name or mass produce this beauty, but a few suggestions immediately come to mind...

The Ejecto-Pest

The Critter Cattapult

Squirrel-be-Gone

Loser Launcher

It's easy to look around, especially in an election year, and fall into despair at the state of our nation. But then you stumble upon an example of the full flower of American ingenuity, and suddenly...all is right with the world. If America is still capable of this, then we can survive anything that Clinton and trump can throw at us!

I'm Actually Gonna Miss Bernie

The always vigilant American media are unanimous this morning, something truly historic happened last night. I have read three breathless accounts of how Hillary Clinton has become the first woman in history to win a major party nomination for President of the United States. It might even be more historic than when Barack Obama became the first African American to do so a mere eight years ago. If Hillary were a black woman, American journalists would all be needing smelling salts. The only things standing in the way of her relentless 16 year quest for the White House is that pesky FBI investigation and an increasingly unhinged Donald Trump. In the year of the outsiders, Hillary is holding the banner of the Oligarchy high.

I never thought I would say this, but I'm feeling a little sorry for Bernie this morning. I'm gonna miss the guy. At a time of obscene amounts of corporate money and mega donors, this 74 year old Socialist raised a boatload of cash...$25 at a time. He energized an army of millenials despite the fact that most of his policy prescriptions would have eventually bankrupted all of them. On policy 80% of his ideas were based on the premise that the wealthiest 5% of Americans would sit still for handing over 60% of every dime they earned, that this new level of income confiscation would have zero impact on the economy, and that the government could be trusted to do nothing but fabulous things with the new trillions flowing happily into the Treasury. But, there was more to Sanders than 1960's left wing Asshattery. He was actually right about some things. Modern America is controlled by a small group of Oligharchs. Very rich and very connected people in business and politics do successfully thwart the will of the American people. There is way too much money in politics. The most powerful and important  street in America isn't Pennsylvania Avenue or Constitution Avenue. It's K street. So, what did we do? We just nominated an admitted influence peddler and buyer of politicians, and the single most bought off politician since Boss Tweed. Crazy Bernie, indeed!

So, pretty soon we won't have the Vermont Socialist to kick around anymore. No more of this...

Or this...

I'm betting that shirt was bought off the wrack at J.C. Penney, and I also bet he paid for it with his own money. And that hair? If the guy had any Madison Avenue political advisers in his crew I'm sure they were constantly handing him a comb. But what's endearing about Bernie is that he obviously didn't care how he looked. Until last night, we had three candidates left. Only one of them was honorable, and he has now left the building.

Hillary. 6-6-16.

In a remarkably fortuitous turn of events, Hillary Clinton has clinched the Democratic nomination exactly 24 hours before the last big round of primaries, by somehow flipping a handful of super delegates. The story broke last night. Upon reading it at the Politico, I could practically hear that maniacle cackle of hers as she celebrated by drowning kittens in a marble bowl full of blood...it was 6-6-16 after all!

My son texted me the news. He was angry and suspicious...and had a right to be. He considered it a dirty trick designed to suppress turnout in today's California primary, and was convinced that the alleged persuasion of the super delegates involved several large checks. I reminded him that Bernie's supporters would walk through fire to vote for him, Hillary's supporters wouldn't walk through a gentle rain for her. If anyone should worry about voters not showing up because of this bombshell eleventh hour news, it was Hillary. This point seemed to calm him down a little. In fairness to my son, he isn't a full-on Bernie socialist. He disagrees with some of his positions. But Patrick rightly points out that Sanders is the only candidate who has campaigned against the culture of corruption and big money that has overtaken the system. Now, he's about to be vanquished by the Cruella de Vil of corruption, the Nurse Ratchet of cronyism. Disgusted, Patrick moans, "So, now I'm left with voting for either the Corruptor or the Corrupted."

Of course, there is a third choice...one that would put us all out of our misery, the Sweet Meteor of Death, or SMOD 2016. But, that's in God's hands. For now, ladies and gentlemen...your Democratic and Republican Party nominees for President of the United States...

My Trials and Tribulations

My Dad took this picture of me last night. He does this a lot, takes pictures of me for no reason. I haven't felt well lately. My shoulder hurts. I went to the very scary Vet last week and she said I hurt it chasing the frisbee. So now Dad won't throw it to me anymore. Plus, every time we go outside, I have to stay on the leash, even in my backyard! It's terrible. The worst part is, they have blocked off the stairs. That means I have to sleep downstairs by myself. I don't understand why I can't go upstairs. It's not fair! Oh, and Kaitlin came home yesterday and because of this new stair rule, I can't even wake her up by jumping on her bed and scaring the crap out of her like I love to do. No wonder I look sad in this picture!

Well, last night was the last straw. There I was sleeping in the library where they have banished me...when suddenly I felt it. There was a thunderstorm coming! My humans are the bravest people ever. They sit there watching television or reading even in the middle of the most horrifying downpours you've ever seen! Even when the yellow flashes come, they hardly look up from whatever it is they are doing. I've never seen such valor. But just because they aren't concerned about the instant death that these storms bring doesn't mean I have to go along with their madness. No sir! At the first hint of trouble, I head for Mom's walk-in closet. It's nice and dark and not nearly so noisy. I stay there shaking until the terror is over, then come out to find my humans acting like nothing ever happened. I worry about them sometimes.

Anyway, last night this terrible storm came through and I instinctively headed upstairs to save myself when I realized that there was a piano bench blocking my escape route. I have to admit, I panicked a little. I thought about peeing for a minute but thankfully got ahold of myself. I tried whining, but they couldn't hear me. My Mom could seriously sleep through anything. So I knew it was either me or that piano bench. Even though my humans have both told me a thousand times this past week not to jump or run, I knew it was my only hope. Besides, they were both fast asleep and couldn't see me. First I thought about grabbing the bench by one of its legs and dragging it out of the way, but thought better of it. My humans have this thing about chewing on the furniture. I know, they're weird that way. I knew that my only solution was going to be jumping over the bench and somehow landing on the stairs beyond without jamming up my shoulder even worse than it already is. So, I went for it. I landed it like a boss, I must say!

Soon, I was shaking safely in my storm closet and eventually the killer storm passed. Dodged an enormous bullet, I did. But I have a feeling that my horror isn't over. I keep picking up dark rumors of a long trip in my future...something about a lake, and a place called Maine. It sounds sketchy. 

The King is Dead

Muhammad Ali died last night. I'm sure that all of social media will soon be awash in testimonials, and most of them will be over the top with high praise. I don't intend to fall into that trap. While Ali was perhaps the greatest athlete I have ever seen in my life and without question the greatest fighter, that's pretty much where the accolades should end.

Ali was a contemporary of Martin Luther King and the two were a universe apart from each other. The day that Cassius Clay embraced the Nation of Islam and its maniacally racist leader, Elijah Muhammad, Ali chose segregation over integration...King's words, not mine. Ali's relentless narcissistic chanting of "I'm the greatest of all time!!"...flew in the face of what most Americans wanted in their heroes. No one wanted their own children to develope such levels of self regard. When he decided that his "religious convictions" prevented him from fighting for his country, while allowing him to fight for money, well, most people didn't buy it. 

Still, I was a seven year old kid living in New Orleans when he stood scowling and defiant over a fallen Sonny Liston in this iconic photograph. Over the next three years I watched most of his fights on our old RCA Victor black and white television in our cramped apartment. We always cheered for his opponents...Floyd Patterson, George Chuvalo, Zora Folley, Jerry Quarry. It was like watching a man fighting little boys. Ali was a thing of beauty, graceful, perfectly built, with lightening fast hands. They didn't stand a chance. After the fights there was no salute to the fallen, only semi-poetic gloating.

So, I was no fan of Ali the man and will not engage in the revisionist history that will rise up over the next few days about him. But, I was amazed at Ali the fighter who actually was the greatest of all time. So that is how I will choose to remember him, a great and iconic boxer...and nothing more.

On a happier note, my sweet daughter finished her third year of teaching yesterday and this morning is headed to Short Pump to attend the baby shower of one of her best friends...which means that she will be staying here for the next two days. I fully intend to spoil her rotten.

Trump and the Press

Part of me really doesn't want to write this. Regular readers are aware of my views on Donald Trump. Generally speaking, I find him to be an embarrassment. Despite what follows here, I still have no intention of voting for the man...but... I have to say that I do enjoy watching him with the press.

For as long as I can remember, I have loathed members of the fourth estate. I understand their importance in a healthy democracy and have zero interest in silencing them. But, I still hate them for several reasons. First of all, I know basically what their world view is, and it isn't mine. The vast majority of the White House press corp voted for Obama and would never even consider voting for a conservative anything. They all insist that their near unanimous liberal voting record in no way effects their reporting. I don't believe them. Well, I believe that they believe that, but I don't because it's impossible. My political beliefs certainly have an impact on what I think about politicians, and so do yours. But reporters expect us to believe that the fact that practically all of their colleagues believe the same thing about politics doesn't in any way affect the way they report the news, the type of questions they ask, and the questions they don't ask. It's a ridiculous notion.

Most of the presidential candidates I have supported over the years have been eviserated by the press at every opportunity, and with very few exceptions my guys have mostly just taken it as a given. Now comes Donald Trump. Practically every member of the national press has made it clear that they despise him...and with good reason. But instead of meekly submitting to their hatred, he has decided to dish it right back at them. Gone are the polite non-responses. Gone is the false pretense of friendship. It's like Trump is thinking, "Ok, you want to destroy me? Not if I destroy you first!"

Couple of days ago he called one reporter a sleeze, another a real beauty. One breathless reporter asked him if he had a problem with scrutiny and if he becomes President will his dismissive treatment of the press continue. Trump shot back..."I love scrutiny, what I don't like is lies. I find that political journalist are the most dishonest people in the world, and if I become President, yes I will continue to dismiss you guys"...or words to that effect.

Now, set aside for a moment the irony of Donald Trump lecturing anyone about honesty, when I watch him interacting with the pampered elitist national press corps this way, something in my heart thinks..."damn right!!!...and finally, somebody has the guts to call out these biased hacks!"

Of course in Trump's case, he also threatens to try to pass laws that would make it easier to sue the press, which is a horrible idea, not to mention unconstitutional. I don't want the press censored in any way. The fact that most of them are Democratic Party water carriers is just the way things are and will probably always be...and I'm ok with that. But it is refreshing to listen to a Presidential candidate treat them accordingly.

A Great Cartoon

Had a great debate with my son today about the minimum wage. He is in the Bernie camp, advocating for a $15 an hour wage. I argued that if the dude who takes out the trash at McDonalds was worth $15, I would be glad to pay him, but since he is not, I resent some Labor Department functionary telling me what I have to pay my employees. It was back and forth all day, first through email, then texting and included some gems. While ripping central planning types for their lack of real world experience in the business world, I suggested that they "couldn't sell hacksaws in a prison!" Then a bit later Patrick shot back at me with, "a conservative's idea of an adequate health plan is a bottle of Castor Oil." Great stuff!!

In the old days they used to say, never get into an argument with a guy who buys ink by the barrel. Well, today it should be, never get into an argument with a millenial with video gamer thumbs. Patrick can be in mid-sentence, then Google up a term paper full of stats in like two seconds to bolster his argument. By the time I think about using Google, it's already next week. I have to rely almost solely on whatever is stored in my head, and is retrievable after 58 years of wear and tear. But, I hold my own. Towards the end of our back and forth, Patrick sent me this:

Now, this is an awesome cartoon, especially if you want a $15 minimum wage. It's practically perfect. There's the poor, lowly, innocent worker with his meager little sign and a buck and change on the ground behind him, while the big, bad, mean spirited businessman is atop his stash of billions lecturing the little guy about GREED! It was meant to be a final blow to our debate, an unanswerable gauntlet thrown down at my feet. The only problem is that I see something else when I look at this cartoon. I see it, but most don't. Very few Millenials can even imagine what I see. But anyone who has ever owned a business will see the same thing I see.

I look at the man on the top of that mountain of cash and I think...I wonder how high that mountain was before the government swooped in for their fair share? I think this way because I'm a businessman and as such have to pay all of the hands thrust my way by federal, state, and local governments with money from my own accounts. There is no such thing as "withholding" in my world. There also isn't any such thing as employer-paid FICA taxes, or for that matter...employer paid anything. I suppose I should be grateful that I don't live in California since if I did, by the time I paid both halves of my FICA tax, my federal estimated income tax, my California State taxes, real estate and personal property taxes and a thousand other transaction fees for the privilege of doing business there, nearly 60% of my mountain would have been taken by government. Since I'm a Virginian, it's only around 42%. 

But notice who never gets called greedy in this cartoon? Government is never accused of being greedy, even though their appetite for our money is unquenchable. It's always that tight-fisted business owner at the top of a mountain of cash with the GREED tag. Because the cartoon always gets drawn after the hand of government has been filled and safely out of the picture. 

But, it's no use asking anyone to think of the government as greedy. In much the same way that we are told that African-Americans cannot be racist, I suppose that government simply cannot be greedy either. Besides, they are here to help us and they know what's best for us, even when...especially when, we don't. The fact that the men and women who have comprised that government over the past fifty years have managed to wrack up nearly 20 trillion dollars of debt just means that they are working really, really hard to help us. And if we knew what was good for us, we would be grateful.

What a Month!

The long slog of May is over. Birthdays have been celebrated, anniversaries marked, weddings attended, awards collected, and new apartments occupied. Three thousand miles have been added to the odometer of the Pacifica. Eating so much restaurant food has resulted in an addition five pounds to deal with. Now comes June and its looming deadline.

This month will be devoted almost exclusively to work. It will be a grind. I need to finish many things, wrap things up in as tidy a bow as is possible. This is what happens every year the week or so before our summer vacation. But this year will be different. We will be trying something new and possibly life changing. We will be spending the entire month of July in Maine. That will require a new level of getting ready. 

Buying Local Blues

Our first night in Nashville involved a restaurant incident that illustrates perfectly the down side to "buying local." Whenever we are out of town we like to eat at places indigenous to the city we are in, you know...sampling the local talent, so to speak. So last night, Pam gets on some app she has looking for a place close to our hotel where we could meet the kids for dinner. We found the perfect place...Murff's Craft Brews and Burgers. The owner was a decorated Vietnam vet with a local reputation for some sort of secret ingredient that had been celebrated on Nashville television. It's website looked amazing. We made a date.

We pull up into the parking lot and there were cars everywhere, a good sign. The place looked like a greasy spoon, but in a charming kind of way. I was psyched. Then things took a turn...

The front door of Murff's displayed a homemade, hand printed sign taped to the inside of the glass door just above the door handle, impossible to miss. It warned potential customers of the deadly dangers of consuming meat that isn't properly cooked. Needless to say, this isn't exactly the greeting one is looking for when entering a low grade eating establishment with burgers in its name. Then it got worse...much worse. Upon entering Murff's we were simultaneously greeted by two body blows. First, an elderly man( maybe Murff himself?), actually cleaning glasses with a towel from behind the bar greeted us, "Good to see you folks. Sit anywhere you want." Then it hit us...the smell. How to explain? The place reeked of strong, industrial strength disinfectant, like someone had just steam cleaned the place with Lysol ten minutes after they had exterminated the place with one of those lethal foggers. The other patrons seemed oblivious to the smell. None of us could imagine being able to eat anything inside a place that smelled like a DuPont plant might smell after consuming a tractor trailer full of rotten sardines. No, no...Pam laid down the law...no!

The app was once again put to work. This time we found a Firebirds only half a mile away. Pam says, "See, this is why people like chain restaurants. Quality control. You always know what you're going to get. It's comforting..."

Yes. Yes it is. My steak was wonderful. Afterwards it was ice cream at Coldstone Creamery. Today, after church we will try another local BBQ joint. Hopefully we will have better luck.

Is She Hurt, or Is She Scamming Us?

Displaying her instinctive knack for horrible timing, Miss Lucy has come up lame a mere 24 hours before we are to depart for Nashville. She has developed a rather severe limp, her right front paw suddenly hardly touching the floor when she walks. When we inspect her leg she doesn't wince or recoil from our touch. Nothing seems amiss, no swelling of any kind. But she is favoring that leg to an extreme degree.

So, her bed is now in my library and a gate has been placed at the stairs to keep her from using them. Maybe she pulled a muscle in one of her daily frisbee catching workouts. She loves to launch herself into the air and catch the frisbee at its highest possible point, which looks beautifully athletic and graceful, but sometimes she comes back down to earth at awkward angles. Or, maybe she can tell that we are heading out for the long weekend and this is all a stunt to change our minds. This "injury" sure looks serious when she limps around, but it doesn't stop her from her manic gyrations and general goofiness whenever we enter the room. Last night when Ryan and Ron came over, she was in full whirling dervish mode, albeit with a pronounced hitch in her gettiup. 

This morning, after the guy from Gurkin comes to fix the upstairs air conditioner( a story for another time), I will take her to the Vet. 

Poor girl...

The Libertarian Moment?

Stumbled upon this on the interwebs this morning. Fascinating. Although I have several quibbles and a few nits to pick, in general, I find this very useful as a summary of the power of rhetoric. 

It is clear to me why I lean Libertarian on so many of today's issues. First of all, Libertairans always win the battle of language. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the three parties words of choice on the economy...Democrats-regulated markets, Republicans-American capitalism, and Libertarians-free markets. Or, take the role of the military...Democrats-policing, Republicans-Expansion of democracy, Libertarians-defense. The differences could not possibly be clearer.

However, winning the language in politics is never enough, and has never been enough. You also need to win the theatre of politics...the optics. Libertarians always lose the optics. The guy in a debate who prattles on about natural law, responsibility, and individual initiative will always lose. Which brings me to the root of Libertarian failure in the modern political era....nobody wants to buy what they are selling. The core of Libertarian philosophy is the notion that we are all free agents and as such are ultimately responsible for ourselves. We look to government to provide only the things that individuals cannot efficiently provide for themselves, the common defense, a system of justice and the administration of that justice, and common infrastructure. This humble expectation of government involvement in daily life seems quite charming in a time when government has become so intertwined in every arena of life that they have taken to the administration of bathroom facilities! 

The fact is that Americans have looked at the world around them and discovered that it can be a hard and scary place. They have also discovered that this whole individual initiative business can be tough sledding. Life is hard, man! Liberty and freedom are fine, but what we really want is free health care, unlimited unemployment and an activist government to guarantee a whole host of comforts that our forefathers believed were the responsibility of each of us.( see item number 2 above )

So, while I admire this handy chart and agree with much of it, it reads like some ancient text. The Libertarian moment in America was 1776. It has long passed, and I doubt it will reappear again.

About the election.....

Have you noticed how I haven't written much about the Presidential contest lately? There was a time when the subject dominated this space. Now it gets largely ignored. There's a reason for that...I simply don't know what to say anymore. Hillary is still Hillary. Trump is still Trump, and Bernie is still a thing.

This election is like a dark menacing cloud off in the distance when you're enjoying a picnic. It's like the first intestinal cramp you feel after buckling your seatbelt on a cross country flight, or that sinking feeling you get once you realize that you should have gone to the bathroom before leaving the house but now you're buckled in with your maniacal conquer the trip husband whose determined to make it to Nashville with only one stop. 

Hillary can't put Bernie away. He's got no chance to win and he knows it, but he doesn't care. He's in it until the convention and intends to make Hillary sweat it out...because he A. Can and B. He can't stand the sight of her. There are, after all, advantages to being an older man in politics. Bernie isn't interested in waiting four or eight years to make another run. I mean, just look at the guy 

He might not even be alive eight years from now. No, he's all in for 2016, and if Hillary and the Democratic Party brass don't like it, they can all go to hell and get off his lawn!!!

So Hillary is left thrashing around for a campaign theme, trying desperately to fake authenticity. Remember a few weeks ago when her campaign printed up a million Women Cards? 

Yeah, well...Hillary hopes you forget. This brilliant idea polled about as well as Ted Cruz in New York City! Then she trotted out the loose cannon bit to describe Trump. This was apparently some field tested, poll-approved phrase that the Clinton campaign thought would resonate with the American people. Only, it bombed. Note to Clinton campaign: when testing phrases on the "American People" try using Americans who live somewhere outside of Manhattan.

Then, there's this guy. 

There's a reason he's smiling. He's now leading Hillary in several polls, more each week it seems. He doesn't have to hire consultants, doesn't have to employ campaign gurus, doesn't even have a pollster. Heck, he doesn't even have to be right about anything. All he has to do is be himself. All the wise men, not to mention idiots like me, keep predicting his demise....but he keeps on winning. 

So yeah...I haven't had much to say about this race of late because what is there to say? Nothing I say will be as outrageous as everything Trump says, and I couldn't be as boring as Hillary if my life depended on it, so I'm just going to sit back for awhile and let the candidates speak for themselves.

Meanwhile...how 'bout the weather we've been having, eh?

Yes.....it's raining.

It's the 23rd of May. It's raining. It's been raining all night, all weekend. As a matter of fact, it's rained for 17 days and nights during May. That means that the citizens of Short Pump have enjoyed exactly 6 sunny days this month. This, despite the fact that a famous nursery rhyme promises us that April showers bring May flowers. Of course, another one promises us that March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. Lies. All lies.

However, my weather app assures me that it's almost over. The next five days feature a bright sun with no clouds and temperatures in the 90's. Wait, WHAT? 

I'm told that the fine people of the Pacific Northwest live like this all year long. Rain, either in the form of showers, steady soaking rain or fine mist is the standard forecast for large stretches of the year. If this is true, then to the good people of Seattle I can only say, bless your hearts. If this is what your life is like all year, then no wonder you birthed punk rock. No stinking wonder you elected Patty Murray!! No wonder you're the home of Starbucks...caffeine by the truckload does lift the spirits...and no wonder you guys built the space needle, all the better to impale yourself. Oh, and all of that 12th man nonsense with your Seahawks? That's not enthusiasm, that's pent up rage! Oh, and don't think I haven't noticed that the most popular boy name in Seattle is Noah.

A Prayer For Miss Lucy...

It's Saturday morning after a long and strenuous week. It is pouring down rain, and I do mean pouring. This is no intermittent shower, no soft mist. This is a deluge of rain, the type of Noah-esk event that sends the delicate imaginations of my dog Lucy into full derangement. She has spent most of the morning hunkered down in our small, dark walk-in closet imagining all of the worst case scenarios possible for the mind of a golden retriever. Maybe she thinks that the rushing sound that rain makes on our roof is the precursor of some sort of violent home invasion. Perhaps she fears that the rain is about to burst through the front door and steal her food. Whatever it is, she is taking no chances...shivering in a ball in the protective confines of our closet.

Of late, Lucy seems to have taken several steps back in her ongoing battle for mental health. Just about the time when she makes us think that she is becoming a normal, well-adjusted dog, inexplicably, she skips meals and slinks around the house like a shell-shocked infantryman on Omaha Beach

Lucy: Whoa!, wait..what's that sound??!!

Pam: Sorry Lucy! Mommy just dropped a piece of celery on the floor...it's ok! 

Lucy: Geeze Louise!! Would it kill you to give a dog a warning??!!

The weirdest part about Lucy's daily display of neurosis is her bizarre meal time behavior. Every dog I have ever had has always had the same meal time M.O. As you stand at the counter mixing up the kibble, the dog nervously pants, hardly able to restrain him/herself. Then you place the bowl on the floor and the dog attacks the thing like you haven't fed him/her in weeks! The whole thing is over in two minutes! Not Miss Lucy.

Me: You want some dinner Lucy? Daddy's got some dinner for that sweet puppy!

Lucy: ...completely disinterested, she sits in the next room staring at me, giving off the air of someone who couldn't possibly care less, weirdly cat-like.

Pam: Come eat your dinner Lucy. See? Mommy will sit perfectly still in this chair, and Daddy will go in the other room and be quiet so you can eat.

Then, and only then, will she slowly hurumph herself into the kitchen to inspect tonight's fare. She will slowly and carefully begin to eat her dinner, always keeping a sharp eye out for the appearance of some demonic beast who might suddenly swoop down from the ceiling fan to kill us all! Yes, the ceiling fan has been the source of intense fear and loathing ever since that fateful morning over a year ago when Lucy was laying on our bed minding her own business, when Pam accidentally flipped the switch for the ceiling fan instead of the light. Up until that point, Lucy had never seen the ceiling fan engaged in fan-like activity. Seeing it suddenly come to life above her was apparently the most terrifying thing ever. She bolted off the bed and out of the room faster than you could say,"Our dog is insane." Ever since that day, Lucy has been highly aware of the several ceiling fans in our house. Although we have taken special care never to turn them on ever again, she isn't convinced. Every so often, she will cast a wary eye upwards just to make sure that the fans aren't trying to pull a fast one, her hatred of them palpable. Oh, and don't even think about asking her to go for a walk in the Center Ridge culdesac since she saw a trash truck there six months ago!!

I could make a realty television show about Lucy's upcoming month long adventure to a lake house in Maine. The trip up alone would be a smash hit! 

Pray for us!

An Idea About Race

It doesn't take a genius to see that race relations in this country have taken several giant steps backwards over the past few years. I have written several times in this space about the hopelessness I feel concerning this subject. I watched the violence in Ferguson and Baltimore and felt like there wasn't anything I could do about any of it. My progressive friends all clammer for more government programs. My conservative friends prefer more aggressive policing. Then the black lives matter movement showed up and both sides doubled down. It's a hot mess.

I suppose that one of the problems is that as a white man, my ideas on this subject come from a place which is largely unfamiliar to a black man. My life experiences have been different. Some would refer to me as privileged. Although I started out my life in a trailer park on the south side of Richmond, to many the mere fact that I was born white provides a giant asterisk to every success that I have enjoyed in life. Moreover, being born into a two parent family who read to me every night provided me with an unfair advantage over anyone not so endowed at birth with a stable, literate family. Because of all of the unfair advantages bestowed upon me at birth, reparations need to be made...from me, to those less fortunate. At least, this is my understanding of modern, progressive race theory. But, I'm no social scientist. So, most of this type of talk goes right over my head, right after it infuriates me.

But, I am a human being, and a Christian. The teachings of my faith make it clear that whenever possible, I need to strive to be a peace maker, and agent of reconciliation. To that end, I've been kicking around the idea of reaching out to a group of my former Sunday School students who are still in town. I'm going to throw a cookout, grill up some steaks. In the past, that always guaranteed a crowd! The group I'm thinking about would be a mix of several races, all solid young men trying to make their way in the world, but from vastly different backgrounds. I'm going to give them a summer reading project. I'm going to ask them to come together at my house once a week over the month of August until we get through the book together. The book is "Under Our Skin" written by Benjamin Watson. I haven't read it yet myself, but it comes highly recommended by several men who I respect. It's a difficult read, they say...challenging and tough, but worth the effort.

I'm not even sure this will do any good. These guys might be too busy, or maybe my time with them has passed. But, I feel the need to do something. There might not be a damn thing I can do about Ferguson and Baltimore. But, if it's possible to make Short Pump a little better, I've got to try. I might not even like everything I read in the book. Maybe our discussions wind up being arguments. But at least we will be struggling together to find our own solutions. Asking the question, How should my faith inform my thinking about race, is a loaded question, after all. Could be great, could be a disaster.

May 19, 1984

Thirty two years ago this morning, I was engaged in a spirited full court basketball game at my apartment complex. My groomsmen were making a number of off color wisecracks at my expense, as you would expect from the sort of guys who someone like me would have as groomsmen. But I needed to be playing basketball that morning. I was nervous. Very nervous.

I was about to marry Pam White, the oldest of the three White daughters from a little town in western Maine.

She was a ridiculously beautiful blond, smart, adventurous and funny. I couldn't believe my good fortune to have found someone like her. So, why was I so nervous? Because I was 26 years old and about to make the most important decision of my life, that's why! A million questions were racing around in my head. How could anyone possibly commit to anyone...forever? What happens if you wake up one day and discover that you don't love her anymore? Suppose she turns out to be a communist, a hoarder, or even worse...a horrible cook? Suppose she wakes up one day and realizes that she could have done so much better?? Such were the worst case scenarios running through my head as I paced back and forth in the clammy basement of Winns Baptist Church with my best man, Al Thomason, listening to the organ prelude. The place was packed with every important person I had known to that point in my life, and I was about to walk up the stairs to the front of the church to face them all dressed in a really sharp tuxedo. My palms were sweating, my hands shaking. But then I saw her standing in the back of the church with her Dad.

I remember thinking,...Holy Cow, how did I ever pull this off? For the first time in over a month, I wasn't nervous anymore. I could finally breathe. I knew in that instant that I was doing the right thing, the perfect thing.

Thirty two years later, we are still together. There have been plenty of times when she has thought,...I could have done so much better. Like the time she found out that I had played tackle football with a bunch of high school boys in freezing weather six months after undergoing open heart surgery. Or the multiple times I have been guilty of launching some ill-conceived, bone headed, semi-dangerous plan involving the kids. But, mostly she still loves me. Imagine that?

17 Days Late

This morning, I learn two remarkable facts. First, it will not be raining today. Second, apparently I forgot to pay my mortgage last month. 

Yes, there's nothing quite like the feelings that flood into your mind when you open your bank account app and get greeted by a blinking pop-up that informs you that your mortgage payment is now 17 days late!! What the heck? What do they mean with this 17 days late nonsense? I pay my mortgage on the first of every month, have been for 204 consecutive months now. I hit the transfer tab and send the payment automatically each and every month...on the 1st. Only, upon further review, it appears that I had indeed queued it up to send...but never actually hit send! Perhaps I got distracted by an incoming phone call. Maybe I was prepared to hit send and got sidetracked by a bout of rapid fire sneezing which disoriented me. Whatever the reason, I did not pay my mortgage and it is indeed 17 days late. 

Unfortunately, this issue brings back some unpleasant memories for me. Four years ago my Mom called me in a panic. Dad was horrified to learn that his checking account was terribly overdrawn. He was embarrassed and mad at himself for making such a mess of his checkbook. She asked me if I would take a look at it. So, I drove over their one night and sat down with them around the kitchen table to get to the bottom of it. My Dad was a proud man. Although he had never made a lot of money, he was proud of his exemplary credit and how he had never bounced a check in his life. Now, suddenly...there were 14 such bounced checks, and he had a defeated look on his face like nothing I had ever seen. I immediately started cracking jokes, desperate to keep things light. It wasn't working. After a couple of hours I found the source of the problem...a month previous to all of the bounced checks Dad had entered two consecutive large payments as deposits. Consequently, he thought he had plenty of money in his account. Finally the math errors had caught up with him. I managed to make him laugh about it eventually...perhaps my finest comedic performance of all time. But there was something else I found which was more disturbing than a mere math error. Dad's handwriting always had a bold flair to it. His penmanship, like so many others of his generation, was flawless. But, several months back in his ledgers I saw it...an abrupt departure from meticulous to sloppy. It hadn't been a gradual thing, it was immediate and total. It was about the time where the error was found.

Not long after, Dad made me power of attorney for his affairs and turned the checkbook over to me. He actually seemed relieved, but sad at the same time. So did I.

So, when I see the flashing warning about my late mortgage payment, I think of Dad. No, I haven't started bouncing checks, this was just a random mistake. We all make them. But it serves as a reminder that we are all getting older. Wiser too, but older nonetheless. 

A Graduation Story

My nephew graduated from college yesterday. I come from a tribe of people where this sort of thing is celebrated. It's a milestone, a seminal event. Whenever possible, we show up at these things. In my time on this planet, I have been a part of countless graduation ceremonies.

They are all horrible.

Our day began at 5 o'clock in the morning. That's how early I had to roll out of the rack in order to get to Lynchburg in time for the 8:45 processional. The day was glorious, bright sunshine and perfect temperature, but the day came with a unanimous disclaimer from every weatherman in the State of Virginia...strong chance of afternoon thunderstorms. But surely we would be out of harms way by the afternoon, right? I mean, geez...how long can a graduation that begins at 8:45 last??

Answer? All. Freaking. Day.

Here's the deal with college graduations. Every speaker seems to think that the 35,000 people in the stadium all came to hear them speak. So, all of them prattle on forever, convinced that we are hanging on their every word. College Presidents are the worst. Oh how they love hearing the sound of their voice! First, there's the boilerplate "limitless future" claptrap, followed by the deadly dull regurgitation of the gold-plated legacy of the school, and finally the obligatory shout-outs to the big donors. Meanwhile, we're sitting in the sun-splashed stands, scanning the sea of 8,000 graduates trying to spot our boy, wondering why the heck we never thought to bring some dang sun screen. An hour later the guest speaker strides to the podium. His speech has been loaded into a TelePrompTer. This means that somebody, somewhere is aware that we are facing a thirty minute stem winder. A full 90 minutes after taking our seats, we hear the magic words..."and now it's time to confer degrees on our graduates." This consists of an old guy saying, "Will all candidates for the bachelor of science degree stand and be recognized." Below, from the thirty yard line to the fifty yard line, a wave of black mortar boards rise rhythmically while exhausted parents, uncles, cousins and spouses clap politely. 

I'm sitting there thinking...what the heck just happened? No, no...my sister explains. This is just the graduation service. Ryan will walk to get his diploma at the next service...after a convenient lunch break which we will miss because the President took two hours recognizing the Dingledorph family for the having now six generations of Dingledorphs as Liberty graduates. Oh, and did you know that there are 16 sets of twins, all cancer survivors, graduating today?

After standing in line at the concession stand to buy a five dollar cheeseburger assembled last week and brought back to life twenty minutes ago by a heating lamp, I made my way down the field for the main event. I noticed off in the distance at the edge of the Blue Ridge mountains to the west a dark black line. I consulted the weather app on my cellphone and saw the giant green blob of rain that every weatherman in Virginia had been warning us about. It was rapidly making its way towards us. I took a bite of my cheeseburger. Surely the people in charge of this event are aware that God has placed us on a time clock, I thought. Then the dopey speaker spends fifteen minutes trying to coax 10,000 people to get "the wave" going. Apparently not.

By the time my nephew got his name called, the stadium was being rocked by 30 mile an hour gusts and sideways rain. It was 2:15. I had just spent five hours in a football stadium so I could get to hear my nephew's name called while huddled under an overhang in the cheap seats. 

But, all was well. We were reunited with our graduate afterwards and made plans to meet at his favorite Mexican restaurant. I had parked on the fourth level of the only parking deck on campus a mere half mile from the stadium. It was determined that I would catch the shuttle and go get the car,
then pick everyone up. Only the shuttles didn't take you to the parking deck so I had to walk. But since rain was coming down at a rate of six inches per hour, I had to run. By the time I made it to my car, I was soaked to the bone. Everything I had was wet. I grabbed a golf towel from the trunk and tried to dry off, only to realize that my golf towel was covered in dirt. So now I was not only wet, but muddy. Luckily, I had a fleece jacket in the trunk and was able to clean up with that. I back my car out of my space and get in the long line of cars trying to exit the deck. I looked at my watch. It was 2:30.

Forty minutes later, I was in the exact same spot. Apparently, nobody on this campus of higher learning thought that the spot where a line of cars pouring out of a parking deck trying to merge onto a packed road might need a traffic cop. At least I had plenty of time to dry off. 

By 4:15 our party was happily reunited at the Mexican restaurant. All the misery of the previous seven hours of incompetence was over as we enjoyed a fine meal and watched Ryan open some gifts. We will tell hilarious stories about this day for years to come...if any of us survive the skin cancer we will get from our third degree sunburns.