We Made It.

We made it. After walking around this gorgeous property for half an hour gawking at everything like unashamed tourists, we sat down on the dock and watched the late afternoon sun set the lake on fire in a splash of sparks. It's everything we hoped it would be..on stilts. Soon, we noticed a house across the lake, maybe three quarters of a mile away. We heard the sound of a boat, then saw it cutting a soft line across the water. It looked to be headed our way. I expected that at any moment in would veer north towards more open waters where the lake spreads out for miles. But no...it was still making a bee-line towards us. I turned to Pam...If those people are coming over to welcome us to Maine, this has to be the friendliest lake in America! 

And that's exactly what Wendy and Bob and their English Cream Golden, Finley did. They noticed us sitting on the dock of their friend's place and decided to pop across the lake and say hello. Small world. As a teenager, Bob happened to work in the same mill in Rumford, Maine that Russ did. They were both very familiar with Richmond, Virginia and complemented us on living in such a beautiful city. Their dog Finley happens to be a dead ringer for Jackson, my daughter's Golden. I laid out the subtle suggestion that perhaps later they can take us on a tour of the lake in their beautiful boat. We had been here less than an hour and we had already made some friends.

The house is incredible, but very tiny. Funny how cameras make things look so much larger. No closets. Kitchen has very small cabinets in which to place groceries. Bathroom has no vanity, and only a small three drawer cabinet to store all the chemicals and compounds that make us look presentable. The shower stall has no place to place bottles of shampoo, conditioner or body wash. When you find yourself in a place such as this you realize just how much stuff you drag around with you. But, Pam has worked her usual organizational miracle, and the place looks less cluttered now, ready for what the next three weeks will bring. Dan the Man will deliver the Kayaks and paddle board momentarily.

As delightfull as all of this is, I feel quite uncomfortable gushing about it all while so many of my countrymen are scrambling to escape the State of Florida as Irma barrels down. It feels inappropriate to be enjoying this rapturous piece of God's creation while others are fleeing, about to lose everything. But, I suppose this has always been true of life...when something marvelous happens to you, there is always something terrifying happening to someone else, some place else. Such is the nature of this fallen world.

So, we will enjoy everything that is here for us. We will pray for those in harm's way, and send another donation to those on the front lines. 

The Adventures of Mad Max, Dunnevant edition...

There's just no good way to get to Maine. 

You could walk, but that would be labor intensive, would take too long, and you run the risk of dying along the way. You could fly, but then you run the risk of flight delays and lost baggage. Besides, you couldn't take all the stuff necessary for a month of fun. The best way to go to Maine is the way we used to do it when we were younger and less obsessed with the safety of our children. We would take the middle seats out of our minivan, throw the kids on the floorboard in sleeping bags, tethered to nothing, and depart beautiful downtown Short Pump at 7:30 PM. By the time we made it to D.C. Both of them were fast asleep. Our first stop was after midnight somewhere on the New Jersey Turnpike for gas and a bathroom break...which the kids slept through. The worst part would always be in Massachusetts at 4:00 in the morning when I could only stay awake if Pam fed me grapes and squirt cheese on Chicken-in-a-Biscuit crackers. When the sun finally came up around 6:00, I would get my second wind. We would make our second stop at the first rest area after crossing the green bridge into Maine. We would wake up the kids and have breakfast, secure in the knowledge that the worst part was over and now we were only two freaking hours away!! Once we pulled into Dummers around 10:00 AM, i would sleepwalk through getting unpacked and settled in, then collapse in a beach chair and sleep the rest of the day.

...and ladies and gentlemen, this was the best way to get to Maine.

Somewhere along the line, our all-nighters came to an end. The kids got too big and wouldn't sleep the whole way, and I got to where I couldn't stay awake no matter what disgusting snacks Pam fed me. It was then that we discovered that making the drive up 95 north in the daylight was something on the order of Dante's seventh circle of hell. I felt like Mad Max trying to survive a dystopian nightmare. I would imagine all of the horrible things that would befall me if I broke down on the Garden State Parkway, the grisly end I would endure if somehow I couldn't scrape up enough money for the Tappan Zee Bridge toll. And the traffic...the traffic through the trifecta of misery which is New Jersey, New York and Connecticut during the day is immeasurably worse than it is in the middle of the night. It's sort of like how tofu is immeasurably worse than steak, or how having a surprise attack of diarrhea while stuck in traffic is immeasurably worse than being served ice cream on a beach in Maui by a beautiful local girl in native dress. That kind of worse.

So, this year we are trying the famous western route, the stuff of legend in the Richmond-to-Maine travel world. For years we had heard of its toll free roads, its idyllic traffic and bucolic scenery. Yes, it's a little longer, they would say, but so worth it. 

Its definitely longer.

Yesterday it took me 10 hours and 15 minutes to drive to Hartford, Connecticut. There were three backups. During these interminable delays, we comforted ourselves by gazing at the bucolic scenery. Nice....Oh look honey, some cows! On the plus side, I only paid one toll...$1.50.

Today, I'm told by the GPS( Great Pissed-off Sensor ) that I only have 5 hours remaining before arriving at Loon Landing on Quantabacook Lake. Lies. All lies. It will take 5 hours only if there are no accidents, Hong Kong level traffic, no horrific weather event and no backups caused by a couple of minivans pulled over to the side of the road so junior can take a leak in the bushes. In other words...never gonna happen.

But, regardless of what happens on today's leg of this trip, at the end of it we will be at a lake house in Maine.

And that is the best revenge.

24 Hours

Twenty four hours out from our departure to Maine...looks like our first week will be stormy. The weather forecast shows rain four out of the first seven days we're there. To make matters worse, looks like we will arrive in the rain...always a hassle. As a bonus, it appears that I will be loading up the car top carrier in the rain tonight. In addition, next Tuesday, the day that my inlaws will be flying up to Maine, Hurricane Irma might be arriving in Richmond, making their second attempt at flying to Maine in 2017 problematic. But, the good news is, Sean Hannity is still on top of Hillary's email scandal.

Despite these dark clouds, or perhaps because of them, there is a scent of adventure in the air today. The last day before leaving for a three week vacation is always crazy. There's the packing, made infinitely more difficult because it's Maine, so you have to pack for a wide range of weather outcomes. That means long pants and shorts. Tee shirts and sweaters. Swimming trunks and jackets. Then there's the added challenge of packing for a golden retriever. Half of the car is taken up with her crap. But through it all, there is an undercurrent of excitement. A road trip is that quintessential American experience. We are a vast country ribboned throughout with highways and back roads. This is a country built for travel, and we have the crumbling infrastructure to prove it. Hitting the road for a destination 845 miles and a half century away, is the sort of thing that has always gotten my blood pumping. 

Even if it rains every day in September, Pam and I will remember these next three weeks. This cannot be said of any random three weeks in Short Pump. 

So, we will take the weather as it comes, with resignation and submission. We will enjoy whatever comes our way. These next three weeks belong to us in full. We don't have to share it with Dunnevant Financial, or Hope Thrift, or River's Edge. 

We just have to get there. The trip is the hard part, the dangerous part. But for me, it's also the exciting part. 

College Football and Guilt...

Everyone who knows me knows that when it comes to sports, I'm very much a baseball...then everything else sort of guy. Truth be told, I'm a baseball nerd. The country could get invaded by the Chinese and I'd be the one checking out my MLB app for the west coast box scores. However, there is one sport that comes in a robust, albeit distant second. College football. I love it. I love the pagentry, the rabid fan bases, the mascots, the tailgate parties. But, I feel so guilty about it. Let me explain.

I'm a big Alabama fan. I got introduced to this monolithic force when I was 8 years old living in rural Alabama every weekend for 3 years. Paul Bear Bryant was the coach, and I quickly became aware that even Jesus wasn't as popular as "The Bear" in rural Alabama in the 1960's. So, I've been a fan ever since. Most people around here hate Alabama football. That's because 4 times in the last 10 years Alabama has won the national championship. When you live around a million Virginia Tech fans, this is a very sore subject. The Hokies are still waiting for their first national title, so...haters gonna hate. But, why the guilt?

Well, it's probably because college football is such a dirty, grubby business. Whoever coined the term student athlete to describe division I football players has probably been dead for fifty years now because while it may have at one time been true, it clearly no longer is. Yesterday's New York Times featured a story about a host of Florida State players who were caught cheating in an online hospitality class which dealt with the academically challenging world of coffee, tea and wine. Some poor professor who got bullied into inflating the grades of star football players despite the fact that none of them actually turned in any work eventually loses her job and commits suicide. And, that's not the worst of it. At least these FSU players were only guilty of cheating. For every cheater, there are probably 10 rapists. Just this past week, the Florida Gators had to suspend 10 players, many of them starters, for participating in an illegal jersey-selling scheme...or something.

But, as long as college football remains the money making behemoth it is today, this situation will get worse. Many of the best athletes in the sport come from backgrounds and environments not normally associated with academic achievement. All the tutors in the world aren't going to change that simple fact. The universities where they play don't have much incentive to educate them, but they do have plenty of insentive to exploit them for profit. The SEC is nothing more than a player development league for the NFL, and as such, those who play at these schools are actually unpaid, minor league athletes. Yes, they get a free education. But how much is that worth when so few actually graduate, and even if they did graduate, how valuable is an "education" which features online hospitality classes that require zero work? I say, drop this student athlete charade, and pay these players. Treat them as employees of the school. These guys bring big money to these schools. Many of them go on to the pros and get their big payday, but an even greater number don't. They blow out a knee and its over for them. What do those guys get by way of compensation for their work? If your answer is, a free education, you are living in a fantasy world where ghost-written term papers, fake classes and cooked grades equals an education.

But, despite all the flimflammery, rap sheets and crooked boosters...you can still count on me watching on Saturday when the Tide rolls. I suppose that makes me part of the problem.

SEC!!! SEC!!!

Attitude Adjustment Needed

What an odd week.

The week before a big event is always a slow, plodding thing. You find yourself trying to rush things along, making it next to impossible to stay in the moment. I have always suffered from an unfortunate affliction that constantly drives me to the next big thing. Pam is exactly the opposite in this regard, always content to make the most of now. Maine is the place where we are able to call a truce.

Anyway, so back to this week. There was the devastation of Harvey mixed with the heartwarming stories of heroic human beings from every background, every political persuasion, and every race, doing beautiful, selfless things. Of course, that was followed by various politicians trying to rush to the cameras to horn in on the good feelings being generated. Then the chattering classes did their best to throw a wet blanket on the sudden surge in unity by trying to undermine it all by casting doubt on the motives of our heros. And just like the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, a slew of activist/hacks began taking advantage of human compassion by sending our fundraising pitches ostensibly for flood victims, but actually providing links to various political action committees, proving once again the old adage that...no good dead goes unpunished. I'm convinced that partisan politics is this nation's divine punishment for the original sin of slavery.

Meanwhile, back at the office, I spent the week talking clients out of making moves that would have put several thousand dollars in my pocket. They were determined. I was persistent. Eventually they relented. I made zero dollars for my efforts. I labor in a profoundly strange business.

Later I had a text conversation with my son,(are there any other kind?), where it occurred to me that at some point over the past 35 years, my attitude towards the federal government has taken a decidedly cynical turn. Although I believe that my son gives them entirely too much credit, is far too willing to give them the benefit of the doubt than their actions over my lifetime would warrant, I am never willing to give the Feds any credit for anything. This has not always been so. There was a time in my life when I actually felt connected to my government and was generally convinced, at least, of their benevolence, and critical of those who questioned their motives. But, after a 35 year career in the financial world as a business owner, my views towards Washington are more jaded. I find myself nodding in agreement when I hear that old Ronald Reagan line, The most terrifying sentence in the English language is, "I'm from the government and I'm here to help!" I suppose that 35 years of paperwork, redundant regulation, fees, taxes, surcharges, and constantly moving goalposts will do that to a person. I don't trust them. I don't respect them or those we elect to represent me in my dealings with them. It is my considered view that anything done by government will always and forever be second rate, shoddy, and delivered to me by rude, arrogant, incompetent functionaries, who are free to be so because of the eternal job security they enjoy which shields them from oversight.

Having said all of this, I must confess...it's no fun feeling this way about your government. There is a bitter taste that lingers in your soul when you hold anything in such contempt. I actually envy my son and daughter their more benevolent attitudes toward government. At this point in my life, I can't imagine ever getting back to my younger attitudes toward Washington, but I am seeking something in between. I would settle for ambivalence. Actually I would be overjoyed to land at ambivalence. At the very least, I owe them my neutral disregard. Hostility and contempt don't work and I must figure out how to leave both behind.

Harvey Spending

I've often heard people lament the problem of why better people don't run for office. Why do the best and brightest people seem to go into the business world, or academia? That leaves us at the mercy of either the idle rich, or the egomaniacs to roam the corridors of power in Washington. Well, an obvious answer can be found in a recent example of what just happened to Senator Ted Cruz of Texas.

I should say at the outset that I am not a fan of Mr. Cruz. He seems to me to be a socially awkward, Dracula-Esk, smartest kid in the class know-it-all. In addition, he creeps me out for some reason. So, using him as an example is probably ill-advised. But, his example is just the closest at hand. What is happening to him happens to a lot of politicians in Washington, from both sides of the aisle. 

So, here's the deal...

In 2012, in the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy, the Senator refused to vote for the giant disaster recovery appropriation bill that was rammed through Congress, on the basis that, according to Cruz, 60% of the money wasn't even going directly to the victims of Sandy, but were what amounted to a grab bag of spending that under normal conditions would not have been approved. Now, that his state is the one in need of disaster relief, he is pounding the drums the loudest for...federal spending! What a hypocrite!!...right?

Well, it's not that simple. In true Cruzian fashion, back in 2012, his 60% number was overblown. But, on the merits, he was absolutely right. Whenever some disaster befalls this country, the federal government is expected to step in with an emergency appropriation to help the people rebuild. This takes the form of flood insurance, low cost loans, etc.. But, it also is an occasion for often ridiculous overreach. You've been having a hard time getting the government to fund your pet project for the folks back home? Attach that baby to the disaster relief bill, then dare anyone to vote against it! In the case of Sandy, only a portion of the funds made available were actually spent to relieve the immediate suffering of its victims. In fact, the majority of the funds were not even meant to be spent until three years later, and much of it was earmarked for 47 other states not named New Jersey. So, yes...Ted Cruz is creepy. But, he was right about the Sandy disaster recovery bill being a wasteful mountain of pork masquerading as disaster relief. Sorry.

When trying to explain how a country as rich and prosperous as the United States finds itself 20 trillion dollars in debt, it's a bit like trying to explain why water is wet. It's not just one thing. Pointless, unending wars certainly don't help. A tax code that gives write offs to people who don't need them doesn't help. But, pork barrel rolling is the engine that drives the insolvency train. The path to debt is paved with big-hearted emergency spending that isn't. And nothing creates a greater opportunity for pork barrel spending than a crisis. The idea of only passing a relief bill with targeted spending for actual relief victims would seem like a wise move. The fact that anyone who suggests such a thing is a heartless, hypocritical ogre is the kind of thing I suspect keeps an awful lot of talented, wonderful people from entering politics.

Of course, if my government is going to start throwing money it doesn't  have around, I suppose throwing that money at those suffering in Texas is preferable to throwing it around in Afghanistan. Every dark cloud has a silver lining.

From Away....

One week from today. Seven days, a half a fortnight. That's how long before Pam and I will depart Short Pump for three weeks on Quantabacook Lake in Searsmont, Maine. The closer we get to the 7th of September, the less I am able to concentrate on anything else. It's like there is a gigantic black hole with a powerful gravitational pull on that day on the calendar, impossible to resist.

Each day I'm crossing more things off my to do list. Most of those things have revolved around preparing my business to function effectively without me. However, the fact that I will not be there to screw anything up is a big plus, making the planning much easier! 

Ominously, the ten day forecast for Searsmont has suddenly turned cooler, with high temperatures dropping out of the 70's. There is a chance that we will be, once again, making the drive up in the rain. Although the accuracy of weather forecasts a week out are spotty, ultimately the weather falls into a category of things that I can do absolutely nothing about, and as such, I will give it no more thought.

As long as I will be living in this place for three weeks, the weather is very much a secondary concern. At this point, the only guests we have scheduled are my inlaws who will be coming up for a week, and some friends of ours from Maine who will be coming to visit at some point yet to be determined. The rest of the time it will be Pam and I and our manic, mentally disturbed Golden Retriever, Lucy. We will sit on that deck in the mornings drinking our coffee. The edge of the lake is less than twenty-five feet from our bedroom, those French doors to the right. If it's not too chilly, maybe we will have our breakfast at that table to the left. We will walk out on the dock and read a book. We will launch out on the lake in the kayaks which will be delivered to us by Dan the Man from Ducktrap Kayaks in Lincolnville. At night, we will build a fire in the fire pit down next to the small beach on the property. 

Some days we will drive into Belfast and Camden to nose around in the shops. Our favorite store in the entire world, The Smiling Cow, will get several visits. They will know us and greet us as long lost friends. We will eat several meals at restaurants next to the ocean. We will have blueberry pancakes at the Camden Deli, lobster rolls at Hazel's, and ice cream at River Ducks. We will take a ride on a lobster boat called the Lively Lady. We will hike up to the top of Mount Battie, then walk the Oceanside trails of the Camden Hills State Park directly across the street from the mountain, one of the geographical oddities about this place that enchants us every year.

But mostly, we will just be there. It's very hard to explain the feeling that comes over me just being there. When I'm at home, there are many things that compete for my attention, that pull me out of the present. I have a business and responsibilities. Everything that causes me stress is essentially within two miles of this house. That's not a knock against my home. I love my home, love Short Pump. It's more like a simple fact of life. But, when I'm in Maine, I'm truly and totally...away. Mainers actually have a term for people like us, those worn out souls who come there for relief...they refer to us as people from away. It's true. For me, every place that isn't Maine is....away.

The Heartbreak of Houston

Houston has turned out to be a giant heartbreak. When a 500 year flood comes calling, it's what happens. I watch the videos and stare at the pictures, amazed and horrified at the devastation that over 40 inches of rain has brought to this slice of our modern, technologically advanced world. Build your gleaming cities, trust in your towering machines...then cling to a sapling when the rains come.

We have friends in Houston. They are in harm's way, they've been relocated, and have endured the unimaginable trauma of being separated from infant children. But they tell us that there are so many suffering far worse. They actually feel lucky. 

I see the photograph of the small child found shivering, clinging to the dead body of her mother. My heart breaks for them both.

I see the image of the cowboy-tough Texas redneck carrying an Asian woman and her baby through waist deep water to safety and I think...there is a real man.

I see another picture of a black man wearing a slick yellow pancho carrying two white toddlers in his arms through rising water and think...this is an image worth making into a statue for a town square.

I watch a video of a reporter approaching two men, one white, one black who are preparing their fishing boats for battle. He asks them what they are doing. The black man says, we're going to try to save some people today.

I remember the thing my Dad used to say about how a life crisis doesn't build character, it simply reveals it. Once again, Dad was right.

I get momentarily sidetracked by reading about some professor who earned his fifteen minutes of fame by suggesting that the people of Texas deserve this because they voted for Trump, and I marvel at the hardness of the human heart, the inability of some to set aside politics. But when I hear how this professor was denounced by both sides I take small comfort.

But, through all of this I discover that there is something wrong with me. For, although I am moved by all of the human suffering, nothing moves me like the sight of an abandoned dog on a rooftop of a car. I see pictures of terrified dogs in cages, wet and wild eyed and I have to look away. I just can't take it. I literally walk away from the computer and leave the room. Why? Why am I so quickly moved to tears by the suffering of family pets?

It's because they don't understand. We can't sit them down and explain what is happening. They trust us for everything. They never doubt us. They have cast their lot with their humans without reservation. And now, they have been abandoned in the midst of a 500 year flood. The images are too much for me.

But, they are there and I am here, safe and dry. I can only pray for all the people of Texas. I can donate to the Red Cross. 

I remind myself that this is Texas we're talking about. Those people are tough as shoe leather. They will recover. They won't sit around waiting for someone else to save their fellow Texans. They will fill up the Evinrude with gas and do it themselves.

God bless them...everyone.

Scaramucci To Speak at Liberty Convocation

Liberty University has announced that Anthony "The Mooch" Scaramucci will speak during convocation. Something called the Office of Spiritual Formation booked the former hedge fund manager and political gadfly to speak to the mandatory gathering of 10,000 plus students at the Christian school in Lynchburg, despite the fact that Scaramucci has previously had no known connection to anything vaguely associated with Christianity. Scaramucci, best known for his expletive-laden interview which appeared in The NewYorker, served as President Trump's Communications Director for eleven days. Complaints about selecting someone of Scaramucci's dubious character and paper thin list of accomplishments were directed at Liberty President, Jerry Falwell Jr. who vigorously denied any involvement with the choice, noting that the selection of convocation speakers was the responsibility of the Office of Spiritual Formation. A spokesman for that office pointed out the invitation to Scaramucci was made prior to his stormy tenure at the Trump White House and his profane rant in the New Yorker. This "explanation" is quite odd since, if true, begs the question...what had Mr. Scaramucci done prior to his stint at the White House that would have suggested him as an appropriate speaker for Liberty University students?

He ran hedge funds. He wrote three books, all three of which celebrated his ability to make lots of money. Along the way he managed to have five kids with two women, both of whom he ended up divorcing, the last one while she was eight months pregnant with his child. At various times over the past ten years he had been involved in supporting the Presidential campaigns of Hillary Clinton, Barack Obama, Scott Walker, and JEB Bush. What aspects of spirituality are the leadership at Liberty trying to form here?

Listen, it's none of my business what Liberty University does. They are a private university and can invite anyone they want to speak on their campus. All sorts of really bad people get invited to speak at colleges all the time. But for a school like Liberty, dedicated as they are to producing "champions for Christ," it seems an extraordinarily odd choice. Yes, I know that simply by inviting someone to speak does not equal approval of the message. Liberty has had many speakers over the years that fall outside their wheelhouse...Ted Kennedy and Bernie Sanders come to mind. But, Anthony Scaramucci??

Jerry Falwell Jr. has transformed himself in the minds of many into the chief apologist for Donald Trump, at least among evangelicals. Again, that's his choice and his business. But, when he does so, like it or not, he also represents his university. It should not surprise him that many of his current and former students are appalled by the strident support that he offers a man who has lived a life antithetical to the Gospel of Christ. In an interview with Fox News after Trump's hamfisted remarks about Charlottesville, Falwell, with not an ounce of self awareness offered up this insight...

Trump doesn't say what's politically correct, he says what's in his heart.

Yes, Jerry. He does say what's in his heart. And, isn't that the problem?

Seven Essentials

Don't worry, I'm done with church talk for a good while. However, there was one aspect of this past weekend's class that I found fascinating, and I'm wondering if there might be a secular version we could rally around as a nation. On matters of theology, the Christian faith is a cauldron of factions and denominations. Hope did not trivialize those tensions, but rather boiled them down to their essence with their Seven Essentials of our Faith. I will not list them here since that is not what this post is about. The larger point made by Hope is that, as a church body, they allow disagreement on a great many things about doctrine...but not with respect to the seven essentials. There is, after all, no point in organizing a church around no guiding theological principles. Anarchy is not a workable doctrine. Chaos is not the foundation of a functioning church, or anything else.

This seven essentials business has launched me into thinking about my country. We are at a point in our history where all of the things that divide us seem overwhelming, a way forward seems elusive. If we were so inclined, what would the seven essentials of American citizenship be? For years I would have thought that it would have been the Bill of Rights. But, with each passing day, I hear more voices claiming that freedom of speech needs a few tweaks. Once that iconic freedom falls, how many others are safe?

So, if you could construct a seven essentials for American citizenship, what would it contain? I suppose I'm not committed to the number seven, there's nothing sacred about that, but, I think the fewer, the better. More importantly, are there a set of rules that free citizens must agree upon in order to live together in peace and stability? I'm not asking how everyone should be forced to live their life. I'm not asking you to impose your personal political ideology on the rest of the public. Rather, in the spirit of compromise and accommodation, what are the principles that are vital to living together in peace, principles that all human beings could coalesce around?

Go.....

This just in...I'm an idiot.

This morning I had a major cognitive breakdown, a new low in the inexorable decline of mental acuity for those of a certain age. It is embarrassing to admit that it has come to this...

I woke at the usual time after an uneventful night's sleep. My morning routine was virtually unchanged except for the latest contest of wills with Lucy, the psycho dog. Suddenly, she has decided that going down the stairs is beyond the pale. In her disturbed mind, our staircase is now the gauntlet of death. At first, she would only go down them if we walked along side her. Then, it became walk beside her with the leash securely attached to her collar. Now it's, I ain't going down those stairs for love nor money!! I have been forced twice this weekend to carry my 65 pound dog down the stairs of my house. But...I digress.

After this absurd encounter with Lunatic Lucy, I began laying out my clothes for the day, before  jumping in the shower. Pam made the odd remark, Wow, that's a fancy shirt. Nothing. Then I went to take my daily medication and noticed that I had failed to take yesterday's allotment. Still...nothing. Then I hopped into my car and started driving confidently to my destination, wondering why I couldn't get Sport's Phone with Big Al on the radio. Again...nothing, zip, nada...

It was only when I got to the corner of Pump Road and Three Chopt that I got the strange sensation that something was not right. Where was all the traffic? I picked up my cell phone and looked at the lovely picture of Pam and me on a boat in the Caymen Islands taken back in a time when I had not yet been turned into a blithering idiot by the ravages of time. Clear as day in white, block lettering came the announcement that today was, in fact, SUNDAY, AUGUST 27...not Monday, and if I continued on my present course, my clients in Mechanicsville are going to be shocked by my appearance on their doorstep before they had even had a chance to eat their bran flakes. 

I made an embarrassed u-turn then sheepishly drove back home where I promptly confessed to my concerned wife that her husband had indeed lost his mind.

A Life...in Church.

I am a 59 year old man, and for all of that time, I have been in church, the first 20 years by conscription, the last 39 by choice. I was born into Kingsland Baptist Church in Chesterfield County. While my Dad was in seminary, I was a member of the church he pastored on the weekends, Nicholsville Baptist Church in Nicholsville, Alabama. But, I don't remember much about either of these places. The two churches where I spent the majority of my life were Winns Baptist Church in Elmont, Virginia, and Grove Avenue Baptist Church in Richmond.

All of this is on my mind today because Pam and I have spent the last two days in a prospective new members class at Hope Church. There are several unique things about this. First, it's only the second time we have actually joined a church as a new member in 33 years of marriage, second, Hope is a Presbyterian church, and third, Hope is the only church I've ever attended which requires people to go through two days of meetings in order to join, and even then it's very much a take it or leave it proposition. It's like they're saying, Sure, we're really glad you're interested in Hope, but let's not run off half-cocked and do something stupid without knowing what you're getting yourself into, ok? I'll have more to say about Hope a little later on, but right now, I want to write about what my church life, for lack of a better term, has been like. Some of you will identify and relate with what follows. Others may be bewildered by it. But, for better or for worse, being in church all of my life has shaped me. It has been an enormous force for good in my life, while simultaneously being a force of anger and frustration. It's been a complicated relationship, between me and this institution, one that I feel compelled at this stage of my life to write about. For me, it all began when my dad was hired to be the senior pastor at Winns Baptist Church. I was ten years old.

Winns Baptist Church

When you're a preacher's kid, you're not really a member of a church. It's more like you are part of the package, a collateral accoutrement that had to be tolerated. At age ten I got the distinct impression that first Sunday at Winns that I was expected to be seen, often, as in--every single time the church doors were opened, and heard from, never. In addition, they would greatly appreciate it if I was never seen swinging from the chandeliers. My Dad was the pastor at Winns for sixteen years. There were good times and bad times. Some of the sweetest, kindest people I've ever met were there. I had my first kiss there, met and eventually fell in love with my wife there. It was at Winns where I actually came to a personal faith in Christ myself.  But, it was also at Winns where I learned that not everyone claiming faith in Christ was a nice person. In fact, some of those who cried, "Lord, lord!" the loudest were more like the spawn of Satan.

 I experienced my first church fight at Winns, complete with several knock down, drag out business meetings, and anonymous letter writing campaigns, (back before the Internet and social media, character assassination was very much a retail business). When the source of a church fight is the question of whether or not your Dad is competent enough to justify his continued employment, things tend to get personal. At age 16, enduring a church fight did a great job of feeding the growing cynicism already running wild in me and most other 16 year olds I knew. I responded to it by writing a play which was performed by the youth group one Youth Week Sunday. It was a send up of a raucous church business meeting where I put very little effort into hiding the real world identities of most of the characters. It was not well received by it's intended targets, and I was thrilled by their anger. The last service I ever attended at Winns was my wedding. Soon afterwards Dad moved on to a Church in Charlottesville. So, for the first time in my life, I was tasked with finding and joining a church in which My father was not the pastor.

Grove Avenue Baptist Church

The first couple of years of married life saw Pam and I not trying very hard to find a church. We discovered that we very much enjoyed two day weekends, and not having to wake up so early on Sundays. But, once Pam was pregnant with Kaitlin, we began the search in earnest. Since my two sisters had both landed at Grove, post-Winns, we decided to visit one Sunday. Vander Warner was the pastor and I throughly enjoyed his sermon, but hated the church for two reasons...it was too big, and it was broadcast live on television. The presence of TV cameras up and down the aisles was a huge turnoff. But, we were going to soon be parents and thought that we needed to settle on a church home sooner rather than later. A few Sundays later we found an amazing Sunday school class taught by a young architect, filled with other couples our age who were also expecting. The next week we joined. This being a Baptist Church in the mid-80's, joining consisted of us walking down the aisle during the alter call, shaking a minister's hand and then being swept off into a room which was decorated like a funeral home, where some guy asked us ten minutes of questions. That was it. We were in! It's called moving your letter, a process by which the new church contacts your old church to verify your membership there, then presto, the paperwork gets done, you get a fresh box of offering envelopes and it's all good. The procedure is spelled out somewhere in Malachi, I'm told.

Pam and I both grew to love Grove. We raised both of our children there with the invaluable help of countless people who poured their time and talents into our children. My wife began a 13 year run working and teaching in children's church, while some idiot thought I would make a great chairman of the Finance Committee since I was in the "financial business." It was a disaster. My leadership style is way to heavy on sarcasm and highjinks to make the necessary adjustments to church finance....

Random ministry leader making his pitch to my committee for funds: So, we need a 20% increase in our funding for this year because of all of these great ministry plans we have for the new year.

Me: You're kidding, right? Dude, you didn't even spend the money we allocated you last year. What do we look like, Central Fidelity Bank??

Yeah, so that didn't go well. It didn't take long for the church leadership team to realize that my skill set needed a different outlet for expression. An amazingly humble, godly ex-marine named Gary Stewart soon asked me to consider becoming the Sunday School teacher for a group of ninth grade boys who had scared off three teachers in three months. For reasons that remain a mystery, I said yes. Thus began a ten year run as a leader and volunteer in the youth ministry at Grove. It was easily, the best ten years I've ever had in church. Spent a fortune. Gave up weekends. Quadrupled the wear and tear on my house since nearly every weekend, the place got overrun with a couple dozen hormone-crazed kids. Spent a week every summer with over 200 teenagers at summer camp. But, as crazy and as difficult and demanding as it was, I loved it, primarily because I was making a difference. In all of that time, I was oblivious to what was going on in the rest of the church. I'm sure there were fights and disagreements going on throughout the church at the time, but I never noticed any of it, because I was busy with the kids. It was beautiful.

Then came a three year stint teaching college students. Also fun and satisfying. But after three years there, my time had passed. Then, for the first time in thirteen years I reverted back to just being a regular member, one of those guys who comes every Sunday morning, sits in the same pew, and slowly, quietly starts getting annoyed by church. It's the disease that afflicts most people in church who aren't involved in some sort of ministry. People in church, left at leisure, become critics. That sermon was lame. Could those sopranos possibly be any flatter on that song? Reading the announcements to us right out of the bulletin. Seriously? Who does he think we are, a bunch of illiterate morons?

So, after a few years of this spiritual whining, you look at yourself in the mirror and realize that you need to make a change. It's not the preacher, it's you. Then it occurs to you that you've been at the same church for 30 years. Somewhere during the last few years, you've stopped listening, you are no longer hearing the voices there. You need a new voice, a new season of growth, a time for renewal. 

Hope Church

A year later, you find yourself at a two day prospective member class event at Hope Church. There will be no moving your letter nonsense with this group. These guys are Presbyterians, and if you want to join this church, much will be expected of you. There are slick handouts on glossy paper spelling out what it means to be an owner/operator. One speaker after another tells us, here are the seven essentials of the faith that we believe. This is our mission statement. Here are our plans for the future. Here are the areas of service that you will be expected to move into at some point. If you want to be a member of something, go join Hermitage Country Club, or the YMCA. We don't want members, we want spiritual entrepreneurs who are ready to work, ready to lead and ready to sacrifice for the mission of the Gospel. Oh, and when you give, we take cash, checks, EFT debits, PayPal, and coming soon...pay by text!

There was something invigorating about such an unvarnished airing of expectations. It's good to know that we will not be allowed to sit around being a critic, that something will be required of us. We will be expected to make the church a better place than how we found it. This will not be some cheap, resume stuffing title, Member, Hope Church. Rather, it will be a call to action.

I think, we just might be ready.

Hefty, Hefty, HEFTY!!!

Hurricane Harvey is set to pound the coast of Texas with 100 mph winds and upwards of 35 inches of rain. Early reports indicate that the citizens of Corpus Christi have suddenly lost all interest in the raging Confederate statue controversy. Funny how the prospect of eminent death focuses the mind.

I'm not suggesting that the statue uproar isn't a legitimate thing. It surely is. I mean, when suddenly the sight of them has become so heinous, so provocative that the city of Charlottesville has taken to wrapping giant black trash bags around them to hide them from public view, it most definitely is a thing.

I'm told that under this giant tarp is a statue of Thomas "Stonewall" Jackson astride a horse. The Charlottesville city government, after a tumultuous town council meeting where they were loudly jeered, mocked and cursed by an angry assembly of concerned citizens, made the decision to shroud the offending statues. The move was met with varied reactions. Some called it a good first step, while others considered it a desecration, while still others lamented, Seriously, Charlottesville?? A black tarp?? No orange and blue?

Apparently, the city fathers opted for the black tarp only after they received a price quote on surrounding the statue in giant mirrors, which was too costly. Although the mirrors had the added advantage of encouraging citizens to examine our souls, and gaze upon ourselves for inspiration instead of venerating our troubled past, the cost was prohibitive.

Still, the tarp play was seen by most observers as only a stop gap measure and carries with it a new set of problems. Prior to "The Covering" as it has quickly become known, local police only had to concern themselves with protecting the statues from vandals on the left who might descend upon it in a mob and tear it down Raleigh-style. Now, they must protect the tarp from pocket knife wielding hooligans from the right. 

As a good capitalist, I smell a huge opportunity here for the folks over at Glad, the trash bag company. If I were them I would be all over this picture with the greatest virtue signaling add campaign of all time...Glad...taking out history's trash, one rebel at a time. Or maybe the guys over at Hefty can beat them to it with...Don't risk sanitizing your public square with some whimpy bag. Go with HEFTY, HEFTY, HEFTY!!

I suspect that the Charlottesville city council is in for a rude awakening if they think covering Confederate statues in platstic bags is going to calm the crowds that so reviled them at their last meeting. The next one might be even worse, since now angry citizens can make the case that by covering Jackson and Lee with bags, the city has actually protected the statues by muting the spray-painting graffiti free speech rights of urban artists. Hopefully, cooler heads will prevail and some compromise can be struck. Either way, the next meeting for the Charlottesville town council will be must-see TV.

1500? Hard to Believe.

Every now and then, with longevity, comes the inevitable milestone event. As milestones go, this wasn't that big a deal, nevertheless deserves some mention, so I will...

Yesterday, I wrote the 1500th blogpost in the nearly seven year history of The Tempest. 

As fate would have it, number 1500 was fairly typical. Something stupid happened in the world, and I wrote about it. I usually do this writing between the hours of 6:00 and 8:00 in the morning, make of that what you will. Honestly, this blog is the easiest thing I've even done in my life. It's like, see ball, hit ball. Easy. I inherited, mostly from my mother's side of the family, strongly held opinions. The ability to write them down came from Lord only knows. The first thing I ever remember writing was in elementary school, when I "wrote" a comic strip that featured an Indian during the days of the Wild West getting caught stealing a rifle from a cowboy and immediately starts resighting the pledge of allegiance. I was probably 8 or 9 at the time. The teacher thought it was "odd and clever" but gave me a side eye glance that I will never forget, like she was thinking, Where did that come from, and who is this kid??

Included in these 1500 posts have been lots of stories of family life, since that is the most important thing I've had going these past seven years. I've bragged on my accomplished kids, and doted on my amazing wife, which I'm sure has annoyed some of you. That's ok. Nobody's holding a gun to your head, so... I've written about the loss of both of my parents, and writing about it helped me get through it. I've written about my dog Lucy, and of what it was like to lose Molly. I've written about my daughter's wedding, the planning, expense and joy of that event. 

But, I've also written, a lot, about politics. It was never my intention to do so. Ordinarily, politics is boring, plodding stuff. But with Obama and now Trump, not so much. It is in the arena of politics where I have had to do the most thinking. Looking back over some of the things I've written these past seven years, some of it wasn't always well reasoned. Sometimes, I have gone with my gut instinct on things, and then regretted it a few months or years later. But other times, I have had open debates here...with myself...on hot button issues that have flared up. As the readership of this blog has grown I have felt a greater obligation to be more careful when slinging my opinions around. Some issues which I find insufferably moronic, others hold dear, so I've learned to tread carefully when dealing with the strong feelings of others. This careful treading has had mixed results. Sometimes I've been better at it than other times. Sometimes there's just no way around he fact that I'm  going to annoy someone. Whenever that someone is my wife...it usually gets edited out!

Luckily, I don't write this blog for a living. Since virtually none of you ever click on the adds that are featured on this blog, The Tempest is essentially a public service. The fact that so many of you read what I have to say is astonishing to me.

So, post 1501 is almost in the can. That's over 850,000 words written in seven years, hopefully in some discernible, mildly understandable order. It has been great fun. Thanks for reading!

Morons. We are surrounded by morons...

The University of Virginia, desperate to return to the days of being totally ignored, is set to begin their football season on September 2nd against William and Mary. For reasons that defy all logic, ESPN has planned to broadcast this game on television. And now, the very real and legitimate concerns raised by the Confederate statue controversy have been opened up to ridicule and public mockery by...ESPN.

Apparently, and trust me...I have triple checked this story to make absolutely sure I wasn't being punked by the Onion...one of the announcers who ESPN had scheduled to call the game is an Asian man named Robert Lee. This unhappy coincidence was too much for the morons who run the network:

" We collectively made the decision with Robert to switch games as the tragic events in Charlottesville were unfolding, simply because of the coincidence of his name. In that moment it felt right to all parties. It's a shame that this is even a topic of conversation and we regret that who calls the play by play of a football game has become an issue."

The past couple of years has proven to me that when it comes to insanity, anything is possible in America. However, perhaps nothing I have read during this period of insanity can surpass the above ESPN statement for simple, basic sand-pounding idiocy. So, as a public service to ESPN and thinking people everywhere, I will now rewrite this statement, adding crucial information left out in the original draft.

We collectively made the decision... (The gutless management team here at ESPN which consists of trembling lunatics terrified that sports fans would mistake an Asian man for a white supremacist).

with Robert...(despite Robert's incredulous howls of laughter and repeated phrase, "You've got to be sh***ing me, right? 

to switch games as the tragic events in Charlottesville were unfolding, simply because of the coincidence of his name...( yep, and for no other reason..just that, the freaking coincidence of this Asian man's name. That alone is what made us all think that this was a smart, sane thing to do. Can you believe it???)

In that moment, it felt right to all parties...( and we here at ESPN are all about what feels right, rather than what is right)

It's a shame that this is even a topic of conversation...( and it is a topic of conversation only because the morons at ESPN have made it one!!!)

and we regret that who calls play by play for a football game has become an issue... ( again, it has become an issue only because of the dim bulbs who run ESPN)

Ok, just so no one gets even more confused, Mr. Lee is the gentleman on the right, not the bald headed dude. Which begs the question, why didn't ESPN recognize how problematic it would have been to allow someone who might possibly have been associated with the skinheads broadcast a UVA football game so soon after the Charlottesville racist violence? Had they been more woke perhaps that would have felt right as well. 

So, thanks ESPN. Thanks for turning a transformational moment in race relations in America into the punch line of yet another politically correct joke.

Morons.

Different President, Same Afghanistan

Back during the presidential campaign of 2016, Donald Trump actually said a few things that I liked, particularly when it came to our misadventures abroad. It wasn't enough to entice me to vote for the guy, but it sure sounded nice coming out of his mouth. Things like this:

" When will we stop wasting money rebuilding Afghanistan? We must rebuild our country first!"

" Why continue to train Afghanis who shoot our soldiers in the back? A total waste. Time to come home."

" We have wasted enormous amounts of blood and treasure in Afghanistan. Their government has zero appreciation. Let's get out."

Whenever I would hear him say things like this it would almost make me forget what a dogless ignoramus he was. So, last night, after six months in office, it was time for Trump to reveal his official policy towards Afghanistan. He, like Obama before him, came into office deeply skeptical about Afghanistan and having pledged repeatedly during the campaign to change course in that God forsaken hellhole. But there he was behind the podium in Fort Myer, Virginia announcing a renewed commitment to eh, to eh...well, let me let the first dog free President since William McKinley tell you himself:

" We will fight to win. From now on, victory will have a clear definition: attacking our enemies, obliterating ISIS, crushing al Qaeda, preventing the Taliban from taking over Afghanistan, and stopping mass terror attacks against America before they emerge."

"A core pillar in our new strategy is a shift from a time-based approach to one based on conditions."

" The consequences of a rapid exit are both predictable and unacceptable."

" I share the American people's frustration."

Okie dokey.

Melania is often accused of plagarizing former First Lady, Michelle Obama. Well, this speech seems like the President's attempt to follow in his wife's footsteps. This "new" policy towards Afghanistan is strikingly similar to Obama's strategy towards Afghanistan, which bore an amazing resemblance to George Bush's Afghanistan policy which I will summarize as follows:

" Ok, that bastard Bin Laden blew up the World Trade Center, and we think he's hiding in some cave in Afghanistan. So, we need to go in there and get him. SQUIRREL!!!! Wait, their government is a mess, and the Taliban are bad guys, and since we couldn't find Bin Laden, and while we're over here, we might as well try to defeat the Taliban. Besides, if we don't, Afghanistan might be converted to a safe haven for terrorist to plan more evil deeds against America. And, sure, the government in Kabul are basically a bunch of kleptomaniacs, but they've got to be better than the Taliban, right? I'm sure we can get this job done in no time, but if we don't we will just keep getting dragged into this festering abyss for as many years as we can convince the American people that to pull out would lead to consequences that are both predictable and unacceptable. In the future if a President suggests getting OUT of Afghanitsan, the entire military establishment will accuse him of being a defeatist ( if he's Republican ), or a weakling ( if he's a Democrat ). That way, no matter how long it takes or how victory gets defined, we will always be here, slugging it out with a bunch of sheep herding poppie growers forever!!"

I'm sure that when Trump got back to the White House after the speech and was not greeted by a faithful dog, even a guy like Trump must have had a moment of self reflection as to how he possibly could have been hornswoggled so badly by his generals. Or maybe he called up Obama to commiserate..."What the heck Barack? Why can't we quit Afghanistan??"

All About the Eclipse

So, this afternoon we're having the solar eclipse thing. In ancient times this would be the occasion of great terror complete with the rending of garments, the splitting open of animals and terrified calls to repentance. Today hundreds of small towns will be overrun with herds of dorks craning their necks skyward, geeked out with protective eye ware the serious minded had ordered from NASA, while the last minute eclipse partiers picked up from the discount bin at Bob's Diner and Thrift Shop. The entire thing is supposed to be over with in a little over three hours, kind of like Lawrence of Arabia, or any movie by Peter Jackson.

I'm not even sure what I plan to do during all of this eclipsing. I didn't get any of those cool glasses. Of course, I could make one of those makeshift cereal box things that allow me to see the shadow of the thing reflected off the inside bottom of the box. But that seems like a lot of trouble. I can't just go about my day and ignore the whole thing, can I? I mean, isn't this one of those once in a lifetime things that one just has to participate with in order to be fully alive? Seriously, how lame would it be to spend the afternoon of the great solar eclipse preparing spreadsheets of account balances for a client? No, I will do my part to join in with the rest of American humanity and participate in the experience.

Maybe I'll go outside and stand in the semi-darkness, back to the sun, and wait for the temperature to drop. Part of me wants to hustle around town looking for a pair of those glasses, but another part of me is wary of buying solar eclipse glasses at the last minute. No telling what you'll get. My son had toyed with the idea about a month ago of buying a bunch of  NASA issued glasses in bulk for a dollar a piece and then selling them for $10 each the day of to his unprepared co-workers. This would have been a raging success since it would have taken brilliant advantage of free enterprise and the human tendency towards procrastination. Knowing my son, he probably dropped the idea out of either misguided guilt over the vulture capitalist overtones of such an endeavor, or he got distracted by Neo-Nazis marching around his beautiful home state, or his beautiful girlfriend, or a new video game. He hesitated, and now the opportunity has passed.

Meanwhile, closer to ground zero down in Columbia, South Carolina, my daughter's  National Park Ranger husband is in science geek heaven about now. He will be guiding visitors to Congaree National Park through the afternoon's event with wild enthusiasm and erudition. No observer under his care will suffer any retina damage. The same cannot be said for the rest of the country. Large areas of the country are inhabited by Americans who often preface poorly thought out plans with the phrase, "Hold my beer!"

We can only hope that large percentages of the Neo-Nazi, white supremacist and KKK population fall into this category.

Why Doesn't Trump Have a Dog?

I'm having a hard time getting over the fact that Trump doesn't have a dog. 

Yes, I know that there are far more important and weighty things to be concerned about..but the man not only doesn't have a dog, according to informed sources he has no known pets. This makes him an outlier among Presidents. He is the first President not to have a dog since William McKinley over 116 years ago( making his assassination a cautionary tale). Trump is also only the second President in history not to have any pets whatsoever, joining James K. Polk for that dubious honor. 

The following is a partial list of some of our more famous Presidents and their pets. Make of it what you will.

George Washington. The father of our country had eight dogs, three staghounds, four Black and Tans and one greyhound which he wittingly named, Cornwallis.

Thomas Jefferson had two bird dogs, one named Buzzy, and the other who went mysteriously unnamed.( Probably from the Hemings side of the family).

Andrew Jackson is the president often sited by historians trying to find an antecedent to Trump. Ironically, Jackson also had no dogs. He had a parrot which he taught to swear and two fighting cocks. Coincidence? I think not!

Abraham Lincoln, the Great Emancipator, had two dogs, two cats, one turkey and one rabbit. One of his cats he playfully named "Dixie" and he often said of her that she was smarter than his entire cabinet put together!

Theodore Roosevelt, besides being a President thought worthy enough to be placed on Rushmore, was also basically a zookeeper. This crazy man had five guinea pigs, two ponies, ten dogs, two cats, a hen, a lizard, a garter snake, a small bear, a rat, badger, pig, rabbit, hyena, barn owl, and a one legged rooster.

FDR had seven dogs varied in breed from a Scottish Terrier to a bull mastiff.

JFK. Ten dogs.

LBJ. Six dogs.

Nixon. Four dogs, including Checkers, made famous by the Checkers Speech.

Ronald Reagan had six dogs, including the White House' first ever Golden Retriever.

Bill Clinton. Buddy, the chocolate lab.

George W. Bush. Four dogs.

Barack Obama. Two dogs, Bo and Sunny.

The love of pets, especially dogs seems to be clearly a bipartisan phenomenon. No matter their political affiliations, our presidents have been nearly unanimous in their affections for pets. Which brings me back to the current occupant of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. 
What are we to make of this petless man? Certainly there is nothing intrinsically wrong with not having pets. I get it, not everyone likes animals. But this is the President of the United States we're talking about here. After a long, insane day of leading the free world, I would like to think that my President at least enjoys the quiet, unconditional love of a fine 
dog or even the pseudo affections of an oblivious cat. If Trump were to get a dog, what breed do you think he might settle on? Probably not a Chihuahua.

Thank God it's Friday

It's Friday, people. This is a very good thing. It has been a brutal week for our Republic. Racism, domestic terrorism, debates about the removal of Confederate statues, and an outbreak of vandalism among those unwilling to enter those debates. All the while, the President of the United States can't decide which side of any of these debates he's on. His vacillation back and forth betweeen sympathy and condemnation with regards to Charlottesville has isolated him to a degree that I haven't seen an American President isolated since Richard Nixon in 1974. Quick, name a president in our history who has managed a public rebuke from the top generals of every branch of the military services? This is unchartered territory.

It is hard for me to imagine Mr. Trump surviving his term. Who can he count on in Congress for support if impeachment should come? Who are his stalwart allies? For obvious reasons the Democrats hate him. At least half of the Republicans hate him, and he is doing everything in his power to isolate himself from the other half. He does have a rock solid core of support among roughly 35% of the American people, but even that is not a winning number. 

When it comes to race relations, I don't make moral equivalence arguments between antifa and the Klan. But in politics, I do. It is my firm conviction that both extremes of political thought in this country have horrible instincts. On the far right, those horrible instincts result in racist, nativist, totalitarian impulses. On the far left, those horrible instincts result in collectivist, communist, authoritarian state worship. It is my opinion that most people on the left of center in this country are not authoritarian state worshippers, and most people on the right of center do are not racist totalitarians. Unfortunately, at this point in our history, the extremes of our politics are making the most noise. Meanwhile, as white supremacist groups are emboldened to hold public rallies wielding shields, tiki torches and baseball helmets, the antifa will feel obligated to pick up their baseball bats and join the fray. Instant polarization, instant violence. The rest of us will look on in wide eyed horror wondering how we ever arrived at this dark place.

If the United States can survive three and a half more years of the Trump Presidency without imploding in on itself, we will have proven to the world that we are indestructible, and if that happens, the American people should be awarded the Noble Peace Prize.

One more thing...Trump doesn't have a dog. As such he is the first president in over one hundred years to be dogless. It is no exaggeration to say that this fact tells you everything you need to know about the man.

In closing, I read something that a good friend of mine wrote this week about the Charlottesville madness. He was casting about for a solution to the deep divisions in our society and the racial strife ripping us apart. Sometimes the solutions seem impossible to find, the divisions too deep. But then he said this, I'm going to mind what I do by trying to respect every person that comes into my life. The simple truth is that you and I only have control over how we live our lives. All of us have to resolve to be better people...and that starts by treating everyone who comes into our lives with love and respect. 

Have a great weekend, everyone.

We Can Do Better

Yesterday, something really cool and increasingly rare happened on Facebook. Nineteen people gathered in one spot to discuss/debate a very hot button social issue. These nineteen people brought with them a rather wide spectrum of views on the subject at hand. How wide? Here is a brief demographic breakdown of the participants:

A widely respected attorney from Bon Air, who once served as a groomsman at my wedding.

A newly minted young attorney who was once one of many knuckleheads in the youth group of my former church.

Some random friend of the Bon Air attorney.

My son, the shockingly opinionated young musician from Nashville.

My daughter, the gifted educator from South Carolina.

Some random friend of my son.

Another knucklehead from the youth group, who played college football.

Yet another youth group knucklehead, this one an architect, and brand spanking New father.

A CFO of a big hospital in Atlanta.

A new friend from church, wife and mother of two girls.

Hard working, African-American single dad who should have his own show on ESPN.

Some random friend of hard working African-American dad.

A Unitarian, Universalist minister and gifted composer/musician from Nashville.

My daughter's first college roommate, a hard working spitfire of a single mom raising an adorable daughter in Florida.

Yet another knucklehead from the old youth group(an inexhaustible supply), this one an unashamed Indians fan.

Young entrepreneur and accomplished businessman and former student of mine who is still primarily a knucklehead.

A financial software rep who claims to root for the Tenneesse Vols and eats barbecue like it's his job.

Recent college graduate and and adorable former neighbor of mine.

We went back and forth on the hot button subject of what to do about confederate statues in the United States. It went on and on for most of the day. We didn't agree. We came to no conclusions. Although I personally did hear some interesting ideas, I'm not sure any of us changed anyone's mind. So, what was so "cool and rare" about it? I'll tell you what was so cool and rare. The entire debate was carried off with no name calling, no insults, and large doses of respect. In America in 2017, this is no small accomplishment.

I look around at my country and I see a great unraveling, a vanishing civility. In our public discourse, we start from an assumption of bad faith, then everything becomes an accusation competition, and swiftly descends into dark places. I start these conversations on Facebook because I believe now, more than ever, that we can and we must do better than that. At one point in the discussion yesterday, a couple or three participants went from hearty disagreement to jokingly debating the merits of tacos vs. burritos without missing a beat. It was awesome.

So, it can be done. Every disagreement doesn't have to collapse under the weight of suspicion and anger. We can listen to someone on the other side of an issue respectfully, really listen, with our whole hearts. If nothing else we come away with a better understanding of their arguments.

At a time in our country's history when we seem to be governed by a middle schooler, it is critical that the rest of us learn how to engage each other like fully formed adults, even and especially when we disagree.

Thank you.