Trump’s First State Dinner

I was reminded yesterday, while reading a news story about the upcoming State dinner at the White House for the President of France, that Donald Trump is a teetotaler. That’s right, our President doesn’t touch a drop of alcohol...which means that he behaves the way he does...stone cold sober. Ponder that one over your morning oatmeal.

There seems to be an odd bromance going on between Trump and Macron. They seem weirdly attracted to each other, what with the uncomfortable touching and prolonged and entangled hand shakes and what not. Trump was caught on camera dusting dandruff off the French leader’s shoulder before a photo was about to be taken so “he would be perfect.” It’s all quite unsettling. 

I wonder what was on the menu at the big soirée last night? If it had been up to The Donald, I’m sure that the Macron’s would have been appalled at the huge pile of McNuggets and french fries on their plates. But, I’m told that Melania was in charge of the menu, so I’m sure it was appropriately eclectic, featuring several Croatian delicacies like..uh...wait, is she from Croatia or Slovenia, I can never remember? Regardless, I’m comfortable with the fact that Donald will pick at his meal and wait until everyone leaves to have his Big Mac in the privacy of the family quarters. I don’t begrudge the man his pedestrian palate...especially if Melania chose the squid ink risotto for the main entree...

Doctor’s Office Magazines

I experienced the best and the worst of the American healthcare system this morning during my 8:45 appointment with my family doctor. This was a six month check up from the unpleasantness of last August, when...they tell me...I suffered a mild stroke. My cholesterol levels had to be checked, along with my blood pressure. There were no lines, no waiting, and very little red tape involved in the process. In fact, within ten minutes of my arrival, I had been processed and found myself secure in my doctor’s examination room awaiting his arrival. That’s the best of American healthcare. Very quickly on the heels of this victory came the crushing defeat of examination room magazines...

There was a stack of them neatly placed on the end table beside my chair. I combed through them, only after withdrawing two tissues from the box on the table across the way and a squirt of anti-bacterial gel. Nothing quite says, raging petri dish of potential ecoli like a stack of doctor’s office magazines. But, I digress. The real problem I have here is the horrible selection. I would think that doctor’s would want their potentially sick patients to read upbeat, motivational fare. I wouldn’t think that they would lay out the latest literature on end of life care, for example. Probably wouldn’t want to include the hospice trade association newsletter either. 

Of the ten offerings in my doctor’s room, the only one which was even vaguely interesting happened to be a year old, and featured a fascinating account of...well, see for yourself...

Somebody named Mama June lost a staggering 300 pounds. That’s the equivalent of an offensive lineman! Of course, the sad fact that this magazine was from 2017 leaves the burning question of...”But, did she keep it off?” entirely unanswered. Then, there’s the riveting blockbuster of Barry Manilow’s UNTOLD STORY. We are promised that the aged pop star will, for the first time, open up about being gay. As I flipped through the pages, I thought that this had to be the worst kept secret in the history of Hollywood. Barry Manilow is gay??? What!!??

Luckily, right before I was about to be informed all about Nicole Kidman’s twin sister, my doctor burst in, iPad at the ready, stethoscope hanging from his neck, looking embarrassed by his own pitiful magazine collection...

Doctor: How old is that one?

Me: April, 2017.

Doctor: Hey, hey!! That’s not bad, right?

Me: So, did this Mama June woman keep the weight off?

Doctor: I’ll have to get back to you on that...

Old School Friends

I remember reading a very boring book once in college that tried to make the case that life was like drifting down a river. It was a clumsy metaphor, but the author stuck to it, suggesting that whenever the current was lazy and meandering, that was akin to dull, uneventful years that slip by with little notice, but whenever rapids came along, they represented the years of upheaval and chaos, etc..It was the sort of book that I hated having to read, the sort that were presented to me as deep and profound, but I found dull and pretentious. But, oddly enough, this weekend, although I can’t for the life of me remember the name of the book or it’s author, the metaphor has come to mind.

This weekend has been about old friends. We attended a wedding in Charlotte of a young woman who we were first introduced to when she was a teenager. Her parents attended our church. I was a volunteer with the youth ministry at the church. As such, I got to know a whole host of teenagers over about a ten year run. I was always much closer to the kids than I was to any of their parents, which is a hazard of youth work, I suppose. Over my time in youth work, I probably got to know four or five hundred kids. Although I wasn’t crazy about all of them, I can honestly say that I loved most of them despite, and sometimes because of, their difficulties. No matter what knuckleheaded thing they would do, I couldn’t help myself, I loved them anyway. The reason for this was primarily because when I was a teenager, I was a hot mess...the quintessential knucklehead, so...who was I to judge?

Anyway, every once in a while a kid would come along who would grab a little piece of my heart. The young woman who got married this weekend was one such kid. She was piece of work, this one...smart, driven, opinionated, with a high octane motor, oozing with personality. But, she also had that rarest of qualities in the teenager species...a tender heart.  Most teenagers are all arms, legs and raging hormones, so obsessed with themselves, and their perceived status. But, this spitfire had a heart the size of Texas. There was this one sixth grader, a newly minted middle schooler, who was eligible for the youth department, but terrified by all the big kids, and full of anxiety. But, this sharp, cool, and very with-it big kid would call her and invite her to come to things, even offering to save her a seat right in the middle of the cool kids’ row. That sixth grader was my daughter. And that cool kid with the big heart walked an aisle with a dashing young man on her arm last night.

I don’t see much of her anymore. Life has taken her to Charlotte. We don’t run in the same circles anymore. My time with her was during a season of rapids several bends down the river. But, at the wedding I saw others from those years. I saw a handsome young man with his beautiful wife. He used to be one of my boys. Back then he was a bit of a rakish rogue, smart, quick on his feet, and a bit of a charmer. But, I always knew he would do well for himself, as long as he found the right wife. He did, and he has. I listened to him tell me about his life, as a strange feeling of well being swept over me.

There was another boy from the old days there, he too all grown up and accomplished. Sharp, articulate, married to a beautiful doctor, carrying around an adorable eight month old boy. This young man has landed in the Midwest, as an architect. I watched them playing with their beautiful little boy, and I started to feel a bit better about the world. 

I ran into several couples from the old days at the wedding. All have stories to tell. Some have been blessed beyond measure, others have endured their share of darkness. We have all drifted apart, having been separated by the currents over the years. But, coming together to celebrate a wedding helps us to remember just how fortunate we all were to have known each other.

On the way home today, we stopped in to have lunch with some dear friends who recently retired and moved away from Richmond. These were friends who have been on the same river passage with us for nearly 30 years. These kind of ties cannot be broken by mere distance. So we saw their new house, shared a meal, and talked about upcoming big doings...another wedding and the arrival of their first grandchild. More twisting turns, swirling eddys to navigate, but navigate them we will.

Zack vs. The Megaphone

This. This is most definitely US in 2018.

Check out Zack. Dude is zoned in with the blankest stare in the universe. But, what’s he thinking with those horizontal stripes? Is this what came out of their racial bias training day?...Step one...never make eye contact!

Check out megaphone guy. Is this the guy who showed up demanding a free grande latte as reparations? Or, is he just super into coffee...I want coffee!! Give me a C!! Give me an O....

So many questions...

But, make no mistake, this is how we roll now in the United States, standing three feet apart from one another with a megaphone, and still not hearing.

Giving In to Golf Peer Pressure

I played in my friend’s charity golf tournament Monday, a cold, wet, and windy day. Aside from the miserable conditions, it was a lot of fun. The foursome I put together for this event featured two people I had never met and three people with whom I had never played a round of golf. We shot a 63 which was quite respectable. I shared a cart with a 67 year old gentleman who was a scratch golfer. For those of you who don’t know what scratch golfer means, it’s the term we mere mortals use to describe golfers who actually know how to play the game, and when they do, they almost always shoot even par. These are also the men and women who the rest of us grumble about under our breath, since they make an extraordinary difficult game look so freaking easy. But, this particular scratch golfer had the added bonus of being a terrific guy, so I had a blast watching the delightful arc of each of his near perfect shots cutting through the sky directly towards the intended target. Great stuff.

After the round, he says to me. I’m only going to give you one piece of advice about your golf game...

Ok, at this point, I’m bracing for anything. I didn’t play particularly well so I deserved any negative evaluation he had in mind. Being a gentleman, he started out by throwing me a few bones...

You have a very athletic swing, you generate a lot of swing speed which is extraordinary for someone who just turned 60. Also, you make very solid contact...

The word but was about to make its presence felt.

But...if you ever hope to improve your scores and start enjoying the game...you’re simply going to have to get some better equipment!!

By giving this bit of advice, my new friend joined a long list of probably 50-75 people who have made the same claim, especially the friend whose tournament we had just played in...Doug Greenwood. Some background...

Nearly thirty years ago, a golf pro friend of mine gave me a set of irons which at that point were probably two or three years old...Titleist DCI’s. They are still in my bag. My putter is over twenty five years old. The newest club I own is my driver which was purchased sometime around the late 90’s. This collection of relics has been a constant source of irritation to Mr. Greenwood, who has never passed on a chance to rag me about them every time we tee it up. He speaks of the profound embarrassment he has to endure every time he is seen playing golf with someone using such inferior and decrepit equipment. My comeback has always been that my out of date clubs haven’t hindered me from whipping him at least half the time! But, the real reason I have never bothered to upgrade is that although I enjoy playing golf...I don’t love playing. Golf clubs are insanely expensive, and the prospect of spending over a thousand bucks on new clubs just seems ridiculous. However, the real reason I have never upgraded is because I know that when I do it will take me a year to adjust to the new technology. The 67 year old scratch golfer intimated as much when he observed that my irons felt like swinging a sledge hammer. Whenever I hold one of these new clubs in my hand they feel like badminton racquets, light as a feather. Horrible.

But my new friend seemed convinced that I would benefit greatly from a set of clubs manufactured in this century. He pressed me on the matter, offering to sell me a set of irons he used last year, just three years old, for a couple hundred bucks! Perhaps this is charity, perhaps he just couldn’t bear the sight of someone playing with golf clubs from back when Reagan was in the White House! Nevertheless, I have finally bowed to the pressure. I am taking him up on his offer. Of course, I’ll have to find a driver and some sort of hybrid fairway metal...and this would probably be a good time to find a replacement for the sand wedge I lost three years ago.

So...everyone gets what they want. Greenwood will no longer be embarrassed, and everyone else I play with will be able to delight in watching me spray golf balls all over the place trying to figure out the new equipment. Instead of shooting in the mid to upper 80’s, I’ll be the guy with the shiny new clubs trying to break a hundred!

A Nation Unto Ourselves

For the past few days I’ve been reading about a dark time, and a nation that lived through a series of events which had convinced most of them that the thousand year history of their great island nation was at its end. They endured a continuous parade of horrible news, defeats, and national humiliations. They were each day subjected to deprivations of every kind, and each night were pounded mercilessly with bombs. Throughout this long nightmare of calamity, their leader had to stand before the House of Commons and listen to his policies being castigated by rival politicians, then defend them against the very same people who had placed their country in such grave peril in the first place. These debates would last for...days. At the end of each, the government would survive a no confidence vote and earn the right to oversee more defeats. Reading about it all 80 years later, it seems so very impossible. How could they have survived without tearing each other apart? It’s one thing to debate the price of bread, or how much unemployment compensation is right and just...but another thing entirely to grapple with your impending national annihilation.

So, this morning I took a few moments to glance through the headlines, since a summation of the nation’s news serves as a sort of snapshot of our times. Here’s what I find...

Sleazy lawyers, porn stars du jour, special prosecutors, ex-FBI directors on book tours, controversial coffee shop videos, two French speaking world leaders having a bromance, bombs falling on Syria, stories of urinating prostitutes, dossiers, alleged Russian collusion, sanctuary cities, tanning beds and goggles....

Meanwhile, unemployment is down, the stock market marches on, and most of us go on our merry way, secure in our private universe of family, friends and fortune. No bombs rain down on us. Most of us aren’t deprived of anything, and despite the daily humiliations which belch forth from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, we get along with our lives. This is either a mark of progress, or a kind of tyranny. The fact that we can prosper in such a void of serious, responsible leadership is either a welcome indicator of the power of the individual to forge his or her own way even in the complexity of this 21st century world...or we have become so insular, so detached from each other, we have all become a nation unto ourselves. But if so, this detachment can only survive when the challenges we face remain petty and inconsequential. This tribalism will fall apart into pieces if ever bombs start to fall...on us.

The Power of Moral Conviction

I find myself suddenly surrounded by brilliant Englishmen...

In the first place, I have recently replaced my morning routine of reading through the Bible in 90 Days with my third reading of Mere Christianity, by the indispensable C.S Lewis. This idea was planted in my head by a friend in my small group who brought up the subject of this transformational work, causing me to pull the volume from my bookcase once again. I seldom read literary works more than once, but there’s something about Lewis that feels fresh and new with each reading. The novelist, John Updike once said, “I read Lewis for comfort and pleasure many years ago, and a glance into this book revives my old admiration.” Does it ever!

In the second place, my son and his fiancée sent me a birthday package a couple of days ago which contained the book on the left, Churchill and Orwell, The Fight For Freedom, by the Pulitzer Prize winning reporter Thomas Ricks. I’m halfway through and depressed to be so since that means it’s halfway over. The flyleaf contains this statement...In the end, Churchill and Orwell proved to be their age’s necessary men. Taken together in Thomas Ricks’s masterful hands, their lives are a beautiful testament to the power of moral conviction, and to the courage it can take to stay true to it, through thick and thin. Reading through this wonderful book, I’ve found that half the time there’s a lump in my throat. I am overcome with admiration and gratitude that these two men existed, Churchill, a man of the right, Orwell a man of the left, who both understood that the real enemy was the totalitarian impulse, no matter it’s origin. When each man began speaking out, both became outcasts, both rejected by their natural allies, and both, oddly enough, nearly killed in the 1930’s. But, they both survived and every man, woman and child alive today is in their debt.

It has caused me to think of my own age...who are our necessary men? Are there any? Who are the indispensable men (and women) who will make the difference? Who will stand against the tide of evil and terror, brave enough to tell us the unvarnished truth about our world, even if it means rejection and repudiation? Depending on your politics, you might have someone in mind. You might even be able to rattle off several names. I see no such man or woman at the moment. Doesn’t mean that he or she doesn’t exist, but as of this writing they remain hidden from me.

Millennials and Minimalism

Much has been made of late about a lifestyle choice popular among millennials called, minimalism. It’s basically the polar opposite of conspicuous consumption, a repudiation of the consumer culture that has grown up in the West over the past 75 years or so. It’s a rejection of the collecting of things for the greater goal of experiences. Instead of buying a traditional house and a nice car, why not live in a tiny house and take the bus, or better yet, ride a bike into work? Then, unencumbered with debt service, you can make that two week trip to Tahiti this summer, or run with the bulls in Pamplona. 

Of course, the decision to go minimalist might not be the morally superior choice of a new enlightened generation. It might be the de facto choice thrust on a generation drowning in college debt, and ill equipped to deal with that economic straight jacket. Be that as it may, when I read stories about how the economic choices being made by millennials are “destroying industries” I laugh out loud at the economic stupidity of such a claim. The choices that each generation makes are just that...choices, and if an industry can’t survive those choices, it will die off. It has always and forever been so. Millennials didn’t invent this. If they aren’t in to buying paper napkins, so what? The big shots in the paper napkin game better figure it out or they will go the way of the horse drawn carriage. Grow a pair!

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah...minimalism. Ok,  I’m not sure these millennials have thought the tiny house thing through. I mean, what happens when they have kids? Suppose their parents want to visit? What does the wife do when her husband visits the bathroom after a night of jambalaya and beans? The practical effects of living in such a small, compact space can have a profound impact on human relationships. The western notion of personal space took centuries to develop, and can’t be so whimsically discarded without consequences. However, it’s my considered opinion that a tiny house is more morally defensible than a McMansion. What’s the deal with the people of my generation and their obsession of building three, four, sometimes five houses in one lifetime, often, building the biggest one after the kids have grown up and moved out?

Pam and I have been married for nearly 34 years. In all of that time we have lived in only three different places. The first year of our marriage we rented a two bedroom apartment. Year two, we moved in to a starter home, a three bedroom house which we occupied for twelve years and into which we introduced our two children. Finally, 21 years ago, we had our present house built, a mere mile up the road from our old one. It has five bedrooms, and a garage, and was a thousand square feet bigger than our old house. That’s it. Three addresses in 34 years. Why haven’t we built something bigger? Why haven’t we moved out into the countryside and thrown up a large estate type place? For that matter, how come my car is ten years old? Why don’t I buy a new one every two or three years like many of my buddies? The honest answer is...I have no idea. I guess it boils down to a simple answer...I like my old house....and...my old car runs great. Or maybe I’m cheap.

My point is, although I don’t buy all of the minimalist shtick, I don’t reject it out of hand either. I think these kids have something to teach the rest of us about priorities, and what exactly makes up the essence of a good life. Maybe a looser grasp on material possessions is an ingredient of that good life?

My Take on the Zuckerberg Show

I was asked yesterday what I thought about the Mark Zuckerberg testimony, specifically what my preferred outcome would be for it all. I had no answer, primarily because I didn’t think I had enough information about so complex a subject to even know what a preferred outcome would be. Since I was able to watch an hour of his testimony while on a treadmill at the gym, I am now an expert and can answer without hesitation. Here’s my takeaway...

1. It was pretty darned funny watching a bunch of 70-80 year olds asking Mark Zuckerberg about the Facebook. How many of them have ever spent two seconds on Facebook? Zero.

2. Ironically, the people who are making the most fun of the senator’s ignorance about social media are the same folks who want these same senators to craft regulations of social media. What could possibly go wrong?

3. As I watched each senator take their turn with the Z-man I couldn’t help but think...every single Democrat Senator on this committee has received large campaign contributions from either Zuckerman himself or Facebook...and every single Republican Senator on this committee probably owns Facebook stock!

4. I’m told that Zuckerberg spent hours and hours prepping for his appearance before the senators. He needn’t have bothered. In the hour that I was watching, I never heard a single tough question, and rarely an intelligent one. Nobody laid a glove on him. Maybe it will be different on day two, but I doubt it. See #3 above.

5. While I am open to some sort of reasonable regulation, I am also aware that one of the reasons that the internet has so exploded as a medium is precisely because of the lack of the sort of stifling regulations that most other industries are burdened with...the type of regulation that results in the pages and pages of disclaimers and weasel language found in most terms of service agreements. It was hilarious yesterday when Lindsey Graham held up the ridiculously long printout of Facebook’s terms of service while calling for government regulation of Facebook. What, in God’s name does senator Graham think produced that long printout?? Ha!

6. The biggest factor that has contributed to Facebook’s troubles is the fact that they have a virtual monopoly. They bought what was shaping up to be their biggest competitor (Instagram). Like many insanely rich and unchallenged Masters of the Universe types, the naked pursuit of riches has dwarfed all other concerns for Mr. Zuckerberg and others like him.

7. Color me cynical, but my trick knee tells me if the clever manipulation and exploitation of Facebook and other social media had resulted in the election of Hillary Clinton instead of Donald Trump, I’m pretty sure that Mark Zuckerberg would have spent yesterday bumming around the office in Menlo Park in his jeans and T-shirt.

So, what would be my desired outcome in this mess? One thing that leaps to mind would be a more concise, readable and understandable terms of service agreement for Facebook users, along with a requirement to opt in to allow companies access to personal info instead of having to opt out. Other than that, I’m not sure what else wouldn’t be worse than the disease. Allowing the government to become censor of content sounds like a horrible idea to me, not to mention vaguely Chinese.

That’s about the extent of my knowledge of and interest in the travails of social media titans.

My Most Embarassing Moment. Ever.

Several months ago, in this space, I posted a picture of my office chair and asked the question...Is it my imagination, or is this chair leaning to the left? In the months since, it’s port side tilt has become even more pronounced, to the point where the question no longer has to be asked. My office chair most definitely has...much like Silicon Valley...a left-leaning problem. Well, yesterday morning, which was my first day back in the office after a week at the beach, my issues with the chair became the source of perhaps the single most embarrassing moment in my 36 year in business.

Luckily, one of my cooler clients, who has a better than average sense of humor, was on the other side of the desk from me when it happened. I can think of a couple dozen clients who would have been horrified by what unfolded at approximately 9:15 am Monday morning, April 9th, in the year of our Lord, 2018. One minute I was sitting securely at my desk in my formerly reliable, if poorly aligned chair, busily filling out some paperwork. Suddenly, I needed something that was sitting on the credenza behind me and to my left. As I have done at least a thousand times before, in one graceful and practiced move, I swiveled to my left and attempted to scoot myself, along with my chair, on it’s spinning wheels towards the stack of papers that required my attention. Only, something went very, very wrong.

What follows seemed to happen in slow motion, just like in the movies. There was an instant of clear recognition where I was acutely aware of what was about to befall me, yet, there wasn’t one single solitary thing I could do about it. At that point I was in the inescapable grip of gravity. There was nothing left to do but brace for impact, and the damage which might be done to my body, but would most definitely be done to my ego. For, somewhere underneath me, a wheel of my accursed chair got hung up on something, impeding forward progress below. Unfortunately, above...momentum had already worked its magic, and since I was leaning in the same direction as the aforementioned tilt, the results were predictable. I could feel myself reaching the point of no return. I remember thinking...I think I’m going to flip over in this chair...

In what seemed like thirty seconds, but only probably took a fraction of that, I found myself flat on my backside, legs pointed skyward, my chair freakishly sprawled out in an unnatural configuration. The kind expression for this condition is head over heels. Me being me, I prefer the less elegant, but much more descriptive phrase...ass over teakettle. My client rose to his feet, asking, Are you Ok?? I bounced up quickly, trying vainly to pretend nothing had happened. My client then made the sterling observation of the hour...Doug, I think you probably ought to replace that chair.

As of this hour, a brand new Serta executive chair has been purchased. When I told my assistant this story, instead of tender concern for my well being, all I got was a burst of hysterical laughter. Later, when I shared my story with my wife, I got stifled giggles, complete with uncontrollable body shaking. In other words, no sympathy, no kind-hearted empathetic understanding of my profound embarrassment...just belly laughs. Not that I can blame them. Although it was no fun as a participant, I imagine it must have been quite hilarious to witness from a safe distance.

So, I thought I might as well share my humiliation with the world...

Watching The Masters

Although my enthusiasm level for the game of golf has waned quite a bit over the past two decades, one thing has been constant...I still watch The Masters. Actually, there are still three golf tournaments that I care to watch on television, the British Open, the United States Open, and The Masters. But, if I were only allowed one of the three, it would always be...The Masters. The reasons for this are many, not the least of which being the fact that Augusta National is perhaps the most stunningly beautiful real estate in the entire world...

Secondly, I had the privilege to attend a Saturday round in 2004, the year of Phil Mickelson’s first victory. I arrived at 8:00 am and walked the entire course...twice, not leaving until dusk. It was possibly my happiest day as a human being on this earth. I drank beer from a green plastic cup. I ate several pimento cheese sandwiches wrapped in green paper. I spent a small fortune in the gift shop. I spent a glorious hour in the stands between the 15th green and the 16th tee box. I stood, three patrons from the ropes on the 18th green as Mickelson hit his chip to within two feet of the flagstick. I couldn’t have been more than 15 feet from the man. It was sublime.

I say all of this because of a minor kerfuffle which has sprung up overnight between the members of Augusta National and the manufacturers of Bud Lite. The old rich men who run the club are a famously unfunny bunch when it comes to golf etiquette and patron deportment. I recall vividly seeing the Bobby Jones rules of patron behavior close to the entrance back in 2004. The rules were specific and unyielding. There would be no running, no celebratory cheering for poor shots, and absolutely, positively no cell phones and cameras. Violators would be greeted by swift punishment which would include not only immediately dismissal from the property, but a lifetime ban from ever returning. If I ever doubted them, I didn’t after witnessing a poor slob pull out his cell phone to take a call as we walked across the 9th fairway. He hadn’t been on his phone thirty seconds before a yellow-jacketed official interrupted his conversation with a stern rebuke and an escort to the front gate!

So, apparently, the Masters rule makers had issued a warning that any patron heard yelling the newly ascendant Bud Lite catchphrase, Dilly Dilly...would be dealt with harshly. The marketing gurus at Bud Lite, sensing an opportunity, quickly issued this very funny reply...

Although I come down firmly on the side of the old rich dudes that run Augusta National on this one, I have to admit that the Bud Lite people earned major props for their hilarious response!!

I’m no absolutist when it comes to this sort of thing. I personally think that golfers can be a temperamental, sanctimonious bunch of whiners. Allowing fans to heckle them seems totally reasonable to me...most of the time. But people...this is The Masters we’re talking about. This is the tournament started by the venerable Bobby Freaking Jones. He won major championships wearing cuff-linked dress shirts and a bow tie, for crying out loud. That’s back when people had manners! If the Masters people want to attempt to inforce traditional 19th century manners on a crowd of 21st century barbarians, then I say, more power to them. So, at least this week, there will be no You da man, or Get in the hole screams from drunk fans. No one will be allowed to squeal with delight whenever Rory Mcllroy hooks his tee shot into the pines. There will be no chants of USA!! USA!! if Patrick Reed birdies the 12th. This is The Masters, where golfers and patrons alike will be expected to behave like its 1918 again.

Not such a bad thing, in my humble opinion.

A Relaxing Week

It’s a delightful 64 degrees here in Myrtle Beach at 7:30 in the morning. By the time we get on the road, it will be 70. Five hours later, when we pull into beautiful downtown Short Pump, I’m told to expect 40 degrees with a hard drizzle, to be followed by snow overnight. And just like that...our vacation is over.

No complaints from me though. I’ve had a wonderful week. We’ve had not one drop of rain, and although it’s been a bit windy and cooler than we would have preferred, there’s been abundant sunshine and the relentless sound of the surf...a marvelous combination. Here are some highlights from our week:

A FaceTime date with my son and his fiancée where the talk was all about wedding plans. The two of them seem to have things well in hand. There are a few complications to iron out, but by and large the kids are doing quite well. They seemed excited and expectant, not overwhelmed.

My birthday celebration was quite fun. My wife showered me with practically a brand new wardrobe. I believe the quote was something  like...Just because you’ve turned 60 doesn’t mean you have to look 60. So, I am now resplendent in several new outfits that I am assured make me look younger!

Got to spend a couple of days with my daughter. She gave me some presents and an incredibly moving birthday card/postcard which I have previously written about. It was nice to hear her laughter and listen to her voice for 48 hours.

I walked on at the closest golf course I could find...Possum Trot...and was immediately teamed with two flat-bellied 20 somethings who were waiting for me on the first tee without so much as a practice swing. I hadn’t swung a golf club in anger since the previous September in Maine. To my great surprise and satisfaction, I hit the ball very well, kept up with the kids with a respectable 85, despite putting like a blind epileptic. 

So, this turning 60 business hasn’t been as bad as advertised. I’ve still mostly got my wits about me, I feel good, and thanks to my fashionable wife...I now look good! 

If They Only Knew

I’m aware that it is presently fashionable to bitterly complain about Facebook, with it’s predatory trading of our privacy for profit and all that. But I would like to pause a minute to praise them for something. Through their platform, I have been able to keep up with scores of young men who otherwise would have drifted out of my life years ago. I am referring to the many boys I taught in Sunday school 10-15 years ago, boys who are now, magically, fully grown men. I see the pictures of them holding their new born infants. I see the pictures of little ones in Easter finery squinting into the bright morning sun, and remember how impossible it was to get those pictures right on those chaotic mornings in what seems now like a hundred years ago. I see pictures of them playing with their children in parks, at the beach, with the grandparents. I want to tell them how lucky they are, how they should savor every moment, not wish any of it away. The fact is that I’m so incredibly proud of them all. 

But in our new, idealized social media world, pictures can be deceiving, often this deception is actually the point. We all want to put only our best foot forward. But, every once in a while I will see a photograph that rings true, whether intentional or not. I see the forced smile of the dad, the exhaustion in his eyes, the worry lines starting to form. These are the pictures that I cherish, because they bring back the heavy weight of hard memory, the great season of self doubt that defines what being a father is all about. Look closely in the eyes of that dad with his little leaguer and you will see a man wondering how in God’s name he is ever going to be able to put his kids through college. The only human emotion more powerful than the love he feels for his children is the fear that he will end up failing them.

Yesterday, my daughter arrived here in Myrtle Beach to spend a couple of days with us. She brought me a couple of cool presents. Then she handed me this birthday card, which was actually a postcard. I flipped it over read her words and they astonished me...

I know this isn’t your typical birthday card, but when I saw the picture on the front, I thought to myself, “This is exactly how I’ve always imagined my dad!” ...strong, capable, heroic, someone who routinely saves the day. I saw you this way when I was a little girl, and I still see you this way (maybe even more so) now that I’m 30 and you’re 60...

Speaking of heroic, it took quite a heroic performance to get through a public reading of such a card without an embarrassing gush of tears. As I read it, I thought...if she only knew. If she only knew how terrifying it all was, how many times I felt like a complete failure. If she had any idea how racked with self doubt I was, how inadequate I felt, she would never have chosen a card with Atlas bearing the weight of the world, more appropriate would have been a card featuring the ancient King Sisyphus, pushing a giant boulder up a hill, only to have it roll back down again.

But then it hit me. The fact that my little girl viewed me as heroic was no small thing. Perhaps, it was half the battle. Maybe, the simple fact of projecting strength and competence was just as important as actually being strong and competent. Maybe that’s part of being a father, communicating to your children that you have things well in hand, even...and especially, when you don’t!

So, a word to all of you incredible young men out there raising your beautiful children, and you all know who you are...godspeed. You have a monumental task ahead of you, and your little ones are watching you. No matter how difficult the job gets, they are worth every sacrifice. I see you. I know the burdens. I remember the hardships. No matter what the smiling pictures say, I know what keeps you up at night. But, you too will prevail. One day, before you know what happened, that adorable little girl, that precocious little boy will hand you a birthday card that will bring it all back. And you will shake your head and think...if they only knew.

Advice From the Dog

You wake up on the 21,536th day of your life looking for reassurance from the roaring surf of the Atlantic Ocean at Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. Instead you gaze out from your balcony into a Dickensian fog bank so thick you can hardly find the end of the dunes. Is this the famous disorientation of old age that I have been warned about by friend and foe alike? I will leave this to the reader to decide.

My sister gave me something for my birthday that I truly love...

I have always believed in the wisdom of dogs, always considered their instincts more reliable than most humans. My dearly beloved second Golden Retreiver, Molly, possessed the most incorruptible spirit of any living thing I have ever known. She had a working vocabulary of more words than your average Congressman, and a heart as packed full of love and devotion as Mother Theresa’s. My present Golden, Lucy, isn’t nearly as linguistically fluent, and comes with more personality quirks and emotional scar tissue than Donald Trump’s therapist, but still has the power to warm my heart with a thousand daily graces that only dog lovers would understand.

So, this coffee mug seems like a perfect suggestion for the second 60 years of my life:

Ask for what you want—loudly if necessary.

Go after what you want.

Unleash your talents. 

Learn new tricks often.

But, the best “Advice From the Dog” found on this mug is on the back...

I plan on doing a lot of this...

Shutting Down The Tempest

After over seven years and 1600 posts, today I am shutting down The Tempest. Once you’ve written over a million words, at some point you’ve said about all you have to say.

April Fools!!!

But, since you’re here, I suppose I owe you something. Besides, it’s Easter Sunday, the day that our Lord and Savior rose from the dead. If I were a more devout Christian, I would write something spiritual...to go with all of the religious themed memes that have flowered on my Facebook feed. Instead, I will celebrate the empty tomb by sharing another batch of Dad Jokes. It is my sincere belief that the famous abundant life which Jesus died to provide for us includes heaping helpings of laughter, even if it comes with cringing...

If you see a robbery at an Apple store, does that make you an iWitness?

I’m reading a book about anti-gravity. It’s impossible to put down.

What time did the man go to the dentist? Tooth hurt-y.

Spring is here! I got so excited I wet my plants.

What’s Forest Gump’s password? 1forest1

How do you make a Kleenex dance? Put a little boogie in it.

I had a job at a calendar factory but I got fired because I took a couple of days off.

How do you make Holy Water? Boil the hell out of it.

What do call a dog who can do magic? A labracadabrador.

Why can’t you hear a pterodactyl go to the bathroom? Because the pee is silent.

You’re welcome.

The Pope Rips a Gaping Hole in the English Language

Earlier this week, the Pope sent shock waves through the spiritual world by declaring that hell doesn’t actually exist. Although the theological ramifications of such a declaration are profound enough, the impact on the English language will be equally severe. With one sentence in one interview in one Italian newspaper, the Pope has managed to render meaningless a thousand colorful phrases that make up the respectable corner of communication known as soft profanity. If hell, in fact, does not exist, then the following expressions are rendered meaningless, and we are poorer for it!

1. Hell bent for leather.

Granted, in the best of times I’ve never quite understood this one, but now that hell isnt a thing it makes even less sense.

2. Catching hell.

Since it’s impossible to catch something from nothing, this one has to go.

3. Going to hell in a handbasket.

Another strange formulation which will be put out of its misery by the Pontiff.

4. Until hell freezes over.

Not gonna happen. Ever. 

5. Come hell or high water.

I’d bet on the high water.

6. A snowball’s chance in hell.

Again...my money is on the snowball.

7. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

While it has always been difficult to describe the intensity of a wronged woman’s  vindictiveness, with this latest papal decree, one of the best descriptions ever cobbled together in the English language has lost its effectiveness. Back to the drawing board.

8. All hell breaks lose.

Not any more.

9. Raising hell.

Impossible.

10. There will be hell to pay.

No. There will not. Thanks to the Pope, we all have one less creditor to worry about.

Your Friday News Roundup

Friday, March 30, 2018

A roundup of the day’s news:

Laura Ingraham, in another inflammatory Tweet, has suggested that 17 year old anti-gun spokesman David Hogg forgot to do his math homework twice in one week during his troublesome junior year algebra II class.

In his Yankee debut, outfielder Giancarlo Stanton hit two titanic home runs, forever cementing his place among the most despised and reviled Yankees of all time, and casting a dark cloud over the future of the game of baseball in every city in America that’s not New York.

To the profound relief of hundreds of millions of sinners throughout the world, the Pope today proclaimed that there is no hell. Instead of eternal punishment after an unrepentant life of selfishness and debauchery, the formally damned masses can now look forward to the sweet bliss of simply disappearing. “It was all just a terrible misunderstanding,” the pontiff explained.

After hanging around since last freaking August, millions of shriveled, crunchy dead brown leaves have finally begun giving up their death grip on the area’s live oak trees. Warmer temperatures and yesterday’s gusty winds apparently convinced them of what everyone thought was painfully obvious long ago...that there really was no longer any point of pretending that they were actually living leaves. 

In the longest stretch of controversy-free days of the Trump Presidency, major news organizations marked “day four” with cautious optimism, as there have been no firings, no embarrassing Tweets, no new porn star allegations, and no creepy crypto-sexual references to daughter Ivanka since early Monday.

Joke Therapy

My friend is home now and improving day by day. Still, some days are better than others. Since yesterday wasn’t a great day, I decided that I would try to lift her spirits. But, how?

Really horrible Dad Jokes, that’s how!

One of the great things about the internet and search engines is the fact that nobody ever has to wonder about anything anymore. Last night for example, I was sitting at my desk in the library wondering if there existed anywhere a collection of Dad Jokes. A quick Google search yielded the answer with a resounding YES!! In a nanosecond, thousands of them were at my fingertips, organized and annotated for my convenience. I put together a quick best of collection and fired them off in a text message to my friend. In doing so I was taking a big risk. I mean, if you are fighting off nausea, it might not be a great idea to read something like this:

How does a penguin build it’s house?.......... Igloos it together.

or

Want to hear a joke about paper?........... Nevermind, it’s tearable.

But, on the other hand, sometimes really corny jokes are actually hilarious, so bad they’re good. Like this one:

Why do you never see elephants hiding in trees?...... Because they’re so good at it!

and

A furniture store keeps calling me. All I wanted was one night stand.

Well, I hope it helped. I might not be able offer any tangible help to my friend, but when it comes to mindless humor, I’ve got the market cornered!

On another note...this morning I finished reading the Bible in 90 Days. Actually, I got it done in 88 Days but who’s counting? Most significant spiritual exercise I have ever completed. A few observations:

Favorite Old Testament book....Ruth

Least favorite Old Testament book...Ezekiel 

Favorite New Testament book.....Acts

Least favorite New Testament book....Revelation

The most dominant, consistent theme I encountered in the Bible was the fact that God really, really can’t stand proud, arrogant people.

Another big theme that appears throughout is that God expects us to take care of poor people, the sick, widows, orphans and the stranger among us.

One more thing...after reading the entire Bible in such a short period of time, the one overwhelming feeling that came over me was the realization of how little I really know. 

An Accounting

One week from today, I will turn 60. It’s been quite a while since any birthday has so occupied my thoughts as this one has. For those of you who are older, you might consider this obsession quaint and perhaps even irritating. For those of you who are younger, the fact that I am turning 60 might be the cause of great anxiety...Wait, if Mister D is 60, that means that I too am getting,(gulp)...old!

It’s just a number, I’m told. 60 is the new 50, I’m told. Age is merely a human construct. You’re as young as you feel. These are the assurances I hear from friends. 

It’s just a number...Yes. A large number.

60 is the new 50... Advances in medical science and the resulting increases in human lifespan may in fact make this one true. But, if true, this means that ultimately 100 will be the new 90, and I take little comfort in that prospect.

Age is merely a human construct... This is psycho-babble...a phrase that is meant to sound wise and profound but actually means virtually nothing, or worse, anything you wish for it to mean.

You’re as young as you feel... Ah...here’s the rub. Feelings, a notoriously unreliable indicator of anything! You can feel fantastic, right up to the instant when you get run over by a truck. Physically, I feel pretty good. But I do not feel as good as I felt when I was 25, and anyone who claims to is a liar who is most likely trying to sell you bogus testosterone supplements. Mentally, I feel sharper than I’ve ever been, something I am very grateful for, but maturity hasn’t always brought enlightenment with it. Too often, the accumulation of experience brings greater cynicism, more skepticism, a stubborn rigidity...Get off my lawn!! I fight this off at every turn.

So, I turn 60 next week. To stave off any hint of self pity, an accounting of life’s blessings seems in order.

I’m in good health.

My wife is smart and beautiful.

I work with honorable men and women.

My children have never embarrassed me despite the fact that the reverse has never been true.

My daughter married a gem of a man.

My son is about to marry a gem of a woman.

My large extended family have lived lives largely free of scandal.

I have friends, old and new, who make me proud.

I am not now, nor will I ever be a member of AARP.

20 years after Lewinsky

What?...who hasn’t paid hush money to a porn star after having an affair while your third wife was nursing your newborn at home?

Trump vs Biden

I’m old enough to have seen the great Muhammad Ali fight. He was perhaps the greatest athlete I ever saw, and many of his fights were not only legendary but had legendary names as well. Who could forget The Thrilla In Manila, or The Rumble In The Jungle? Well, there’s a new champ in town, and there’s a new super fight brewing, begging for a legendary name of its own.

This past week, the American people were treated to perhaps the most dignified verbal exchange between two heavyweight politicians since the Lincoln Douglas debates. In one corner stood the former Vice President, in the other Donald Trump, current President of the United States. Joe Biden landed the first blow with the claim that if he had attended the same high school as Trump, he would have beaten him to a pulp, likening him to the “ugliest, fattest kid in the room,” proudly carrying the banner of bullying, fat-shaming, and declaring himself a cool kid. Clearly stunned by this sharp jab, the President landed a deft combination, accusing the balding Biden of being not only physically weak but promising that he would go down fast and hard, crying all the way.” And, this was just the first round! All this fight needs is a good name, one that would immortalize it for future generations. Let’s see now...

The Throwdown in Georgetown?

The Romp in the Swamp?

Going Ballistic in the District?

The Battle in the Capital?

Old Farts Throwing Darts?

Actually, with a little thought and some good old American showmanship, some aspiring entrepreneur could make a fortune here. Listen, worse things can happen than Trump and Biden beating each other up on live television for all the world to see, right? I mean, it’s not like we haven’t already beclowned ourselves as a nation anyway. Why not jump the shark and be done with it? We could have, like, tag team refs for the fight, alternating between Mitch McConnel and Chuck Schumer. Then, you know how they always have scantily clad women who come out between rounds carrying a sign with the round number on it? We could have Nancy Pelosi do that...fully and discreetly clad, announcing to the world that we Americans have evolved past the sexual objectification of women. Ring side seats could be sold via a lottery system, after setting aside the best seats for former Presidents, to insure full inclusion of all ethnic and cultural minorities for the crowd pan shots. This way, the world would see what a vast melting pot we truly are. When the rest of the world tuned in to this most highly rated television event in history, they would all say...”Wow!! Two seventy-something American politicians are actually fighting each other in a boxing ring...but look at how multi-ethnic that crowd is?! America...what a shining city on a hill!”

The ironic thing about this exchange between Biden and Trump this week has been the fact that I wasn’t even appalled by any of it. It no longer even had the power to embarrass me. My expectations for the professional deportment of politicians in Washington have been so obliterated, so inexorably lowered by the current occupant of the White House, that the spectacle of two grown men acting like a couple of pimple-faced middle schoolers on the playground during recess didn’t even phase me. This....is what we have become now.

American Politics and British Television

This week has conspired against blog writing with its combination of spring snow, early morning business appointments and whatnot. Consequently, several things have happened out there which have escaped comment, and since I know that many of you can’t possibly go a minute longer without my insightful analysis...

With last night’s eleventh hour passage of a 2,200 page, 1.3 Trillion dollar spending bill, both Republicans and Democrats owe every drunken sailor who has ever lived an apology. In Trumpworld, we are once again treated to the spectacle of an upside down universe in which despite having control of not only the White House, but both houses of Congress, the Republican Party manages to pass a budget which only Democrats are happy with. Winning.....

Apparently, we are entering the Porn Star period of the Trump Presidency, whereby with each passing day a new one pops up on CNN describing her dalliance with the Donald. Trump haters are appalled, Trump fanboys scream Fake News! The rest of us fall into the exhausted/overwhelmed camp. I take it all in and try to imagine what possible deviance a future Democrat President might be guilty of which would justify outrage from this batch of current Trump apologists. It occurs to me that, thanks to the Donald, the field has been permanently cleared for any and all future presidents who might have thought themselves disqualified for that office because of youthful indiscretions like, oh, I don’t know...rape, drug addiction, child molestation, serial infidelities, multiple bankruptcies, high treason. The Trump standard has ripped to shreds the old fear of skeletons in the closet being a candidacy killer. From now on, serial adulterers, multiple romps with porn stars, and multiple divorces will no longer prohibit someone from seeking and winning the Presidency. I will leave it to the reader to determine whether or not this constitutes progress.

Recently, Pam and I finished watching two more British dramas on Netflix...Shetland and Happy Valley. Every time we watch one of these shows I am overcome with with an inferiority complex. It’s been going on for years now. From Downton Abbey to Foyle’s War, from Broadchurch to Doc Martin, I watch British television and am forced to confront the awful truth that American television is mostly...trash. Sure, there are shining exceptions, but by and large, practically anything from the United Kingdom is superior to American programming. Pam made the observation that British actors universally give off the impression that they aren’t acting at all. In addition, British actors, both men and women look like ordinary people, that is...they are plain looking. The woman aren’t all size twos with fake boobs and slathered in make up. The men aren’t chiseled hunks with perfect skin. They look like people you would run in to at the grocery store. So, do yourselves a favor and turn off reality television and watch something...anything from the BBC. You’ll thank me later. HINT: you may have to turn on the English subtitles thing, since although English is in fact spoken in Shetland, the Scottish accents are so thick and so beguilingly delightful, many scenes must be watched a second time to figure out what the heck they were talking about!

Almost done with the Bible Reading project for 2018. Just six more days to go, and I haven’t missed a one. It might be the most spiritually significant thing I’ve done in my entire adult life. It has been at once challenging, exciting, confusing, thought provoking, comforting, disorienting, and life changing. When I’m done, I am going to miss what has become my 6:00 am ritual. 

The Future of Donald Trump

Inspired by the stunning prescience of my college basketball bracket, which accurately predicted a whopping six of the Sweet Sixteen, it is obviously time for me to strike while the iron is hot and offer all of you my hottest political predictions.

Ever since Donald Trump appeared on the scene of American politics, conventional wisdom has been vanquished to the dust bin of history. Suddenly, romps with porn stars are no longer fatal for Presidents. Amazingly, the most prolific, imaginative, and accomplished liar ever to occupy the Oval Office has become the darling of Evangelicals. In his service, several prominent Republicans have suddenly become fans of tariffs, and silent about the formerly twin evils of debts and deficits. Underestimating the appeal and resilience of Donald Trump has become the full time job of practically every nationally prominent Democrat, along with most everybody else. So, what I’m about to say needs to come with a bright red warning label, at least a dozen asterisks, and more caveats than Stormy Daniels’ non-disclosure agreement. But, here goes...

Donald Trump will not survive his term. He will either resign or be impeached.

The whole concept of objective truth has been taking a beating, especially in academia, for decades now, but nothing that has happened in the ivory towers of the Humanities has prepared us for the complete collapse of truth which has occurred since Donald Trump assumed office. In the past, even lying politicians at least claimed some slim devotion to truth-telling, or at least to the concept of truth as a desirable goal, a laudable moral imperative. With this guy, literally all bets are off. The truth is whatever he says it is on Twitter...right up to the second that it no longer serves his purposes. Is Trump the first President to have an uneasy relationship with the truth? Heavens no! But previous liars at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue were rank amateurs compared to the Trumpster.

One could safely argue that, so far, his Olympian level disingenuousness has served him very well in his 70 plus years on this Earth, indeed, it helped land him in his current job. But, is there a limit? Is there a Rubicon of deceit out there that even Donald Trump can’t cross? Is there a straw that eventually breaks the camel’s back? In other words, will this interminable Mueller investigation ever end and when it does will there be enough evidence to bring down a sitting President? Short of that, will Trump have the nerve to fire him and risk the impeachment vote that would surely follow? If the answer to any of these questions is to be yes, a catalyst will be required. I think I know what that catalyst will be...

The American Democratic Party is one of the biggest collections of like minded idiots known to exist anywhere in the free world. This, after all, is the party which couldn’t defeat a realty TV star. But, I believe that this party is about to become the beneficiary of an epic landslide of support in the upcoming midterms. They will win back control of the House and perhaps even the Senate. The coming repudiation of the Republican Party will be as unprecedented as it will be deserved, for never in my lifetime has a political party so recklessly abandoned its core principles on the alter of expediency as has the modern GOP. The first order of business of the newly elected Democratic majority and its Speaker—if Ms. Pelosi can string together enough coherent sentences to make it so— will be the formation of a committee to draw up articles of impreachment, ending the Presidency of Donald Trump and making Mike Pence the 46th President of the United States.

Of course, maybe none of this happens. Maybe Mueller’s got nothing, maybe his final report will prove that his endless fishing expedition was a colossal waste of time and money. Maybe the Democrats will somehow manage to squander the historic opportunity in front of them by nominating a parade of undocumented, transgendered alien socialists as their candidates. Maybe Trump will manage to broker peace on the Korean Peninsula on the eve of the election and then go on to not only complete his current term, but also win a second. But, I’m sticking to my guns. I am clinging to the quaint notion that eventually...your sins will find you out. So, once again...Donald Trump will not survive his term.

If I'm wrong, I'm sure many of you will take great delight in reminding me at every opportunity. But, if I'm right...can we all just forget about my 2018 bracket?

A Snowflake On My Weather App...

Would someone please explain to me why there is a snowflake on my weather app? The Wednesday in question here is March the 21st....as in the Wednesday after St. Patrick’s Day, as in less than two weeks before my birthday...that Wednesday.

Spare me the lectures about how complaining about the weather is stupid and how by the end of June I’ll be complaining about how hot it is. I don’t want to hear any sanctimonious blather about how we should be living in the moment and demonstrate gratitude for each day as a gift from God. Although these sentiments might be true, it doesn’t change the fact that there is a snowflake on my weather app for March the 21st. 

Listen, I don’t live in Maine. If I did and I woke up on March the 21st and it was snowing and seven degrees outside I would shrug it off and figure that’s what I get for living in Maine anytime other than summer. No, I live in Virginia, land of all things in moderation. We have winter, sure. Matter of fact we actually have all four distinct seasons here, unlike Southern California which is always lovely and pleasant, or Maine where there’s three months of summer two months of mud and seven months of winter. Here in the Commonwealth, we pride ourselves on a moderate winter, delightful fall foliage, a brief but pollen-caked spring, and a hot and humid summer. Sure, every now and then we get a freak snow storm in March, but it’s usually in the first week or so of the month, in the single digit days. But, the 21st ?? This is an unacceptable outrage. First, UVA gets humiliated by a 16 seed in the tournament, and now there’s a snowflake on my weather app. I smell the wrath of God...

Baby Shower #2

Baby shower number two is upon us here at the Dunnevant house. The place looks immaculate, pastel colors everywhere. By noon, eleven ladies will sit at this table for a sumptuous lunch....

...which, sadly, will not be serving beef jerky, nachos or hot dogs. By the time lunch is served, I will be long gone, banished from the premises by the hostess, for good reason. My presence would be risky since, while I might be helpful in a pinch, the chance that I might say or do something embarrassing far outweigh any help I might be able to offer. So, my dismissal is just one more example of my wife’s excellent strategic planning skills.

The guest of honor will be the former Jessica Stroup, now Jessica Rodriguez. This will be her first child. When she and her husband arrived here Thursday evening, the sight of her...pregnant... placed a surprising lump in my throat. This young woman has been a staple in the Dunnevant house for over 25 years. We met her and her parents serendipitously at a nursery school open house when she was probably 4 or 5 years old, discovered that they lived just down the street from us, and soon a lifelong friendship was born between her and my daughter, her and my son, and her family and ours. 25 years later, after a hundred sleepovers, a thousand meals together, a couple dozen concerts, road trips, vacations and assorted adventures great and small, this little blond girl walks into my house...adorably pregnant. Where did the years go?

When you become lifelong friends with an entire family, you literally help raise their kids just as they help raise yours. This is one of the great benefits of living your life in one community instead of adopting the life of the nomad, chasing new jobs and new opportunities every which way the wind blows. When you put down roots, it allows for the development of deep bonds between families. When there are other adults who you know and can trust with your kids, it makes it easier to be a better parent yourself. There are a small group of other kids who start to feel like your own. You become protective of them, start to love them...as if they were your own. Even after they grow up and move away and become fully functioning adults, get married, and start having their own kids, and even after months and even years go by when you don’t see them, all they have to do is show up at your house for a baby shower...and it all comes rushing back. It’s really a quite beautiful thing.