Pierre and Me

I’ve noticed that over the years people have stopped getting married in churches anymore. It’s not necessarily a religious thing, it’s more the fact that the carpeting clashes with the bridesmaid’s dresses, or that churches don’t have the right aisle structure or some other aesthetic isn’t quite right. Instead, couples have started getting hitched out on somebody’s farm, in a renovated barn. Others choose some converted warehouse which has been relabeled, industrial chic, and marketed as a wedding venue. Still others find an old manor house with a picturesque gazebo overlooking a grand vista somewhere. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with any of these choices. There’s no law that says you can only get married inside of a church building. However, the rapid inflationary trajectory of the cost of weddings is directly related to the abandonment of the Church wedding. The explosion of the wedding venue industry has turned weddings into a seriously big business. With this in mind, what follows is a fictionalized composite of one father’s experiences through the planning and execution of two such weddings. Events and conversations depicted here may or may not have actually taken place, and are representative of general themes only, not of real people or events...except when they are.

Pierre: Welcome to The Bluff at Xanadu, the premier wedding venue for only the most romantic couples!

Me: Whoa!! Settle down, Pierre. We’re just looking right now.

Pierre: Then you’ve found what you need. There’s no need to  look any further. You have found the perfect venue for your daughter’s big day.

Me: I’ll be the judge of that. This place looks like a giant empty room. What am I missing?

Pierre: The Bluff at Xanadu is a blank canvas onto which your daughter can paint her dreams. Our minimalist approach allows for the greatest level of customization, making each wedding a unique event.

Me: How much does it cost?

Pierre: A mere $10,000.

Me: Are you kidding? That’s great! Every other place we’ve looked at is twice that! What’s the deal?

Pierre: At The Bluff, we pride ourselves on our competitive pricing.

Me: Where do I sign??

Pam: Wait a minute dear...I have a few questions.

It’s at this point in the process that I’m reminded of just how overmatched I am by my wife when it comes to...how shall I say...um, thinking things through. That is to say, I’m clueless about the details of anything, and Pam’s brain is the place where the details of life live.

Pam: I don’t see any tables or chairs anywhere.

Pierre: Tables and chairs can be rented from our sister company, Xanadu Fulfilled.

Pam: Is there another room for the reception. I only see this one big room.

Pierre: No, after the ceremony, your guests will be escorted out into the veranda for cocktails while our expert and efficient staff transform this space into a reception room. It’s actually breathtaking to watch. We call it...the great room flip.

Pam: I see. What about the lighting? It seems rather stark.

Pierre: No worries, we offer a wide range of lighting options, everything from subtle amber to the great white way, and of course our neon night’s package..all for a slight upcharge.

Me: Wait...we have to pay extra for lights?

Pierre: A nominal charge...and well worth it, I must say, to set just the right ambient tone. There’s nothing worse than having the wrong lighting.

Me: I can think of something worse...having to pay for lighting.

Pam: I notice that there are two giant video screens in the room. I assume these are for slideshows of the bride and groom?

Pierre: Yes! And for a technology hookup fee your photographs will be displayed on only the highest HD resolution screen in the industry, absolutely cutting edge!

Me: Wait...a technology hookup fee? What the....

Pam: I notice that the veranda has no ceiling fans. Since our event will be in the middle of the summer, it might be quite hot, and with over a hundred people milling about our here for perhaps an hour, I’m concerned about the heat. Will you provide some oscillating fans to provide some cross ventilation?

Pierre: You know...I don’t think we’ve ever been asked that question before. I mean the veranda has a roof, so it’s not like your guests would be standing out in the sun. But, if you insist, I’m sure that Xanadu Fulfilled can rent you a fan or two.

Me: We have to rent fans???!!!

Pam: Honey, calm down.

Me: What about the bathrooms? Will there be toilet paper, or will we have to rent that too??  

Pierre: Only the finest four-ply, imported toilet paper from Singapore is included at no extra charge.

Me: As Ronald Reagan once said...Trust, but verify...so I want to see these bathrooms.

Pierre: Certainly...second door on the right.

Me: Wait a minute...these are pay toilets!!

Pierre: The Bluff at Xanadu is an environmentally-sensitive site. We try to limit, where possible, the overuse of water and have found that adding a charge for bathroom services helps people to make more rational decisions on how often they use the facility.

Me: But, there’s an ATM machine in here? How much are these toilets??

Pierre: $10 per flush.

Me: Are you freaking kidding me???

Pierre: We do offer senior citizen discounts, as well as quantity discounts, for the heavy drinkers in your party.

Pam: Pierre, according to my calculations, the cost of your venue has now doubled from your original price of $10,000.

Pierre: And aren’t the memories you will make here worth any price??

Wedding Memories

In just over a week I will attend my son’s wedding. It’s been almost four years since my daughter’s wedding, so just to remind myself of what that day was like, I went back into the archives and found what follows...one Dad’s memory of everything about the day that his only daughter got married. As history, it is limited, since it’s only what I remember. But, I’m glad I have it, because it reminds me of what an incredible day it was. It’s kind of long, so I apologize. 

It has been 48 hours since Katlin’s wedding. Already my memory is starting to waver, so I suppose I better get it all down before I forget anything:

6:30AM - I am awakened by the sound of harps and a gentle breeze on my cheeks from the wings of tiny bluebirds. I look out of my window and see a rare morning rainbow, God’s promise of a day like no other.

6:31AM – I startle myself awake from a horrible Disney nightmare, convinced that I am late for my Physics exam at the University of Richmond. It then dawns on me that this is July 12, 2014 and my little girl is getting married in exactly 11 hours….which is fine since I was going to flunk Physics anyway.

9:00AM – Arrive at Carmax for the third time in two days to pick up my daughter’s car. Carmax mechanics and technicians apparently graduated from the Helen Keller school of automobile repair since none of them could manage to hear the loud whining sound coming from the rear of the car the minute it reached 30 mph on the road. Suggested that next time they may want to consider taking cars for a test drive on the actual highway instead of their parking lot. 

10:00AM – Arrive at Parkside Barbershop for the much celebrated and anticipated straight razor shave with all of the groomsmen. Was served a cold Yeungling draft upon arrival, which I consumed under the reasoning that it was 5 o’clock somewhere. Charm of the place began to wear off nearly 2 hours later when my name was called, the last on the list. Charm of the place totally vanishes when it dawns upon me mid-shave that I am alone at Parkside Barbershop with no ride home, since Jon had taken Kaitlin’s car, and Patrick had headed for home ten minutes ago with my car.

12:16PM – Get text from Pam directing me to drop by Martin’s and pick up “K-cups and a large case of bottled water. When I replied that I didn’t really feel comfortable buying women’s underwear especially bra’s, she informed me that “K-cups” were not in fact a bra size, but rather a brand of coffee used in our Keurig. Made mental note to help with grocery shopping more in the future to eliminate further such embarrassments.

2:09 PM – Caravan of cars leave house headed for Celebrations. Cadillac making frightening click-click-click noise. For a minute a vision of a blown engine on 288 flies into my head. To my eternal relief, all cars arrive on time and in good order. Women of the wedding party all disappear to the upstairs of the Manor House, while the men get comfortable downstairs in air-conditioned comfort, a good thing since it is hotter than homemade hell outside. It occurs to me as I ease back on a very comfortable sofa that I am at least off the hook for all of those things I promised God I would do if he gave us a beautifully cool day.

2:48PM – Fall sound asleep on ridiculously comfortable sofa and am abruptly awakened by a sharp poke on the knee by Toby, our intrepid “event coordinator,” who implores me to get dressed into my tuxedo and meet the photographer outside immediately. While I was asleep a flurry of pressurized activity is going on upstairs, with Kaitlin and Pam trying to get her wedding dress put on correctly amidst the buzz, clicks and blur of not one but TWO photographers capturing it all for posterity. Later, when Pam discovers that I was sleeping while she was going through Dante’s ninth level of hell, she is understandably perturbed.

3:00 thru 4:00PM – Spend most of this hour walking around in circles, barking out confusing orders to anyone who looked like an employee of Celebrations. Also, begin trying desperately to get guitar in tune. 40 year old classical is temperamental in this regards in the best of environments, but in tropical heat and humidity that would induce projectile vomiting in Lucifer himself, it is a hopeless endeavor.

4:30 PM – Am summoned to the upstairs of the Manor house, and told to wait at the door to the dressing room. Inside I hear the rapid fire of camera shutters. This is one of the “money shots” of the day…Dad seeing daughter in wedding dress for first time. No pressure. No pressure at all.

4:31 PM – Open door slowly and behold as radiant and stunning a vision as I have ever seen. My only daughter looks like some kind of princess, enchanting and sublime, happier than I have ever seen her. It’s hard to be sad, impossible to cry. Why would I? This is what every father worth his salt wants for his little girl. 

5:30PM – Toby hustles the two of us down the stairs and into our designated spot for the grand entrance. I notice that the oppressive heat and choking humidity have subsided a bit. I hear music drifting through the tops of the grand oak trees, a piano and orchestra arranged by my son. I look at Kaitlin by my side, she is positively glowing. The last thing she says to me before we turn the corner and escape the seclusion of the lush green hedges is, “I love you daddy!”

5:32PM – As we make our way down the sweeping turns of the brick walkway, I look up and recognize the faces of some of my best friends on this planet. I see men and women who all had a hand in raising her, in shaping her character. Some of them have come from far away to be here. I remember warnings from many of my buddies that I would cry at this moment, but all I feel is deep gratitude. Just about the time we got to our stopping spot a soft, cooling breeze swept over the assembly. I managed to get through my four word speech, “Her mother and I,” without incident. I take my seat on the front row beside my wife.

5:37PM – The minister, Gordon Fort began the proceedings by reminding all that this date, July 12, 2014 would have been my parent’s 67^th wedding anniversary, then proceeded to read from some of my Dad’s notes we had found just a couple of weeks ago when cleaning out his house after his death. They were in a small dog-eared three ring binder of wedding services he had done over the years. When I heard Gordon reading his words, I looked up at the top of the trees now swaying in the unexpected breeze. I wondered if he was watching, if he knew how much I miss him.

5:42PM – It was time to play my guitar. Kaitlin wanted Paula to sing and me to play the Steven Curtis Chapman song, I Will Be Here, so although it had been at least a year since I had played and longer than that since Paula had sung at a wedding, there we were beginning the song. That’s when the oddest thing happened. For the first time all day, I became overcome with emotion. I felt my palms sweating, my heart began beating loudly in my ears, my fingers began to tremble. Luckily, I never look at my hands while playing, so I buried my chin in my right shoulder and stared at the ground throughout the entire song. By the time it was over I had recovered my composure.

5:50PM – I hear Gordon introduce the happy couple as “Mr. and Mrs. Jon Manchester.” I look at Jon and he has a smile splashed across his face as big as Texas. Actually he’s had it all day. It’s as if he has a clothes hanger turned upside down stuck in his mouth. The poor guy is hopelessly in love and just can’t help himself. They disappear past me as they make their way up the walkway amidst raucous applause. It’s over. The deed has been done.

6:00PM thru 7:30PM – This is the part of weddings which I hate, everybody standing around eating cheese and crackers and fruit waiting for the photographers to do their work. Between the several summons I received to appear for pictures, I began bargaining with the Almighty over the promises I had made when praying for cool weather. While the weirdly timed cool breezes that blew during the actual ceremony were a nice touch, I’m not sure that it would qualify as “cool.” I mean, I made my request pretty clear and despite the aforementioned cool breezes, it was hot and sticky both before the service and now after the service. Any impartial observer would side with me on this one, but with God, you never know.

7:30PM thru 9:15 Dinner is served after interminable picture taking session, the only bright spot being when Toby showed up with a plate of crudités for all and two iced coffee drinks for the bride and groom. Never have little squares of cheddar cheese with carrot sticks and ranch dressing tasted so good. Actually sat down at my table and ate for at least 12 minutes. Rest of time spent making the rounds talking with the guests like a shameless politician.

9:20PM – Bride and groom begin introduction of each of their bridesmaids and groomsmen. Kaitlin as poised and graceful in front of a crowd as her mother always is, and equally beautiful. After the introductions it was time for the father/daughter dance. Kaitlin chose that great song from “The Jerk,” You Belong To Me. Halfway through dance I was kicking myself that I didn’t arrange to have a trumpet handy to whip out for the solo. Truly wonderful moment. Later there was a dance for all married couples. At various times during the song, the DJ would ask those couples who had been married less than a certain number of years to be seated. The last couple standing were my in-laws. Cool.

     

10:00PM – After several wonderful and moving toasts from various members of the wedding party, it was my turn to give the final toast before the cake cutting. Again, my palms began to sweat, again with the loud beating heart, I began. Except for a final perfunctory paragraph acknowledging that there was, in fact, a groom on the premises, my words were mostly about Kaitlin and what a gift she has been to my life.

10:20PM – Kaitlin throws her bouquet and Jon throws the garter. Jon’s throw was particularly impressive, since he wrapped it around a 2002 Ohio State National Championship commemorative football before sending a spiral into the amassed gaggle of single men. In true Ohio State form, Jon’s brother, the intended target, dropped the ball. Yet another incomplete pass by the Buckeyes.

10:35PM – Couple finally pass through the gauntlet of sparklers on the way to their getaway car. Taillights disappear and they’re gone.

11:55PM – Arrive home after lengthy clean up made infinitely easier by my helpful family who stayed until the bitter end helping us pack everything up. Potential mother of the bride meltdown avoided when all the leftover food from the reception was trying to be loaded into Pam’s car. There just wasn’t any room yet Pam was determined to squeeze it all in. When I noticed the wild expression of exhaustion and panic in her eyes I knew that she was unable to make one more decision, so I did. I carried an entire large pan of mashed potatoes and several other gargantuan containers of meat and vegetables back into the manor house with the simple declaration, “There is no way in the world anyone will eat any of this food!!”

12:30AM – After unloading the cars, we all collapsed on the sofas in the den, too exhausted to even speak. It was all over. After 18 months of planning, 6 months of deciding, 3 months of organizing, and three weeks of 20 hour days, it was all over. 

Someone on Facebook made a comment about this picture, “The Perfect Family.” Nothing could be further from the truth. We are like every other family on Earth, full of flaws and flawed people. But this I know, the people in this photograph love each other, without qualification or reservation. Each of them have been a blessing to us and instrumental in helping Pam and I shape and form Kaitlin’s character. Without these people, and without Emmett and Betty Dunnevant, none of this day would have been possible.

The Naming of Things

Yesterday’s blog about the name change controversy has gotten me to thinking...no small feat...about the fact that we Americans have always been fond of naming stuff after famous people. Just yesterday I took the John Rolfe parkway over to the Willey bridge on my way to John Tyler Community College. Everywhere you look in this city, there’s some school, building or street named after some dead guy. It just stands to reason that at some point, after several generations have come and gone, somebody is going to ask the question...Hey, who the heck was Ed Willey?? Then maybe some group of civic-minded people will suggest changing the name to honor a more recent hero or heroine. This, I believe, is right and proper.

As far as the naming of schools is concerned, I got curious and decided to do some research. I wondered which American President had the most schools named after him. I guessed correctly:

94 John Kennedy 

73 Thomas Jefferson

53 George Washington

52 Woodrow Wilson

45 Abraham Lincoln

24 Theodore Roosevelt

20 John Adams 

Of the more recent Presidents...

15 Ronald Reagan

10 Barack Obama

3  Bill Clinton

2 George W. Bush

1 George H.W. Bush 

Modern sensitivities are such that each one of these men carries with him politically incorrect baggage. Depending on how easily offended you are, it might scandalize you to discover that there are 52 schools in this country named after Woodrow Wilson, that well-documented and virulent racist. Thomas Jefferson and George Washington were both slave holders, Washington reluctantly so, Jefferson with great passion (figuratively and literally). Abe Lincoln is an all timer, and John Adams was one of the few Founders who never owned a slave and thought the institution a blight on the country.

But...what about John Kennedy? 

In the wake of his shocking assassination, the entire country mourned that such a young, virile man could be struck down. As a result of this grief, Americans went on a street, building and school-naming frenzy to honor the man. To this day, our 35th President remains an icon of the Democratic Party. This is a very curious and unexplainable phenomenon. In today’s Democratic Party John Kennedy would be to the right of...well, practically everyone. In fact, he might be kicked out of the party altogether. Dude was a staunch anti-communist, a tax cutter, quite reluctant on civil rights and suspicious of Martin Luther King. In the modern Democratic Party, the #MeToo crowd would crucify the guy. Still, there he sits, at or near the top of the food chain of the party’s heros. Go figure.

Anyway, my point is, with regards to the naming of things, I believe that each generation should have a say. New heros always come along, and at some point the Estes Kefauver Bridge will no longer make any sense. But, something tells me that until we can all get passed this phase of hyper-polarization in which we find ourselves, I suggest that we stick to naming things after flowers and trees, and inanimate objects.

Changing Names

What’s wrong with this picture? Where to begin?

This is the photograph which accompanied the story yesterday about the name change of this school from J.E.B. Stuart to Barack Obama Elementary school. While the comments section was blowing up with outrage about the name change, I couldn’t stop looking at the broken glass, the stuck window and the grass that hadn’t been mowed in weeks. Then I researched the school and learned about the abysmal test scores, the plague of underachievement by whatever metric you chose to measure the actual educating going on inside his building...and I thought, Changing the name of this school from J.E.B. Stuart to Barack Obama is the educational equivalent of rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic. But, by all means, let’s spend six months studying and $26,000 changing the name of this school.

Ok, I suppose I should make something clear...I don’t object to schools changing their names. I completely understand and have great sympathy for the idea that maybe a school which is 90% African-American might not want to any longer be named for a Civil War General, who although perhaps the finest cavalry officer of the entire war (despite his lapse at Gettysburg), fought for the losing side, a side which was fighting, among other things, to preserve the legality of human bondage. So, if a school in 2018 wants to fly under a new banner, one that might inspire more pride in the community they serve, I have no problem with it.

But, that picture...

Richmond City schools have a boatload of big problems. Their buildings are crumbling. Their students consistently underperform in English, science and math scores. Half the time they can’t even get the furnaces to work in the winter and the air conditioning to work in the summer. But they can commission a study on changing the name of one their schools, come up with a list of ten candidates, even let the kids and teachers vote on the thing, then pick the guy who came in tenth in the voting as the winner. What could possibly go wrong?

But, at least it’s done now. The kids no longer will have to be called Stuart’s Stars. 

That should fix everything.

Meticulous Planning

For the last six months my wife has been immersed in every imaginable detail of planning a wedding. This feverish planning has produced more spreadsheets and Google Docs than the Mueller Investigation. Meanwhile, I have largely been on the sidelines, a helpless observer, only roused to action when there’s a bill to be paid. As a result, I have felt somewhat useless, like I’m not carrying my weight. So, I have decided do a little planning myself. There won’t be any Google Docs involved, but that’s not to say that I haven’t given this a lot of thought.

In less than five weeks, our first three-week Maine vacation will begin. 24 hours after we arrive at The Chill House on Pemiquid Lake on the 21st of July, Jon, Kaitlin, Patrick and Sarah will fly into Portland, which will give Pam and me one day to buy groceries. Accordingly, I have decided to take it upon myself to plan the menu for the entire three weeks. Here’s what I have so far...

Breakfast:

- blueberry pancakes

- scrambled eggs

- bacon/sausage

- fried bread

Lunch:

- lobster rolls 

- fluffernutters

Dinner:

- steak

- chicken

- shrimp

- lobster

- ice cream

Repeat......

How’d I do??

The handy part of this menu is how easily it can be replicated on our second three-week Maine vacation coming up in September/October!!

What’s so difficult about planning? I mean, seriously??

S.C.C.S...Killer of Good Days

There’s probably nothing in this world more vital, more intrinsically satisfying and reassuring than that morning cup of coffee. For me, it comes around 6 o’clock. It brews while I absentmindedly empty the dishwasher, thinking of nothing. Then I pour it into one of my oversized mugs.  I add a tablespoon of carcinogenic powdered creamer, or Coffeemate, then an eighth of a teaspoon of Truvia, another soon to be discovered carcinogen.        

Then, I sit down on the sofa, open my iPad and take that first delicious sip. Temporarily, all is right with the world.

But every so often something bad happens. I get distracted. Maybe it’s some moronic item in the news, or maybe I get an inspiration for a blogpost. Suddenly, I am in another place, far away from my living room. By the time I snap out of it, a significant amount of time has passed. It’s then that I instinctively reach for my forgotten cup of coffee to finish off what’s left in the mug only to discover that something positively dreadful has happened. It’s ICE COLD. It’s also too late. My mouth is now full of cold coffee and I must make a lightening-quick decision...do I swallow, or expel it back into the mug? Ok, this isn’t exactly the type of lightening-quick decision on which civilization hangs, but it’s no small thing either! The worst part about the surprising cold coffee swig, (or S.C.C.S for short), is that you feel like the victim of a cruel trick, like you’ve been betrayed by your best friend or something. My coffee is cold?? What, in the name of all that is holy, is going on here??!! After this inauspicious beginning, there’s no telling what horrors await you on this day. I mean, if you can be betrayed by your own coffee, anything is possible. So, for the rest of the day, you’re giving everyone the side eye, every interaction shrouded in paranoia. Trust no one. Double check everything. Today, there is treachery in the air. Enough of this sort of thing happens and you wake up one morning to discover that Donald Trump is President!

And... it’s all because of the dreaded S.C.C.S.

The Limit

 

I love Netflix on many different levels, not the least of which being the 381% profit I have made off of it’s stock. But, what I really love about Netflix is the concept, a company which serves as a portal through which a universe of entertainment is brought into my home cheaply and efficiently. Their original programming is superb. So, yeah...I love Netflix.

But, not everything that comes streaming into my living room via Netflix belongs there. Last night provided a perfect illustration of this truth.

Recently, Pam and I were in a show hole, that miserable state of television purgatory where you finish binge watching a really great show and suddenly find yourself with nothing interesting to watch. We stumbled on a new British detective show called Marcella, the premise of which was quintessentially British...a brilliant but deeply troubled detective battles her own inner demons while tracking down a vicious killer. It’s not the best show we’ve ever seen by any stretch, but it was well written and well acted and we made it through the first season pleased enough to give season number two a shot. Last night was the first episode of season two. 

Almost from the first five minutes I felt uneasy. Something felt wrong. But if I’ve learned anything from watching British television it’s the fact that you have to be patient. Sometimes it takes a while for a show to get interesting. But, if you hang in there you’re almost always rewarded. Thirty minutes in, it became apparent that season number two of Marcella would feature our hero tracking down and catching a sadistic pedophile serial killer. Ten minutes from the end of this first episode I thought to myself...Why am I watching this? When it was over, I turned to Pam and said...No. We won’t be watching this show anymore.

Censorship is a horrible thing when it is practiced by governments, but for individual human beings it is an essential function of mental health. Years ago I heard a non-religious speaker say something that I have never forgotten about this subject...Stand guard at the door of your mind. His point was that each of us has to serve as the guardian of what we allow inside our brains. If you want to lose weight, you probably shouldn’t flip through a donut magazine. If you have a gambling addiction, you probably shouldn’t move next door to a casino. And if you want to maintain your sanity in the midst of an increasingly dysfunctional and evil world, maybe you shouldn’t invite a story about men sexually abusing young boys into your home.

Despair is an addictive drug. It’s easy to fall into and difficult to climb out of. The news that gets filtered down to us through the news media is often overwhelmingly depressing. Watch enough anguish and injustice every night and it’s easy to lose hope. The solution isn’t to retreat into a pollyannish world of Leave It To Beaver and Andy Griffith every night. Sometimes, we need to be confronted by the world as it is, in all of it’s evil glory. But, I believe there is a limit. That limit is probably different for each person. But, it is essential that each of us knows what that limit is and that we have the wisdom and courage to say...No.  Not that.  Not here.

Last night I discovered that limit. I will not organize a boycott. I will not call for Marcella to be taken off the air. I will simply exercise by rights of free agency by not watching. While standing guard at the door of my own mind, I have discovered something that I would rather not expose it to. I wasn’t placed in this world to limit what my neighbor wants to watch on television. But I better be careful what I watch. 

Dad’s Greatest Hits

This week of Father’s Day has me thinking of my own Dad. He’s been gone four years now. Life plows forward at its breakneck pace. Most of the time I’m too busy to think about him. But then an anniversary will come along...his birthday, the day he died, or Father’s Day, and it will all come roaring back. Luckily for me the majority of these memories are good ones. My Dad, unlike many, didn’t leave a legacy of bitterness and regret in his wake. None of his children turned out psychologically damaged by his indifference, or scarred by abuse. All he left us was a thousand stories to tell, stories of his peculiar habits, Herculean strengths, and impeccable character. This week, I’ve picked out a few of my favorites, a Dad’s Greatest Hits, if you will. Like this one....

My Dad has been in the hospital for five days now. He has heart palpitations that haven’t responded well to several medications. My brother, two sisters and I have taken turns sitting with him. I have been with him last each night, so I see him after a long day of hospital drudgery. Some nights have been better than others, for him and me. 

I arrive around 7:30. He never fails to smile at me as I walk in. He looks tired. I tidy up his covers, get him something to drink and ask him about his day. He tells me that he had a good day. Every day is a good day. He hesitates to provide anything that sounds like a complaint. He speaks glowingly of his nurses. He tells me that he got a visit from Chuck Ward or Mark Becton, and what a blessing they were to him. He tells me about the food and that it isn’t very good, but it’s OK because Linda brought him some homemade soup and Paula snuck in some wonderful cookies. 

When he tries to tell me a story he forgets his words, then apologizes for being so forgetful. My heart breaks a little that he feels the need to apologize. We watch Huckabee. He loves that show. Tonight Huckabee isn’t there and there is a pretty blond in his place. Dad informs me that she is Dana Perino, who used to be President George Bush’s press secretary. Dad likes her because she is very smart, and pretty too. He listens intently to a story about very bad parents. He can’t imagine how any father would provide kegs of beer for his sixteen year old son’s birthday party. “What’s this world coming too?” he asks me. 

I watch the night nurse come in to give him his medicine. She is perky and smiles a lot. She gently places each pill in his mouth and then gives him ginger ale. There are so many pills. She is very patient, and jokes that she should probably have given him the sleeping pill last since he might fall asleep before he makes it through all his pills. Dad smiles. 

After Huckabee is over Dad struggles with the remote and finally asks me just to turn the television off. We sit in silence for a few minutes. Finally he tells me what a good job his kids have done taking care of him since Mom passed away. 

We go through our nightly ritual when it’s time for him to go to sleep. I turn out the light and tell him I love him. I pull the curtain and then shut the door to his room. He’s right across from the nurses station and he tells me that they talk too loud. Sometimes he feels like yelling out to ask them to be quiet, but that would be rude. I walk down the long hallway towards the elevator past rooms with open doors. Terribly sick men and women, all of them alone. There’s a portrait of former Governor John Dalton right next to the elevator. Every time I pass it, I become irritated for some reason. Is there no place on earth where we can escape politics?

I arrive at my car in the mostly empty parking lot and sit there in silence for a few minutes. I think about my Dad and marvel at what kind of life he has lived. After losing his wife of 65 years and after five days in a hospital bed, he still finds things to laugh about and still finds people to be thankful for. 

“What kind of day did you have Dad?” I ask him. 

“A good day, I had a good day,” he answers.

Russ’ North Star

Yesterday from the pulpit I heard this statement...What we spend our money on is a reflection on what we value. The point of this was to get us to examine where are hearts are when it comes to how we spend money. For example, if you flip through your checkbook and discover that you spend a thousand dollars a month on makeup, you might value your appearance too much, etc...A quick examination of my spending habits reveals several interesting things:

- Over the past year, my largest creditor, by far, has been the Internal Revenue Service. This reveals the fact that I value my country and my freedom. It also reveals my sincere desire not to be sent to prison.

- Next comes my mortgage. I value the roof over my head. Five more years and she will be paid for!

- Then, something interesting...a category that surprises me. I spend a crazy amount of money on something that my wife refers to as things that bring our family together. I hadn’t really thought about it, but she’s right. 

All parents spend money on their kids. Even when they grow up and move away, we can’t help ourselves. I’m told that it gets even worse once grandkids arrive. Here’s the thing, when you’ve spent twenty something years raising them, then suddenly they’re grown up and independent, it’s hard to break the old habit of buying them stuff, ok? Anyway, I think it’s especially difficult when they move far away. That’s where vacation spending comes in. In my case, it’s all the fault of my father-in-law, Russ White.

Not long after I fell in love with my wife, I got invited to go along with her and her family to Maine for their yearly pilgrimage to a place called Dummer’s Beach. It was a dumpy little campground in the middle of nowhere at the edge of a magnificent mountain lake, the likes of which this Virginian had never seen. The place was magical. I soon learned that this lake had been the summer home of my wife’s family for their entire history. Each and every summer, starting in a tent, the Whites would live at the lake. Russ would make the thirty minute commute to his job during the day for three months...from a freaking tent! As the years went by, they graduated to a pop up camper, then to an RV, but the one thing that didn’t change was...the family was together at Dummer’s Beach. Russ had placed a North Star in his family’s firmament that was as dependable and reliable as the sunrise. They would be together in this place, every summer.

I had never had anything comparable when I was growing up. My family never really took vacations. There were a few here and there, but nothing like the White compound in Maine. While I managed very quickly to fall in love with Maine, what I really fell in love with was the idea of a fixed place and time that was set in stone for...the family. 

I would wind up making at least 25 Dummer’s Beach trips. Russ and Vi can’t make the long trip as often anymore. So, ten years ago, Pam and I discovered MidCoast Maine, and have started our own tradition. Now, it’s gotten almost ridiculous...this year we will spend six weeks up there. There are no tents...we rent fabulous lake houses large enough to accommodate my kids and our friends. It costs a lot of money, money that could be spent perhaps more wisely elsewhere. But, each summer, there’s a place for my family to gather. All the kids have to do is...get up there. We provide the rest. It’s something that they have always been able to count on in their lives...summers in Maine. As long as I’m alive, it will always be so. When grandkids arrive, they will be introduced to the wonders of Maine.

It’s not just me and my family. Russ’s North Star has also inspired my extended Dunnevant family to establish our own summer vacation traditions. Many years ago, inspired in part by Pam’s Maine stories, the Dunnevant’s started going to the beach for a week in the summer. The first such beach house rental was a hell hole dump in Sandbridge. Now, each house is a multi-story mansion with eight bedrooms and a swimming pool. Twenty of us descend on the place for a week every other year. It has become its own tradition and holds a special place in the family lore. It’s crazy, chaotic and cramped...and great fun!

So, when it’s time for me to write those staggering checks to the rental company in Maine, I blame Russ White. He’s the one who first set down this marker. He’s the one who demonstrated what it means to prioritize family, and create lifelong memories that revolve around not just family, but...place. I will forever be in his debt.

Naming Your Small Group

If you’ve spent much time in Church recently, you’ve been introduced to the organizational tool that has swept practically all of Christendom...the small group. Actually, precisely what to call the thing isn’t exactly clear. Small group. Life group. Family group. It’s all over the map. Essentially it serves the same purpose as a Sunday School class used to, only it meets during the week in someone’s home instead of at church... and food is involved.

I’ve been a part of one of these groups for over a year now. It’s Pam and me and four other couples. Sadly, I am the oldest of the ten members, a sad and irksome fact of life I have reluctantly come to accept. However, ours is not one of those multi-generational small groups we keep hearing about. No...there are no young couples with toddlers running around, nobody on Social Security. We are all in pretty much the same stage of life. We all have either grown children or children on the cusp of independence. We all take turns hosting  our gatherings, and during most of the year we meet three or four times a month, during the summer, a bit more sporadically. We communicate with each other via a nifty little private chat room app called GroupMe, which our fearless leader, Chip the Engineer, accidentally referred to as “Grope”Me one night, and the name has stuck! Anyway, we get on there to organize meals and whatnot, and also just to keep in touch during the week. Well, last night was a GropeMe highlight. One of our members brought up the fact that she doesn’t know what to call...”us”...home group reminds her of a nursing home, small group sounds like kindergarten, and life group sounds too pretentious. We need a snappy name, she said! 

Chip the Engineer’s wife sent us a link to an article which offered potential names for small groups...so apparently we aren’t the only ones thrashing around for snappy names! As the oldest member of the group, I found all of the names in this article highly offensive, since they were all derisive of older people...Geri-Actives and sizzling seniors. Somebody threw out...Hope Geezers, and The Pacemakers. Then it degenerated rapidly from there. We have several golfers in the group, so someone suggested, The Swingers...which I kinda liked because it seemed just questionable enough to make it interesting! After thirty minutes of this, no decision was made, so at this point we remain nameless.

So, our last meeting was just this past Thursday at our house. Our rule for the summer months is that whoever hosts the meeting is responsible for leading the devotion, or bible study portion...so this one fell to me. I decided to lead a discussion on the significance of the Seven Deadly Sins vs The Cardinal Virtues... a sort of compare and contrast kind of thing. I gave Chip the Engineer a heads up about the content so he could prepare some power pointish slides for illustration purposes. So, after dinner, I start in with the lesson and his first slide pops up on the screen...

The Seven Daily Sins

Set aside for a moment the fact that our fearless leader is now responsible for two epic Freudian slips. More importantly, this second one gave me a great idea for a proper name for us... The Dyslexics!!

Just in case some of you are wondering just how theologically sound and doctrinally vigorous our studies are, the following slide is illustrative... 

Postpartum Depression

Have puppies, they said.

Build a legacy, they said.

It will be fun, they said.

This photograph is either the best ever illustration of postpartum depression, or the perfect representation of exactly how public school teachers must feel during the last week of school...

So, I sent this photograph to my daughter on this, her last day of the school year with her students, and immediately we began a back and forth competition on who could come up with the best caption...

Kaitlin: Why in the heck are we having a meeting after these pups have been dismissed for the summer?

Me: In case you’re wondering, I will not be taking any crap off of anyone today.

Kaitlin: Are they sucking away my milk or my life force?

Kaitlin: I feel like my job is doing this metaphorically.

Me: You seriously want me to catch a frisbee from you right now?

The Coolest

My church is just the coolest...

Ok, Pam and I had no sooner finally taken the plunge and joined Hope Church, when a new sermon series was launched entitled, Healthy Money. I’m thinking, Great...what is this, some sort of cosmic bait and switch? Two years at Hope as a visitor and I don’t hear squat about money, we sign on the dotted line and bamm, here it comes!! As a preacher’s kid and professional skeptic, I have become jaded over the years to pleas for cash from the pulpit. I generally consider sermons about money as mostly exercises in church fundraising, kind of like those annoying 24 hour PBS beg-a-thons you have to endure every once in a while. So, it was with great trepidation that I attended church three weeks ago to hear Pete Bowell introduce the four week series. The next week it was David Dwight’s turn, last week, Nicole Unice. Three weeks in and I have heard narry a peep about tithing. Not only that, not one word has been said about the church’s finances. Maybe they are saving all of that for this week’s finale? Maybe, but so far this has been a decidedly unique money series epitomized by last week’s message by the estimable Nicole Unice, which I will attempt to summarize...

According to Nicole, the primary reason that we all need to get our crap together when it comes to money is that it frees us up to get in on the real thrill of...giving it away! Generosity is one of the most powerful concepts in Christianity, and if we are mortgaged to the hilt we miss out on the joy that comes with giving. It’s important to point out at this point that she was not talking about giving it away...to the church...necessarily. No, she was talking about something else entirely. As illustration she asked all of us to look under our chairs for a white envelope. There were two such envelopes, each containing a $50 bill. Then this...

If you found this $50, your assignment this week is to pay attention to the people around you. Keep your eye open for a chance to give this money away. Seek to be sensitive to those around you who may need a small miracle, and then follow the promptings of the Holy Spirit.....or something like that.

She went on to challenge the rest of us. In a church like Hope, everyone is in a different financial place. Some of us can afford to be generous with more than $50 bucks, others, like teenagers and young parents with toddlers, it might only be $10 or even $5. Whatever the amount is doesn’t matter, the point being...something that is sacrificial. She then instructed us all to go to the bank and get that amount out, fold it up and place it in our wallet. Then spend the week looking for a chance to give it away. If the scripture is to be believed, the stories that will come flying back to us as a result of this outbreak of generosity will be amazing, and spur even more enthusiastic giving. 

I love this sort of thing, always have. Being in a position to be a blessing to struggling people has always been one of the most fulfilling things to do with money. So, I obediently went to the ATM and withdrew a C-note. So far, no opportunity has presented itself. I mean, I live in the west end of Richmond in one of the most affluent suburbs in Virginia. It’s not like I’m surrounded by hard luck stories. But then I read this morning where Kate Spade, famous handbag designer was found hanged in her grand New York City apartment...a suicide. It serves as a stunning reminder that everyone, and I mean everyone...is fighting invisible battles. I need to look harder, look past the facades.

Anyway, nothing yet, but I’m excited for the opportunity and thankful for the reminder from the pastors of my very awesome and relevant church that everything I have been given in this life is a gift and I hold it in in trust. God doesn’t need my money, but he needs my willingness to use it for something more noble than my own comfort. 

An Observation and a Birthday

Here’s something I’ve noticed about life, although good news feels better than bad news, bad news clarifies the mind. A bad report performs the valuable service of cleaning out frivolous thoughts from your head and replacing them with more rational, sober ones...a not entirely bad thing. Of course, too much bad news can lead to despair, but an occasional broadside of alarm can snap you out of dangerously pollyannish thinking. 

In my line of work, for example, a sharp and sudden sell-off in the equity markets can serve as a reality check for a new investor who has never lived through a major bear market. Watch your portfolio crater in on itself by 25% over two or three weeks and suddenly your internal fantasy math about how you’re going to retire with 5 million at age 45 come crashing down to earth. But this principle works in other areas of life as well. Your first unexpected health scare can shake you out of bad eating habits faster than a thousand lectures from friends. One terrifying flutter of the heart will suddenly convince you that eating a box of donuts every time you feel like it might not be a wise long term diet plan. But, without that terrifying flutter, ignorance is bliss.

So yeah...bad news can be the great clarifier, the mother of correction, you might say.

Just an observation on this 5th day of June. 

Speaking of which, something happened on this day 62 years ago which most definitely was not bad news. My sister, Paula, was born. In her life she has been my playmate, buddy and friend. She has been my ally in pitched battles with our two older siblings. She has been my sounding board, a debating partner and for a couple of years back in the day, a roommate. She has been a proud and doting aunt to my children, a dear friend to my wife, and wicked-good cook and hostess. She can be irrational and overwrought at times, but she is seldom if ever in doubt, the signature trait of all The Dunnevant clan. Like my other siblings, she has always and will always have my back. So, on this day, I wish her the best and happiest birthday.

Wedding Fashion and Me

There are a great many things in this world about which I know nothing, in many cases, less than nothing. But, perhaps there is no single thing that my education, training and experience has taught me less about than the subject of proper wedding attire. Since this is the week that Pam and I are charged with buying our wedding outfits, I thought I would bring this up.

The problem is that people don’t get dressed up anymore. When I was a boy, for example...men wore suits. Everywhere. All the time. Catch any episode of Leave It To Beaver and you’ll find old Ward sitting in his recliner reading his evening paper...still wearing his suit.  I mean, the dude has worked eight hours, come home, had dinner, listened to Beaver’s latest travails for half and hour, and now he finally gets a minute to read his paper and he’s still wearing the suit he put on 14 hours ago! Occasionally, he would let his freak flag fly by taking off his jacket and replacing it with a sweater, but never once would he dare remove his tie. Church? No man in his right mind would show up at the Lord’s house without a suit. There was even a term for this dress code...your Sunday Best. Now, the only time you see suits on guys is when somebody dies, or at a downtown law office...which is kind of the same thing.

Now, I don’t think this is entirely a bad thing. I’ve never been comfortable in suits. I have a half dozen of them in my closet in various stages of fashionable-ness. But the problem with the decline of the dress suit is when it’s time to dress up for something like a wedding. What’s appropriate? What would be considered too dressy? You don’t want to show up looking like a pallbearer, or worse, a lawyer!

Of course, picking out a suit for the father of the groom is child’s play compared to the land mine-strewn landscape of mother of the groom dresses. I mean that decision has more psychological undertones, emotional moving parts and status trap doors than Donald Trump’s Twitter feed. So, I don’t envy my wife this week. I just need to make the proper choice. Something casually dressy. 

Here’s what I’m thinking...

I’ve always had a secret desire to buy a seer sucker suit. It’s cool, southern, and makes a statement...I know I’m supposed to be dressed up for this event, but in my heart I’d rather be in jeans and a t-shirt, so here I am following the letter of the law but being quietly defiant. Admit it, when you’re attending a serious event, which guy do you think is most likely carrying a flask? The guy in the seer sucker suit, that’s who! The thing that has always held me back from going full seer sucker is the fact that in my mind these are old guy suits...even this absurdly handsome model has gray hair! But, now that I’m 60, that hurdle has been jumped, so maybe it’s time. Of course, this seer sucker thing only works if it doesn’t conflict with the official palette of colors assigned to the Dunnevant-Upchurch wedding, or so I am told. Ultimately I will buy only the suit that meets with the approval of my wife, and I am grateful, not resentful of this fact. Having the expert input of Pam Dunnevant assures me that when I show up at the event nobody will be whispering, What the heck was he thinking??

Lucy’s Latest Lunacy

It has not been a great 30 Days for Lucy the Lunatic. May featured record breaking amounts of rain along with accompanying thunder and lightening, which sends our girl into bouts of emotional and psychological torment. During these storms there are only two locations in our house that offer even the slightest fig leaf of security...the small gap between our sofa and coffee table, and the space between the pillows on our bed. Generally speaking, around ten minutes before the arrival of a storm, Lucy will deposit herself in one of these safe spaces to ride out the horror. When the storms occur in the middle of the night, Pam and I will be awakened by the sudden presence of Lucy, jamming her nose as far under the space between our pillows as possible. Then, our bed is transformed into what feels like one of those vibrating beds in cheap motels where you pop a quarter into the box for five minutes of...well, of...never mind. Anyway, Lucy’s entire body endures one shaking wave after another until the storm passes. Occasionally, we will find evidence the next morning of urinary malfunction in usually obscure locations.

But, Lucy’s fear of thunderstorms is not what this blog is about. No, no...Lucy’s psychoses are much deeper and varied than that. Her new thing is her bizarre mealtime ritual. It started several months ago for no apparent reason that either of us can think of. Out of nowhere she started being spooked by her food bowl, or something. Pam experimented with several new locations for the terrifying bowl and finally settled on a weird location that allows her to eat while looking out the windows of the back door. This particular view seemed to cure the jitters. But, a new pathology has now arrived on the scene whereby she refuses to eat until at least one of us, ideally both of us are in a seated position. Yes, you heard that right. Lucy now requires a rapt audience in order to eat.

Ok...here’s the thing. I have had dogs literally all of my life, and the one thing they have all had in common was a combination of voracious appetite and atrocious manners. You’ve all seen it...every meal you give your dog they act like they haven’t eaten in weeks, kibble flying all over the place as they inhale the entire bowl in five seconds! Lucy, on the other hand, acts like she’s doing us a favor by eating. She will pause grandly and gaze down upon her kibble with barely concealed contempt, then let out a plaintive sigh of resignation before daintily placing a single morsel into her mouth. Then she takes a leaisurely stroll to the nearest rug where she deposits the morsel, as if inspecting it for defects, before finally taking it up again, reluctantly. Then there’s an indifferent return to the food bowl, one more disappointed inspection, and finally she will partake. In what I consider to be deliberate defiance, she almost always leaves a couple of morsels in the bottom of the bowl just to let us know of her official ambivalence. And now, she is insisting that we both sit down while she eats. 

If Lucy were a person, she would be our 10th grade teenage daughter!!

The New Normal

Being an American has suddenly become freaking exhausting. With the dawn of each day comes some new public insult about which I am supposed to be outraged. Some B-lister says something offensive on Twitter, and all hell breaks loose. Boycotts get formed. Demands for firing ring out on social media. Then, someone from the other tribe starts with the charges of hypocrisy, since just a few weeks/months ago some B-lister from the other tribe said something offensive but they still have a job. Then it becomes a contest about which insult was more grevious. Is sexism worse than racism? What about homophobia? Where does it rank on the hierarchy of offense? Once it becomes a debate about who is at the top of the greviance totem pole, then it’s full on war. How dare you complain about mere sexism, when I have to deal with systemic racism? Then somebody on Twitter points out that they carry the quadruple burden of being a disabled, lesbian, immigrant person of color. Immediately, a GoFundMe page gets established, and straight, white, woke males are strongly encouraged to belly up to the reparations bar and fork it over. 

Literally every day in my country, somebody, somewhere is pissing somebody else off. No sooner had we settled in to the Rosanne Barr thing when Samantha Bee steps up to the megaphone for her fifteen minutes of fame. Then, out of nowhere, people from my tribe start ringing their hands over someone named Joy Reid. (I’ll have to take their word for it, but apparently she’s on TV in the morning.) After Googling her I discover that she has a history of homophobic social media posts. When they first came to light, she claimed that nefarious actors had hacked her, (the my dog ate my homework excuse for the digital age). Whatever. Eventually, it all blew over, and she’s back in business...I think. Anyway, this was given as evidence of liberal hypocrisy...or something. In America it’s getting to the place where if we didn’t have double standards, we wouldn’t have any standards at all!

The thing is...I just can’t keep up with it all. I don’t think I’m much different from anyone else in that as a human being I have a limited reservoir of outrage. I can’t live my entire life being buffeted from one insult to another. At some point, for self preservation purposes, I have to decide to let stuff go. I mean, if I hear someone like Rosanne Barr say something stupid and offensive, don’t I have to consider the source? Do I have a reasonable expectation that a gasbag like Barr wouldn’t say something stupid and offensive? No, I do not. It’s what she does. Every B-lister that lands in the news for outrageous comments all have one thing in common...they are all desperately competing for eyeballs. With the proliferation of social media, and the millions of voices it magnifies, civility and kindness just wont do if you want to make a splash. In the old days the saying went...the squeaky wheel gets the grease. Today, at least on social media, it’s more like...the provocateur gets the clicks. When we allow ourselves to be offended by them, they are empowered, and we are reduced.

Of course, I can already hear the reaction to this view...That’s easy for you to say! You’re a straight, white, male, small business-owning, Christian, libertarian-leaning suburbanite. What the hell do you know??!! Probably nothing.

There’s an awful lot of blame to go around for the shocking disappearance of basic decency in our public discourse. It’s been slipping away for years. But, I feel confident that the current occupant of the White House shares a respectable amount of responsibility for its recently dramatic decay. The first Tweeting President has sowed the wind with a million juvenile rants and petty insults. Now, we are all reaping the whirlwind. The question is, how do we ever put the genie back in the bottle after he’s gone? I don’t think we can. This is and forever will be...the new normal. Yay.

Thanks, Mr. President

You would forget your head if it wasn’t attached to your shoulders...was a common accusation hurled at me by my sainted mother. I was always dashing off to school and leaving some vital thing at the house. More often my forgetfulness centered around some chore she had ordered me to complete which I had left undone. Selective amnesia, she called it. It wasn’t as if I didn’t have a powerful enough memory. I could recite the starting lineup of the 1969 Mets in game six of the World Series, backwards...still can. You need someone to remember the name of some obscure character from Twelfth Night, or if you’re having trouble recalling the name of the winning general from the Battle of Malvern Hill, I’m your guy. In other words, when it comes to useless mind-cluttering minutia and inane trivia, I’ve got a mind like a steel trap. But if you need to remember something consequential like a password, or where you left your car keys, or that 10:30 doctor’s appointment? Not so much. Turning 60 recently hasn’t helped in the mental acuity department, since now I instinctively blame the calendar for every error I make. But, yesterday, I found encouragement from the oddest source...Abraham Lincoln. In my Memorial Day readings, I stumbled across...this:

Executive Mansion,
Washington, Nov. 21, 1864.

Dear Madam,

I have been shown in the files of the War Department a statement of the Adjutant General of Massachusetts that you are the mother of five sons who have died gloriously on the field of battle.

I feel how weak and fruitless must be any words of mine which should attempt to beguile you from the grief of a loss so overwhelming. But I cannot refrain from tendering to you the consolation that may be found in the thanks of the Republic they died to save.

I pray that our Heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your bereavement, and leave you only the cherished memory of the loved and lost, and the solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of Freedom.

Yours, very sincerely and respectfully,
A. Lincoln.

At age 56, a mere six months prior to being assassinated, and having endured perhaps the most brutal three years of any presidency before or since, Abraham Lincoln turned out this stunningly beautiful bit of writing. In three short paragraphs, four sentences, he demonstrated for the entire nation what presidential leadership looks like. Over 150 years later, his words still stir the heart and soul. The eloquence. The epic tenderness. This is unrivaled writing. To read it, even now, is to be transported through time and space and dropped in the middle of an unparalleled tragedy, and to feel the freshness of the open wound that was the American Civil War. 

So, reading something this profoundly beautiful, written by a man under unimaginable stress, gives me great hope that whatever issues I might be dealing with can and will be overcome. 

Weddings, Funerals and Reunions

Now that Memorial Day is over, the Dunnevant family can officially be considered in full wedding-mode. There remain a mere 32 Days left before my son, Patrick Dunnevant marries the lovely and talented Sarah Upchurch in Nashville, Tennessee. Between that day and this lies a great chasm which can only be crossed through a terrifying gauntlet of caterers, event planners, photographers and incompetent hotel staff. But, cross it we will.

In the history of a family there are only a handful of things that bring everyone together in one place, and two of them are somewhat unpleasant...funerals and family reunions. Although, in recent years I have warmed to the reunion thing, generally speaking, they wouldn’t make my top ten list of fun things to do. Funerals, on the other hand, almost without exception, are dreadful things, full of sadness and weeping and featuring long lines of people waiting for a two minute opportunity to say something comforting to the bereaved, a ghastly business. But weddings? Now you’re talking! They are celebrations, an opportunity to gather together to eat and drink and shower young people with gifts and advice. The trouble with weddings is that they are a lot like sausage...nobody wants to see how they are put together. The truth is, weddings are logistical nightmares even in the best of circumstances. But, when you’re 600 miles away from the venue, it’s even worse. Thanks to the invention of texting and FaceTime we are making slow but sure progress. I say we when what I actually mean is...Pam, of course, but you already knew that.

As difficult as these things are to plan, organize and execute, once the day arrives it will be over with in a flash. We will then be left with our memories and hopefully several epic photographs. It will be worth all the effort and expense. A new daughter will be welcomed into the family and a new source of stories added to the family lore.

Then, we get to spend three weeks of rehab in Maine. Yes!!!