The Wolf You Feed

This past Saturday, I was absently watching Alabama steamrolling their latest opponent, the suspense having been ripped away from the game halfway through the 1st period, when I clicked on the Drudge Report tab on my iPad. It has been my news aggregator of choice for the past ten years or so. I honestly can’t recall a single headline that I read on Saturday. What I can remember is the wave of nausea that passed over me. It was as if I had reached some sort of limit, a threshold of inhumanity which I simply couldn’t cross. I felt like someone might feel who had been asleep since 1950 and suddenly wakes up, desperate for news of his country, only to discover that he has woken up in some strange, post apocalyptic land being led by an army of  mentally ill adolescents. Between the hysterical, raging anger of the politics to the childish narcicissism of the citizenry, a visitor from 1950 might conclude that not only had we lost the Cold War, we had probably lost virtually everything else in the aftermath.

I have always prided myself on my ability to take the long view, to not get swept up in fever pitches of any kind. My feeling has always been that no matter how loud, passionate and agitated things get, it’s never as bad or as good as it seems. It’s a philosophy rooted in that reliable old phrase...This too shall pass. I still believe it...but, like any good philosophy, from time to time, adjustments have to be made. So, I’m making one. I have embarked upon a news cleanse. Except for financial news vital to my profession, I have presently gone 86 hours without watching, listening to, or reading the news.

I do not know how long this cleanse will continue. If I hear rumors of something horrible going on, I may fold under the power of curiosity. The voyeur in me might not be able to resist the potential humiliation of the next politician or celebrity to get swept under by a #METOO accusation. But, for as long as I am able, I intend to opt out of the 24/7 news noise machine. Here are my two primary reasons for this disengagement...

1. I am now 60 years old. It’s getting late. Time is short. Every day I spend swept along in the sewer of our discontent is a day I have forever lost. There is a reason I call this a news cleanse. It’s because in my heart, the news, at least some of it, feels filthy. The ancient prophets warned us to...stand guard at the door of our minds. Ancient advice is often the best advice. 

2. The 24/7 news machine thrives on and often sells division. Hostility, resentment and anger get the clicks. I am not immune to this human weakness. I am drawn to the worst stories of my enemies, and the most flattering assessments of my friends. As a result, the more news I consume the more hostile and strident I become, and the more partisan. It is a vicious circle that feeds on itself...and a damned poor way to live.

There’s an old Cherokee proverb about a brave warrior teaching his grandson about life...

“A fight is going on inside me,” he said to the boy. ”It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One is evil–he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.” He continued, “The other is good – he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. The same fight is going on inside you–and inside every other person, too. The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather: “Which wolf will win?”

The brave Cherokee warrior simply replied, “The one you feed.”

A Question of Intent

Yesterday, I wrote a blog about gun control. Afterwards, I sent the link to a buddy of mine who lives up in Maine. He has forgotten more about guns than I will ever know. I wanted his thoughts, figuring that he might have insights which I hadn’t thought of. Imagine that?...seeking out opinions of those who might disagree with you!! It works so well for Alan and me...why can’t Washington figure it out?

Anyway, he did bring up things that hadn’t crossed my mind, like what effect these laws would have on private gun transactions, etc..I learned some things. But, in the back and forth, he made some observations that I would like to address in a more expansive way than texting will allow. Besides, my thumbs are far too fat and clumsy!!

I will paraphrase Alan’s observations here, hoping to be as accurate as possible:

Why is it that we are so determined to stop “senseless deaths” when it comes to guns and yet there are far more deadly killers out there that we hardly bat an eye at...cars kill 30,000 a year. Why are we not seeking to limit how fast our cars can travel? How about alcohol, another legal product that people misuse...kills more people, destroys more families than guns could even think about. We accept this slow destruction of life with barely a whimper. There are no restrictions on how much alcohol one can buy. Why are we suddenly so intent on controlling the tool of evil(guns), when guns have been around forever? What’s different now?

Ok, there’s a lot here. First, I do think it possible to be grieved about more than one thing at a time. As Americans in 2018, we all have learned how to multi-task our outrage. But, he makes a good point in that the media doesn’t broadcast 24/7 everytime there’s a twenty car pileup on 95. Drunk driving deaths hardly get more than 30 seconds on the nightly news. Accordingly, there doesn’t seem to be equal outrage over these “senseless deaths.” So, to try to answer his What’s different now question, let me offer this.

I feel that the difference here is a matter of intent and the nature of the victims. When a guy is speeding and goes into a slide and wipes out three kids at a school bus stop, it is an unspeakable tragedy. The driver will spend a considerable part of the remainder of his life in prison for vehicular manslaughter. However, nobody will accuse him of intentionally murdering school kids. He didn’t leave the house that morning with this outcome in mind. He mishandled his car which, at 2000 pounds, was converted into a deadly weapon. This type of tragedy takes on a much darker quality if it were learned that he intended to murder those kids, that the accident was no accident at all. Intent is a game changer to how we perceive the tragedy. The same is true with regards to alcohol related deaths. Drunk driving has, in fact, been stigmatized today in a way that it wasn’t in the past...think how a song like Frank Sinatra’s One For My Baby and One More For The Road would go over today! But generally speaking, when a drunk driver kills an innocent family on the highway, the drunk driver is shunned and the dead family is grieved, but it still doesn’t carry the same stench of deliberate intent. Yes, alcoholism destroys families. A legal product, misused, can have devastating consequences. But, what rational person would place an alcoholic in the same moral category as a mass murderer?

While it is true that without guns, evil, disturbed human beings will find other means to kill. They might build bombs, wield knives, throw rocks. But, all of these other tools take either greater skill to assemble, or yield a much lower kill rate. If the guy who killed those people in that synagogue was armed with only a knife I dont think 13 worshippers would have perished.

But, there’s something else here. There is something instrinsically evil about the ease with which a mad man can kill. An automatic or semi automatic weapon is designed to kill as may things as rapidly as possible, and it is my contention that we as a society make it far to easy for that mad man to get his hands on these types of weapons. One more thing, and this might just be me...

When I see news of a huge accident on a highway that kills lots of innocent people, it is heartbreaking. When I learn of a drunk driver killing a family of four, it is tragic. But, when as an American, I am constantly hearing of crazy people walking into public places and opening fire, I feel that there is a sickness at the core of my country. I wonder, why does this happen in America so often, when no other advanced nation on earth has to deal with this? When someone opens fire in a bar in most other western nations, it’s stop the presses breaking news. Here, it’s Tuesday. This is the thing that makes mass shooting deaths different for me. It’s the question of societal health. Everytime it happens, I feel as though the social fabric that holds us together is getting ripped...yet again. At some point it will come completely apart. I never feel this way about drunk drivers and traffic deaths. I just don’t.

So, that’s my attempt at an answer for my friend.

My Gun Control Proposal

In the eight year history of this blog, the subject of mass shootings and gun control has come up what seems like 100 times. It’s interesting to see how my reactions to each subsequent incident have changed and how they have stayed the same. Running through the commentary is a dark stream of helplessness, a heaviness of heart. 

Yesterday I made a simple observation on Facebook about how frequent these shootings have become. As is always the case, that remark invited a back and forth debate about gun control, not my intent. Instead of examining the condition of our collective hearts, we prefer pedantic discussions about the 2nd Amendment, discussions that quickly send us scurrying into our separate ideological bunkers.

Here’s what I’m left with...I live in the only first world country in the world that has to deal with this level of gun violence. Nobody else is even close. Further, the violence is getting worse, not better. The current pace of these atrocities suggests that we will experience five or six more before Christmas. Think about that for a minute. It should disturb the hell out of us. 

I am not a gun expert. I have no political instincts, little knowledge of the Rube-Goldberg process required to get anything done. But, I have this blog, and a reasonably well functioning brain, and with that brain I have thought a lot about this topic. What follows is my gun control proposal. I am fully aware that, even if implemented, this proposal will not put an immediate end to this plague. Perhaps it would get worse before it gets better. However, I do think that over time, it will help reverse the trend lines. To some, it will appear too timid, others might accuse me of being a closet radical. Here goes...

My proposal has three parts:

1. Require a waiting period for the purchase of any firearm. The length of this waiting period is negotiable. I prefer a week, but would be open to other suggestions.  This will have the effect of reducing crimes of passion, since nothing as deadly serious as purchasing a gun should be allowed to be done either on a whim or during a time of roiled emotions.

2. Nationwide, mandatory, and complete background checks should be mandated for any firearm purchase. Current background checks are not thorough enough, not widespread enough, and not always completed. Changes to privacy laws for mental health records will have to be considered, since so many of these killers have mental health issues, that if shared in a background check would deny their access to guns. For anyone who might object to this as an intrusion on their rights, I should point out that no one can merely waltz into a DMV and walk out with a driver’s license. You’ve got to take a test, provide proper identification, etc..In my profession, I am constantly required to provide full financial documentation and demonstrate proficiency to maintain my license to practice my profession.

3. The sale of all automatic and semi-automatic weapons would be banned. I have many friends who are avid hunters. My Dad loved to hunt. I have never met a single person who uses an AK-47 to kill a deer. I can imagine no reason why any ordinary citizen of this republic would need an automatic weapon. Let me here address an argument  I hear frequently when this subject comes up. It goes something like this...Doug, the American people need automatic weapons because without them, we would be defenseless if ever our government turned on us. This is what the Founders had in mind when they crafted the 2nd Amendment. All the despots of the 20th century all confiscated the guns from the people so they would have a monopoly on deadly violence. We can’t let that happen here.

Ok, I have a grain of sympathy for this view, since I am very much a liberty-loving patriot. However, the practicality of this position disappeared probably 50 years ago. Have you actually looked at our military firepower lately? Everywhere you look, even in some local governments, you see SWAT teams decked out with armor-piercing bullets, body armor, even armored personnel carriers. Navy Seals, black ops, and other special forces of our military are awesomely endowed with cutting edge killing technology. Are you seriously tying to suggest that owning a semi-automatic rifle will allow you to defend yourself against such a force? When everyone from soldiers to farmers were armed with the same muzzle loaded long rifles, this was a much more powerful argument, and THAT was the argument the Framers were making with the 2nd Amendment. Today, it seems a silly one to insist on making.

So, what about the 300 million legally purchased firearms already in American homes? The constitutionality and practically of confiscating that much firepower is ridiculous. Yes, I know that Australia has attempted confiscation with some success, but they did so without the restraints of their Constitution, and even so, passed a sweeping law, fully debated in their congress to get it done. I believe that confiscation would not work here, and would violate the constitution. It’s like saying that we should round up 15 million illegal immigrants and send them back where they came from. First of all, impossible to do, and secondly, wildly Un-American.

So, even with these three changes, we would still be a well armed nation with at least one gun for every man, woman and child in these United States. Additionally, these changes would not provide an immediate fix to this epidemic of gun-wielding, mentally ill killers acting out their hateful fantasies. But, it would be a step in the right direction. It would demonstrate that we are not powerless, that we can agree to at least try to forge a path towards less violence. It does so while preserving the 2nd Amendment, but it does ask us as citizens to put up with a little inconvenience in order to make it more difficult for a mad man to get his hands on an instrument of death.

Discuss...

The Elephant Man

Luckily, I have no client meetings today. The only people who will have to look at me are my wife, who kind of has to, the guys and girls at the office, who will find it all very entertaining, and my assistant, who will be highly compensated for her trouble. You see, last night, at exactly 7:13—I was checking on the oven timer at the time—I felt a familiar pressure and heaviness in the corner of my left eye. I thought...Oh, crap.

Yes friends, once again I have been visited by what for me has become a hardy perennial...periorbital edema...or, if you prefer the Latin... hideously disgusting swollen eye. I will spare all of you a selfie.

What follows are the first responses I can expect from my buddies at work...and remember, these are my friends:

Holy s**t, what the heck happened to your eye??!!

Pam finally had enough of your smart mouth, huh?

I don’t know, I think it’s an improvement.

Then, my assistant will walk in, take one look and burst out laughing. She is not known for either grace or empathy where I am concerned. She’s more in the Oh, stop being a baby! school of nursing, which features a lot of pointing and laughing. Sometimes I think I could keel over in front of her, grasping my chest and she would say, O for heavens sake! Could you have at least signed these checks first? Honestly!!

When I woke up this morning, I knew instantly that it had gotten far worse during the night. No mirror was required, I just knew. The eye was heavy and I could barely see through the narrow slit that remained. When I finally steeled myself for a look, my instincts were validated. Holy Cow. After popping two Benadryl—the only known, sometimes effective cure—I looked again in the mirror. Ladies and gentlemen, I am here to tell you that no matter how attractive you think you are, and some of you are very attractive, one case of edema has the power to turn you into the Elephant Man.

So, this guy will be sporting a pair of thick, black shades today, indoors and out.

What a freak show!

“Always Believe The Poodle”

Now that the 2018 midterms are in the can, it’s time to turn our attention to the Presidential election of 2020. To that end, my daughter and I had the following conversation yesterday...

    

Kaitlin: Jackson and I had a long talk today about the importance of civic responsibility. You can tell, especially in the last photo, that it really sank in.

Me: Yeah...in that last picture it’s like he is considering the possibility that candidate “A” might outlaw snoozles.

Kaitlin: Jackson is considering running for office on an anti-firework platform in 2020.

Me: Anti-firework and a statewide ban on trash trucks...plus, free skratches for everyone, even bad boys.

Kaitlin: Sounds awfully liberal to me! Even bad boys??

Me: I’ve always suspected that Jackson is a socialist pupper...From each according to their ability to skratch, To each according to their need of a snoozle. And he’s probably in favor of open border collies.

Kaitlin: I’ve consulted with Jackson, and he has informed me that although he wants free cookie bones for all, he is unwilling to share any of his cookie bones with anyone. He also stated his refusal to share any of his stuffed frens with any other doggos. I’m concerned that this kind of waffling does not bode well for his campaign.

Me: Typical Limousine Liberal. Sounds like he harbors some 1%er ideas...now that he has his cookie bones, he wants to pull up the ladder behind him!

Kaitlin: we need to drain the swamp!

Me: Isn’t it also true that Jackson has promised not to accept any campaign cookie bone contributions from any outside lobby groups?

Kaitlin: I can neither confirm or deny that such cookie bones have been consumed.

Me: Can you confirm or deny the rumor that Jackson has steadfastly refused to debate any cat candidates who might be on the ballot?

Kaitlin: Confirmed. He drew a hard line on that one.

Me: And, what about that #METOO accusation lodged against him by the French Poodle down the street?

Kaitlin: I 100% believe the poodle....although, he’ll probably get elected anyway.

Me: As Jackson’s running mate, Lucy would like to say that she is in favor of a universal guaranteed income for all puppers so that everyone will able to enjoy unlimited snoozles.

Kaitlin: As you can see, Jackson is fully on board with this proposal...

Me: Ok then, all we need is a campaign slogan...

JACKSON/LUCY 2020...after Trump, retrieving the best of what’s left!

Words To Live By

The New King James version of the Bible translates Proverbs 14:12 this way...

There is a way which seems right unto a man, but the end thereof leads to death.

The New English Married Couples translation puts it this way...

There is a way which seems right unto a man, but then he runs it by his wife and she says, “What, are you nuts?”

My Election Prediction

No matter where you happen to live in these United States, you have not been able to escape the deluge of political propaganda over the last couple of months. Television ads, radio spots, Facebook videos, and a mailbox stuffed with slickly produced broadsides, all proclaiming this election to be the single most critically important election in the history of our country. In just a few days now, it will all go away. The question of the day is...Will the Democrats take the House, the Senate, or both? Or will the Republicans hold on to one or both? Here’s my prediction:

When we wake up on Wednesday morning, the 7th of November, no matter the outcome, the world will stubbornly, relentlessly refuse to end. When the new Congress convenes in January, whichever side lost will be proven wrong in their overblown rhetoric about the end of days. The side that won will be unable to deliver on any of their arrogant promises. In response to their failures, a new excuse will be made, a new villain identified, which will require lots of fund raising to defeat. Then, when 2020 rolls around, every media outlet on our planet will declare that election to be the the single most critically important election in the history of the country. 

I have made this prediction about election outcomes several times in my life. I have never been wrong.

...Making Us Into Devils

I am currently making my way through Mere Christianity for probably the sixth time. It has always been something of an obsession. I find it at once reassuring and sustaining of my faith, while also convicting of my shortcomings. This time through I was struck by this particular passage from the chapter entitled...Forgiveness. C. S. Lewis’ words about what happens to the human heart when forgiveness is abandoned reads like it was written yesterday, describing as it does the polarizing divisions all around us...

Suppose one reads a story of filthy astrocities in the paper. Then suppose that something turns up suggesting that the story might not be quite true, or not quite so bad as it was made out. Is one’s first feeling, “Thank God, even they aren’t quite so bad as that,” or is it a feeling of disappointment, and even a determination to cling to the first story for the sheer pleasure of thinking your enemies as bad as possible? If it is the second then it is, I am afraid, the first step in a process which, if followed to the end, will make us into devils. You see, one is beginning to wish that black was a little blacker. If we give that wish its head, later on we shall wish to see grey as black, and then to see white itself as black. Finally, we shall insist on seeing everything—God and our friends and ourselves included— as bad, and not be able to stop doing it: we shall be fixed forever in a universe of pure hatred.

Be Better

Friendship is a funny thing. Some friends make perfect sense, others sometime make you shake your head in amazement. This past weekend, I had a visit from one of my head shakers...Deen Entsminger. 

I met Deen seven or eight years ago when my son went down to Belmont University for his audition. Deen would become one of his favorite music professors. We were walking through one of the music buildings on campus when we passed by his office. There he was, dressed in shorts, a festive and quite loud Hawaiian shirt, wearing bright red Converse Chuck Taylor high tops. Instantly, I knew I was gonna like this guy. In the following 4plus years, Pam and I were down for practically every chamber singers concert, partially because we wanted to visit our son, but also because the music that would come pouring out of that group was transcendently beautiful. Much of that beauty was a direct result of this chaotic, passionate, whirling dervish of a conductor. Before long, we became friends, not just acquaintances. Every chance we got, we would volunteer to house his choirs whenever they came through Richmond while on tour. The great thing about our friendship is that we don’t have a long list of things in common. I mean, we both love music, and we both love my son, and we both are quite fond of beer...but that’s about it. We probably don’t vote the same way, or worship the same way. But, none of that stuff matters. He’s just super cool and a blast to hang around.

While he was here over the weekend, I took him over to Big Al’s for a beer and we talked a mile a minute, catching up. We started discussing the sorry state of our politics and all of the hatred that seems to be dividing us. Out of nowhere, he told me a story that I want to share in this space. It was very moving, the kind of story that stays in your heart and mind long after the telling...

Deen is 8 years older than me. When he attended middle school in Virginia Beach, he was there when the first black student was admitted. Deen, like most middle schoolers in the early 60’s in Virginia had had very little exposure to black people. In the weeks leading up to the big day, his parents tried to prepare him for what it might be like. They warned him that because of the poverty that the kid probably lived in, he might not be dressed very well, might not have decent shoes...or shoes at all! Deen had no idea what to expect. When you’ve had no interaction with anyone of a certain race, naturally there is a bit of fear and apprehension. The entire school was filled with tension and anxiety.

The first few days after his arrival, Deen never saw him. But a week or so later, while Deen was at his locker between classes, he spotted him down the hall headed right for him...My heart began beating hard in my chest. I could see that we were going to pass within inches of each other. I was too nervous to even think about speaking! But, I did notice something immediately. He was wearing freshly ironed pants, and a madras shirt, which for an eighth grader was considered high fashion back then. He was impeccably groomed. But, when he passed by something amazing happened. It was the smell that I remember as if it happened yesterday...the fresh, familiar smell of...Ivory Soap. It was amazing, something like a revelation for me...he washed his face with Ivory Soap...just like I did, just like almost all of us did. Maybe we were more alike than we were different? To this day, whenever I smell Ivory Soap, I think of that brave boy...

Maybe this story needs to be told again and again as we approach this election. Despite the screaming headlines, and the voices raised in hatred, when we strip away all the noise, we are more alike as human beings than we are different. The love that is possible between us has got to become stronger than the hatred that so easily ensnares us. We can do better. We can be better.

1968 vs. 2018

Recency bias is the phenomenon that causes people to attach greater significance to things that have just happened than they do things that happened at some time in the past. For example, a young Baltimore Orioles fan might be excused the opinion that the 2018 version of his team was the worst team ever, only because he wasn’t alive to witness the 1962 Mets. A twenty-something kid who laments what has become of pop music today should have heard what it sounded like to live through the 1970’s disco plague.

 But, what about politics? I’m starting to hear this complaint...We are now more divided as a country as we have ever been. 

But, are we?

There is no denying the fact that our politics is toxic. The polarization in Washington is deep and getting deeper. Arguments over politics and politicians are more heated and emotional than they used to be, no question about it. Violence, especially politically tinged violence is on the rise. Our political disagreements are doing damage to friendships, families and entire communities. But, is what we are going through unprecedented? Is it, in fact, worse than ever??

Not even close. What is unique about what divides us today is the fact that we are reminded of those divisions 24/7 by multiple media outlets on radio, television, and social media. This is a very different observation than claiming that the news media is the enemy of the people. It is simply an observation that we all know about the ugliness of our divisions because we are constantly reminded by our technological advancements. This was not true during the Civil War, or even during the worst year I’ve ever lived through as an American...1968. Back then, we were informed of the latest mayhem only once a day, at 6:00pm by Walter Cronkite on a 15 inch black and white television set with rabbit ears. Occasionally there would be an interruption of our regularly scheduled programming for a NEWS BULLETIN, which amounted to Walter letting us know of some especially grevious developement from some riot infested, burning city.

In case you’re wondering, 1968 made 2018 look like a garden party. It featured everything from multiple political assassinations ( Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy), to over a hundred burning cities, a Democratic Party convention that had policemen beating protesters over the heads with clubs, while the Soviet Union was busy sending tanks into Czechoslovakia to destroy a democratic protest, and over 10,000 American soldiers were being killed in battle in Vietnam. I remember sitting on the floor in my grand parent’s trailer watching Robert Kennedy give his victory speech afte the California primary. I was ten years old and just becoming aware of the intensity of events happening all around me. Then, the chaos unfolded live. Something had happened. People were screaming and crying. Roosevelt Greer’s sad face on the television...the senator had been shot while walking through the kitchen of the hotel. Welcome to the land of the grownups, Douglas...

But, as divided as we certainly are right now, I do think that the 24 hour, insatiable news machine has amplified the divisions. How could they not? We can’t escape it. It’s in our face all the time. So, a real and substantive political division in America definitely exists. But, if we had the power or inclination to steal back the oxygen that the news machine sucks out of the room every day, we might discover a way to step back from the vitriol, to place our differences in a more historically accurate context. Maybe then, we will find that a middle way is possible, that an accommodation can be reached, and sanity and basic decency can be restored.

Or...maybe not.

My Country

This week, 2018 has continued its unrelenting campaign to claim the title of Worst Year Ever. First, a steroid-eating, body-building, strip-club bouncer, and owner of yet another infamous white van, was arrested for sending over a dozen pipe bombs to prominent Democratic Party politicians and partisans, out of some imagined fealty to Donald Trump. Next, a self-proclaimed Jew-hating Nazi who claims that Donald Trump is scum because he’s controlled by the Jews, walks in to a Pittsburgh synagogue and murders 11 worshipers while screaming... All Jews Must Die.

This is my country.

This isn’t the only thing that defines us, of course. We are a land filled with remarkable people doing remarkable things. We are a hard working people, generous and loving, philanthropic to a degree unmatched in the world. But we are also a land full of lunatics, eager to act out violent fantasies at the slightest provocation. Increasingly, this impulse for deadly violence, is what is defining us in the eyes of the world. 

And now, the specter of Jewish worshippers gathered in a synagogue getting mowed down by an anti-Semite comes to us not from Palestine, but Pittsburgh.

This is my country.

...It’s Never Ok To Lack Effort

I don’t remember how old I was, probably 11 or 12. I wasn’t particularly thrilled with the job I had been given by my Dad of mowing the lawn, and it showed. I had missed several spots, and was dragging myself around the yard with lots of attitude. Next thing I know, Dad is standing next to me tapping me on the shoulder. I turned off the mower...

Dad: What are you doing?

Me: I’m cutting the grass...(the reader will notice that I didn’t add...What does it LOOK like I’m doing?...to this statement, because this sort of snarky disrespect would have resulted in a severe, draconian response from my very Old School, greatest generation father, who didn’t appreciate snark)

Dad: No...you are cutting the grass poorly. Look at all the spots you’re missing! 

Then it gets a little fuzzy. I don’t remember the exact words, but he launched into a speech about the integrity of work, about how a man’s reputation is made by what kind of job they do on even the most insignificant assignment, about how you never want to put your name on something that wasn’t done to the best of your ability, blah, blah, blah...All I was thinking was, Dad, it’s just the grass!! But he was having none of it. He ended the speech with this...

Son, it’s ok to lack skill, but it’s never ok to lack effort.

It took me years before I understood what wise advice he had given me.

I thought about this last night while watching the World Series. Manny Machado, the most gifted baseball player on either roster, lifted a high fly ball towards the left field bleachers, stood at home plate briefly, admiring his work, then broke out into a self congratulatory trot towards first base. Only, the ball didn’t quite make it to the bleachers, instead, glancing off the wall, 365 feet from home plate. Instead of sliding into second base with a double in a tie game of the World Series with his team down two games to zero, Mr. Machado loafed into first base with probably the longest single in Major League history. I watched it with my mouth hanging open, astonished at his shameless lack of effort. This isn’t the first time, even in this post season, that he has loafed while running the bases. It’s what he does, it’s part of who he is as a player...a supremely talented, lazy player.

It is always this way in sports. It’s always the graceful prodigy who dogs it, it’s always the most gifted athletes who show the least desire. Maybe it’s because the game comes so easy to them. All through my life as a baseball fan, it has always been the scrappers, the gamers who I have loved...the guys who had to compensate for their lack of natural talent with relentless drive and hustle. It’s always been those guys who I can identify with. There’s a life lesson somewhere in all of this. But it all boils down to what my Dad told me that day nearly fifty years ago...

...its ok to lack skill, but it’s never ok to lack effort.

Do Teachers Have A Cushy Job?

My daughter is a middle school English teacher. She happens to be an award winning middle school English teacher. She is making a real difference in the lives of her students, instilling in them a love of reading and an appreciation for language. In doing so, she is doing God’s work. I am very proud of her. But her job is insanely difficult. She is reading a book right now by someone named Jane Morris called Teacher Misery. Last night, she texted me an excerpt. To say that I was appalled would be an understatement:

As I read this story, I tried mightily to imagine something like this happening in any classroom when I attended the Hanover County public schools from 1968 through 1976. I simply could not. This is not to say that we didn’t have foul-mouthed, disrespectful students back then. We had plenty. But had any of them used this kind of language, or behaved in this manner, it would have taken maybe five minutes for that kid to be escorted out of that classroom. Full stop. That’s how long it would have taken the principal to run from his office, and physically remove Raptor and his cocky smirk from school property. Maybe another ten minutes to draw up his expulsion papers, then another for his next of kin to be summoned to drive him away. 

But Kaitlin informs me that expelling students is frowned upon by today’s education bureaucracy. If the goal is to educate children, why would we want to expel them from school, they ask. My answer is simple and unpolluted by educrat groupthink:

Me: Education is a privilege. If some jackass doesn’t desire an education and his or her antics makes the education of others more difficult or in this case, impossible, then escorting said jackass off the premises seems wise. There is no way that any sane person can call this progress.

Just in case you might be laboring under the false notion that teachers have an easy job because they...have the summers off... consider the following disgusting asshattery:

Honestly. If I had to deal with this insanity on a daily basis, it would take more than a summer vacation...

Pipe Bombs

The complete and total collapse of our civil discourse now brings us pipe bombs. Yesterday afternoon, eight of them were mailed to a series of high profile Democrats, including former President Obama. This comes less than two weeks before the 2018 mid term elections, against the backdrop of a caravan of Central Americans making their way across Mexico. Even if, like me, you’re not one who takes politics all that seriously, it’s hard not to feel like something big and ominous is about to happen.

I consider myself a cynical observer. The last time I felt anything approaching confidence in Washington was at the dawn of Ronald Reagan’s first term, because finally we had a President who promised to reign in, to constrain, to loosen the government’s grip on American life. The fact that Reagan was largely unsuccessful in this effort convinced me that it was never going to happen, that my country would always be a place where government’s power and influence would always and forevermore grow. The best I could hope for was a slower growth rate. Consequently, ever since Reagan, I have had very low expectations of politics and politicians. I withdrew from the partisan wars as an active participant. I concentrated my actions and passions toward my business, my friends and my family. Whatever was going on in Washington was merely one of a thousand entertainment options for me, something to roll my eyes over, and crack jokes about. Voting became an excruciating experience. How could I possibly pull the lever for that insufferable moron? Well, if I don’t that leaves me with that other blithering idiot. 

But, suddenly, politics isn’t funny anymore. It’s becoming harder and harder to dismiss what’s happening in Washington as theatre, as merely a playground for egotistical narcissists. Now, faux hatred has turned in to real hatred. Now, scuffles are breaking out, and pipe bombs fly through the mail. The political and ideological divide is rapidly becoming a tangible, physical one. We are now red states, blue states, deplorables and resisters. There is talk of secession in the air. There are millions of people out there who have convinced themselves that if the upcoming elections don’t go their way, the country is finished and their lives will be over. I feel helpless to stop any of this. I’m just holding on to the rails of this national roller coaster.

But, you know what I’m really tired of? The blame game. The calculations that start with every new news cycle...who benefits? Who will be hurt? Does the Caravan help the Republicans? Will the pipe bombs boost the Democrats?

Here’s what I know...anyone who would assemble an explosive device, place it in the mail, with the intent of killing a politician, is a treasonous coward. I shouldn’t ever have to say this, but it’s 2018 so...it doesn’t matter who the politician is. I have no interest in living in a country where people feel justified in killing their political and ideological enemies. That’s not America. That’s the 1930’s Soviet Union. That’s Nazi Germany. That’s Mao’s Cultural Revolution. That’s Che Guevara’s purges.

I never thought I would long for the day when the people in Washington were just harmless buffoons. But, when buffoonery meets violence, it’s a game changer.

That’s where we find ourselves in 2018.

9 Miles in 52 Minutes

Yesterday was one of those days. I don’t have very many of them anymore. Up at 5:00, out the door at 7:45, home at 8:20 in the evening. Thirty years ago, this would have been like every Tuesday. Now, it’s a rarity.

I met with some clients in Burke, Va. late in the afternoon. I make the trip every year, usually in October. Since it’s in northern Virginia, there’s no good time to make that drive. But, yesterday was especially awful. I backed out of their driveway at 6:15. It’s exactly 9 miles from their house to the Occoquan exit onto 95. It took me 52 minutes.

In the midst of this interminable slog, it occurred to me that there are thousands of people for whom this is totally normal. The vast majority of the commuters around me on that 9 mile, bumper to bumper, 10 mph soul-crushing journey have to endure it every single day. To ponder this reality is to confront the disturbing truth that contemporary Americans who choose to live in such places...ie., most every large city in the country...have simply lost their minds. When, in the course of human development, did it become acceptable to live in a place where it takes 52 minutes to drive 9 miles? Can you imagine a real estate agent back in 1955 telling an upwardly mobile young couple with two toddlers that the rancher they have their eyes on is a steal at $18,000, and what’s more...It only takes 52 minutes to get to the interstate!!

I suppose it’s possible that eventually you would get used to it. Maybe after a couple of years you would learn to adjust. You would discover books on tape, and other Jedi mind tricks designed to distract you from the fact that you have become a hampster on a treadmill. But Doug, but Doug, you say...eventually self driving cars will mitigate these sorts of commutes. Well...I am here to inform you that the only thing more terrifying and dehumanizing than sitting in a 9 mile long parking lot with 10,000 total strangers is the thought that I might one day do so, surrounded by 10,000 people... fast asleep in their reclining drivers seats.

No thank you.

The Age of Adjustments

It’s 5:00 in the morning, and I am wide awake. My eyes opened at 4:30. I gave it thirty minutes but finally gave up. I have a mountain in front of me, no point staring at the ceiling in the dark. Might as well get up.

One of the great deceptions of life is the notion that at some point, by dent of hard work, discipline and force of will, it gets easier. Not true. What it gets is...different. I’m 60 years in and I find that I’m constantly having to learn new coping skills. The only constant seems to be the constancy of change. Just about the time you master something, a new challenge arises. 

Just about everything in this world is unrecognizable from how it looked when I was a kid. The differences aren’t all bad. Some things look better...my bank account for one. Other things are worse...our politics, while never truly civil, has now become toxic. Most everything else is just...different. A few examples:

Church. Completely different from what it sounded and looked like when I was a boy. I grew up with robed choirs, hymn books, ladies in their finery, men in their gray suits, older men nodding off, older woman fanning themselves with the funeral home fans provided them in the hymn rack right beside the King James Bible. The preaching was loud and forceful. There were alter calls, pleas for public professions of faith, emotional appeals.

Now, where I go to church, there are no robes. There’s a band. The words to the music are on a screen hanging from the ceiling. The ladies don’t wear hats, even on Easter, and not a single man wears a suit. The pastor wears jeans and an untucked shirt. There are no hymn books, no hymn racks, no pews, just metal framed chairs hooked together. There aren’t pleas, emotional or otherwise. The preaching is conversational, no yelling.

Some of these changes have been difficult for me, others I’ve welcomed. But, despite it all, I have come to love my new church. I have adjusted. I have chosen to make peace with some of the new stuff that I don’t prefer, and embrace the new things that I like. Like everything else in this life, it has been a work in progress.

Parenting. Completely different than it looked and felt like twenty five years ago. Back then, we were in charge. They depended on us for everything. We dominated their lives. Now, there’s the empty nest. While some parts of empty nest-ism has been wonderfully freeing, being separated from their lives by hundreds of miles is quite different from what it would be like if they were merely across town. We are no longer in charge, they no longer depend on us, and while this is mostly a huge relief, it is also strangely jarring. 

Pam and I have made the adjustments to our new rolls in their lives, but not without some struggle. We have learned to cope with the distances that separate us. We have learned to make the most of the few days a year when we get to be with them. It is the new reality, and we are learning to make the most of it.

Work. Building a business is a very different animal than maintaining one. I spent the first five years of my career trying to survive. Then I spent the next fifteen years establishing a working formula for success, the next ten years consolidating that success, and now trying to figure out how to maintain it all. Each of these things requires a different skill set, which has forced me to learn new things, change some habits, establish new ones. Drifting doesn’t seem an option.

Health. I was asked the other day by a doctor a series of stupid questions which were...Can you run as fast today as you could when you were twenty five? Can you lift as much weight now as you could when you were thirty? Are you as sharp and quick on your feet mentally as you were when you were thirty five? If not...welcome to the Age of Adjustments.

So that is pretty much what life is like now. It’s the Age of Adjustments. I can’t eat the same things I’ve always eaten. I can’t do the same things I’ve always done in exactly the same way and expect the same results anymore. This older dog must learn new tricks.

But, what’s the alternative? I can become a stubborn old dude, stuck in the past, refusing to adapt to the facts on the ground all around me...or I can adapt, make some mid-course corrections. I can complain about the sloppy dress around me at church, bemoan the musical style that doesn’t suit me, rail against Nashville and Columbia, become embittered by the ageing process. Or, I can learn a new way and cope with my changing world with a mixture of grace, humor and flexibility. There are but two choices.

I choose grace.

But it won’t be easy. Life never is.

What Ever Happened to...Manners??

If a nation’s sporting events are simply a reflection of it’s underlying societal evolution, yesterday wasn’t a very good look for the United States of America.

This morning’s sports pages are dominated by three big stories:

The Dodger win over the Brewers, the melee which occurred on the field during warmups of the Michigan v. Michigan State game, and this:

At this point I should keep in mind that if I’m not careful, this blog could quickly turn in to one of those...Get off my lawn!!...old gent rants. Maybe it already has, and if so...sorry/not sorry.

First, baseball. Ok, I’m not a purist on the subject of displaying emotion after a big hit or a big strike out in a pressure packed moment. In the old days, this was strictly forbidden, one of the maddening number of baseball’s unwritten rules. You hit a home run? Run quickly around the bases and get back into the dugout. Don’t stand and stare at your work or flip your bat. But, like everything else in this world, this slice of sportsmanship and decorum is being discarded in favor of a whatever floats your boat attitude. Indeed, MLB has been relentlessly promoting this new freak flag-flying showboating in their ads during this postseason. Enough talk, let the kids play, intones Ken Griffey Jr. in one particularly annoying ad which is always followed by some hip hop act asking us...Is you ready?? So, when I say I’m not a purist what I mean is, I’m ok with a relaxing of some of these old school ways. Baseball is, after all, a joyful game, and I see nothing wrong with a fist pump or an eruption of emotion from players. But, last night, the Los Angeles Dodgers got caught up in an outbreak of hysteria, their collective ids running rampant all over the place. Some guy, I forget who, got a single and looked back into his dugout and made the suck it gesture to his gleeful teammates. Another, after homering, pointed to his biceps while trotting around the bases. By the time Yasiel Puig hit his three run bomb late to seal the victory, I have no idea what they were doing...lewd gestures, wild, unhinged gesticulations, a full fledged dance party broke out in front of the dugout. Sorry...too much, too soon. It’s like professional baseball players have suddenly lost all impulse control. I mean, I tune in to watch a baseball game, and a political protest broke out!!

The Michigan v. Michigan State thing was just more of what has become routine...college football players putting on sportsmanship clinics, as in...Here’s an example of horrible sportsmanship. One team marches, lock-armed across a field that is occupied by members of the opposing team. A game of chicken breaks out. Which team is going to stop first? When neither team does, somebody gets too close to somebody else and before you know it, some player who isn’t even in uniform because of an injury goes full bats**t crazy and starts tearing up the Logo at the 50 yard line. At least these guys have the excuse that they are kids, not fully grown adults. (Think of how stupid you were in college).

Finally, we have the basketball brawl at the Staples Center. This was LeBron James’ home debut with his new team, the Lakers. We are told that the NBA is the most progressive of the major sports in America. We are told that basketball is the sport with the cultural power, and LeBron James is everywhere worshipped as some sort of Demi-god. Well, last night at his latest coronation, someone allegedly spit on someone else prompting a melee of wild punches and scrums...in game two of the regular season of a sport which has the most meaningless regular season in the history of organized sports. But, isn’t this just a reflection of...us? Any provocation, real or imagined is cause for a fight, right? Wait...is that a politician I don’t like eating dinner with his wife over there? That cannot stand!!! Wait...is that politician a left of center Democrat? Obviously she wants to turn us into the next Venezuela!! To the barricades!!!!

Here’s what I think when I watch sports...this is what happens when you come to believe that simple manners are a bourgeois straightjacket meant to stifle your individuality. Treating others with simple grace and dignity has morphed into a sign of weakness. 

And now...even baseball isn’t exempt.

Found a Great Restaurant

So, last night, I walk up to Pam and say...I feel like Italian. I can’t explain why really. I just had a hankering. If you live in Short Pump, the World headquarters for chain restaurants, there are lots of options...Carrabba’s, Olive Garden, all the usual suspects. However, I don’t know about you, but as I’ve gotten older I’ve started to resent National chains. Not resent, really...that’s too strong a term for it. It’s more like that when I see a chain restaurant I know that ultimately the profits from that chain go someplace else. Yes, I know they supply jobs to local people, etc.. but chains are a local manifestation of some far flung enterprise that benefits it’s corporate owners who wouldn’t know a Short Pump from a long one. Maybe when I see what a hash our government in Washington is making of the country, something in me feels the need to withdraw from that faraway place, to more closely identify with our state...our town...our Italian restaurant. So, what did I do? I did what every red blooded American does...I googled....Italian joints near me.

This is Vinny’s, less than a mile from my front door off of Lauderdale. If this place looks familiar it’s because it probably reminds you of another famous Italian restaurant in the Bronx where Michael Corleone killed the two dirty cops...

But, I digress.

So, we walk into the place and are greeted by a grandmotherly woman with a thick Italian accent. Nice. Pam notices that there is a special on the chalkboard beside the front door...something-something with pancetta and Asiago cream sauce. There’s a nice crowd, mostly families, not so loud that you have to shout, but not so quiet that you have to whisper. Our waitress greets us with a cheerful smile. She is young, pretty, with an even thicker Italian accent. Even nicer. I ask her for her professional opinion...What’s the most delicious entree on this menu? She doesn’t hesitate. The name of the dish rolls off her tongue with beautiful flair. She points to it and I see the word sausage in the description and I’m all in. 

Our waitress, who we have discovered has just moved from Sicily eight months ago with her husband, and who’s mother was the one who greeted us when we arrived and is just here for a visit but didn’t want to spend a minute apart from her daughter so volunteered to be the hostess, brings me a frozen glass mug for my beer, then seems thrilled when Pam orders the special and I take her advice on the sausage thing. Soon, a basket of garlic bread appears, and fresh, cold salads.

Ok, my dish was amazing. The delicious sounding name for it is Tortellini Campagnola. It looked like this...only with a lot more sausage!!

Pam’s dish was the special, and as such there was no picture on the menu. However, I am here to bare witness to the fact that it was the finest thing I have placed in my mouth inside of any restaurant in years. The tortellini was homemade, the pancetta was exquisite and the Asiago cream sauce tasted like some sort of diabolical plot cooked up by a cabal of Mafiosos determined to turn me into a 300 pound couch potato. The minute that sauce splashes over the tastebuds, you realize that you are powerless to resist it. Maybe if the choice was...eat more of this or save your children...you might be able to put down the fork, but beyond that, it would be hopeless. It was just that good. Pam couldn’t finish it, so there’s a styrofoam container in our refrigerator with the remains. I am currently plotting a way to trick Pam into letting me eat it for breakfast.

So, we are thrilled to have found Vinny’s Italian Grill. It’s local, run by real Italians, and is five minutes from my house.

Go ye, and do likewise.

 

Good News, Bad News

Good news...New York City just enjoyed its first shooting-free weekend in over 25 years.

Bad news...According to the iron clad law of averages, this coming weekend promises to be a bloodbath.

Good news...The Federal Government has collected a record amount of income taxes in 2018.

Bad news... The budget deficit has ballooned to its highest point in 6 years.

Good news...China has informed the world that it’s extensive series of Muslim internment camps are actually free vocational training centers.

Bad news...The most popular vocational class seems to involve learning to chant slogans like...Thank the Party! Thank the Motherland!..while on a strict diet of bread and water.

Good news... Donald Trump has already raised over 100 million dollars for his 2020 re-election campaign.

Bad news... Donald Trump has already raised over 100 million dollars for his 2020 re-election campaign.

More Bad news...100 million won’t be nearly enough...

Something Worth Conserving

As someone who considers himself a conservative, I generally am of the conviction that there exist things worth conserving. Accordingly, I reject the idea that everything that is proclaimed as progress...is, in fact, an improvement over what it replaced. Take the game of baseball, for example. Regular readers of this blog are fully aware of my abiding love and devotion to the game, and many of you have endured more than one of my love songs to the game that used to be our national pastime. But, after watching the first four games of the League Championship Series, I am here to tell you that something is dreadfully wrong with the game that I love. If this constitutes progress, I demand a refund.

Baseball finds itself in the grasp of an army of sabermetrics nerds, who believe that by applying high tech computerized statistical analysis, they can come up with match up strategies that can predict outcomes better than the gut instincts of grizzled old baseball managers. Apparently, there’s an algorithm for that. The result of all of this statistical analysis is as follows:

In the four games played in the latest round of the post season, there have been 47 pitchers used. The average length of the four games has been 3 hours and 52 minutes. Many times, a pitcher is brought in to face one batter, then another pitcher is employed. Each pitching change takes a while. There are other reasons for the marathon length of these games...replays, and the ridiculous amount of times batters step out of the box to adjust their batting gloves...but mostly, it’s all these pitching changes. A couple of nights ago, after a painfully long half inning, I found myself doing a little research. This is not how I remember baseball being played in my youth. Turns out, I was right.

I randomly picked the World Series games from 1965, 1975, 1985 and 1995. I wanted to know how long the games were, how many pitchers were used in those games..etc. what I found was amazing.

1965 was a seven game series between the Los Angeles Dodgers and the Minnesota Twins. In the seven game series, a total of 31 pitchers were used. There were 7 complete games pitched. Most astonishing was the average time of the seven games...2 hours and 20 minutes.

1975 was also a seven game series ( Boston Red Sox vs. the Cincinnati Reds). 42 pitchers used, 2 complete games thrown, with an average game time of 2 hours and 30 minutes.

1985...7 game series, 38 pitchers used, 4 complete games, with a game time of 2 hours and 48 minutes.

1995...5 games, 33 pitchers, 1 complete game, average time...2 hours and 48 minutes.

So far this year through only 4 games...47 pitchers, no complete games, average game time...3 hours and 52 minutes.

This isn’t even close to progress. This is more like information overload, analytical constipation, competition-interuptus on a grand scale. If Bob Gibson or Don Drysdale were on the mound and some batter stepped out and pranced around adjusting his batting gloves for two minutes after taking a pitch, the next pitch would be a 95 mph heater right in his ear hole...and that would be that. 

So, no...everything that is new and labeled progressive or cutting edge, is an improvement.

...unless you actually enjoy watching relief pitchers warming up in the bullpen.

How Did This Happen??

I suppose if you attend enough weddings eventual it will happen, but nothing can prepare you for it. There we were, having a perfectly delightful time, when we found ourselves summoned to the dance floor for the obligatory married couples dance...

DJ: Ok, I need all of you married couples and only married couples on the dance floor now!!

(Actually, in today’s social and moral climate, such bourgeois distinctions seem quaint.)

After a nice slow dance to some Lionel Richie song, the DJ revealed what game was afoot...

DJ: All couples who have been married less than a year, please exit the dance floor!!

Ahh, yes. It was the famous last couple standing game, whereby the couple who has been married the longest receives tepid applause and is then asked to impart words of wisdom to the doe-eyed groom and blushing bride. This is a staple of the American nuptial experience, and usually results in a picture worthy image of some elegant grandparently blue-hairs advising the newlyweds to remember to pray together, or eat breakfast together, and always include bran flakes in the diet.

I look around the dance floor and picked out the likely winners, an adorable elderly pair across the way. Now it was Frank Sinatra smoothly complimenting my wife on the way you look tonight, as the DJ says, thirty years...all couples married less than thirty years, sit down!!

To my shock and horror, there we were, swaying sweetly to Frank’s tender version of this Jerome Kern and Dorothy Fields classic, alongside the adorable old couple! A sinking feeling instantly overtook me. There’s no way we are going to win this thing, I reasoned. I mean...look at them! 

DJ: Look at this, everyone! It’s down to two couples! Who’s it gonna be??

Then, out of nowhere, my competitive instinct takes over. Bizarrely, I’m suddenly all in on winning this thing, no matter the existential ramifications. 

DJ: Thirty five years??!!

Both of us begin to walk off the floor...

The DJ then stops us, turns to the obvious winners and asked them how many years they had survived matrimony. The timid answer tumbled forth from the old man’s lips...Thirty two years..I let loose a mental fistpump right before the tragic news hit me...Pam and I had been married longer (34 years) than anyone in the building.

The next thing I know, there’s a microphone in our faces along with flashing cameras. I hear Pam saying something about how it’s the differences between us that ultimately become our strengths. It was so intelligently stated, so well phrased, it was as if she instinctively knew we were going to be in this position and had planned accordingly. I also felt that maybe it was one of those backhanded compliments...that’s right folks, I’m the exact opposite of this big lug, thank God! Then it was my turn...Never speak ill of your wife in public.  The DJ seemed impressed...Wow. That is such wise advice!

No kidding, pal!

So, there you have it. Pam and I have won our first Longest Married Couple Dance-Off. 

How, in the name of all that is holy, did this happen? It just can’t possibly be true. It feels like just last month, we were playing house in our cute little two bedroom apartment, where it took 45 minutes to clean the entire place on Saturday mornings, after which we would have brunch while exchanging kisses across the little kitchen table by the balcony. Then Pam would clip coupons out of the Richmond News Leader’s Weekend Edition, while I flipped through the sports page looking for the box scores.

...and now we are dispensing marriage advice in the middle of a dance floor at the Dominion Club.

Wow.

A Little Help?

I seldom do this sort of thing. I’ve always been turned off by the entire concept of GoFundMe, which has always seemed like high tech panhandling. 

Hey! We can’t afford the down payment on this great new 3,000 square foot house, so whatever you could spare would be greatly appreciated!! 

When we got back from our two week Carribean cruise we discovered that our house had flooded, badly damaging our movie room surround sound system. Please consider a donation to help us cover our insurance deductible!

But, every once in a while, something happens that justifies the effort...

This is part of what remains of Mexico Beach, Florida after hurricane Michael roared through yesterday.

Just outside of Panama City is Tyndall Air Force base, which now looks like this.

We happen to know two young people who lived on that base, an Air Force Officer, his wife and their two little boys...

Meet Chris and Katie Plume. Chris was my son in law’s best man. Katie was my daughter’s college roommate and most valuable bridesmaid in her wedding. The two of them are responsible for introducing Kaitlin and Jon, a matchmaking operation for which our entire family is eternally grateful. Now, they have been rendered homeless. They were ordered to evacuate the base and have been told that may not be able to return for at least a month. All of their belongings were most likely destroyed.

When something like this happens it is always a tragedy, but when it happens to someone who has devoted his life to serving our country, it seems even more unfair for some reason. While many of their contemporaries are now on their second house and third new car, Chris and Katie are living in military base housing, and now that’s been destroyed. Yes...the military will ultimately take care of them. But in the meantime, while the bureaucratic wheels grind slowly, they will need clothes to wear and other life essentials.

So, if you are able, please consider visiting the GoFundMe page my daughter has set up for this purpose. I have included a link to it on my Facebook page. Any money raised will go to the Plumes immediately. It is our hope that the money will not only help with the real world practicalities of this situation, but will also let Chris and Katie know that they are loved, thought of, and that their service to the country is appreciated.

Thanks for your consideration.