Thursday Observations

Misc. observations on this Thursday morning.


# My dad is amazing. In the last two months he has suffered the loss of his wife of 65 years and his second oldest grandchild. He has had to make the adjustment to living alone for the first time in his life. He has had to deal with a balky and very painful hip, and an assortment of other ailments common to 87 year- olds. And yet, every time I walk through his door, he greets me with a big smile. He has good days and bad days, but his spirit is always positive, always grateful. His legendary patience has been on display, as he demonstrates for us all how to take the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune with grace and humor. If I live to 87 I can only hope to be half the man that he is.

# My tried and true method of ignoring aches and pains in the hope that they eventually will go away on their own has finally failed me. For about two months now my left shoulder has been hurting, a nagging pain two months ago that has steadily grown into a throbbing, stabbing sort of thing that's making it difficult to sleep sort of pain. Perhaps I should go get it checked. I'm popping Advil like Skittles to no effect. Grrrrr...

# The Washington Nationals just finished a two game stretch in which they hit 12 home runs. Granted, it was against the Cubs, but still...wow. The Washington Nationals are 32 games over .500 on September 6th. I'm meeting Donnie up there on the 23rd to see them play. Can't wait.

# I religiously avoid watching political conventions on television. Life is too short to introduce that much frustration into one's life on purpose. I read about the proceedings the next day and watch selected highlights. The biggest takeaway from the GOP version was Clint Eastwood, the biggest takeaway from the DEMS will be God getting booed. It's as if I'm living in a terribly bad dream, that at a time such as this, when the country is in such peril, our two political parties have been taken over by the writers at Saturday Night Live.



 

I Heard A Sermon Today

Today being Sunday, I heard a sermon. The speaker chose as his topic . . . "The Meaning Of Life". He started out quoting Camus, Sartre, and Hemingway, and ended with a story about Buckingham Palace. This particular speaker was an octogenarian. And I, along with a thousand others were hanging on every word.

Everyone knows that there are some things that get better with age . . . like cheese, and wine, and your favorite pair of jeans. I haven't usually thought to add preachers to that list. In fact, my experience has often been the opposite, older preachers often being insufferable scolds constantly whining about the good old days, starting every other sentence with, "Why, in my day..", and generally boring me to death. But this guy today was different.

At my church, we are lucky enough to hear him several times a year since he was the pastor here for 25 years, and virtually put Grove Avenue Baptist on the map, when he led the move from the Fan to the West End all those years ago. He is still a member, and amazingly, delights in playing the role of a back-bencher after being the biggest headliner this church has ever had. Most men have too large an ego, too inflated a view of their own worth to accept so low a profile at a church after such a distinguished tenure. But he is not most men.

When I hear him speak, I always marvel at the experience. What is it that is so captivating? Why does the mood of the room seem so heightened? He is a good speaker, no doubt, but I've heard better. He tells interesting stories, but he's no entertainer. He's not a screamer, doesn't stride about on the stage. It helps that he's easy to listen to, having no annoying verbal ticks, like the preacher's whispering voice. He doesn't use arcane religious lingo, and he has the good sense to not go on too long. But until today I didn't realize what made him so effective.

This man is an authentic spiritual survivor. He has been a warrior for Christ for longer than I've been alive. He has taken a machete to the thickets of life and has the scars to prove it. He has fought the hard fights of life and come through the battles without even a hint of cynicism or bitterness. Instead, there is still joy in his heart, and a face alive with passion for the Gospel. The reason we hang on the words is because we believe them, because we believe..him. He has earned our trust and respect by a life well lived, free of scandal, free of pettiness and unencumbered with ego. So we sit and listen, eager for the truth we know will come before he's through. He will make it easy for us to understand, because he knows that if it's not real for us on Monday, what's the point of Sunday?

Thank you, Vander Warner Jr.

Bertha, The Window Fan Of Death

When I returned from my run this morning I walked into a perfectly air conditioned house. I don't know why, but it sparked a memory from my childhood when it was not always so. Having all the family here for Ashley's funeral today maybe has me thinking of the early days, so maybe something light is in order.

I grew up living in a "parsonage", which I later learned was code for " condemned housing". It was a house owned and ..er..maintained by the church where my Dad was the pastor. This "maintaining" was done by a shadow organization called the "buildings and grounds committee", which I soon learned was code for "couple of old guys who show up two weeks after you've replaced the carpet caused by the exploding toilet". Anyway, I lived there from the age of 10 until I graduated from college in 1981. In all that time we had no air conditioning. I say "no air conditioning" when actually that isn't quite fair. We did have a window unit in our dining room conveniently placed three inches from the back of the heads of those unlucky enough to sit on the north side of the table. This explains the family pictures from Julys gone by when Mom and Linda would be wearing parkas, trying to twirl spaghetti onto a fork wearing mittens. Dad would only run it when we sat down to eat to save on the power bill. However, after months of complaining, Dad responded to our pleas for relief by designing and constructing...the Window Fan of Death.

You see, those fancy air conditioners were a rip-off, and unreliable. No, no, Dad had a better idea. He believed that the key to maintaining maximum indoor comfort was the constant circulation of the air. If only we could find a way to continuously rotate the air from inside to out, we could all live in sweatless bliss. So instead of buying a window fan at Western Auto like most other people would do, Dad decided to build his own.  "Those store bought fans are too cheaply made and not powerful enough for our needs", he explained in ominously foreshadowing tones. He then bought what looked like a small turbine engine, heavy as led, along with what looked like the propeller from a P-47 Thunderbolt. After that he went to the lumber yard and bought some 2x12's and some 1 inch chicken wire. My 12 year old brain was alive with wonder at what he could possibly be thinking. Soon it was all revealed. After construction was complete his full evil plan was made known. Donnie and I shared the smallest bedroom in the house. It was upstairs, and only slightly larger than the bathroom. But our room was chosen as the new home of "Bertha" as she became known. The plan was simple. Every window in the house was to be cracked open 6 inches. Then the fan, firmly ensconced in my bedroom window,pointing out, would be turned on sucking all the air inside the house through Bertha, as refreshing fresh air would be sucked into the house from outside through the six inch opening in the windows. This refreshing breeze would insure that all of the stale air in the house would be replenished with God's air from the great big outdoors.  Ok.

There were some set backs. When Dad excitedly threw the switch for the first time, it triggered a county wide power outage that baffled government officials for years. After a few modifications we were ready for Bertha's maiden voyage. Dad threw the switch. For a scary few seconds all the lights dimmed and hissed, but then old Bertha came to life and the fun started. Within thirty seconds, a tornado of wild wind was sucking up everything in it's path. Pictures on the wall were shaking, loose paper was flying, toilet paper spinning off their racks, and soon our dog Zack was plastered wide-eyed to the chicken mesh. "Shut it down Emmett!! Shut it down!!!", Mom screamed, but no one could hear her. Finally our bunk beds began to slide across the floor, snapping Bertha's plug from the wall. Zack fell to the ground with a thud along with the  science homework I had been looking for for days. Dad was exultant. "Now, THAT'S a window fan!!"

After several more tweaks, Bertha was a permanent fixture in my bedroom. The noise and rumble was deafening, but I must admit that after awhile you got used to it. Before long it was even comforting. Of course, it did absolutely nothing for us in the cooling department. Dad would often brag.."Feel that breeze kids..feel that breeze", to which we would respond.."Yeah Dad, its like a hurricane from the Sahara desert just blew into our house".

To this day, I can't fall asleep without a fan in the room.

Ashley Dunnevant 1980 - 2012

For the second time in 60 days a member of my family has passed away. Ashley Dunnevant, my niece, my brother Donnie's middle child died early this morning at MCV hospital. She was 32. She had developed pneumonia and died from complications. Ashley was born with Down's Syndrome and had survived leukemia as a child. While many with Down's live physically unhindered lives, Ashley's case was more debilitating. She required full time care and had to overcome many hurdles in her short life. Now she is with my Mother in heaven, experiencing a physical freedom that she never knew on earth. Try as I might, I can't comprehend what their reunion was like. It falls into the category of " eye hath not seen nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him".

Ashley was the first person born into my extended family with a disability. I loved her, but I didn't know her like I know my other nieces and nephews. She didn't have the ability to communicate very well. She could talk, but I had trouble understanding her, and although she didn't say much, when she did speak, it was generally hilarious. My most vivid memories of her were at Christmas, when she would sit for hours with either a balloon or a comb in her hand watching us all unwrap presents.Although her vision wasn't very good, she knew us all by name. When she would open our gifts to her, she never failed to thank us.

When Ashley was born, I remember the fear and disappointment we felt. It was all so new and unknowable. We had no idea what her life would be like. We had no idea how heavy the burden of her care would be for Donnie and Janet. For days after her birth I questioned God in my heart. Why would he allow a child to be born into the world with the deck stacked so high against her? I still have no definitive answer to that question. But I do know this. Ashley added something to our lives. Because she was so vulnerable, we became more protective. Because she required so much care, we became more caring. Ashley made her sisters better people than they would otherwise be. Lauren and Becky both are more attentive, more sensitive, more generous human beings because of Ashley's life.

So, sometime this weekend, we will say goodbye to her. I will take comfort in the image of Mom and Ashley walking hand in hand somewhere in heaven, Mom trying to explain to Ashley why it took 6 hours to open all the presents every Christmas.... "Because we loved Christmas and we loved each other, and I guess we just didn't want it to end," Mom says.  Ashley looks up at Mom and with a clear, beautiful voice answers..." That makes sense Nanny."

A Tale Of Two Armstrongs

It was very odd to hear of the death of Neil Armstrong. He died Saturday, when I was at home all day alone. It was dark and gloomy outside, when the man on the television said that the first man to ever walk on the moon had passed away at the age of 82. He was about my Mom's age. When I  heard the news it took me back to the parsonage in Elmont, Virginia, where we all gathered around that RCA black and white  with the tin foil wrapped around the tips of the rabbit ears. I remember it being a Sunday, and I remember it being terribly hot. Maybe our window air conditioner unit was broken or something, but it was hot and muggy, but there we all were staring dumbfounded at the snowy screen. A man was walking down the stairs of the space ship seemingly in slow motion. The hot crackle of the transmission from the moon shot through our living room. As an eleven year old boy I remember worrying that the surface of the place might reach up and grab his foot and drag him into the moon dust like so much quick sand. But there he was with both moon boots firmly planted as he said..."that's one small step for man...and one giant leap for mankind."

It was only much later that I learned that he had gotten his pilot's license at age 16, and that he had flown 20 combat missions in Korea. I found out that he had been one of those crazy test pilots and had nearly been killed a bunch of times flying experimental rocket planes with Chuck Yeager. Much later I discovered that although both political parties had approached him after his Apollo glory trying to get him to run for office, he had turned them both down. There was much to admire about him as a grown man, but for an eleven year old boy, he was just the bravest man in the world. And now, he too is gone. Just like my Mother, two months ago tomorrow morning.

That same Saturday there was another Armstrong in the news, Lance. Something about him dropping out of the arbitration battle with some Anti-Doping organization. It was being interpreted as a tacit admission of guilt that would result in all seven of his Tour De France titles being stripped from him. So the greatest cyclist in history may have been a cheat and a fraud. The guy survived cancer and has raised a ton of money to fight the disease. But now, he was walking away from the battle to clear his name. I don't know enough about the story to know what the truth is. All I do know is...if I were innocent and somebody was trying to ruin my life's work, I sure wouldn't quit and walk away. I'm positive that Neil Armstrong wouldn't either

Rest in peace, Mr. Armstrong.

Home Alone...Kinda Creepy

Saturday, the 25th of August 2012 may go down as the quietest day of my life. First of all, practically nothing happened, and second of all, no one but me was here to see nothing happening. See, Pam and Kaitlin left yesterday morning to drive down to Winston-Salem to get Kaitlin moved back into her rental house for her last year of Grad school. They thought it would be fun to bring Paula along and make it a girl's weekend since she has never seen the place. This left me alone in my house over night for the first time in I can't remember how long. Well, I wasn't really alone, since Molly was here, who decided that the rainiest Saturday of the year would be a great time to develop diarrhea.

So, amidst frequent heavy downpours, occasional thunder and ominous low lying black clouds, I spent the day constantly letting Molly outside for fear that she would have an accident on the new shag carpet. She would saunter out there in the pouring rain, oblivious to the elements, as if she were on a casual summer stroll. She would walk in one direction, sniffing the ground, then circle back over the same ground two or three times before deciding that this particular piece of real estate was not worthy of one of her bowel movements. No, perhaps she needed to circumvent the entire back yard and wind up at the exact same spot she had rejected 5 minutes earlier. After the deed was done she would suddenly realize that it was raining, and sprint back to the deck where I was waiting with a huge beach towel to dry her off. This I did maybe 10 times, which meant that Molly spent all day smelling like wet dog. Lovely.

The project of the day concerned cleaning out what has become the dumping ground for everything we don't know what to do with at our house, what used to be my study. A few months ago, when we bought new furniture for the downstairs, Pam had come up with the marvelous idea of removing the leaf from our old kitchen table, and putting it in the corner upstairs next to the palladian window. There, she reasoned, I could sit with a cup of coffee in the morning and look out over the neighborhood and write my blog posts. She bought a couple of handsome chairs, and before you knew it, I was hooked on my new perch, and my old, cramped and dark study was allowed to go to seed. Well, as often is the case in parenthood, sacrifices had to be made. Kaitlin needed a kitchen table to replace the one her old roommate took with her when she graduated. If I was to have a decent place to blog, I was going to have to tackle the daunting task of cleaning out the scariest room in the house...by myself.

I do not throw the word "scary" out casually. See, even though when I look at the piles of junk in that room, I see junk in dire need of a master, Pam sees something else entirely. She sees a mountain of clutter that she may one day desperately need. She hates it when I clean up anything, accuses me of being a "bull in a china shop", throwing away the good along with the bad. So, if I'm going to clean this mess without her, I better be careful. I spent a couple of hours constructing several contingency piles...one for eventual transfer to the attic, another for possibly relocation to the movie room, yet another pile with no name and for no discernible purpose and finally a tiny little pile to at least consider for the trash. After two hours, and many bouts of indecision, it was finished. The place actually looks pretty nice. It's been polished and vacuumed and I'm actually proud of myself.

When evening finally came, I took dinner over to Dad's. I had been there maybe 15 minutes when I developed an allergy from his cat. When I got back home I took a Benedryl and settled in to watch the Nationals game. What a strange thing it is to feel like a stranger in your own house. I have lived here for 15 years but when there are no kids and my wife is away, it seems an abstract collection of barren, unfriendly rooms. I turned off the TV and decided to read instead...an Odd Thomas book by Dean Koontz. Quiet..deadly quiet. Koontz, clearly a bad idea. Maybe some Shakespeare. Macbeth...er, no way. Makes Koontz look like Doctor Seuse. Then, suddenly a peal of thunder, and I hear Molly at the bottom of the stairs whining. She can't stand the thunder. I let her upstairs and she immediately jumps up on the bed, as close to me as she can get...one of the many reasons I love dogs. Instead of allergies, they give you...reassurance.

Pam will be back late this afternoon. She will bring back the "home" part of this house she took with her when she left.

A Little Self Examination

I believe it was Socrates who said that the unexamined life is not worth living. As is often the case with stuff Socrates said, this one rings true. We instinctively understand that the road to discovery and personal growth starts with an honest self-appraisal. Of course, too much of this sort of thing leads to narcissistic navel-gazing, so, moderation in all things, right? I say all of this because I have recently thought a lot about one of my odd personality traits. I know what some of you are thinking.."Which one? There are so many." Fair enough. Here it is...I hate being part of organizations. More specifically, I prefer at least the ideal of being an outsider, removed from the commitments and conspiracies that come with membership in associations. This trait manifests itself in countless ways in my life.

I have always been repulsed by large things, big things. I despise big government, big business, large labor unions. I am intrinsically suspicious of political parties with their organizing committees, and caucuses. Although I love baseball, I can't stand Major League Baseball, the organization, and it's commissioner. Closer to home, I never want anything to do with the local or national branches of the outfit that lobbies Washington on behalf of my profession. Even within the Broker-Dealer that I clear through, don't even ask me to serve on some advisory board, to be part of some inside circle of influence...it gives me the creeps just thinking about it. On a spiritual level, although I am a devoted believer and admirer of Jesus Christ, I remain a reluctant church member. Although I have been a member of Grove Avenue for over 25 years and have benefited from that association, it is a shaky thing, at best. The worst church experience of my life were the two years that I served as chairman of the finance committee. Never, in all of Christendom has there been a more ill-conceived match than me and that committee. I escaped with my faith hanging by a thread.

I clearly understand the benefits that can come from being part of a group. There is power in numbers after all. Being part of an organization of like-minded people trying to accomplish something together that can not be accomplished apart is what civilization is all about. So, why do I prefer hovering above things, why do I prefer the isolation of being on the outside, looking in? Why am I so devoted to Independence? This instinct is at the heart of why I ended up in the business I'm in. I have no boss, no board of directors, and no one telling me what to do. However, along with that freedom comes the unavoidable fact that I also have no one to blame for mistakes and failures. They are always mine alone.

Maybe it's a pride issue. Maybe I like Independence because I'm too prideful to accept criticism or discipline, too prideful to acknowledge my need for others. Whatever it is, all I know is, I have always been this way. What's different now and the reason I've been thinking more about it is that as I get older, I see more clearly the need of association. I understand the benefits of belonging to things. But how do you transform yourself from an eccentric loner type to a gregarious committee man? Maybe it's a process. I'm not quite ready though. Every time I get an invitation in the mail to join AARP, I grit my teeth, let out a little "grrrrrr" and take great delight in ripping the envelope to shreds. No...not ready yet.