Newtown, Connecticut

It was a bright, clear day in Bath Township, Michigan. The students at Bath Consolidated Elementary school were counting down the days until summer vacation. Just outside of town, Andrew Kehoe began his day by bashing in his wife’s head with a shovel. He placed her dead body in a wheel barrow and rolled her into the barn out back. He then set the barn on fire. Just before the fire trucks arrived, he remotely detonated a bomb that he had spent the better part of six months assembling at Bath Consolidated. As the stunned rescue squads and fire crews began arriving at the school, Kehoe drove his car into the midst of them and set off his car bomb with a single shot from a Remington rifle he had purchased two days prior. When all the dust had settled, there would be 38 school children dead, 6 adults dead, and an additional 58 injured. News organizations didn’t ask questions about what social pathology was to blame for this horrific crime. No one thought to blame the decaying culture, violent movies, the insidious influence of video games, or lax gun laws. In fact, the nation wasn’t moved very much at all to lobby their elected officials for remedies. There were no live reports from the scene, no 24/7 blanket coverage, no interviews with grieving parents. No one suggested that the killer had a mental illness, or was the victim of a bad economy, or lacked education or opportunity. That’s because the killer was 55 years old and the President of the Bath Township school board, and this unimaginable horror took place on May 18, 1927.

The writer of Ecclesiastes said it best 3000 years ago, “…there is nothing new under the sun.”

I watched the terrible story from Newtown, Connecticut unfold yesterday for much of the afternoon. I switched back and forth between CNN and Fox. I became sick to my stomach. I felt the need to drive over to check on Pam at her school. Even though as an American, this sort of thing has become all too routine, this one felt different. Maybe it was the fact that the victims this time were children. They never had a chance. The longer I watched, the more despair I felt. By the time the President made his brief statement, I noticed that my hands were shaking. I watched him catch himself, looking rattled and anguished. He was processing this not as the President, but as a father, and I felt for him.

The first reaction of some of my friends on Facebook was a call for political action of some sort, tougher gun laws, or banning guns all together. Part of me sympathizes with them. Much was made of the fact that half way across the world in China a 38 year old man had knifed 22 kids at a school, the point being that even in a country where gun ownership is punishable by death, crazy people still find ways to do crazy things. But, 22 knife victims, all of whom survived, sounded a lot batter to me yesterday than 20 dead 7 year olds.

　

I don’t own a gun. I have never fired a handgun. When I was a teenager I hunted a little with rifles and shotguns, but as an adult I have never had the desire or felt the need to own a gun. I’m not a zealot on the subject of the second amendment one way or the other. But when I hear people say that these types of crimes wouldn’t happen if we outlawed gun ownership, I have my doubts. There are currently over 270 million firearms legally owned and registered by U.S. citizens. My question is, how do you gun control advocates suggest that we confiscate these guns from their legal owners? The guns used in Newtown yesterday were all legally purchased, with background checks etc. The last time our government tried to criminalize a formerly legal and widely accepted activity cold turkey was Prohibition, and history tells the sorry tale of how that turned out.

I heard a commentator suggest that maybe we have gotten to the place where we can’t handle our freedoms any longer, so they should be handled for us. Watching the events of yesterday gives me great sympathy for that argument….until I think it through to it’s logical conclusion. The only thing that frightens me more than living in a country with 270 million privately owned firearms in circulation, is the thought of living in a country where only my government and criminals have access to guns. After all, every totalitarian government in history has had one thing in common,… an unarmed population.

Still, I think of the horror in the eyes of those precious children as a twenty year old man stands in front of them firing a Glock point blank, and something inside me dies, and a place in my broken heart wants to destroy every gun ever made.

We live in a Therapeutic Age. We have bought in to the conceit that no human pathology exists that cannot be mollified by the right combination of medication, psychoanalysis and government program. But history tells me that there lies within the human heart the awful capacity for evil. We are children of the fall, in desperate need of redemption. There exists no pill that can cure us of our inclination towards sin and rebellion.

　

One of my friends on Facebook observed that while offers of prayers were all well and good, they served only to make the one offering the prayer feel better, but did little real good. His preferred remedy was political action. He is young. I will allow him his naiveté. But there is nothing in this universe that will do less good and serve only to make us feel better than yet another law. The great human disease can’t be cured by the stroke of a politicians’ pen. Abraham Lincoln freed the slaves with his Emancipation Proclamation, but our hearts are still enslaved by racism. Thousands of statutes live in dusty books outlawing every conceivable human cruelty, yet that cruelty marches on in defiance. The human race is in open rebellion against our Creator. When I am exposed to the fruits of that rebellion, the only thing that makes any sense to me is the grace of Jesus Christ.

A Cornball Brother?

Excuse me, but I need a little help from my younger, hipper friends. What exactly is a “cornball brother”?

Yesterday, some guy on ESPN named Rob Parker expressed his concerns about Washington Redskins quarterback Robert Griffin III, and whether he was REALLY black or merely a “cornball brother”. It seems that Mr. Parker has heard rumors that RGIII is a Republican, and this rumor, when added to the fact of his white fiancée adds up to a suspicion that he might not be “one of us”. This exchange was aired not on some backwoods radio talk show in Texas, but on a national broadcast of the most popular sports television network in America.

The fact that I feel compelled to come to the defense of a member of the Redskins pains me more than you could possibly know. However, when I hear this sort of thing I seriously feel like giving up, like maybe it’s time to walk away from even trying to deal with the subject of race. Why bother?

Think for a minute about what Mr. Parker is suggesting. In Robert Griffin III we have an amazingly gifted athlete, a leader of men, an accomplished student from a fine university, a man of sterling reputation who is universally respected by his peers. But the only thing that Mr. Parker can find to like about him is his braided hairstyle because, “that’s more like a real brother.”

Apparently the reason for Parker’s angst was RGIII’s answer to a question that he had been asked a day before about his race, identity and career. The troublesome answer that set Parker’s racial antenna atwitter was as follows:

“For me, you never want to be defined by the color of your skin. You want to be defined by your work ethic, your character, your personality. That’s what I’ve tried to go out and do.”

So, Mr. Parker doesn’t like the fact that RGIII is trying to live out the vision of Martin Luther King.

Would Mr. Parker feel better about RGIII if he had a few arrests under his belt? Would he be more accepting if he didn’t speak with such erudition and perfect grammar? Maybe he would feel more comfortable with him if he were into dog-fighting?

RGIII is not a credit to his race. He is a credit to the human race, especially that fraction of whom play professional sports. There shouldn’t be a father alive who wouldn’t give anything if their sons turned out like Robert Griffin III. But in today’s race culture, he’s not black enough, to the point where he is called a “cornball brother” on national television.

I give up.

A New Christmas Carol

As of 7:40 on Thursday morning the 13^th of December, 2012, I officially have stopped caring about the fiscal cliff. I am now convinced that we are being governed by the biggest collection of self indulgent losers ever assembled in a single government since Commodus’ Roman Senate. The fiscal cliff is a completely manufactured crisis, and the manufacturers are the very same politicians who now wring their hands that we have reached such a perilous moment. This is always how it works with government. Politicians line their own pockets crafting an unreadable Byzantine tax code, then express shock, SHOCK that corporations devise legal means to avoid paying those taxes. French politicians jack up taxes to 75% on millionaires and are appalled to learn that those millionaires are applying for citizenship in Belgium. My personal favorite was when good old Ted Kennedy rammed through a huge tax on yachts so he could stick it to the rich only to run for cover two years later when the boat manufacturers in his home state filed for bankruptcy and laid off 7500 workers. Oops.

So, I’m done. The fiscal cliff is a phony-baloney, plastic banana, good-time rock and roll piece of political theatre that means nothing. Less than nothing. Go over the cliff, or work out a deal, it matters not a whit. There isn’t one man or woman in Washington DC with a plan to balance the budget and pay down our 16 trillion dollar debt. Not one. All the pseudo-plans out there are just schemes designed to get us to disaster at a slower pace. So, it turns out that we have elected the politicians we deserve. We tell them that we want our taxes to remain low while also telling them that we want the government to solve all of our problems. Our political schizophrenia has wrought this fiscal cliff, and there isn’t a Psychiatrist in sight.

In honor of this dysfunction, I have taken it upon myself to rewrite the lyrics to one of my favorite Christmas carols, “Caroling, Caroling” :

　

Pandering, pandering, here we go

Fiscal cliffs are calling

Groveling, groveling, to and fro

Fiscal cliffs are calling

Democrats are full of cheer

Republicans all need a beer

Ding Dong, Ding Dong

Fiscal cliffs are calling

　

Biden and Geithner don’t have a clue

Fiscal cliffs are calling

Nancy Pelosi is clueless too

Fiscal cliffs are calling

Chairman Ben will crank the press

Our kids will have to clean the mess

Ding Dong, Ding Dong

Fiscal cliffs are calling

　

Speaker Boehner has got the flu

Fiscal cliffs are calling

It’s just as well, he’s such a tool

Fiscal cliffs are calling

Obama wants to tax and spend

Mitch McConnell wears Depends

Ding Dong, Ding Dong

Fiscal cliffs are calling

My Brother

Tomorrow is my brother’s birthday. The IRS knows him as Donald A. Dunnevant. His friends know him as Don, but to everyone in his family, he has always been and always will be…Donnie. He is ten years older than me, the oldest of my three siblings and my only brother. A few observations.

When I was a kid, Donnie was some kind of Greek god to me, a magical combination of Mickey Mantle, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Paul McCartney. He was this larger than life figure who I worshipped. Even though I was ten years younger, and constantly under foot, he always had time for me. He taught me how to play baseball. He would hit me ground balls until dark in the summertime. We would listen to Frank Soden’s play-by-play accounts of the Richmond Braves and recreate them in our back yard. He taught me how to switch hit, how to run the bases, and why it was so important to hit the cut-off man.

Donnie had this unnatural, freakish musical talent that allowed him to play the piano by ear. Everything he heard on the radio once he could play on the piano. Mostly what he listened to on the radio was the Beatles. He became obsessed with them. Still is to this day. He made sure that I became a huge fan too. He brought home a beat up old guitar from college one summer and bought a new one with the money he made working at a concrete plant all summer. When he went back to school that fall, he left the beat up one at home. By that time it only had five strings. He taught me three chords, then disappeared again for his sophomore year. Playing the guitar became the only thing I ever learned how to do better than my brother. Well, that and golf, and maybe I turned out to be a better dresser…maybe.

As we both grew up, the Greek god thing went away. I found out that he wasn’t perfect. Like any brother, he had knuckleheaded moments. When his first marriage ended he was devastated and was made to endure several bleak years. I watched him suffer through all of it without ever losing his optimism. I marveled that he didn’t just run away, leave everything behind and start fresh somewhere 5,000 miles and a thousand faces removed from the mess. But he stayed. He worked every imaginable job, often several at a time just so he could eat. I no longer worshipped him, but his fallibility had produced in me a deep respect. I became profoundly proud of him for his amazing toughness. He took whatever life threw at him and threw it right back.

Eventually he built a new life for himself, met a wonderful woman, and had a fourth child, a son. Now he slings mail for the Postal service in Gaithersburg, Maryland, surrounded by a bunch of worthless Marxists, the lone voice of reason in a building full of slackers.

Donnie is the only one of the four of us who doesn’t live within twenty minutes of Dad, so he isn’t able to share in the daily care. But every night at 6 o’clock, my father’s phone rings, and it’s Donnie calling, wanting to know all about Dad’s day.

If ever a manual is written about how to be a good brother, Donnie’s picture will be on the flyleaf. He always had time for me, never made me feel like an annoyance, although more often than not, I was. Coolest. Brother. Ever.

Happy Birthday Bud!

Two Concerts

There are two concerts on the Dunnevant calendar this evening. The first will take place at Carnegie Hall where my Son will perform for the second time in as many months. This time the work will be Cantata Criolla by Antonio Estevez and Choros no.10 by Villa-Labos with the Simon Bolivar Orchestra of Venezuela conducted by Gustavo Dudamel. I don’t know about you, but I feel more cultured just having written that sentence!

The second concert will take place at the famed Atlee High School Gymnasium where the Chickahominy Middle School Band under the direction of a very nice man who also teaches Algebra will perform some awesome Christmas music along with at least one Jewish song in a minor key. My nephew Isaac Nunn will be playing a killer trumpet solo at some point in the program.

Isaac’s dad will be driving like a maniac from two hours away where he is stuck on business to make sure he’s there for his Son. I will not be taking the train to New York like I did last time Patrick sang at Carnegie. But I will be there in spirit.

One of these concerts will be reviewed in tomorrow morning’s New York Times. The other will soon be forgotten, but not by a particularly handsome trumpet player, or his proud family.

Such is the joy of music.

Epic Date Night Fail!!

It all started with me getting an idea. Pam and I had had a really trying couple of weeks. Date night was coming up. I finally had more than 15 cents in the checking account. “I know!!”, I thought. “I’ll surprise her with a trip down to Christmas Town at Busch Gardens!!” A perfect idea. Romantic, beautiful night, a road trip, Christmas spirit everywhere. What could possibly go wrong? As date night ideas go, this was a win-win.

It was 65 degrees when we left the house at 3:15 in the afternoon. Although its tough knowing how to dress in this kind of weather, at least we wouldn’t be freezing our tails off like the first time I took her to Christmas Town. That was three years ago, and from everything I’d heard, the thing has gotten bigger and better every year since. The lights were going to be amazing. Pam had even downloaded a Christmas Town app that gave us all the details on the great shows that we couldn’t wait to see. There was the traditional Jingle Bell music of “Deck The Halls“, and a show telling the real Christmas story called “Gloria“. They even had a song and dance show for atheists called, “The Santa Claus Is A Capitalist Tool And Jesus Is A Myth Extravaganza“, performed by some outfit called the Pagan Players. (Just kidding) We were getting stoked!

We sailed down 295 onto 64 east without a hitch. Pam tuned the radio to Lite 98 to hear Christmas Music. Of course, they were still going full throttle with their “sob-a-thon” fund raiser for the Children’s Hospital, but eventually they began to play the standards. We started playing this game where we tried to name the artist to every new tune. I’m great at that game so it was no contest. A particularly beautiful rendition of “It Came Upon A Midnight Clear” came on, sung by a soulful female voice. I said, “That’s either Lena Horne or Ella Fitzgerald.” Pam answered, “Lena Horne”. About the time that the little scrolling song and artist identifier thing revealed that it was Ella, I noticed a sea of red taillights ahead of me. After a couple of minutes 64 had become a parking lot. The sign up ahead said, “ Busch Gardens 1.5 miles”. I glanced at the clock. 4:10.

No reason to panic. Hey, it’s a popular attraction, beautiful night, lots of people anxious to see the beautiful lights and get into the Christmas spirit. We were in no hurry. It’s not a race, after all, just two people looking for a nice romantic night and some quality time together. Lite 98’s reception began to crackle and pop. No problem. Pam cranked up the Pandora Christmas station on the old smart phone. 4:25.

The car directly in front of us was one of those huge four wheel drive buses that rich west end women drive all over the place. The Denali, Escalade-type thing is perhaps the most useless vehicle ever made seeing as how the chances that one of these women will ever take it off-road are about as high as my chances of winning a Pulitzer Prize. However, this particular Titantic sized beast was performing a helpful service since it was blocking my view of the road ahead. Therefore, I couldn’t actually see just how terribly doomed we were. Ignorance is bliss. 4:40.

Wow, I thought. It’s been thirty minutes, and we still haven’t made it to the exit. Maybe there’s an accident. I must remain calm. Don’t want to ruin the mood by becoming “Angry-Driver Guy”. That would be a huge date night buzz-kill. Just listen to the festive music and hold Pam’s hand reassuringly. 4:50.

“At least it will be dark when we get there so we’ll be able to see the lights right away”, I offered with a nervous laugh. Suddenly the duplex on wheels in front of us bolted out of line. Then the enormity of what we were facing was laid bare before our eyes. A snaking double line of taillights stretched out in blurred intensity for another half a mile, all the way to the $14 parking toll plaza. There was a flashing light that screamed out something about the possibility that the parking lot might reach capacity, in which case no reentry would be allowed. What? Why would anyone want to do this twice? Reentry?

I was in the right lane. The left lane naturally moved consistently, while we right laners would sit for 40, 50 seconds at a time with no progress whatsoever. Typical. I never pick the right lane. At fast food joints, I always pick the lane with all the indecisive people. “Get the combo, you idiot!!” At the movies when I want some popcorn, I always pick the line with the spaced out slow-motion hipster guy with the ironic eyes and the earlobe plug the size of Rhode Island. Now, I had picked the right lane, the one that was absorbing the incoming traffic from 60. In a flash of desperation and, I admit, the beginnings of panic, I made a bold lane change when the driver of a van in the left lane made the mistake of sending one too many texts. Now, we were going places baby! Steadily inching forward at a robust 8 miles per hour. 5:10.

We were so close now, we could taste it. I rolled down the window with my twenty dollar bill at the ready. The toll collector was a matronly woman with white hair and an expression of practiced nonchalance. 5:20.

Wait. What was happening? Several frantic people in glowing orange vests were waiving their arms wildly as they ran out in front of the toll booth. Several cars with flashing roof top lights appeared a hundred yards ahead. Men materialized with traffic cones. Our white-haired toll-collector was not impressed. “That’s it,” she said. “They’re full.” 5:25.

It had taken us an hour and 15 minutes to move 2 miles and when I finally reach the promised land I am denied admittance. Now I’m the first guy in line to begin the u-turn onto the service road to go back home. I am literally the first reject. Ever the optimist, my wife says, “ Actually this will work out fine honey. Says here that these tickets are good until December 31^st. We can come back one day next week when I’m not working. Traffic will probably be a breeze on a Tuesday.”

This is what happens when well-meaning husbands get ideas. I was able to save the day by making a last second decision to head into Colonial Williamsburg. We got a table on the patio at Berret’s under the propane heaters. Cheesy grits with shrimp and boneless ribs, an admittedly odd combination, but one that worked well. Duke of Gloucester street was lovely, and date night was saved.

A Terrible Dream

Last night, I awoke at 1:30 from a horrific dream involving a dead family member. There was much hysterical crying and such depth of feeling, that I bolted upright in bed covered with sweat. They say that we dream every night but forget them all when we wake up. Well, I will not soon forget this one. Of course, I look over at Pam and she’s laying there enjoying the peaceful sleep of the just, like every night, oblivious to my terror. So, I got up, and walked down stairs to get some water and shake it off.

Molly was no help, dead asleep, acknowledging me only with a couple of feeble tail wags. I drank my water. Now I was wide awake in a completely dark house. I go back upstairs to my office, sit down at the computer and ask the Facebook universe, “ What does one do at 1:48 in the morning.” The answer was self-evident, in the year 2012, one surfs the internet.

It’s always a dicey thing for a parent to post a comment on their kids’ walls. The danger of embarrassing them is very high, the probability of annoying their friends even higher. Earlier in the day my son had posted a picture of an “atheist Christmas tree”. It was a tree-shaped frame consisting of books with a banner hanging in the background with the word “knowledge” in huge letters. Some of the titles featured Richard Dawkins, Carl Sagen, and other atheist luminaries. Patrick’s comment was “ So this is how atheists decorate Christmas trees…” I thought it was a funny picture. I noticed that the shot had cut off the top of the tree so I couldn’t resist a snaky observation as follows:

“ Ok, the picture cuts off at the top. What’s up there? The hammer and sickle?”

Now, as humor goes, it was a poor effort, I admit. But at least it was an effort. Well, now at 2 o’clock in the morning I notice that one of Patrick’s friends has responded with eye-rolling disgust…”..because all atheists are also communists”.

Man-o-man. Must the death of faith always be accompanied by the death of humor? Thoroughly chastened, I resisted the urge to take the bait. I immediately regretted saying anything in the first place. A less evolved parent, or the me of ten years ago, may well have shot back with:

“ Oh, I’m terribly sorry. It’s not that all atheist are communists, it’s that all communists are atheist. I always get that mixed up. My bad.”

But, it was 2 am, so I let it go. I suppose its fine for atheists to assume that all believers are against “knowledge”, as this display powerfully suggests, but positively Neanderthal for us knuckle-dragging Christians to drop the “C” bomb. Ok, I get it. Lesson learned.

After an hour or so of Facebook, ESPN.com, and the latest gossip from the hot stove league, I was ready to give sleep another try. After tossing and turning for thirty minutes or so, and marveling at the picture-perfect sleeping form of my wife, I finally drifted off to sleep. When I finally awoke, it was 8:45, the latest I have slept in over a year. My mother would have been appalled. Half the day was gone. I feel cheated. Now I can’t eat breakfast without screwing up lunch. All because of a dream. Pam reminds me that there is a solution to this problem. It’s called…brunch!