Feeling the Itch

I turn to fiction in the winter, both the reading and writing of it. I’ve often wondered why this is, and have come to the reluctant conclusion that death is inspirational.

Last year about this time I began writing a novel. It is the second such book I have written, the first back in my twenties which was also started during the cold snowy months. Both plots are driven along in no insignificant way by death. This is not to say that the stories are about death, but rather that death serves as an excellent driver of plots.

In winter, it’s hard to escape death. It’s everywhere around you. Green gets replaced by gray. Leaves wither into brown and fly away except for the ones that stubbornly cling to the branches of tall oak trees, making them look sickly and tattered. Then the cold comes and the plants on the deck turn pale green and rubbery. The lush green lawns of the suburbs become matted and powdery, the color of sand.

Unlike the death of men, this is just a season. We know that in a few months time, the color will come back. We know this because it is reliably true. It happens every year. Still, to watch the world around us shrivel and die three months every year has always visited waves of melancholy upon me along with bouts of introspection. Ultimately, I escape to the reading and writing of fiction.

Once again, I’m feeling the itch to create something. The germs of ideas have lately come to life in my imagination. Most of them I reject because I lose interest so easily. Once they are rejected, I can’t even recall what they were, so complete is their banishment. Others fester up there for days, then weeks, until finally I find myself sitting here writing.

But if I’m going to write another book, I better get started while it’s winter. Once it’s warm and green again, I would much rather be outside living my real life than putzing around in an imaginary one.

Here’s a project for all of you literature fans. I wonder what percentage of the greatest novels ever written were started during winter? I’m willing to bet 75%.

It's Cold. Let's cancel school.

Anyone lucky enough to have octogenarian parents have marveled at the stories they tell of what it was like to go to school 70 years ago. Most started out in one room school houses. My father speaks often of his 5 mile walks to school, of how it was his job to keep the pot bellied stove full of wood during the winter months. We always listen in horrified fascination when he tells of the brute authoritarianism of his teachers who were famous for their knuckle-rapping rulers and fondness for public humiliation as a teaching tool. We can hardly imagine what it must have been like to teach a room full of kids from age 6-18. The fact that my Dad’s generation became known as “The Greatest” seems impossible from such a backward education foundation. But, all those guys and girls did was fight and win a World War, then come back home and unleash the most dynamic economic expansion in the history of Western Civilization, and while they were at it…they brought US into the world.

I mention all of this because I haven’t been able to think of much else since the events of yesterday in Henrico County. First, it was announced that there would be a two hour delay of school because of the…cold. It was 10 degrees at dawn and during the day the high temperature reached 26. I certainly hope my 89 year old Dad wasn’t watching TV when that was announced! The temperature didn’t set any type of all time record. There have been much colder days in past years, in fact, many sub-zero temperatures have been recorded in Richmond before. But I never remember having school delayed because of the temperature.

Then, mid-afternoon news began splashing all over the TV about some sort of incident at Glen Allen High School. First reports were of an agitated male teacher. Then the story changed to a love sick 16 year old student who “might have a gun.” Soon, the entire parking lot and all the streets around the school were covered with paramilitary units armed with machine guns, SWAT teams scurried around armed to the teeth, ready to spring into action. Every available Henrico County squad car seemed to be there, blue lights flashing. A crowd of worried parents stood in 15 degree cold waiting for information about the gun wielding teenager inside. Finally, a spokesperson for the, er..uh, authorities informed the crowd that in fact, the 16 year old in question was not in the school and in fact had never been to school all day. News teams from all three local news stations were on the scene with breathless accounts of what might have been another Columbine. One such reporter promised an interview at eleven of one of the girls who had endured this tragic day from the war zone of her Chemistry class. The County will no doubt provide psychological counseling for rattled students as they arrive two hours late this morning.

The old adage at play here in both cases seems to be, rather be safe than sorry. I get it. If some poor kid in Varina is found frozen to death at his bus stop, the County would be tarred and feathered for its insensitive negligence. If there really had been a 16 year old wielding a Glock inside Glen Allen High School and the county hadn’t unleashed 10 divisions to the school, I suppose the blood of innocents would have been on their hands. I suppose. We live in a country ruled by lawyers and governed ultimately by litigation, so this is the way things must be now.

Still, I cannot shake the conviction deep down inside me that we have become a weak and pampered country, where life’s difficulties and nature’s wrath have become things to avoid instead of obstacles to overcome.

10 degrees out? How about we throw on another layer and make an adventure out of it?

It's Good to be King

With only the National Championship game left to be played, the college football bowl season is almost over. When my team, the University of Alabama, lost to Oklahoma in the Sugar Bowl, a flood of commentary began to fly over the interwebs that finally, finally, after long last the mighty SEC had received its comeuppance. Um…no.

Let there be no misunderstanding, Oklahoma played an outstanding game and deserved the victory. They were clearly the better team. They were better on defense, offense and special teams, and on that night the Crimson Tide was even out coached. But to extrapolate the demise of SEC dominance from one game is wishful thinking.

With one game left, here are the records of the five major football conferences in this year’s bowl season:

ACC    4-5

Big Ten    2-5

Big 12    3-3

Pac 12    6-3

SEC    7-2

The Title will pit Auburn against Florida State, giving the ACC a chance to reach the .500 mark. I believe that the Seminoles are the better team despite coming from a weaker conference and should win the game. But if they do and the SEC string of seven consecutive national titles is broken, it will not mean that somehow magically the SEC has become weak. It will mean merely that every streak has an end. There will no doubt come a day when some other region of the country will rise to dominate the sport. My guess would be the Pac 12. But that day hasn’t arrived just yet.

So, all of you SEC haters out there need to keep your powder dry. We’re still the King. And it’s good to be King!

Saying YES to the Dress

I haven’t felt right for over a week now. Last Sunday started with pink eye and since then there have been a series of sore throaty/acky/cough-filled days and nights. I have been assured by my Nazi Doctor over at Patient First that I don’t have the FLU, more likely a lesser virus that I will have to muddle through with until it runs its course.

But yesterday afternoon delivered a highlight, a ray of sunshine into my otherwise dismal week. My daughter said “YES” to the dress.

Here’s how it happened. Since Pam and Kaitlin are both off this week, they thought it might be a perfect time to begin the great wedding dress hunt. I have secretly been dreading this from the day she announced her engagement. My two girls are gifted with talents and abilities that would fill pages of this blog if I were so inclined, however, they both share one excruciating flaw. They are both horribly indecisive, in matters of style and fashion, not always on the same page. Combine these two facts with the search for something as iconic and emotionally charged as a wedding dress, and, well…I was expecting a Bataan Death March style campaign drenched with tears and frustration. Needless to say, I stayed at home.

To be honest, that wasn’t the only reason I stayed home. I’m in no particular hurry to see my little girl trying on wedding dresses. There. I said it. I don’t think that this is something I should have a say in. I’m happy to pay for the thing, but I would rather wait until the big day to see her wearing it.

Pam sent me the first text at 4:04, “Dress 1 has been tried on. There were tears.”

Yeah, no kidding! Imagine that? Crying the first time you see the girl who just three days ago you were teaching how to field grounders wearing a wedding dress? Who could have seen THAT coming? No Thanks. I was very glad to be in my recliner reading the new Deen Koontz novel.

Text number 2, “Dress number two turned out to be the one Kaitlyn Burton wore in her wedding.”

Pam seemed giddy, almost playful. Things seemed to be going well.

Text number 3, “We may have found THE ONE!”

I looked at my watch. It was 5:47. Fifteen minutes later I’m hit with three texts in rapid fire succession,

“She’s trying a couple more on, but she found one that is gorgeous and fits well!

Oh dear. Now there is a second one that’s also beautiful.

Decisions, decisions!”

 Thirty minutes pass. It’s now 6:30 and I’ve heard nothing. In my mind I’m imagining the worst. Both of them discover that they are at odds over which beautiful dress is in fact, THE ONE. Pam tells Kaitlin that the only thing that matters is what SHE thinks, to which Kaitlin replies that she wants Mom to like it just as much as she does. Then the both of them collapse into silent indecision. I decide to send a text of my own.

“What’s the dinner plan?”

Twenty minutes pass without a response. Virus or no, I’m starving. I glance at my watch. 7:02. Finally, a response from Pam,

“We have no plan.”

Seriously?? That’s all I get? They are either hopelessly depressed by the whole experience, or Pam is messing with me. Then this headliner at 7:16…

“We said  YES TO THE DRESS, and within budget!”

The phone rings and its Kaitlin’s happy voice, “I found a dress Daddy!!”

Twenty five minutes later I meet them at Glory Days. They walk in together smiling from ear to ear. After ordering the fabulous soft pretzels with crab dip appetizer, Kaitlin insists on showing me a picture. “What do you think?” she asks.

She hands me her new Apple 5s cell phone and there she is, standing in front of a bank of mirrors, her curly hair tied up with a thing, a veil draping down behind her. It’s a wedding dress with stuff on it. I have no idea what the proper term for all of this stuff is and I never intend to find out. All I know was that she looked stunning, even on the 4 inch screen of a smart phone. I was determined to maintain my composure and I did. I said something like, “Wow, sweetie. It’s beautiful. It has lots of stuff on it.” when what I really wanted to say was, “How is it possible that you grew up so fast into such an incredible woman?” And, where in God’s name is my cheese burger? Anything to change the subject.

So, the dress has been bought, an important item crossed off the wedding To-Do list. It took only one 4 hour trip to David’s Bridal, with only tears of joy spilled. We may just get through this.

Resolution Rabble

The first day of 2014 will be great. I just ate a delicious breakfast of semi-homemade orange/cinnamon rolls with a side helping of 4 pieces of bacon. The bacon was about to expire so we couldn’t just throw it out, right? I plan on burning all of these calories up by taking down the outdoor Christmas decorations, then vacuuming the entire house. I will then fight through the teaming mass of humanity who will today descend upon American Family Fitness. These are the “resolution rabble” that we regulars have to endure for six weeks every Jan.-Feb. You can spot them a mile away in their $300 phosphorescent/neon workout clothes and their brand new $250 lime green running shoes, constantly pawing at their wrists checking their pulse rate after two minutes on the treadmill and taking selfies of their sweat-soaked “Livestrong” headbands.

Then, I will come home and watch college football all day. Georgia, LSU and South Carolina are up today and I’m hoping for an SEC sweep, if for no other reason than to annoy my ACC buddies. Thursday will be back to work day, so that bit of heaviness will creep into my thoughts from time to time. But, all in all, this will be a fine way to begin a year.

Happy New Year everybody.

My 54 New Year's Eve Celebrations

New Year’s Eve, 2013. What to do? As someone who has endured 54 of these babies, I feel I speak for many when I say…enough already. I am so over this most contrived, ridiculous holiday ever. First, a little history.

1958-1964

I remember nothing. Since I was the youngest child in a household of six which had very little discretionary income, I imagine that Mom and Dad drugged us all with Benadryl hoping to knock us out by 7 so they could get a decent night’s sleep.

1965-1968

The New Orleans/Nicholsville years were equally blurry. With Dad in school and Mom working in the campus print shop, we never saw much of them. However, we did have our first television. I have a vague half-formed memory of watching some sort of ball drop in glorious black and white.

1969-1975

In these years I was introduced to the “watch night service”, a Baptist staple for people who wanted to be in the world but not OF the world. A bunch of families with young children along with stout-hearted blue hairs would all gather at the church around 8 in the evening. A ginormous spread of Baptist cuisine would be laid upon long rows of wooden tables with paper table cloths. There would be hot rolls, fried chicken, potato salad, chicken salad, macaroni salad, macaroni and cheese, green bean casseroles galore, pies and cakes of every description, enough cheese balls to feed an army and enough sweet tea to float a battleship, with nary a drop of alcohol in sight. Board games would be played, lots of family friendly group activities would be planned. There would be a hotly contested bible trivia contest, which my mother would always win. Then, around 15 minutes before midnight everyone would gather in the sanctuary for a big prayer service. By the time the prayers were all said it would be past midnight and the deal was done.

1976-1983

Then I entered my young, single college years when my New Year’s Eve celebrations involved prodigious quantities of adult beverages. This too remains a blur of half-formed memories, most of which I would prefer stayed that way.

1984-1991

Once married, New Year’s Eve began to cost serious money. Before the kids arrived it would involve dressing up nice and going to some pretentiously expensive restaurant with limited menu choices and horrible service.

1992

This magical year found us with a 5 year old and a 3 year old and not coincidently, very little discretionary income. Pam and I plotted a scheme full of deception and trickery whereby we convinced the kids that they would be allowed to stay up to welcome in the New Year. Lies, all lies. We cleverly turned all the house clocks up to eleven o’clock, then allowed them to parade around the house banging pots and pans with wooden spoons. Party favors were handed out to add to the cascade of sounds. The kids had that wide-eyed look that kids get when they think that they are getting away with something. Then we had the fake count down, threw confetti, hugged and kissed each other, then whisked them off to bed where they collapsed into a deep exhausted sleep…all by 8:15.  Bruhahahahahaha!!!

1994-2000

Thus began the era of the Dunnevant New Year’s Eve extravaganza. We would invite 6 or 7 couples who also had young children to our house for a night of games, crafts, food, movies, noise parades and watching the ball actually drop with no clock fixing chicanery. Pam was at her teacher/organizer best. I remember these years clearly as they were easily the most fun I’ve ever had on New Years Eve. The guest list would include people like the Baldwins, the Keslers, the Mcmaths, the Thomason’s and the Stroups. Great times.

2001-2007

These were the youth group years, the years consumed by the locust. Our house would be filled with 30-40 teenagers complete with gangly arms and legs, huge appetites, lots of zits and plenty of drama. Very fun times, but costly both in terms of money and wear and tear on the furniture. At the dropping of the ball, all 40 would be stuffed into our family room armed with handfuls of handmade confetti. The out of control boys,(Tyler Pegues and Matt Watson, I’m talking to YOU), would begin jumping up and down in rhythm to the point where the entire house would shake. Then the confetti would fly. Exhausting though it was, I always remember the fond memories that would fill out house the first hot day of the summer when we would turn on the ceiling fan for the first time, showering us with left over confetti. I still miss those kids, every one.

2008-Present

No little ones, no teenagers, no watch night services, but plenty of discretionary income. Now the goal is always avoiding the crowds, dodging drunk drivers and finding a decent meal. Maybe we should return to the days of clock manipulation, pretend that we’ve had a spectacular evening of crazed celebration, then collapse into bed by 11 o’clock!

I’m open to suggestions.

My Patient First Doctor

2013 is going out like with a pathetic whimper, as I have managed to develop pink eye in both eyes. A couple of days ago I woke up to discover that my eyes had crusted over during the night. This lovely condition was joined by an intolerable itch and uncontrollable tearing. Two days later I look like an emotionally unstable single woman who just spent a weekend binge watching the Hallmark Channel.

Sunday morning I drove the family through a driving rainstorm over to a YMCA in south side to hear Gordon Fort preach, despite the itching watery eyes. This should tell you something about the lengths I will go nowadays to hear a decent sermon. Anyway, I sat there the entire time, tissues in hand, dobbing my eyes every few minutes. Although Gordon’s message was terrific, I feel it necessary to point out for his sake as well as mine that it wasn’t that terrific. It wasn’t his soaring rhetoric that drove me to tears, in other words. More infection than inflection.

When I got back home, Pam insisted that I go to Patient First. I obeyed and sat in the packed lobby for two hours before finally seeing the no nonsense Indian doctor, who instantly upbraided me for wearing my contacts. Didn’t I know that wearing contacts while suffering from conjunctivitis was the worst possible thing to do?

Me: Well, er..I suppose I…

Doctor: Now you’ve gone and made it much worse! I feel certain that you have most likely scratched your retinas!!

She then began spitting out orders to an assistant and me.

Doctor: Nurse!! Get me the eye bucket. You, lay down!

She then proceeded to take charge of my case with militaristic glee, ordering people around, peering into my eyes with bright lights, poking my eyeballs with all sorts of swabs and probes, explaining nothing as she went.

Doctor: Just as I suspected!! You have a scratch on your right cornea. You are not to wear contacts again for 7 days, do you understand?!

Me: (timidly) Yes Ma’am.  

She then began feverishly writing out notes and typing up the paperwork, all the while mumbling to herself, clearly still quite upset with me for my contact wearing ignorance. Then suddenly, she took in a big cleansing breath and turned to stare directly into my bloodshot eyes. For the first time, she managed a faint, Mona Lisa smile.

Doctor: Now, you listen to me, Mr. Dunnevant. You are to go home and begin putting two drops into each eye every 4 hours for the next two days. Then you will come back here to see me again. You understand what I am saying?

Me: Yes Ma’am.

Doctor: Under no circumstances are you to put contacts in your eyes. When eyes start to puff up, place hot compresses on them. Do not scratch them or rub them. You have already done too much damage with this foolish wearing of the contact lenses.

She then smiled brightly and patted me on the shoulder. “I see you back here in two days, ok?”

I must say, as bad as having pink eye is, it was quite refreshing to encounter a decisive, straight talking doctor for a change. If all doctors were like this woman, maybe I’d go more often. She didn’t care one bit for my feelings. All she cared about was making me well again, and keeping me, the idiot, from doing any more harm to myself. Or maybe I liked her because she reminded me of what I would be like if I were a doctor. Direct, confrontational and borderline rude people tend to appreciate direct, confrontational rudeness in others, I suppose.