As Un-American as a Tie...

Perhaps nothing makes you feel more American than a day of watching college football. It matters not whether you know anything about the teams. So far today I really haven't. I know that Baylor has very cool helmets, for example, and that quite a few of my Facebook friends are big fans. I know that the TCU faithful are practically apoplectic with rage at the way they were treated by something called the "selection committee." They probably are feeling vindicated by the ass-whupping that their horn frogs (yes...I said horn frogs) laid on Ole Miss.

I'm an SEC man myself, meaning that I root for the teams from the Southeastern conference. It's a southern thing with me. I first became aware of football when I was an eight year old living in New Orleans during the week and Nicholsville, Alabama on the weekends where my Dad pastored a  church. The first time we were in Alabama on Iron Bowl weekend, my Dad thought that perhaps the "rapture" had taken place and we had somehow missed it! His theological confusion was cleared up by some guy named Billy Ray down at the Esso station, the only townsperson NOT in Tuscaloosa. Football down south isn't like football anywhere else. That's not to say that there aren't very good teams and players in the Midwest and out West, but it's just not the same. The winning percentages of SEC teams over the past ten years or so bear this out as well as the National Championships they have piled up. But, nothing lasts forever, and while they are still awfully good, other conferences have caught up.

Now there's a playoff. Four teams chosen by a committee of wise men who are supposed to be in the know. For anyone upset that their team was left out, it should be pointed out that a camel is, in fact, a horse designed by a committee. But from the looks of it, all four teams are capable of winning it all.
What makes it all so American is our relentless drive to crown a champion, our hatred of ties or anything that even meekly suggests unfairness. This despite a generation of whimpy parents protecting their little ones from the humiliation of losing by not keeping score in T-ball. Note to such parents: the kids ALWAYS keep score and are more resilient that you are!

So, there will be no nil-nil ties this weekend, only winners and losers. Just the way we like it!

Four Years of The Tempest

Today marks the completion of four years for The Tempest. That's four years, 805 blog posts, the equivalent of two War and Peaces, and while nobody will ever accuse me of being in Tolstoy's league, at least I've had enough to say to keep this thing going. It has been great fun, so much so that I  believe I would write even if nobody ever read it, although the fact that so many of you do is gratifying.

I'm writing this on my new iPad Air 2, a first for me. It's pretty cool, a surprise Christmas present from my wife. I love it and feel absolutely, positively zero remorse about the fact that it was assembled by cheap Chinese labor, although I would have preferred cheap American labor. If this makes me a callous, uncaring capitalist, then so be it. The benefits of free trade far exceed its limitations in my view, so I'm not going to lose any sleep over how much Yao brings home every Friday.

Speaking of capitalist exploitation, my son and I had a fabulous text debate yesterday about the positive vs. negative effects of Walmart on the economy. It was awesome. Patrick took the view that Walmart is a greedy, money hoarding beast that deliberately impoverishes its workers by paying slave wages, forcing the government to have to provide food stamps and other welfare assistance to them lest they starve. I took the view that the mere existence of Walmart has lowered the cost of living of lower income Americans and therefore done more economic good for poor people than any government program in history, and besides...what Walmart chooses to pay its employees is none of my business since I hold no economic interest in the company. We went back and forth all afternoon! The entire exchange was civil, well reasoned and well argued, making me extremely proud of my articulate son. I'm not sure who won, probably a draw. But since I'm the Dad...I win.

Pam and I will go out for dinner tonight and try to avoid drunk drivers along the way. 2015 is coming whether we are ready for it or not. As long as I get to spend it with her everything will be ok.

The Lost Week

The week between Christmas and New Year’s Day is the most awkward and tentative seven days of the year. It’s the wasted week. The old year’s not quite over but the New Year hasn’t quite arrived. Very little is going on at work. The tsunami that was Christmas is over and the resultant letdown arrives. The kids leave for their new homes in other states, turning your house into a large, inappropriately decorated, eerily quiet place. At some point it will be fun to actually start playing with your new stuff, but in the back of your mind you’re pondering that age old question…what in the world are we going to do for New Year’s?

At some point this week, I will begin making lists. I do that this time of year and I bet you do too. There will be a list of business goals which can be distilled down to two entries…earn more, work less. There will be personal goals that invariably include losing the 10 pounds I’ve packed on over Christmas. The common term for this list-making is resolutions, but I have never liked the word. “Resolutions” implies resolve, and generally speaking very little is involved with these lists. It’s much more a list of hopes and dreams. Wouldn’t it be nice if…

Lucy's Christmas Eve Adventure

Every Christmas adds a story to the family lore. Future retellings always begin with, “remember that year when…?” It is part of the charm of the season. Well, this year was no exception at the Dunnevant house. This new story begins at around midnight on Christmas Eve.

We have discovered that Lucy hates Christmas. Just about the time that her skittishness and general anxiety had been largely overcome by a settled routine, Christmas arrives with its light-strewn trees and packages being delivered by strange men at all hours on the front steps. Christmas…with its large shopping bags being lugged in from the garage, with its incessant wrapping of boxes, and large terrifying socks hanging from the mantle. Let’s just say that Lucy has been on edge of late.

Veterinarians tell us that there is an actual medical term for what happened to poor Lucy at midnight on Christmas Eve…post-traumatic intestinal dysfunction, or put another way, she literally had the s**t scared out of her.

My wife, bless her heart, hasn’t had as much experience taking Lucy out for her morning and evening constitutionals as I have. It isn’t as easy as I make it look. On the night in question, matters were made worse by Lucy’s excessive jumpiness and the presence of scary boxes in the garage and Pam’s terrifying black raincoat (don’t ask!). Even though she really, really had to go, she had to literally be dragged through the garage first. Then, after she relieved herself, she was equally hesitant to reenter the house via the dreaded garage. By this time Pam is getting a bit annoyed by our adorable yet neurotic puppy. After dragging her inside the garage, Pam had to slam the garage door shut behind her. The loud noise this slamming made set off a series of unfortunate events which I will attempt to describe in as elegant a manner as is possible.

After two weeks of Christmas noises, apparently the slamming of the garage door was the noise that broke the camel’s back. Lucy bolts frantically for the house ripping the leash out of Pam’s hand taking two freshly manicured nails with it. Now, the race is on, Lucy dashing wildly in hysterical circles around the house, the leash handle crashing into everything behind her. With each loud noise of the leash handle Lucy runs faster. Patrick, who was busy wrapping presents begins laughing uncontrollably at the sight only to hear his mother screaming, “This is NOT funny!!!” Patrick finally gets his wits about him long enough to corral Lucy and begin the calming down process when they both notice…the smell.

Ok, we consider ourselves rather fortunate that Lucy is er, uh, how shall I say this…regular. Not only regular, but very, uh, er, consistent, if you will. Put another way, when Lucy has to go, it is extraordinarily easy to pick up. A very good thing since in every room of the downstairs there are little, smelly, brown…deposits. Here’s one by the front door. Here’s another by the refrigerator, oh, and one more in the hall! A classic case of post traumatic intestinal dysfunction. As our crazed puppy was frantically trying to escape from the clanging leash handle, she was projectile pooping everywhere!! So, at midnight on Christmas Eve, Pam and Patrick were engaged in a poop recovery mission, Patrick following his nose and Pam coming along behind him with paper towels and Windex. By 12:30 it was all over and Pam came upstairs to bed while Patrick finished his present wrapping. At 1 o’clock Patrick sends his mother a text:

“Ok, so I found one last poop ball on the rug by the tree. I almost stepped on it!! How do I clean poop out of a rug? Help!!”

Alert readers might well ask where I was while all of this was taking place. It’s a fair question. That’s easy…I had just settled my brain for a long winter’s nap, but unlike that sap in the poem, I did not spring from the bed to see what was the matter thanks to my CPAP machine which had blocked out the entire ordeal.

Lucy is in recovery. I have scheduled dog-therapy for next week.

A Sad Memory

It’s almost Christmas Eve. Pam sent me a honey-do list that magically popped up in the reminder file on my cell phone, deviously clever, that woman. I’m glad, grateful suddenly to have a list of jobs to occupy my mind.

Last night Pam and I took dinner over to my niece Christina who is home with a week-old baby girl. I was very excited to get to see little Evelyn. But right before we left Pam asked me to take the cooler out and put it in the back of the car. It was only then when it all hit me. As I unhatched the door to the back of the Pacifica, a flood of memories poured down upon me in an instant. For nearly two years, every Tuesday and Thursday night, I loaded up a full cooler of food in the back of this same car in preparation for our trips to bring dinner to Dad. I hadn’t done it since March, but the memory is still fresh and warm. Now I was bringing another meal and on this one I will pull in the same old driveway. But this time, someone else lives in Dad’s house. I’ll drive around back to Paul and Christina’s new place near the woods. I will glance in the windows of the old place while I drive by. I won’t be able to help myself.

It was great seeing the baby. I held her for the first time. She is beautiful. But I haven’t been able to shake off the grief that found me in my garage loading that cooler. It’s the strangest thing. I can go days, weeks even without thinking about it, but the smallest most inconsequential thing can unleash a torrent of sadness over me.

I’ll snap out of it. I always do, at least I always have. 

Sugar High and Christmas Lights

Last night, after a heavenly dinner of shrimp scampi, a new Dunnevant family Christmas tradition made its debut. My wife got the idea from some old friends of ours on Facebook…and when Pam gets an idea, watch out! Soon, I received an e-mail invitation notifying me that I was to prepare for a night of caroling and Christmas light viewing topped off by a visit to Krispy Kreme. The attire was to be pajamas only, and hot apple cider would be provided.

So there we were at 7 o’clock, Pam, Kaitlin, Jon and myself piling into Ron and Paula’s disagreeable old Buick. Never one to leave the house unprepared, Pam brought a couple of bags of popcorn (two flavors) and enough blankets to warm a platoon of men at Bastogne.  First stop was out in Hanover County at the home of Roger and Cynthia Harris, dear friends who suffered a terrible loss recently. Unfortunately, they weren’t home, a predictable result of such spontaneity. Undeterred, our hearty band then set out to carol our new-Mom niece, Christina. We got halfway through our second number when we remembered how much Ezra hates music, “No Sing!!!” We imagined him inside, perhaps seconds away from falling asleep only to be roused into hysteria by this crazy band of random singing monsters outside of his window. Kid will probably be scarred for life! However, all was not lost, since we got to see little Evelyn for the first time. Adorable child.

One more caroling stop at Pam’s parents’ house and finally success. Russ and Vi had just gotten home from church and were still adorned in Christmas finery. One out of three ain’t bad.

Then we decided that the Christmas light show would have to wait until we were properly fortified with Krispy Kreme doughnuts, or what we in Richmond, Virginia like to call them…H.A.B.’s( heart attack bait). Of course, the red “ready light” was shining brightly and the place was packed. It was probably the only place in town where seven people in pajamas with bright red, furry Santa hats could go unnoticed. An observation…ever notice how loud everyone is inside a Krispi Kreme joint? An effect of the raging sugar highs I suppose.

Up next was a beautiful and enchanting drive down Monument Avenue where we got to see how really wealthy people decorate their 2 million dollar anti-bellum mansions for Christmas. Hint: no inflatable Santas. I, for one, am glad that the current fad of these jolly inflatables came along after my kids were grown. I can only imagine the years of psycho-analysis I would have to pay for after my kids saw Santa alive and happy one night and then deflated and clearly murdered the next morning on the neighbors’ lawn.

“Daddy, who killed Santa!!??”

“No, no Patrick…he isn’t dead. H-he’s just…resting. Yeah, that’s it, he’s resting!”

“No Daddy. Somebody killed him! He’s just lying there dead on the ground!!”

“No son, he just looks dead. The closer we get to Christmas, Santa only comes out at night. He sleeps during the day!”

“Wait…Santa’s a vampire?”

Anyway, the lights were beautiful, from the elegance of Monument Avenue to the delightful kitsch of suburbia.

Oh, and for the record, a total of only sixteen doughnuts were consumed. Sixteen out of a possible twenty four, an admirable demonstration of discipline in the midst of a season of excess.

Merry Christmas!

Present Wrapping Fail

All the presents have been purchased, and the last two trees decorated. This morning is the 20^th of December. Not bad.

Of course, there’s still lots to do, namely present wrapping. Speaking of which…there was a time when after watching Pam do it for ten years or so I had become relatively respectable at applying ribbon to a Christmas present. Not anymore. A couple of nights ago after buying all of Pam’s presents in less than two hours at the mall, I settled down at what used to be our dinner table but for the next 5 days will serve as present wrapping central. Because these were Pam’s gifts I determined to take great care and make them as festive as possible. This meant that ribbons would have to be included. I submit the following photograph for your consideration:

 

First, I should point out that I was stone cold sober at the time and no animals were hurt in the process of wrapping this present. I just don’t understand what happened. I used to be a passably decent wrapper of presents. What happened? Maybe with the passage of time, I’m losing some of my fine motor skills. Perhaps my vision was playing tricks on me, throwing off my depth perception. Or maybe I should have had a couple of beers first!

Luckily, Pam was very understanding. “Oh…look at you. That’s ….adorable.”