My Dad's Wisdom

When you write a book, especially one about your parents, it occurs to you what a terribly mediocre writer you actually are. In one sense I'm quite proud of Finishing Well, but in another I'm disappointed. There was so much more I could have said, should have said about them. Reading back through the finished product is an exercise in frustration. How could I have possibly not mentioned my Mother's beautiful alto voice, the way it would carry through the house on hot summer evenings? How could I have failed to pass along all of the little pieces of advice my Dad gave me along the way? But what's done is done. Many of you have bought a copy and for this I am grateful.

Still, over the past week or so I have had cause to think about Dad. My son and I have had a couple of long text message discussions recently about various things and it has occurred to me that Dad and I never had  a similarly long conversation in our entire time together. Perhaps it was a generational thing. Men born in the 1920's weren't big talkers for one thing, so Dad and I had short, terse exchanges mostly, until the end when he was sick and would talk for hours. But when he did speak to me about important things there was always a distinctly different quality to his voice. He would clear his throat and look off into the distance before offering some piece of advice like, " no matter how bad a day you've had, everything feels better after a hot shower."

There were lots of those one line nuggets of wisdom. I haven't talked to Donnie about this but I'd be willing to bet that he heard the same ones I did:

" Anything worth doing is worth doing well."
" You always feel better after a hair cut."
" Shaving is like working. If you don't do it every day, you're a bum."
" It's not how you start a thing, it's how you finish that counts."
" There's nothing worse than a quitter."

Then there were the surprising, out of nowhere asides that he would offer, many of which would stagger me. I remember once when Kaitlin was just a baby, he was over the house for some sort of gathering and he sat next to me on the sofa where I was giving her a bottle. He very casually leans over and says, " you know that Kaitlin will learn how to be treated by men by the way she sees you treat her Mother." Whoa.

I so wish he had said more, but that wasn't him. It wasn't his generation. I much prefer how Patrick and I talk about practically everything. But there's a problem with that too. I want to pass along wisdom to my kids, not just opinions and jokes. I want the stuff I say to them to count for something. I want them to remember me for something besides wit, sarcasm, and a libertarian streak. I don't want them to remember me as merely a theological Christian, but one who actually lived a life that more closely resembled the Sermon on the Mount, than some Roberts Rules of order version of doctrine. In other words, I want them to think of me as I think of my father, as a wise man.

Back to Work

The long slumbering holiday is over. Back to work. Good.

Listen, I enjoy time off as much as the next guy, but this Christmas/New Years thing is just too much. I feel like I haven't done anything productive in a month. I've put on five pounds and my routine has been destroyed by inactivity. It's times like these when I realize that I will never be able to retire. The pressure of having to make a living, the neccesity of having to accomplish something, while troublesome at times, provides the challenge of life. Without it, boredom reins. Although I certainly wouldn't mind being rich, being one of the idle rich would kill me.

Speaking of the idle rich, my wife couldn't possibly have let the holiday season leave us without one last extravagant, over the top event. Last night's Downton Abbey season five premier saw Pam in the kitchen from 2 o'clock in the afternoon until showtime preparing an English tea party extravaganza. As is our tradition, the Fort's came over to watch the show, so there she was doing her very best Ina Garten impression. Our fine china made an appearance. There were place cards identifying the various delectables; cucumber sandwiches, egg salad sandwiches, scones with homemade whipped cream and blackberry jam. On another counter was the tea pot wrapped in a towel, just like Leigh Ann taught her, with delicate cups from the china cabinet. Of course the milk had to be poured into the cups before the tea, lest bruising should take place. Everybody knows that, right? Naturally, Lizzy had seconds.

The show didn't disappoint. It seldom does. This fact continually amazes and confounds me. If you had told me five years ago that I would freely and enthusiastically sit down every Sunday night to watch a television show about an insanely rich family of British monarchists I would have told you
that you were crazy and probably asked, " What, are they really attractive and naked?" After all, my
favorite television fare usually involves violence and suspense, Band of Brothers and Breaking Bad come to mind. But there I was last night glued to my seat, riveted by the trials and tribulations of the Crawleys and their downstairs servants.

 The Mother Country lives!

Is Kobe Bryant a Racist?

"I just think European players are just way more skillful. They are taught the game the right way...they are more skillful. When you have limitations and you understand your limitations, you can be great...In America it's a big problem for us because we're not teaching players how to play all around basketball...that's why 90% of the Spurs roster is European players, because they have more skill."
                                                         
                                                                                                       Kobe Bryant

Is Kobe Bryant a racist? The above quote is so packed to the gills with code words and insinuation, one has to ask the question. Mr. Bryant, at the tail end of a Hall of Fame career and perhaps frustrated by being on a horrible team, offered his analysis of the state of American basketball and seemed to throw American players under the bus. Any discussion of his sport must face the fact that when he says "American" players, he is essentially saying African-American players since they comprise 76% of the league. Kobe offered this loaded critique:

"AAU basketball doesn't teach kids how to play at all so you wind up with players who are big and they bring the ball up and they do all this fancy crap and they don't know how to post up. It's stupid."

I'm not a huge basketball fan. There was a time when I did play the game and even a time when I followed it both at the college level and in the pros more than I do now. So I'm no aficionado, but you don't have to be one to recognize the loaded racial overtones of Mr. Bryant's comments. When he speaks of "understanding your limitations" while speaking of European players, we all know to what he refers. After all, they made a movie about it..."White Men Can't Jump." And notice that he keeps using the term "skillful," not "athletic."

Before you dismiss my premise that Kobe might be a racist, consider the reaction to the above quotes had they come out of the mouth of a Dirk Nowitzki or Greg Popovich? I submit that the race hustlers would be organizing boycotts and Al Sharpton would be bellowing into a bullhorn had a star white player made the same observation about the comparative skill levels of "Eurpoean" vs "American" players.

Of course, Kobe Bryant isn't a racist. But it's worth pointing out that in today's hyper-sensitive culture, WHO says something is often more important than WHAT is said. Jesse Jackson can disparage Jews by referring to where they live in New York City as "Hymietown" all day long. But let a white politician call an African-American "articulate" and all hell breaks loose...unless you're Joe Biden who is allowed to say anything.

Truth still matters to me, which is why I have no problem with Kobe Bryant's observations. European players DO seem more fundamentally sound. African-American players ARE generally much more athletic and flamboyant on the court.

Thanks Kobe, for stating the obvious.

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.