Dog Chores and a Concert

Is there anything more awesome than waking up on a Saturday morning after a week of beautiful sunny weather to find it raining outside? Not just raining, but dark and misty with low clouds and even a touch of fog. The only thing missing are the ghosts of Heathcliff and Catherine walking down Aprilbud Place.

But, I am resolved not to let the elements get me down today. I have a full schedule that includes a spectacular concert tonight. The 90 voice Westminster choir will be presenting an evening of drop dead gorgeous music tonight at St. Michael's Catholic Church. Pam and I will be boarding three of them in our home after the concert. When they discover that our son is Patrick Dunnevant they might not want to come home with us since he was probably their graduate assistant in freshman music theory class who wouldn't put up with any of their crap. Be that as it may, we are thrilled to get the opportunity to hear beautiful choral music again and to have kids in our home once more.

So, my jobs for the day are A. Dust and vacuum the house and B. Give Lucy a bath. 

Ever since Miss Lucy's arrival, it is has been necessary to meticulously vacuum the entire house every single Saturday. If I ever miss a Saturday, like I did last week, the place becomes coated with a virtual sea of doggy hair. Let this serve as a warning to my two children and their determined pursuit of dog ownership. Every dog sheds, some more than others. If you want to own a dog, you better know your way around the business end of a good vacuum cleaner! We are told by people who know such things that dogs shed more when they are nervous or afraid, which explains the sea of dog hair in my home after a mere two weeks. Lucy is to nervous dogs what Lebron James is to basketball...the King.

Giving the girl a bath is a breeze though. With my last Golden, Molly, she required weekly baths because of her allergy problems. Lucy only needs a bath once a month or so and even then she still looks and smells great. I just prefer a clean dog and I love how beautiful her coat looks afterwards. While Molly loved her bath and always looked forward to them, Lucy is a bit freaked out by the whole thing. Shocking, I know. But afterwards, she is very pleased with herself and prances around like a Diva. 

I sure hope our students like dogs, because Lucy is going to LOVE them.

Racism and Me

Someone publishes a video of a bunch of drunken frat boys singing a racist song in Oklahoma, and just as sure as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, we are launched into another national conversation on race relations in America. You know it's started in earnest when you see a Jason Whitlock column on the first page of ESPN's website. The only thing that these national conversations lack is honesty, a frank admission of biases, and acknowledgement of the truth. I will do my part to change that with what follows. These are the thoughts and feelings that I battle with in the area of race. I am fully aware that by admitting to them, I run the risk of alienating some of you. Screw it.

1. I despise much of black culture, especially in the entertainment field. I believe that rap lyrics, with its celebration of thugs, objectification of woman, and glorification of violence is a hideous affront to civilization. The fact that so much of white society is trying to co-opt it is an embarrassment.

2. When I watch sporting events on television, almost all of them are dominated by black athletes. After the games, when the players are interviewed it seems that most black players are illiterate. Although athletes as a whole aren't exactly Einsteins, more often than not, black athletes sound as if they have no basic command of the English language. There are exceptions. There are very intelligent black players and many moronic white players, but as a general rule I have a hard time imagining many of these black athletes being able to function in an entry level college class. Thirty years of such post game interviews has instilled within me a generally bad opinion of black intelligence. 

3. Fifty years of the Great Society and its elevation of the power and importance of government as both provider and protector in the black community has baked into the black community a sense of entitlement. The almost complete disappearance of responsible fathers in the black community makes me feel at times that the pathologies that plague the inner city are mostly self-inflicted. Therefore, I generally resent being constantly told that more and more money needs to be thrown into the very same programs that have facilitated such self destructive behavior.

4. With the Pavlovian Dog appearance of Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson at every exploitable incident involving race in this country, my reaction is that the black community has the leaders that it deserves. My dislike of these two odious men cannot possibly be sufficiently communicated in mere words. My hatred of them is visceral.

5. There is probably no single segment of America that I loathe more than upper class white fraternity kids. These children of privilege, the kind that appeared in the Oklahoma University video have never in their lives had to work for anything. None of them have had to overcome anything approaching a head wind. And while they sing racist songs demeaning blacks, a quick glance of their iPods would reveal mostly Hip Hop music. Every Saturday in the fall these same punks, dressed in their blue blazers and sundresses and pearls cheer wildly for the Sooners, a team dominated by black athletes.

6. The worst examples of overt racism I have ever witnessed over the years have been provided to me by people I go to church with. This fact has always been painful for me to admit. The fact that racism not only survives but sometimes has thrived within the confines of an establishment dedicated to the spreading of the Gospel of Jesus Christ is a profound embarrassment. In fairness, the church is also the place where my worst racial instincts have been challenged. It is also the place where I have met some of the most loving people, the people most dedicated to racial justice in word and deed. It is a mystery.

Well, that's a start I suppose. My basic default position on race relations in this country is that blacks have made much more progress here than any other place on the planet, and much more than their leaders are willing to admit, and white people including myself are much more racist than we are comfortable admitting.

Redeemed

 

                                                              Part II

 

“Shut up!!” he screamed, “I swear I’ll blow your goddamn heads off!”

He was trembling. Martha noticed his wild eyes with two black lines drawn underneath, just like baseball players on sunny days. Tears and sweat had cut thin gray streams through them. His hair was jet black and hung down over his face, long and stringy. From his right earlobe hung a string of beads. He wore a denim jacket and a black t-shirt. His jeans were filthy, with huge holes in them, one of which exposed most of his right thigh. He smelled very much like a dog who had been left outside in the rain. Martha felt another thought on its way.

“Is it money you want?”

Henry cut his eyes abruptly towards her. “Why not just give him the key to the safe deposit box?!” he thought.

“That’s right, grandma!” he yelled, “I want your money, all of it.”

“I wish I could help you, but we don’t keep much money around the house.” Her voice was calm and clear.

“That’s right son.” Henry had finally found his voice and it was booming. “See, we’re senior citizens. Don’t have much need for cash. Now, we’ve got money in the checking account and plenty in savings down at the bank, but cash? No, just don’t have a need for it.”

The boy slumped back against the door and began to cry weakly, slowly lowering the gun until it hung quietly at his side.

“My name is Martha and this is my husband Henry.” Martha managed a relaxed smile. “What’s your name?”

The boy stopped crying and looked at Martha through his filthy hair as if seeing her for the first time. He lifted the gun and pointed it at her, then waved it at Henry. “You two bastards may not have any money, but I’ve got this, so shut the hell up, so I can think!”

“Such language,” Martha thought, “What perfectly repulsive language!” She began to think about his parents, trying to imagine what kind of people would allow their son to roam the streets looking and talking like this. She was suddenly overcome with compassion. The power of this strange emotion overcame her fear. She spoke with surprising energy and confidence.

“Well, if you won’t give me your name, I’ll just make one up. I’ll call you John. Are you hungry John?”

“What?” Henry asked.

“You look like you could use some supper. When was the last time you had anything to eat?”

John looked at Henry, then back at Martha, confused and terrified in equal measure, saying nothing.

Martha sprang from her rocker and confidently turned her back on them both, starting for the kitchen. “Why don’t we all go in the kitchen and I’ll throw something together. It’s easier to think on a full stomach.”

John screamed, “Wait!” He raised the gun again, pointing it at Henry. “You first, old man! Don’t try anything stupid or…”

“You’ll blow my goddamn head off, I’m guessing.” Henry was beyond fear and had lapsed into irritation.

They walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table. John’s face began to relax a bit but his knuckles were still white around the handle of his shiny black gun. Martha was busy going through the refrigerator.

“I hope you like chicken because it looks like that’s all we have. How about I make you a chicken sandwich and heat up some soup?”

John was silent, staring at them both, a thousand thoughts raging through is head.

“So John,” Henry broke the awkward silence. “What do you do? I mean besides breaking and entering?”

“Nothing.” He spoke. “I don’t do anything. This is the first time I’ve ever done this.”

“Well, I suggest that you make this your last time. There’s no future in a life of crime. Besides, you’re not exactly cut out to be a criminal.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, for starters, I’ve never met anyone who would be easier to identify in a police lineup.”

Martha placed a steaming bowl of chicken soup on the table in front of John. Beside it she placed a chicken sandwich on a paper towel. She then poured lemonade into a blue plastic cup. “Help yourself.”

John instructed Martha to sit across the table with her husband where he could keep an eye on them both. He wanted their hands on the table where he could see them. Then he laid the gun a few inches away from his right hand and picked up the sandwich in one clean motion. He took a ravenous bite and swallowed it almost without chewing.

“No manners either,” thought Martha. “What kind of parents must this boy have?”

He plowed through the soup with equally ill-mannered haste, sloshing noodles and broth over the rim of the bowl. Hot chicken soup ran down his chin and formed a small pool on the table.

“I take it that the food suits you?” Henry asked loudly.

“It’s alright, if you like chicken,” John answered without looking up.

“They tell me that they serve chicken soup three days a week down at the penitentiary.”

John finally lifted his eyes from the bowl and narrowed them at Henry. He gulped down the last of the lemonade and wiped his chin on the dirty sleeve of his jacket.

“There’s lemon meringue pie,” Martha offered, feeling uncomfortable with the silence. She walked over to the refrigerator and cut a large piece of pie and placed it on a paper plate in front of him. “Do your parents know where you are John?”

“I doubt it,” he answered with his mouth full. “They think I’m in college.

“College?”

“They think I’m studying to be a big shot at school.”

“But I suppose you found out that you didn’t need to go to college to become a big shot, right?” Henry boomed. “All you needed to do was to grow out your hair, buy some pants with holes in them and rob old people of their life savings.”

John reached for his gun and pointed it between Henry’s eyes. “You’re just like my old man. You think you’ve got all the answers don’t you? What’s your answer to this gun pointed at your head Pops? You got an answer for this?”

“Life insurance.”

“John! Please don’t!” Martha pleaded. She reached out suddenly and clutched his left hand firmly with both of hers. He jumped, startled and afraid and pointed the gun at Martha.

“Talk to me John. I’ll try to understand. I’ll listen for as long as it takes. You don’t want to hurt us. I know you don’t. Will you talk to me? Please talk to me.”

John softened his grip on the gun and once again began to cry. Martha squeezed his hand and touched his shoulder gently like she had done so many times when her two sons were young and angry. She pulled her chair closer to him and they began to talk, Henry keeping a sharp eye on the gun and wondering if his wife’s Good Samaritan instinct was finally going to get them killed.

They talked softly about his parents who didn’t even know that their son had dropped out of school months ago. They had separated two weeks after he went away  for his freshman year. He hadn’t talked to either of them in months. They had probably been counting the days, cutting little lines in a wall someplace every morning, waiting for him to leave. He hated them. He hated everyone now. Nobody wanted him.

Martha told him that he was wrong to think that way, that God loved him and had a plan for his life. He told her that he didn’t believe in God. There didn’t seem to be much evidence for his existence. Martha offered herself as proof. “How could I have possibly had the courage to turn my back on you in there a minute ago if it weren’t for God?” She never let his hand go. He looked straight into her eyes and the room fell silent.

Suddenly, Martha got up from the table, walked into the bedroom and returned with an El Producto cigar box. Henry’s eyes widened and his face went pale. “Martha, have you lost your mind?”

“Henry,” she answered firmly, “Remember the other night when you said that we needed a gun to keep around the house? Well, this young man has one and I think we ought to buy it from him”

Henry never took his eyes off of John while answering, “Yes, I remember using those exact words.”

John looked at Martha in disbelief, mouth ajar, waiting for an explanation.

“Look John, you need money. We need a gun. Let’s make a deal. How much did you pay for this gun?”

“I stole it.”

Henry came to life. “You hear that Martha? He says he stole it. Imagine that. I mean, what are the odds?”

Martha ignored her increasingly confrontational husband. “Well, supposing that you had bought it, how much would it have cost?”

“I don’t know. Two, three hundred dollars?”

“Henry? You think 300 is a fair price?”

“By all means, Martha. We have absolutely no reason to doubt the boy’s word.”

“Then it’s a deal!” Martha opened the box lid and pulled out a huge wad of twenty dollar bills as Henry buried his face in his hands. John watched her count out fifteen twenties and lay them on the table.

“I thought you said you didn’t have any cash in the house.”

“I didn’t…for a thief. But for a friend, I can always find some extra money.”

 She extended her hand to John, waiting for him to hand over the gun. She was calm and confident. Henry watched it all happening as if in slow motion. He loved his wife with all of his heart, but it was this sort of thing that had always driven him crazy, her undying faith in the goodness of her fellow man. All he wanted to do was rush this punk and beat him to within an inch of his miserable life and if this all had happened twenty years ago he already would have. Instead he prayed under his breath that God would deliver them from her naiveté. This wasn’t Les Miserable.

John reached across the table and swept up the twenties and stuffed them in his jacket pocket, still holding firmly to the gun. Martha held her breath and hoped that nobody could hear her heart beating. Then he rose from the table, looked at them both and slowly placed the gun in Martha’s hand.

‘Thanks for the meal,” John finally spoke. “I feel much better.”

“I’m glad you liked it.” Martha suddenly felt exhausted.

“I better be going now.”

“Where will you go?”

“I’ve got a place, an apartment. It’s ok.”

“Well, if you ever need anything, I guess you know where we live.”

Henry began to seethe. Was this punk about to get away with it?

The three of them walked down a short hallway into the living room. John crushing bits of glass under his feet as he made his way to the front door. He looked down at the glass as if noticing it for the first time.

“I’m really sorry about the lamp. Was it very old?”

“Been in the family for three generations,” Henry thundered. “It was an antique, an irreplaceable original.”

Martha looked across the room at John and smiled. “Just like you, John.”

Henry waited for a minute, then said, “I couldn’t possibly take less than three hundred dollars for it.”

John opened the door. He reached into his pocket and placed the crumpled wad of twenties on the Ben Franklin desk, then disappeared into the night, shutting the door gently behind him.

Redeemed

Martha Rigsby knew her way around a rocking chair. Her father knew how to build one too back sixty years earlier when he had built this one. She swayed back and forth effortlessly, like something mechanical, keeping rhythm with the eternal ticking of the mantle clock, it too having been built by her father, the master craftsman.

It was 7:30 and this evening was progressing like all the others. Her husband of fifty-two years was in the kitchen cleaning up the dinner dishes, washing each dish carefully by hand, drying them with a clean dish towel and stacking them gently in the cabinet over the dishwasher. Henry Rigsby had bought the dishwasher from a Greek man who sold them from the back of a tractor trailer. He was told that it was “practically brand new.” He brought it home as a surprise for Martha on her birthday, six years earlier. Martha wanted no part of it, and had demanded that Henry return it  and get his money back, but he never saw the Greek man again. Of course, the thing didn’t work. They had called a repairman to come fix it but it was missing several pieces, so there it sat taking up space. Henry liked to point out that it gave the kitchen more counter space. It was a sore subject.

Martha shuffled through the paper until she found the sports page. She loved the summer months the most, because she loved to follow her beloved Cleveland Indians. Henry was to blame for her obsession with baseball since it was he who had made the mistake of taking her to her first Indians game forty years ago. She sat in the left 
field stands and fell in love with everything. She watched the outfielders chase down 
fly balls. She watched other fans scream epitaphs at several Indains for swinging at 
pitches that were a mile out of something called the “strike-zone.” She listened to the 
venders barking out enticements for peanuts, popcorn, hotdogs and beer. She watched the Indians get beaten 16-2. She wouldn’t allow Henry to leave the game until the very last Indian had struck out in the bottom of the ninth. She wondered how people could be so rude as to leave in the middle of a game. She felt embarrassed for the players, so much so that, over the vehement objections of Henry, she wrote a scathing letter to the editor as soon as got home, blasting the Cleveland fans for deplorably bad manners. She became a baseball fan for life.

Martha shook her head from side to side as she read the box score. “Worst pitching I’ve ever seen,” she said to herself, “We’ve got no pitching.”

“What’s that, Martha?” Henry’s thundering voice startled her the way it always did. “I can’t hear you. I’ve got the water running.”

It’s our pitching,” she responded, “worst I believe I’ve ever seen.”

“You say that every year. I think it’s time you got behind a different team. How about one of the teams from California? The Dodgers have plenty of pitching.”

“Why should I follow a team from California?”

“Because that’s where our two sons live and our grandchildren. Seems perfectly natural that their grandmother would start following the Dodgers.”

Martha turned the pages aimlessly for a while, then folded the paper neatly and 
placed it on the coffee table beside the TV Guide. Henry walked passed her and lowered himself, like a dish, carefully into his recliner. The front of his pants was wet in a dark blue line just below his belt. Martha usually never failed to remind him that if he would wear the apron he wouldn’t get his pants wet, but tonight she let it go. He reached for his book on the coffee table. For the hundredth time he read about the trials and tribulations of Ishmael, Queequeg and Ahab. In his seventy-nine years nothing had proven as consistently delightful as Moby Dick. With each new reading he would somehow find something new. He read with the wide-eyed excitement of a school boy.

Martha watched him reading as she worked on a cross-stitch calendar she had started three years ago. As she looked at him she remembered how she once used to wonder what he would look like when he got old. Back then she believed that he would be remarkably wrinkle free, with a full head of salt and pepper hair. He would be handsome at any age, she had been convinced. She smiled to herself when she considered that she hadn’t been far off.

“You know Henry, you turned out to be a rather distinguished looking old fool, if I must say so myself.” Martha had surprised herself.  She had done that a lot lately. Words would come flying out of her mouth before she had a chance to measure them and calculate their effect.

“Well, of course I did.” Henry never looked up from Herman Melville.

Then suddenly, “Are you fulfilled Henry?”

“Yes Dear. Dinner was wonderful. I couldn’t possibly eat another thing.”

“No, no, are you happy? Are you content? Do you have regrets about our lives?”

Henry took off his reading glasses, folded them and placed them teetering on the arm of his recliner. “What kinds of questions are these?”

“They’re perfectly natural questions for people our age to ask.”

“OK. Actually, I couldn’t be happier. I’m 79 years old, reasonably healthy, married the only girl I ever loved, and I’m not in a nursing home.”

“I’m certainly not the only woman you ever loved.”

“Well, you’re the only woman I ever loved who would agree to marry me, and now that I think about it, I do have a regret…that I never got involved in real estate.”

“I just find myself thinking about these things more now than ever before. I think about everything we’ve done and I realize how much of a charmed life we’ve lived.”


“God has been good to us,” was Henry’s stock reply whenever Martha would start with one of her “have we been faithful stewards” speeches. After a while he picked up his glasses, found his place in the book and once again launched into the deep.

The front door flew open wildly, slamming into the Ben Franklin desk, sending the stained glass hurricane lamp onto the floor where it exploded into a thousand slivers of glass. He held a gun tightly with both hands fully extended in front of him. He slipped on the shattered glass as he scrambled to shut the door behind him.

“Either one of you moves, I’ll blow your goddamn head off!” His voice shook like the voice of a 
child. Sweat poured from his face and his eyes were wild and lost. Henry was motionless, waiting for his heart to start beating again. He held Moby Dick in a death grip. He tried to speak but his mouth couldn’t form the words. Martha looked into the eyes of the young man before her. She felt her mouth go dry and all the color drain from her face. Her fingers and toes began to tingle. She felt the vague sensation of a thought about to be spoken. “Is there anything we can help you with young man?”

                                                              Part II

“Shut up!!” he screamed, “I swear I’ll blow your goddamn heads off!”

He was trembling. Martha noticed his wild eyes with two black lines drawn underneath, just like baseball players on sunny days. Tears and sweat had cut thin gray streams through them. His hair was jet black and hung down over his face, long and stringy. From his right earlobe hung a string of beads. He wore a denim jacket and a black t-shirt. His jeans were filthy, with huge holes in them, one of which exposed most of his right thigh. He smelled very much like a dog who had been left outside in the rain. Martha felt another thought on its way.

“Is it money you want?”

Henry cut his eyes abruptly towards her. “Why not just give him the key to the safe deposit box?!” he thought.

“That’s right, grandma!” he yelled, “I want your money, all of it.”

“I wish I could help you, but we don’t keep much money around the house.” Her voice was calm and clear.

“That’s right son.” Henry had finally found his voice and it was booming. “See, we’re senior citizens. Don’t have much need for cash. Now, we’ve got money in the checking account and plenty in savings down at the bank, but cash? No, just don’t have a need for it.”

The boy slumped back against the door and began to cry weakly, slowly lowering the gun until it hung quietly at his side.

“My name is Martha and this is my husband Henry.” Martha managed a relaxed smile. “What’s your name?”

The boy stopped crying and looked at Martha through his filthy hair as if seeing her for the first time. He lifted the gun and pointed it at her, then waved it at Henry. “You two bastards may not have any money, but I’ve got this, so shut the hell up, so I can think!”

“Such language,” Martha thought, “What perfectly repulsive language!” She began to think about his parents, trying to imagine what kind of people would allow their son to roam the streets looking and talking like this. She was suddenly overcome with compassion. The power of this strange emotion overcame her fear. She spoke with surprising energy and confidence.

“Well, if you won’t give me your name, I’ll just make one up. I’ll call you John. Are you hungry John?”

“What?” Henry asked.

“You look like you could use some supper. When was the last time you had anything to eat?”

John looked at Henry, then back at Martha, confused and terrified in equal measure, saying nothing.

Martha sprang from her rocker and confidently turned her back on them both, starting for the kitchen. “Why don’t we all go in the kitchen and I’ll throw something together. It’s easier to think on a full stomach.”

John screamed, “Wait!” He raised the gun again, pointing it at Henry. “You first, old man! Don’t try anything stupid or…”

“You’ll blow my goddamn head off, I’m guessing.” Henry was beyond fear and had lapsed into irritation.

They walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table. John’s face began to relax a bit but his knuckles were still white around the handle of his shiny black gun. Martha was busy going through the refrigerator.

“I hope you like chicken because it looks like that’s all we have. How about I make you a chicken sandwich and heat up some soup?”

John was silent, staring at them both, a thousand thoughts raging through is head.

“So John,” Henry broke the awkward silence. “What do you do? I mean besides breaking and entering?”

“Nothing.” He spoke. “I don’t do anything. This is the first time I’ve ever done this.”

“Well, I suggest that you make this your last time. There’s no future in a life of crime. Besides, you’re not exactly cut out to be a criminal.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, for starters, I’ve never met anyone who would be easier to identify in a police lineup.”

Martha placed a steaming bowl of chicken soup on the table in front of John. Beside it she placed a chicken sandwich on a paper towel. She then poured lemonade into a blue plastic cup. “Help yourself.”

John instructed Martha to sit across the table with her husband where he could keep an eye on them both. He wanted their hands on the table where he could see them. Then he laid the gun a few inches away from his right hand and picked up the sandwich in one clean motion. He took a ravenous bite and swallowed it almost without chewing.

“No manners either,” thought Martha. “What kind of parents must this boy have?”

He plowed through the soup with equally ill-mannered haste, sloshing noodles and broth over the rim of the bowl. Hot chicken soup ran down his chin and formed a small pool on the table.

“I take it that the food suits you?” Henry asked loudly.

“It’s alright, if you like chicken,” John answered without looking up.

“They tell me that they serve chicken soup three days a week down at the penitentiary.”

John finally lifted his eyes from the bowl and narrowed them at Henry. He gulped down the last of the lemonade and wiped his chin on the dirty sleeve of his jacket.

“There’s lemon meringue pie,” Martha offered, feeling uncomfortable with the silence. She walked over to the refrigerator and cut a large piece of pie and placed it on a paper plate in front of him. “Do your parents know where you are John?”

“I doubt it,” he answered with his mouth full. “They think I’m in college.

“College?”

“They think I’m studying to be a big shot at school.”

“But I suppose you found out that you didn’t need to go to college to become a big shot, right?” Henry boomed. “All you needed to do was to grow out your hair, buy some pants with holes in them and rob old people of their life savings.”

John reached for his gun and pointed it between Henry’s eyes. “You’re just like my old man. You think you’ve got all the answers don’t you? What’s your answer to this gun pointed at your head Pops? You got an answer for this?”

“Life insurance.”

“John! Please don’t!” Martha pleaded. She reached out suddenly and clutched his left hand firmly with both of hers. He jumped, startled and afraid and pointed the gun at Martha.

“Talk to me John. I’ll try to understand. I’ll listen for as long as it takes. You don’t want to hurt us. I know you don’t. Will you talk to me? Please talk to me.”

John softened his grip on the gun and once again began to cry. Martha squeezed his hand and touched his shoulder gently like she had done so many times when her two sons were young and angry. She pulled her chair closer to him and they began to talk, Henry keeping a sharp eye on the gun and wondering if his wife’s Good Samaritan instinct was finally going to get them killed.

They talked softly about his parents who didn’t even know that their son had dropped out of school months ago. They had separated two weeks after he went away  for his freshman year. He hadn’t talked to either of them in months. They had probably been counting the days, cutting little lines in a wall someplace every morning, waiting for him to leave. He hated them. He hated everyone now. Nobody wanted him.

Martha told him that he was wrong to think that way, that God loved him and had a plan for his life. He told her that he didn’t believe in God. There didn’t seem to be much evidence for his existence. Martha offered herself as proof. “How could I have possibly had the courage to turn my back on you in there a minute ago if it weren’t for God?” She never let his hand go. He looked straight into her eyes and the room fell silent.

Suddenly, Martha got up from the table, walked into the bedroom and returned with an El Producto cigar box. Henry’s eyes widened and his face went pale. “Martha, have you lost your mind?”

“Henry,” she answered firmly, “Remember the other night when you said that we needed a gun to keep around the house? Well, this young man has one and I think we ought to buy it from him”

Henry never took his eyes off of John while answering, “Yes, I remember using those exact words.”

John looked at Martha in disbelief, mouth ajar, waiting for an explanation.

“Look John, you need money. We need a gun. Let’s make a deal. How much did you pay for this gun?”

“I stole it.”

Henry came to life. “You hear that Martha? He says he stole it. Imagine that. I mean, what are the odds?”

Martha ignored her increasingly confrontational husband. “Well, supposing that you had bought it, how much would it have cost?”

“I don’t know. Two, three hundred dollars?”

“Henry? You think 300 is a fair price?”

“By all means, Martha. We have absolutely no reason to doubt the boy’s word.”

“Then it’s a deal!” Martha opened the box lid and pulled out a huge wad of twenty dollar bills as Henry buried his face in his hands. John watched her count out fifteen twenties and lay them on the table.

“I thought you said you didn’t have any cash in the house.”

“I didn’t…for a thief. But for a friend, I can always find some extra money.”

 She extended her hand to John, waiting for him to hand over the gun. She was calm and confident. Henry watched it all happening as if in slow motion. He loved his wife with all of his heart, but it was this sort of thing that had always driven him crazy, her undying faith in the goodness of her fellow man. All he wanted to do was rush this punk and beat him to within an inch of his miserable life and if this all had happened twenty years ago he already would have. Instead he prayed under his breath that God would deliver them from her naiveté. This wasn’t Les Miserable. 

John reached across the table and swept up the twenties and stuffed them in his jacket pocket, still holding firmly to the gun. Martha held her breath and hoped that nobody could hear her heart beating. Then he rose from the table, looked at them both and slowly placed the gun in Martha’s hand.

‘Thanks for the meal,” John finally spoke. “I feel much better.”

“I’m glad you liked it.” Martha suddenly felt exhausted.

“I better be going now.”

“Where will you go?”

“I’ve got a place, an apartment. It’s ok.”

“Well, if you ever need anything, I guess you know where we live.”

Henry began to seethe. Was this punk about to get away with it?

The three of them walked down a short hallway into the living room. John crushing bits of glass under his feet as he made his way to the front door. He looked down at the glass as if noticing it for the first time.

“I’m really sorry about the lamp. Was it very old?”

“Been in the family for three generations,” Henry thundered. “It was an antique, an irreplaceable original.” 

Martha looked across the room at John and smiled. “Just like you, John.”

Henry waited for a minute, then said, “I couldn’t possibly take less than three hundred dollars for it.”

John opened the door. He reached into his pocket and placed the crumpled wad of twenties on the Ben Franklin desk, then disappeared into the night, shutting the door gently behind him.

The Window Shades of Death

 

Well, at least Lucy doesn't look any worse for the wear. Here she is, paws crossed, completely at peace with herself, guiltless and guileless. Meanwhile, I am contemplating a Sunday morning trip to Patient First.

Yesterday, I awoke to a strange yellow ball on the horizon. The further it rose in the sky, the warmer it became. A quick Google search revealed that this was, in fact, the sun. I resisted the urge to find a calf and butcher it at the top of the nearest mountain. Instead, I thought it might be fun to take Lucy to my office while I paid some bills, a little morning outing with my loyal dog at my side.

We rode over to the office without incedent. Upon arrival at the empty parking lot I walk up to the front door with my keys and briefcase in my right hand and the handle of Lucy's leash in my left. 

She is a bit wary at this point since she's only been here a couple of times, but so far, so good. Then it 

gets tricky. The welcome mat at the front door is still wet from the recent snow so I don't want to set my leather briefcase on it while I unlock the door. Instead, I jam it between my knees. I then unlock the door and swing it open. As I do so, I hear the timed chirping of our alarm system which gives you thirty seconds to enter, and punch in a password. Failure to do so will set off an ear-piercing sound and launch a call to the police. After throwing the door open, I stuck out my backside to prop it open so Lucy could enter, while simultaneously reaching for my briefcase. That's when the fun started.

The front door to our our office is adorned with wooden shades, large, clingy, wooden shades which make a loud clapping noise when you brush up against them. When these shades collided with my rear end, the loud clapping sound sent Lucy into a terrified panic. Instead of entering the building, she bolted for the parking lot...practically ripping the leash handle from my hand, and jerking my left arm back at an odd and very abrupt angle. So, there I was, the door propped open, my briefcase dropped on the wet mat, trying desperately to coax Lucy into the office, all the while, the countdown of death chirping inside! Trying to calm down a lunatic dog while coaxing her to enter a building through a door with wooden shades emitting scary sounds is hard enough. Try doing it when right at point of entry the intruder alarm goes off!! Lucy spent the entire time pacing nervously in my office, shaking like a leaf. In retrospect, not my best idea. 

About an hour later, I headed over to AmFam for a workout. Once there I noticed that my left shoulder had started to hurt... A LOT. Instead of lifting weights, I opted for an hour session on the treadmill, all the while, my surgically repaired shoulder barking it's resistance. Now, 24 hours later, after a fitful night's sleep, it is killing me. I'm afraid I may have ripped something apart in there. Not good.

So, I will go over to see my maniacle Indian doctor at Patient First, get it x-rayed and hope for the best. Dog ownership isn't for sissies.

Slippery Slopes

The list of Golden Retreiver Rules I put on Facebook yesterday is one of the coolest things I've run across in quite some time. It's so funny precisely because it is so true. When Lucy arrived we too had all sorts of noble plans. This time it was going to be different. THIS golden wasn't going to take over not only our house, but our lives too. Five months later she strides around here like she owns the place...because she does!

The gist of this list of rules is the infamous "slippery slope" argument. This is the line of reasoning, usually employed by politicians when losing an argument, whereby it is contended that if a relatively benign and insignificant thing A is allowed to pass, it will slowly but surely lead to catastrophic plague B. We heard it most recently in the Net Neutrality debate. Now that the camel's nose of government regulation is under the tent, surely censorship of content and rate hikes will follow. We also heard it with regards to the gay marriage debate. Allow gay people to marry one another and before long people will be rushing down the aisle to marry their parakeets.

However, despite the overuse of the device, slippery slopes do in fact exist. No one can seriously argue that there isn't a ton more vulgarity on television than there used to be. Today in prime time, there is more profanity, graphic violence, and nudity than there was in R rated movies from forty years ago. So, it was a slippery slope from the censors allowing the sound of a toilet flushing on All in the Family in the 70's to Keeping Up with the Kardashians. Some will argue that this is a good thing. But just like the famous frog and the pot of boiling water, the American people would have melted down the phone lines if an episode of Family Guy had been aired in 1970. But now, we don't bat an eye.

My point is that it is true that every society evolves, and in doing so we constantly test the limits of things. Sometimes little compromises, small, seemingly minor decisions do lead to unintended consequences. We can argue about what leads to what, but we can't argue that actions taken today will never have unforeseen consequences tomorrow. There's a phrase for it....the slippery slope.

Will Net Neutrality lead to excessive government meddling? I hope not. Will Fred marrying Fido be commonplace in ten years? I think not. But this I do know. There isn't a person alive today who was born before 1960 who ever would have believed that a President of the United States could survive getting caught having oral sex in the Oval Office with an intern. But he did. Imagine how long Harry Truman would have lasted under the same circumstances? 

Slippery slope indeed.

Dueling Weatherpersons

Oh boy. Here we are on the cusp of another winter storm, which can only mean one thing...the revenge of the weather nerds is upon us. 

That's right, the Internet has been buzzing with NAM's, EURO's and GFS's for days now. With each new run of these computer models, meteorologists great and small burst forth with their latest predictions. Barely comprehensible maps appear with lots of colors and squiggly lines offering visual "explanation" for why we can absolutely, positively count on 2-8 inches of snow. Each of these forecasts comes with the requisite weasel words which allow the meteorologist with enough ass-cover to allow for plausible deniability if we end up getting nothing but rain. But it's all great fun, and as far as I can tell, the professionals have about the same record of accuracy as the growing legion of homegrown, do-it-yourself weather forecasters...like my friend and former youth pastor Jeremy Welborn. Weather forecasting seems to be the hobby of choice for the kind of people who might have put together model airplanes or collected stamps fifty years ago. Apparently, anyone with a laptop and an Internet connection can take up this new hobby. The best part of meteorology is the fact that, just like baseball, if you're successful just thirty percent of the time, you're in the Hall of Fame.

This particular storm must be something special because it seems that each of our three local TV guys has a different forecast. Our infamous, and obnoxiously arrogant Internet weather expert,who prefers the exotic "DT" changes his forecast about every thirty minutes and produces more incomprehensible maps than anyone. He also provides some level of entertainment by constantly berating his television competitors for being "idiots and morons." Whenever the TV guys wind up being right, DT lowers the cone of silence over his operation before finally explaining that he was actually right all along but we were too stupid to understand his superior, if nuanced, models.

 So, depending on who I chose to listen to, I'm prepared to endure each of the following; a day of cold rain followed by a bit of sleet, a wintry mix( an ass-covering formulation if ever there was one) which may or may not switch over to all snow anywhere between 11 am and 4 pm, or a brief interlude of snow that could drop anywhere from a trace to ten inches of the white stuff, in an area that may include all of the eastern seaboard, or may be confined to an area the size of New Kent County.

I prefer the old days of George Carlin's imagination and his famous "hippy-dippy weatherman"...

"The temperature outside is 52 degrees at the airport...which is stupid since nobody lives at the airport. Tonight's forecast...DARK, followed by widely scattered light in the morning. Tomorrow's weather will be dominated by a large Canadian low.....which is not to be confused with a Mexican high!!"