About the election.....

Have you noticed how I haven't written much about the Presidential contest lately? There was a time when the subject dominated this space. Now it gets largely ignored. There's a reason for that...I simply don't know what to say anymore. Hillary is still Hillary. Trump is still Trump, and Bernie is still a thing.

This election is like a dark menacing cloud off in the distance when you're enjoying a picnic. It's like the first intestinal cramp you feel after buckling your seatbelt on a cross country flight, or that sinking feeling you get once you realize that you should have gone to the bathroom before leaving the house but now you're buckled in with your maniacal conquer the trip husband whose determined to make it to Nashville with only one stop. 

Hillary can't put Bernie away. He's got no chance to win and he knows it, but he doesn't care. He's in it until the convention and intends to make Hillary sweat it out...because he A. Can and B. He can't stand the sight of her. There are, after all, advantages to being an older man in politics. Bernie isn't interested in waiting four or eight years to make another run. I mean, just look at the guy 

He might not even be alive eight years from now. No, he's all in for 2016, and if Hillary and the Democratic Party brass don't like it, they can all go to hell and get off his lawn!!!

So Hillary is left thrashing around for a campaign theme, trying desperately to fake authenticity. Remember a few weeks ago when her campaign printed up a million Women Cards? 

Yeah, well...Hillary hopes you forget. This brilliant idea polled about as well as Ted Cruz in New York City! Then she trotted out the loose cannon bit to describe Trump. This was apparently some field tested, poll-approved phrase that the Clinton campaign thought would resonate with the American people. Only, it bombed. Note to Clinton campaign: when testing phrases on the "American People" try using Americans who live somewhere outside of Manhattan.

Then, there's this guy. 

There's a reason he's smiling. He's now leading Hillary in several polls, more each week it seems. He doesn't have to hire consultants, doesn't have to employ campaign gurus, doesn't even have a pollster. Heck, he doesn't even have to be right about anything. All he has to do is be himself. All the wise men, not to mention idiots like me, keep predicting his demise....but he keeps on winning. 

So yeah...I haven't had much to say about this race of late because what is there to say? Nothing I say will be as outrageous as everything Trump says, and I couldn't be as boring as Hillary if my life depended on it, so I'm just going to sit back for awhile and let the candidates speak for themselves.

Meanwhile...how 'bout the weather we've been having, eh?

Yes.....it's raining.

It's the 23rd of May. It's raining. It's been raining all night, all weekend. As a matter of fact, it's rained for 17 days and nights during May. That means that the citizens of Short Pump have enjoyed exactly 6 sunny days this month. This, despite the fact that a famous nursery rhyme promises us that April showers bring May flowers. Of course, another one promises us that March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. Lies. All lies.

However, my weather app assures me that it's almost over. The next five days feature a bright sun with no clouds and temperatures in the 90's. Wait, WHAT? 

I'm told that the fine people of the Pacific Northwest live like this all year long. Rain, either in the form of showers, steady soaking rain or fine mist is the standard forecast for large stretches of the year. If this is true, then to the good people of Seattle I can only say, bless your hearts. If this is what your life is like all year, then no wonder you birthed punk rock. No stinking wonder you elected Patty Murray!! No wonder you're the home of Starbucks...caffeine by the truckload does lift the spirits...and no wonder you guys built the space needle, all the better to impale yourself. Oh, and all of that 12th man nonsense with your Seahawks? That's not enthusiasm, that's pent up rage! Oh, and don't think I haven't noticed that the most popular boy name in Seattle is Noah.

A Prayer For Miss Lucy...

It's Saturday morning after a long and strenuous week. It is pouring down rain, and I do mean pouring. This is no intermittent shower, no soft mist. This is a deluge of rain, the type of Noah-esk event that sends the delicate imaginations of my dog Lucy into full derangement. She has spent most of the morning hunkered down in our small, dark walk-in closet imagining all of the worst case scenarios possible for the mind of a golden retriever. Maybe she thinks that the rushing sound that rain makes on our roof is the precursor of some sort of violent home invasion. Perhaps she fears that the rain is about to burst through the front door and steal her food. Whatever it is, she is taking no chances...shivering in a ball in the protective confines of our closet.

Of late, Lucy seems to have taken several steps back in her ongoing battle for mental health. Just about the time when she makes us think that she is becoming a normal, well-adjusted dog, inexplicably, she skips meals and slinks around the house like a shell-shocked infantryman on Omaha Beach

Lucy: Whoa!, wait..what's that sound??!!

Pam: Sorry Lucy! Mommy just dropped a piece of celery on the floor...it's ok! 

Lucy: Geeze Louise!! Would it kill you to give a dog a warning??!!

The weirdest part about Lucy's daily display of neurosis is her bizarre meal time behavior. Every dog I have ever had has always had the same meal time M.O. As you stand at the counter mixing up the kibble, the dog nervously pants, hardly able to restrain him/herself. Then you place the bowl on the floor and the dog attacks the thing like you haven't fed him/her in weeks! The whole thing is over in two minutes! Not Miss Lucy.

Me: You want some dinner Lucy? Daddy's got some dinner for that sweet puppy!

Lucy: ...completely disinterested, she sits in the next room staring at me, giving off the air of someone who couldn't possibly care less, weirdly cat-like.

Pam: Come eat your dinner Lucy. See? Mommy will sit perfectly still in this chair, and Daddy will go in the other room and be quiet so you can eat.

Then, and only then, will she slowly hurumph herself into the kitchen to inspect tonight's fare. She will slowly and carefully begin to eat her dinner, always keeping a sharp eye out for the appearance of some demonic beast who might suddenly swoop down from the ceiling fan to kill us all! Yes, the ceiling fan has been the source of intense fear and loathing ever since that fateful morning over a year ago when Lucy was laying on our bed minding her own business, when Pam accidentally flipped the switch for the ceiling fan instead of the light. Up until that point, Lucy had never seen the ceiling fan engaged in fan-like activity. Seeing it suddenly come to life above her was apparently the most terrifying thing ever. She bolted off the bed and out of the room faster than you could say,"Our dog is insane." Ever since that day, Lucy has been highly aware of the several ceiling fans in our house. Although we have taken special care never to turn them on ever again, she isn't convinced. Every so often, she will cast a wary eye upwards just to make sure that the fans aren't trying to pull a fast one, her hatred of them palpable. Oh, and don't even think about asking her to go for a walk in the Center Ridge culdesac since she saw a trash truck there six months ago!!

I could make a realty television show about Lucy's upcoming month long adventure to a lake house in Maine. The trip up alone would be a smash hit! 

Pray for us!

An Idea About Race

It doesn't take a genius to see that race relations in this country have taken several giant steps backwards over the past few years. I have written several times in this space about the hopelessness I feel concerning this subject. I watched the violence in Ferguson and Baltimore and felt like there wasn't anything I could do about any of it. My progressive friends all clammer for more government programs. My conservative friends prefer more aggressive policing. Then the black lives matter movement showed up and both sides doubled down. It's a hot mess.

I suppose that one of the problems is that as a white man, my ideas on this subject come from a place which is largely unfamiliar to a black man. My life experiences have been different. Some would refer to me as privileged. Although I started out my life in a trailer park on the south side of Richmond, to many the mere fact that I was born white provides a giant asterisk to every success that I have enjoyed in life. Moreover, being born into a two parent family who read to me every night provided me with an unfair advantage over anyone not so endowed at birth with a stable, literate family. Because of all of the unfair advantages bestowed upon me at birth, reparations need to be made...from me, to those less fortunate. At least, this is my understanding of modern, progressive race theory. But, I'm no social scientist. So, most of this type of talk goes right over my head, right after it infuriates me.

But, I am a human being, and a Christian. The teachings of my faith make it clear that whenever possible, I need to strive to be a peace maker, and agent of reconciliation. To that end, I've been kicking around the idea of reaching out to a group of my former Sunday School students who are still in town. I'm going to throw a cookout, grill up some steaks. In the past, that always guaranteed a crowd! The group I'm thinking about would be a mix of several races, all solid young men trying to make their way in the world, but from vastly different backgrounds. I'm going to give them a summer reading project. I'm going to ask them to come together at my house once a week over the month of August until we get through the book together. The book is "Under Our Skin" written by Benjamin Watson. I haven't read it yet myself, but it comes highly recommended by several men who I respect. It's a difficult read, they say...challenging and tough, but worth the effort.

I'm not even sure this will do any good. These guys might be too busy, or maybe my time with them has passed. But, I feel the need to do something. There might not be a damn thing I can do about Ferguson and Baltimore. But, if it's possible to make Short Pump a little better, I've got to try. I might not even like everything I read in the book. Maybe our discussions wind up being arguments. But at least we will be struggling together to find our own solutions. Asking the question, How should my faith inform my thinking about race, is a loaded question, after all. Could be great, could be a disaster.

May 19, 1984

Thirty two years ago this morning, I was engaged in a spirited full court basketball game at my apartment complex. My groomsmen were making a number of off color wisecracks at my expense, as you would expect from the sort of guys who someone like me would have as groomsmen. But I needed to be playing basketball that morning. I was nervous. Very nervous.

I was about to marry Pam White, the oldest of the three White daughters from a little town in western Maine.

She was a ridiculously beautiful blond, smart, adventurous and funny. I couldn't believe my good fortune to have found someone like her. So, why was I so nervous? Because I was 26 years old and about to make the most important decision of my life, that's why! A million questions were racing around in my head. How could anyone possibly commit to anyone...forever? What happens if you wake up one day and discover that you don't love her anymore? Suppose she turns out to be a communist, a hoarder, or even worse...a horrible cook? Suppose she wakes up one day and realizes that she could have done so much better?? Such were the worst case scenarios running through my head as I paced back and forth in the clammy basement of Winns Baptist Church with my best man, Al Thomason, listening to the organ prelude. The place was packed with every important person I had known to that point in my life, and I was about to walk up the stairs to the front of the church to face them all dressed in a really sharp tuxedo. My palms were sweating, my hands shaking. But then I saw her standing in the back of the church with her Dad.

I remember thinking,...Holy Cow, how did I ever pull this off? For the first time in over a month, I wasn't nervous anymore. I could finally breathe. I knew in that instant that I was doing the right thing, the perfect thing.

Thirty two years later, we are still together. There have been plenty of times when she has thought,...I could have done so much better. Like the time she found out that I had played tackle football with a bunch of high school boys in freezing weather six months after undergoing open heart surgery. Or the multiple times I have been guilty of launching some ill-conceived, bone headed, semi-dangerous plan involving the kids. But, mostly she still loves me. Imagine that?

17 Days Late

This morning, I learn two remarkable facts. First, it will not be raining today. Second, apparently I forgot to pay my mortgage last month. 

Yes, there's nothing quite like the feelings that flood into your mind when you open your bank account app and get greeted by a blinking pop-up that informs you that your mortgage payment is now 17 days late!! What the heck? What do they mean with this 17 days late nonsense? I pay my mortgage on the first of every month, have been for 204 consecutive months now. I hit the transfer tab and send the payment automatically each and every month...on the 1st. Only, upon further review, it appears that I had indeed queued it up to send...but never actually hit send! Perhaps I got distracted by an incoming phone call. Maybe I was prepared to hit send and got sidetracked by a bout of rapid fire sneezing which disoriented me. Whatever the reason, I did not pay my mortgage and it is indeed 17 days late. 

Unfortunately, this issue brings back some unpleasant memories for me. Four years ago my Mom called me in a panic. Dad was horrified to learn that his checking account was terribly overdrawn. He was embarrassed and mad at himself for making such a mess of his checkbook. She asked me if I would take a look at it. So, I drove over their one night and sat down with them around the kitchen table to get to the bottom of it. My Dad was a proud man. Although he had never made a lot of money, he was proud of his exemplary credit and how he had never bounced a check in his life. Now, suddenly...there were 14 such bounced checks, and he had a defeated look on his face like nothing I had ever seen. I immediately started cracking jokes, desperate to keep things light. It wasn't working. After a couple of hours I found the source of the problem...a month previous to all of the bounced checks Dad had entered two consecutive large payments as deposits. Consequently, he thought he had plenty of money in his account. Finally the math errors had caught up with him. I managed to make him laugh about it eventually...perhaps my finest comedic performance of all time. But there was something else I found which was more disturbing than a mere math error. Dad's handwriting always had a bold flair to it. His penmanship, like so many others of his generation, was flawless. But, several months back in his ledgers I saw it...an abrupt departure from meticulous to sloppy. It hadn't been a gradual thing, it was immediate and total. It was about the time where the error was found.

Not long after, Dad made me power of attorney for his affairs and turned the checkbook over to me. He actually seemed relieved, but sad at the same time. So did I.

So, when I see the flashing warning about my late mortgage payment, I think of Dad. No, I haven't started bouncing checks, this was just a random mistake. We all make them. But it serves as a reminder that we are all getting older. Wiser too, but older nonetheless. 

A Graduation Story

My nephew graduated from college yesterday. I come from a tribe of people where this sort of thing is celebrated. It's a milestone, a seminal event. Whenever possible, we show up at these things. In my time on this planet, I have been a part of countless graduation ceremonies.

They are all horrible.

Our day began at 5 o'clock in the morning. That's how early I had to roll out of the rack in order to get to Lynchburg in time for the 8:45 processional. The day was glorious, bright sunshine and perfect temperature, but the day came with a unanimous disclaimer from every weatherman in the State of Virginia...strong chance of afternoon thunderstorms. But surely we would be out of harms way by the afternoon, right? I mean, geez...how long can a graduation that begins at 8:45 last??

Answer? All. Freaking. Day.

Here's the deal with college graduations. Every speaker seems to think that the 35,000 people in the stadium all came to hear them speak. So, all of them prattle on forever, convinced that we are hanging on their every word. College Presidents are the worst. Oh how they love hearing the sound of their voice! First, there's the boilerplate "limitless future" claptrap, followed by the deadly dull regurgitation of the gold-plated legacy of the school, and finally the obligatory shout-outs to the big donors. Meanwhile, we're sitting in the sun-splashed stands, scanning the sea of 8,000 graduates trying to spot our boy, wondering why the heck we never thought to bring some dang sun screen. An hour later the guest speaker strides to the podium. His speech has been loaded into a TelePrompTer. This means that somebody, somewhere is aware that we are facing a thirty minute stem winder. A full 90 minutes after taking our seats, we hear the magic words..."and now it's time to confer degrees on our graduates." This consists of an old guy saying, "Will all candidates for the bachelor of science degree stand and be recognized." Below, from the thirty yard line to the fifty yard line, a wave of black mortar boards rise rhythmically while exhausted parents, uncles, cousins and spouses clap politely. 

I'm sitting there thinking...what the heck just happened? No, no...my sister explains. This is just the graduation service. Ryan will walk to get his diploma at the next service...after a convenient lunch break which we will miss because the President took two hours recognizing the Dingledorph family for the having now six generations of Dingledorphs as Liberty graduates. Oh, and did you know that there are 16 sets of twins, all cancer survivors, graduating today?

After standing in line at the concession stand to buy a five dollar cheeseburger assembled last week and brought back to life twenty minutes ago by a heating lamp, I made my way down the field for the main event. I noticed off in the distance at the edge of the Blue Ridge mountains to the west a dark black line. I consulted the weather app on my cellphone and saw the giant green blob of rain that every weatherman in Virginia had been warning us about. It was rapidly making its way towards us. I took a bite of my cheeseburger. Surely the people in charge of this event are aware that God has placed us on a time clock, I thought. Then the dopey speaker spends fifteen minutes trying to coax 10,000 people to get "the wave" going. Apparently not.

By the time my nephew got his name called, the stadium was being rocked by 30 mile an hour gusts and sideways rain. It was 2:15. I had just spent five hours in a football stadium so I could get to hear my nephew's name called while huddled under an overhang in the cheap seats. 

But, all was well. We were reunited with our graduate afterwards and made plans to meet at his favorite Mexican restaurant. I had parked on the fourth level of the only parking deck on campus a mere half mile from the stadium. It was determined that I would catch the shuttle and go get the car,
then pick everyone up. Only the shuttles didn't take you to the parking deck so I had to walk. But since rain was coming down at a rate of six inches per hour, I had to run. By the time I made it to my car, I was soaked to the bone. Everything I had was wet. I grabbed a golf towel from the trunk and tried to dry off, only to realize that my golf towel was covered in dirt. So now I was not only wet, but muddy. Luckily, I had a fleece jacket in the trunk and was able to clean up with that. I back my car out of my space and get in the long line of cars trying to exit the deck. I looked at my watch. It was 2:30.

Forty minutes later, I was in the exact same spot. Apparently, nobody on this campus of higher learning thought that the spot where a line of cars pouring out of a parking deck trying to merge onto a packed road might need a traffic cop. At least I had plenty of time to dry off. 

By 4:15 our party was happily reunited at the Mexican restaurant. All the misery of the previous seven hours of incompetence was over as we enjoyed a fine meal and watched Ryan open some gifts. We will tell hilarious stories about this day for years to come...if any of us survive the skin cancer we will get from our third degree sunburns.