Father's Day Thoughts

Father's Day is weird without Dad. I have no one to call. Now, I'm the one who gets called. Weird.

I often wonder what the day is like for people who have or had really horrible fathers. After all, there are lots of men out there who don't fit neatly onto a Hallmark card. In this regard I am fortunate. For all of my life I have been surrounded by men for whom fatherhood was their crowning achievement. My Dad. My uncles. The men who married my two sisters. My father-in-law. And now I see Facebook pictures of young men from my Sunday School classes from years ago holding infants in their arms, delighted and amazed. Then there are the men I've known who never had kids of their own, but instead became surrogate fathers to hundreds of other people's kids, those sainted teachers, coaches and encouragers without whom parents would be lost. I think of them on this day too.

Yesterday, my wife had her family over for a Father's Day picnic in the back yard. Despite the calendar, it was a perfect day to be outside...blue skies and no humidity. Because it was Pam, there was a theme...western bandanas with Slim Jim party favors! I grilled up beef and chicken kabobs on the grill with some teriyaki chicken thrown in for good measure.

After everyone left, I get an email from my daughter. She sent me a Barnes & Noble gift certificate so I could buy some books for my month in Maine. Then my son called to inform me that I must drive over to Havana Connection before 7:00 o'clock to pick up a package that was waiting for me.

After all of this, Pam and I were both exhausted. We had made plans earlier in the day for the Forts to come over to teach us some games to play while we are in Maine...something called Farkle, and the indelicately named dominoes game called Mexican Train. We hadn't seen them in a while and they would be spending a couple of weeks in Africa soon, and we wanted to see them before they left. We were so tired, we almost cancelled, but...it was the Forts, the easiest people in the world to hang with. So glad we didn't wimp out. Had a great time!

Now begins the sprint to the finish. Our preparations for Maine are officially on the home stretch. The finish line looms. Lucy knows that something is in the air, an ill wind is blowing. She looks at us suspiciously as if to say...What is this Maine of which you speak? Will there be trash cans and ceiling fans? If so, I must protest!

I'll keep you posted...

Peace and a Storm

It's easy to fall into despair as an American in 2016. Not because we aren't rich and powerful enough, not because we lack for anything, but because of the hash that those who presume to lead us are making of our country. The amoral, self-promoting narcissists at the top of the major party tickets remind me of what it must have been like in the waning days of the Roman Empire. Frankly, it's a national disgrace. Then, a storm rolls through and my despair is swept away with it.

All day Thursday the radio, television, Twitter, Facebook and my cell phone kept warning me that powerful storms would be passing through Short Pump beginning around 9:00 pm. There would be high winds, perhaps a tornado. Precautions should be taken. For me that meant securing my deck furniture and the administration of doggy Lorazepam to Lucy. For the longest time, nothing happened. But I could see the swirling green and red colors of the creeping storm on my weather app radar. It was close. I walked out onto my deck and gazed into the western sky.

It has always been this way with me and storms. Thunder and lightning have always drawn me like moth to flame. When I was a kid, I would stand at the screen door of the back porch when the thunderstorms came until I was damp from the rain, each flash of lightning filling me with both fear and delight. When my kids were little, I would take them out on our front porch and watch the storms roll through, holding them close and marveling at the raw power around us.

Thursday night, as I stared westward, waiting, I thought of our presidential candidates, with their monumental egos, Trump with his semi-literate rants about "winning" and Hillary with her smug, confidence, convinced that she's going to get away with it. That despite her habitual corruption, she will probably become the first female president, all her Rasputian scheming finally about to pay off. Then I hear the rumble.

A sound not unlike the sound that a Mack truck would make if it overturned it's load of gravel on a tin roof, violent and rushing. Heat flashes, still miles away, lit up the western horizon. The canopy of trees that line the fence at the back of my yard suddenly were parted by the wind, the limbs of the stately pines and mighty pin oaks thrashing about like Kansas wheat. The cold wind slapped my face, staggering me a bit. I felt the first drops of rain. Then a streak of lightning, closer now. Leaves began to swirl around me, small sticks ripped from the trees began dropping on the deck. My heart was pounding, but I couldn't look away. Directly above me I saw the front edge of the storm creeping across the heavens, a surging gray line like spilled paint, thick and milky. Then the first peal of thunder. Too close now. I must go inside, Lucy will surely be a mess by now...but I stay and watch until the rain comes harder. Oddly, it calms me, this storm. I watch how quickly my peaceful sky has been transformed into a maelstrom and I am assured in my heart that we control...nothing. There is a God in heaven and he will not forever abide our foolishness and vanity. This realization should be sobering. Instead, I am reassured. Strange.

This morning I will clean up from the damage, lots of limbs and debris everywhere. I will enjoy it. Things seem better.

My Pending Escape

In 15 days I will begin a month long sabbatical from reality. I will retreat to a lake house in Maine where cell phone coverage is spotty, Internet access is limited and air conditioning is non-existent. My days will begin early with coffee in a rocking chair on the front porch with the elegant warble of loons drifting across the water. I might take my coffee down by the dock. I might read a newspaper, the Camden Herald or the Courier Gazette. Whenever Pam gets up, we will take our breakfast on the

round table in the corner of the porch, overlooking Hobbs Pond.

For thirty days and thirty nights I will disengage from the pursuits of modern life in America. I will check in from time to time on the dumpster fire that is my country's politics, but only briefly, only with fleeting glances. The only deep internal argument I intend on having with myself while in Maine will center on that most contentious of debates...sausage or bacon, fishing or swimming, lobster or steak?

I plan on being a regular at the Hope General Store. They brag of their award winning pizza and their 142 different beers, and their continued, uninterrupted operation since 1832. I fully intend on getting my fill of blueberry pancakes at the Camden Deli, and clam chowder at Cappy's. I will eat lobster rolls. I will eat whoopie pies. I will enjoy more than one Allagash Coolship Red.

I will hike to the top of Mount Battie, pick blueberries and stare at the glistening harbor below. I will climb the stairs of the war memorial and take pictures.

I will set out from the dock in my rented kayak before the sun goes down for an evening trip around the lake. The water will be still and the color of stainless steel and so clear I will be able to see the mossy green edges of thousand year old rocks on the bottom.

In the evenings I will listen to the hiss and crackle of the fire. We will tell stories of the time when the kids were little and rolled each other down the beach at Dummer's curled up on the inside of giant tires. We will laugh at the memory.

I worry that the country I leave behind will intrude on me with some ghastly act of violence or stupidity. If some seventh century Islamic psychopath shoots up a bus load of seniors headed to Disneyworld, it will be difficult to know how to react while eating a fluffer-nutter. I will feel guilty that my countrymen are once again dealing with the disintegration of America while I am trying to decide between whoopie-pie or raspberry pie for dessert.

But, the truth is, I'm exhausted by America right now. It's all just too much. I need some time away from the drama of Obama-Clinton-Trump. A human being can take only so many gun control debates. At a certain point, the plight of transgendered bathroom access gets jumbled up with university safe spaces and too much money in politics and before you know what has happened, your entire world looks like the bar scene from Star Wars.

So, in 15 days the world will stop and let me off. My hope is that while I am away, a portion of my sanity will be restored. If the rest of you will somehow get your act together while I'm gone, it would be greatly appreciated.

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 15, 2016

My Pending Escape

In 15 days I will begin a month long sabbatical from reality. I will retreat to a lake

Orlando. What a Difference a Day Makes.

What a strange....

So, it turns out that upon further review, the shooter with the Middle Eastern-sounding name who mowed down 49 of his fellow Americans in a gay club Sunday, might not have been solely motivated by his professed allegiance to ISIS after all. He may have been gay himself?

Apparently, our killer was a frequent customer at the Pulse, where he was known to mostly drink by himself and when sufficiently liquored up would complain about the wife and kid back home. Odd behavior for such a devout Muslim, one who went to the trouble of making not one but two pilgrimages to Saudi Arabia, and regularly attended mosque. Further, it would seem that he was a frequent visitor to gay dating websites where he used the name Aries.

Does this new information change the story of Orlando? Should it? If it turns out that he used the ISIS 911 phone call as a giant head fake to hide his real motivations, then yes, it changes an awful lot. If he wasn't motivated by radical Islamist ideology, but rather was a self-loathing closeted Muslim gay man tormented by the profound contradictions of his life, then yes, everything changes.

No matter, the dude should never have been able to buy a gun. No matter, slaughtering 49 people is still an unspeakable crime. But maybe now we Americans will view the killer through a different lens. Most of us cannot in any way identify with a radical Islamist jihadist. But practically all of us can identify with a religious hypocrite.

Why Orlando?

A man with a Middle Eastern sounding name dials 911 and pledges allegiance to ISIS, then walks into a gay nightclub with a legally purchased assault rifle with a high capacity magazine and begins mowing down 50 of his fellow Americans and injuring 50 others. Witnesses claim he was laughing.

The dead have not been buried and we have already gone to our battle stations. The Orlando shooting is the fault of...

Muslims

Homophobia

Guns

Democrats

Republicans

Obama

Trump

Violent video games

Religion

What if it is none of these things? Suppose it's all of these things in varying degrees? What does it matter less than 24 hours after 50 souls have been snuffed out? Can we as Americans not go one day without turning every single tragedy into a political football? The answer is...no. No, we can't.

Trump was first on Twitter reminding everyone that he was right about his idea of a Muslim ban. Only, a Muslim ban would not have prevented anything in this case since the shooter was a US citizen.

Obama refused to concede the shooter's professed connection to ISIS saying only that it was an act of hate, further confirming his clueless and steadfast refusal to acknowledge the role that radical Islamic ideology plays in the ongoing terror of the 21st century.

Gun control advocates immediately laid the blame on lax gun laws. But, in a country with 200 million guns in circulation, who seriously believes that a radicalized terrorist would have been prevented from getting his hands on weapons by the existence of stronger gun laws? You and I maybe, but determined sociopaths? It's an absurdly naive notion. Besides, we already have rules in place that should have prevented the target of two FBI investigations over possible ties to terrorists from purchasing a weapon. What good did that law do? Still, reasonable people can and should ask why it is that private citizens in this country should be allowed to buy guns like this:

Seriously? What the heck would anyone need a weapon like this for? If you are using this for hunting then you're no sportsman and a horrendous shot. If you're using this to play Rambo at the local gun range, then you're very weird. If you want one of these to protect yourself one day from like zombies or hordes of rapist and stuff...whatever. But, if what you want is a gun that can kill multiple people with maximum efficiency, then well, this AR-15 is for you. Is there a way that people like me who believe in the 2nd amendment concede that the intent of the framers probably didn't include access to mass human slaughter automatic weapons? Just asking...

Some have laid all of this on Islam. Just weeks before this massacre a local Orlando Imam sermonized that gays must be killed...out of compassion. Others have tried to suggests that conservative Christianity's opposition to gay marriage is no better, so we Christians have no room to criticize Islam. When I hear this sort of sophistry, my blood begins to boil. To equate the peaceful opposition to a redefinition of marriage with the religious sanctioning of mass murder is beyond ridiculous and not worthy of a response. But neither is it responsible to assume that all Muslims agree with the ramblings of an Orlando Imam or even the views of millions of other Muslims. Have you noticed how many different denominations of Protestantism there are around the world? We Christians can't even agree on how to properly baptize someone. Heck, we can't even agree on what salvation even is half the time, and yet we ascribe to all Muslims the most heinous beliefs of the loudest and most radicalized few?

Here's the deal. Everything on the list above has played some sort of roll in the mess we find ourselves in regarding terrorism and the culture of violence that we are living in today. No one has clean hands. There is none who is righteous, no not one...All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God...The way forward will require some humility from all of us on both sides of every barricade. Is it possible? Are we beyond the ancient entreaty...Come, let us reason together?

The Struggle Continues

So, this happened yesterday morning. Three tomatoes, ravaged by tree rats while I slept. Infuriating. I went through the five stages of grief in five minutes, settled on anger, then stormed inside to Google a remedy. What I found on the interwebs is exactly what's wrong with America...

This thing showed real promise. It's called the tomatoe accelerator, and promises to create a miniature greenhouse around each plant while protecting them from nature. Only problem was that you can't buy one of these in a store, it's an online purchase and ships in 4-5 days. Plus, they run $16 per and I've got 4 plants to protect. For that much money I could buy three bushels of tomatoes from Martins and be done with it! Besides, I don't have 4-5 days!!

Then Google sent me to a host of natural remedies, you know, from the same sort of people who are always telling the rest of us to ditch the Windex in favor of spaying vinegar all over the Windows? From this hippie contingent, I discovered that the perfect repellant for squirrels is...fox urine. Apparently, they hate the stuff. So, where do you get the fox pee? I imagine from the same sort of place that sells eye of newt and crow's feet, but I have no desire to hunt down a witchcraft supply warehouse. Of course, I could go directly to the source, but that's problematic. First, I'd have to track down a fox, then get him to pee in a cup...not happening.

At this point I wandered into the PETA section of my search. I'll call them the "can't we all just get along" crowd. A proud vegan grandmother offered this suggestion..."I've found that the best way to guide squirrels and chipmunks away from my vegetables is to provide them with more desirable treats elsewhere in our yard." Ahh yes, let's guide the little darlings! This poor women actually sets out a basket of more squirrel-friendly fare to satisfy their appetite for destruction, in the vain hope that once filled, her tomatoe plants will be spared. Ladies and gentlemen, this is Neville Chamberlain-style appeasement that rewards squirrel thievery. Instead of confronting their destructive behavior, let's encourage more of it!!! This woman surely has a place in a Hillary Clinton administration.

Discouraged, I set out to find a solution closer to home. I visited three stores...Strange's, Southern States, and finally Lowe's. Finding no workable remedy, I decided to build my own...

It's sturdy and green. As soon as I finished building it I had a sinking feeling that I am about to be punked. What's to stop felonious squirrels from climbing over the top of this thing? Nothing, actually. But maybe it will discourage the lazier of their species. I could electrify it, which would be sooo cool...but that could have unintended consequences too horrible to imagine.

Oh, back to that first picture. Have you ever noticed that squirrels never ever finish eating a tomatoe? It's always a few nibbles. It's like the guy who takes a small bite out of six treats in the Russell Stover box and puts them back until he finally finds the chocolate nougat one. Well, it turns out that the reason they do this is...squirrels don't like tomatoes. But their little pea brains are so empty, they can't remember that they hate tomatoes. They're always thinking, "Hey!! These look awesome!!", then they take a bite, spit it out and move on. Worthless. 

Eating Well

I'm generally not a foodie. I don't often feel compelled to take pictures of what I'm about to eat, then plaster it all over social media to make other people jealous. But, I'm about to make an exception. Now, if you are on some sort of trendy diet, or gluten-free, or vegetarian, vegan, or into juicing or souping, or some such thing, you may want to go to your safe space right about now...

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, from where I come from, this is fine dining. First of all, it was a delightful 72 degrees with a heavenly breeze wafting across the confined back yard of our suburban estate. Any meal served al fresco is better than what you're eating inside.  Secondly, those are two New York strip steaks seasoned with some sort of amazing herb rub and grilled on my Commercial Series Char-Grill 2000, 7 minutes a side, flipped only once. There's also a serving of fresh corn, scraped off the cob fifteen minutes ago, then sautéed up in a pan of butter.

Now, I know what all of you are thinking...who eats pizza with steak?? Actually, I would be willing to try such a combination..what's not to like? But, that gorgeous pizza-shaped dish is not pizza at all. It's perhaps my favorite summer meal, number one on a long list of delicious concoctions that my sainted wife of 32 years is known for whipping up. It's called a Caprese Tart. It features tomatoes, mozzarella and parmesan cheese, with fresh basil and olive oil enveloped by a delicate, crispy crust. It tastes like summer exploding in your mouth.

I have no earthly idea how good or bad this meal was for us. I don't know the calorie count, am clueless whether or not the cow who gave the last full measure of devotion for this meal was free-range or not. For all I know, the corn and tomatoes might have been (gasp!) genetically modified!

Here's what I know, until fifty years ago this meal would have been literally fit for a king, since regular, ordinary people have historically never eaten this well. All of the ingredients for this feast were obtained at reasonable prices from a clean, well lit grocery store four minutes from our house. The line Pam stood in to buy this bounty was three deep at the high end. The entire shopping trip consumed twenty minutes of her time. I remember when the old Soviet Union introduced the world to three hour waits for daily bread rations. Today I read about the people of Venezuela standing in lines literally all day for enough food to keep them alive long enough to stand in line tomorrow. Over half the world is malnourished and we Americans beclown ourselves obsessing over the latest paleo/cro-magnon  diet while sipping our artisan craft water from environmentally sustainable containers. Instead of feeling guilty for living in a country of such abundance, how about we shed all this phony baloney false consciousness, and be grateful?

Oh yeah...that's sweet iced tea. And yes, with real sugar. God bless America.