Finding My Rhythm

Day 3 starts a chilly 50 degrees with fog shrouding the lake. There isn't a ripple of movement and no sound whatsoever. I have made the transition from Virginian to Main-ah in record time. It normally takes three or four days to find my rhythm here. I've managed to do it this year in 36 hours. For me it took a quick trip into Camden...

I noticed when I was up at the Fraternity Village General Store to buy Italian sandwiches that the spot in the cooler where the night crawlers were supposed to be was empty. Then, yesterday, when Pam made her opening trip to the Hannaford's in Belfast she found the same empty spot in their night crawler spot. Then she discovered the terrible news- post Labor Day in Maine, NO LIVE BAIT ALLOWED!!!

Ok, I should resist my usual snide comments about government overreach and the tyranny of the bureaucratic state, but..what career functionary is responsible for this bit of jackassery? By all means, lets arbitrarily pick a day of the year after which we will declare that if you're going to catch fish we must insist that you do so with artificial lures..because...well it doesn't really matter because we are the rule makers and we must do what we were born to do...make rules. In a temporary panic, I contacted my fishing expert, keeper of all manly information, and Maine fishing know it all, Alan:

Me: Dude, I'm in trouble. I just found out that it's too late in the year to use live bait to fish! What is a visitor from Virginia, without a license to do? I'm not a lure kind of guy...

Alan: First of all, don't panic. You need to find some Berkeley Gulp Worms. They fish just like live bait and they are legal. As far as the no license thing goes...all I can do is offer bail money.

Me: How much would a non resident temporary fishing license set me back?

Alan: Probably a lot, knowing Maine.

So, I drove into Camden to remedy the situation, pay my protection money to the Maine racket in charge of Inland Fisheries, and find me some Gulp Worms. We had been told that our beautiful little town wouldn't be crowded after Labor Day. We wouldn't recognize the place without the summer traffic clogging Main Street, they said. Lies. I had to park up at the library and walk three blocks to the store that accepts tribute money, only to be informed that this particular branch doesn't accept bribe payments, but their other store, a mere mile and a half away, does. Walking the three blocks back to my car, I passed by all of the familiar shops and noticed a couple of new ones. I paused a minute and just looked around. The thought came to me that I wouldn't want to be anywhere else in the world right now than here in Midcoast Maine.

The second branch of Camden Sporting Goods expertly took my shakedown money with all of the faceless efficiency of a Soviet era government cheese store. For the privilege of three weeks worth of legal fishing, I would be charged $64. The twenty-something clerk who filled out the paperwork was a dual threat since not only was he up to speed with the paperwork required to keep the wheels of the state fully greased, he also knew exactly what a Gulp Worm was and twenty more dollars later, I was once again a fully equipped, law abiding fisherman. At this point Alan had more sage advice:

Alan: Ok, be careful with the Gulp juice...it stinks. Don't get it on your clothes and don't open it inside the house. Pam will not be pleased. Lisa hates Gulp!!

Armed with this crucial information, I drove the twenty minutes back to Quantabacook. I took the back way, a road that wound its way over hills and around sweeping curves. One minute there would be the trashy yards of old houses, bespoiled with ancient rusted vehicles and piled high with mountains of firewood. The next minute, over the rise of a hill, a lush valley would be revealed, sweeping fields of grass punctuated by a few grey boulders covered with moss. Off in the distance there would be a lake. There is always a lake. By the time my back road finally emerged onto a more familiar one, I had found my groove.

I'm on vacation...

We Made It.

We made it. After walking around this gorgeous property for half an hour gawking at everything like unashamed tourists, we sat down on the dock and watched the late afternoon sun set the lake on fire in a splash of sparks. It's everything we hoped it would be..on stilts. Soon, we noticed a house across the lake, maybe three quarters of a mile away. We heard the sound of a boat, then saw it cutting a soft line across the water. It looked to be headed our way. I expected that at any moment in would veer north towards more open waters where the lake spreads out for miles. But no...it was still making a bee-line towards us. I turned to Pam...If those people are coming over to welcome us to Maine, this has to be the friendliest lake in America! 

And that's exactly what Wendy and Bob and their English Cream Golden, Finley did. They noticed us sitting on the dock of their friend's place and decided to pop across the lake and say hello. Small world. As a teenager, Bob happened to work in the same mill in Rumford, Maine that Russ did. They were both very familiar with Richmond, Virginia and complemented us on living in such a beautiful city. Their dog Finley happens to be a dead ringer for Jackson, my daughter's Golden. I laid out the subtle suggestion that perhaps later they can take us on a tour of the lake in their beautiful boat. We had been here less than an hour and we had already made some friends.

The house is incredible, but very tiny. Funny how cameras make things look so much larger. No closets. Kitchen has very small cabinets in which to place groceries. Bathroom has no vanity, and only a small three drawer cabinet to store all the chemicals and compounds that make us look presentable. The shower stall has no place to place bottles of shampoo, conditioner or body wash. When you find yourself in a place such as this you realize just how much stuff you drag around with you. But, Pam has worked her usual organizational miracle, and the place looks less cluttered now, ready for what the next three weeks will bring. Dan the Man will deliver the Kayaks and paddle board momentarily.

As delightfull as all of this is, I feel quite uncomfortable gushing about it all while so many of my countrymen are scrambling to escape the State of Florida as Irma barrels down. It feels inappropriate to be enjoying this rapturous piece of God's creation while others are fleeing, about to lose everything. But, I suppose this has always been true of life...when something marvelous happens to you, there is always something terrifying happening to someone else, some place else. Such is the nature of this fallen world.

So, we will enjoy everything that is here for us. We will pray for those in harm's way, and send another donation to those on the front lines. 

The Adventures of Mad Max, Dunnevant edition...

There's just no good way to get to Maine. 

You could walk, but that would be labor intensive, would take too long, and you run the risk of dying along the way. You could fly, but then you run the risk of flight delays and lost baggage. Besides, you couldn't take all the stuff necessary for a month of fun. The best way to go to Maine is the way we used to do it when we were younger and less obsessed with the safety of our children. We would take the middle seats out of our minivan, throw the kids on the floorboard in sleeping bags, tethered to nothing, and depart beautiful downtown Short Pump at 7:30 PM. By the time we made it to D.C. Both of them were fast asleep. Our first stop was after midnight somewhere on the New Jersey Turnpike for gas and a bathroom break...which the kids slept through. The worst part would always be in Massachusetts at 4:00 in the morning when I could only stay awake if Pam fed me grapes and squirt cheese on Chicken-in-a-Biscuit crackers. When the sun finally came up around 6:00, I would get my second wind. We would make our second stop at the first rest area after crossing the green bridge into Maine. We would wake up the kids and have breakfast, secure in the knowledge that the worst part was over and now we were only two freaking hours away!! Once we pulled into Dummers around 10:00 AM, i would sleepwalk through getting unpacked and settled in, then collapse in a beach chair and sleep the rest of the day.

...and ladies and gentlemen, this was the best way to get to Maine.

Somewhere along the line, our all-nighters came to an end. The kids got too big and wouldn't sleep the whole way, and I got to where I couldn't stay awake no matter what disgusting snacks Pam fed me. It was then that we discovered that making the drive up 95 north in the daylight was something on the order of Dante's seventh circle of hell. I felt like Mad Max trying to survive a dystopian nightmare. I would imagine all of the horrible things that would befall me if I broke down on the Garden State Parkway, the grisly end I would endure if somehow I couldn't scrape up enough money for the Tappan Zee Bridge toll. And the traffic...the traffic through the trifecta of misery which is New Jersey, New York and Connecticut during the day is immeasurably worse than it is in the middle of the night. It's sort of like how tofu is immeasurably worse than steak, or how having a surprise attack of diarrhea while stuck in traffic is immeasurably worse than being served ice cream on a beach in Maui by a beautiful local girl in native dress. That kind of worse.

So, this year we are trying the famous western route, the stuff of legend in the Richmond-to-Maine travel world. For years we had heard of its toll free roads, its idyllic traffic and bucolic scenery. Yes, it's a little longer, they would say, but so worth it. 

Its definitely longer.

Yesterday it took me 10 hours and 15 minutes to drive to Hartford, Connecticut. There were three backups. During these interminable delays, we comforted ourselves by gazing at the bucolic scenery. Nice....Oh look honey, some cows! On the plus side, I only paid one toll...$1.50.

Today, I'm told by the GPS( Great Pissed-off Sensor ) that I only have 5 hours remaining before arriving at Loon Landing on Quantabacook Lake. Lies. All lies. It will take 5 hours only if there are no accidents, Hong Kong level traffic, no horrific weather event and no backups caused by a couple of minivans pulled over to the side of the road so junior can take a leak in the bushes. In other words...never gonna happen.

But, regardless of what happens on today's leg of this trip, at the end of it we will be at a lake house in Maine.

And that is the best revenge.

24 Hours

Twenty four hours out from our departure to Maine...looks like our first week will be stormy. The weather forecast shows rain four out of the first seven days we're there. To make matters worse, looks like we will arrive in the rain...always a hassle. As a bonus, it appears that I will be loading up the car top carrier in the rain tonight. In addition, next Tuesday, the day that my inlaws will be flying up to Maine, Hurricane Irma might be arriving in Richmond, making their second attempt at flying to Maine in 2017 problematic. But, the good news is, Sean Hannity is still on top of Hillary's email scandal.

Despite these dark clouds, or perhaps because of them, there is a scent of adventure in the air today. The last day before leaving for a three week vacation is always crazy. There's the packing, made infinitely more difficult because it's Maine, so you have to pack for a wide range of weather outcomes. That means long pants and shorts. Tee shirts and sweaters. Swimming trunks and jackets. Then there's the added challenge of packing for a golden retriever. Half of the car is taken up with her crap. But through it all, there is an undercurrent of excitement. A road trip is that quintessential American experience. We are a vast country ribboned throughout with highways and back roads. This is a country built for travel, and we have the crumbling infrastructure to prove it. Hitting the road for a destination 845 miles and a half century away, is the sort of thing that has always gotten my blood pumping. 

Even if it rains every day in September, Pam and I will remember these next three weeks. This cannot be said of any random three weeks in Short Pump. 

So, we will take the weather as it comes, with resignation and submission. We will enjoy whatever comes our way. These next three weeks belong to us in full. We don't have to share it with Dunnevant Financial, or Hope Thrift, or River's Edge. 

We just have to get there. The trip is the hard part, the dangerous part. But for me, it's also the exciting part. 

College Football and Guilt...

Everyone who knows me knows that when it comes to sports, I'm very much a baseball...then everything else sort of guy. Truth be told, I'm a baseball nerd. The country could get invaded by the Chinese and I'd be the one checking out my MLB app for the west coast box scores. However, there is one sport that comes in a robust, albeit distant second. College football. I love it. I love the pagentry, the rabid fan bases, the mascots, the tailgate parties. But, I feel so guilty about it. Let me explain.

I'm a big Alabama fan. I got introduced to this monolithic force when I was 8 years old living in rural Alabama every weekend for 3 years. Paul Bear Bryant was the coach, and I quickly became aware that even Jesus wasn't as popular as "The Bear" in rural Alabama in the 1960's. So, I've been a fan ever since. Most people around here hate Alabama football. That's because 4 times in the last 10 years Alabama has won the national championship. When you live around a million Virginia Tech fans, this is a very sore subject. The Hokies are still waiting for their first national title, so...haters gonna hate. But, why the guilt?

Well, it's probably because college football is such a dirty, grubby business. Whoever coined the term student athlete to describe division I football players has probably been dead for fifty years now because while it may have at one time been true, it clearly no longer is. Yesterday's New York Times featured a story about a host of Florida State players who were caught cheating in an online hospitality class which dealt with the academically challenging world of coffee, tea and wine. Some poor professor who got bullied into inflating the grades of star football players despite the fact that none of them actually turned in any work eventually loses her job and commits suicide. And, that's not the worst of it. At least these FSU players were only guilty of cheating. For every cheater, there are probably 10 rapists. Just this past week, the Florida Gators had to suspend 10 players, many of them starters, for participating in an illegal jersey-selling scheme...or something.

But, as long as college football remains the money making behemoth it is today, this situation will get worse. Many of the best athletes in the sport come from backgrounds and environments not normally associated with academic achievement. All the tutors in the world aren't going to change that simple fact. The universities where they play don't have much incentive to educate them, but they do have plenty of insentive to exploit them for profit. The SEC is nothing more than a player development league for the NFL, and as such, those who play at these schools are actually unpaid, minor league athletes. Yes, they get a free education. But how much is that worth when so few actually graduate, and even if they did graduate, how valuable is an "education" which features online hospitality classes that require zero work? I say, drop this student athlete charade, and pay these players. Treat them as employees of the school. These guys bring big money to these schools. Many of them go on to the pros and get their big payday, but an even greater number don't. They blow out a knee and its over for them. What do those guys get by way of compensation for their work? If your answer is, a free education, you are living in a fantasy world where ghost-written term papers, fake classes and cooked grades equals an education.

But, despite all the flimflammery, rap sheets and crooked boosters...you can still count on me watching on Saturday when the Tide rolls. I suppose that makes me part of the problem.

SEC!!! SEC!!!

Attitude Adjustment Needed

What an odd week.

The week before a big event is always a slow, plodding thing. You find yourself trying to rush things along, making it next to impossible to stay in the moment. I have always suffered from an unfortunate affliction that constantly drives me to the next big thing. Pam is exactly the opposite in this regard, always content to make the most of now. Maine is the place where we are able to call a truce.

Anyway, so back to this week. There was the devastation of Harvey mixed with the heartwarming stories of heroic human beings from every background, every political persuasion, and every race, doing beautiful, selfless things. Of course, that was followed by various politicians trying to rush to the cameras to horn in on the good feelings being generated. Then the chattering classes did their best to throw a wet blanket on the sudden surge in unity by trying to undermine it all by casting doubt on the motives of our heros. And just like the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, a slew of activist/hacks began taking advantage of human compassion by sending our fundraising pitches ostensibly for flood victims, but actually providing links to various political action committees, proving once again the old adage that...no good dead goes unpunished. I'm convinced that partisan politics is this nation's divine punishment for the original sin of slavery.

Meanwhile, back at the office, I spent the week talking clients out of making moves that would have put several thousand dollars in my pocket. They were determined. I was persistent. Eventually they relented. I made zero dollars for my efforts. I labor in a profoundly strange business.

Later I had a text conversation with my son,(are there any other kind?), where it occurred to me that at some point over the past 35 years, my attitude towards the federal government has taken a decidedly cynical turn. Although I believe that my son gives them entirely too much credit, is far too willing to give them the benefit of the doubt than their actions over my lifetime would warrant, I am never willing to give the Feds any credit for anything. This has not always been so. There was a time in my life when I actually felt connected to my government and was generally convinced, at least, of their benevolence, and critical of those who questioned their motives. But, after a 35 year career in the financial world as a business owner, my views towards Washington are more jaded. I find myself nodding in agreement when I hear that old Ronald Reagan line, The most terrifying sentence in the English language is, "I'm from the government and I'm here to help!" I suppose that 35 years of paperwork, redundant regulation, fees, taxes, surcharges, and constantly moving goalposts will do that to a person. I don't trust them. I don't respect them or those we elect to represent me in my dealings with them. It is my considered view that anything done by government will always and forever be second rate, shoddy, and delivered to me by rude, arrogant, incompetent functionaries, who are free to be so because of the eternal job security they enjoy which shields them from oversight.

Having said all of this, I must confess...it's no fun feeling this way about your government. There is a bitter taste that lingers in your soul when you hold anything in such contempt. I actually envy my son and daughter their more benevolent attitudes toward government. At this point in my life, I can't imagine ever getting back to my younger attitudes toward Washington, but I am seeking something in between. I would settle for ambivalence. Actually I would be overjoyed to land at ambivalence. At the very least, I owe them my neutral disregard. Hostility and contempt don't work and I must figure out how to leave both behind.

Harvey Spending

I've often heard people lament the problem of why better people don't run for office. Why do the best and brightest people seem to go into the business world, or academia? That leaves us at the mercy of either the idle rich, or the egomaniacs to roam the corridors of power in Washington. Well, an obvious answer can be found in a recent example of what just happened to Senator Ted Cruz of Texas.

I should say at the outset that I am not a fan of Mr. Cruz. He seems to me to be a socially awkward, Dracula-Esk, smartest kid in the class know-it-all. In addition, he creeps me out for some reason. So, using him as an example is probably ill-advised. But, his example is just the closest at hand. What is happening to him happens to a lot of politicians in Washington, from both sides of the aisle. 

So, here's the deal...

In 2012, in the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy, the Senator refused to vote for the giant disaster recovery appropriation bill that was rammed through Congress, on the basis that, according to Cruz, 60% of the money wasn't even going directly to the victims of Sandy, but were what amounted to a grab bag of spending that under normal conditions would not have been approved. Now, that his state is the one in need of disaster relief, he is pounding the drums the loudest for...federal spending! What a hypocrite!!...right?

Well, it's not that simple. In true Cruzian fashion, back in 2012, his 60% number was overblown. But, on the merits, he was absolutely right. Whenever some disaster befalls this country, the federal government is expected to step in with an emergency appropriation to help the people rebuild. This takes the form of flood insurance, low cost loans, etc.. But, it also is an occasion for often ridiculous overreach. You've been having a hard time getting the government to fund your pet project for the folks back home? Attach that baby to the disaster relief bill, then dare anyone to vote against it! In the case of Sandy, only a portion of the funds made available were actually spent to relieve the immediate suffering of its victims. In fact, the majority of the funds were not even meant to be spent until three years later, and much of it was earmarked for 47 other states not named New Jersey. So, yes...Ted Cruz is creepy. But, he was right about the Sandy disaster recovery bill being a wasteful mountain of pork masquerading as disaster relief. Sorry.

When trying to explain how a country as rich and prosperous as the United States finds itself 20 trillion dollars in debt, it's a bit like trying to explain why water is wet. It's not just one thing. Pointless, unending wars certainly don't help. A tax code that gives write offs to people who don't need them doesn't help. But, pork barrel rolling is the engine that drives the insolvency train. The path to debt is paved with big-hearted emergency spending that isn't. And nothing creates a greater opportunity for pork barrel spending than a crisis. The idea of only passing a relief bill with targeted spending for actual relief victims would seem like a wise move. The fact that anyone who suggests such a thing is a heartless, hypocritical ogre is the kind of thing I suspect keeps an awful lot of talented, wonderful people from entering politics.

Of course, if my government is going to start throwing money it doesn't  have around, I suppose throwing that money at those suffering in Texas is preferable to throwing it around in Afghanistan. Every dark cloud has a silver lining.