The Great Retooling

Yesterday began a two day process I endure on the last couple of work days of each year. I call it The Great Retooling, whereby I bring a big, empty box into my office and begin throwing things into it. It’s like a spring cleaning, only in December. This year it was made worse by the fact that, for reasons I cannot recall, last year’s Retooling wasn’t done. So, this year I had two year’s worth of business minutiae to dispose of. By the time the shredder guy showed up, he needed one of those fifty gallon trash cans to gather it all. Of course, maybe this year I went a little overboard. I made the snap decision to finally part with my appointment books from 1991-2014, keeping the last three years only. Now, if some auditor from the SEC shows up demanding to know where I was on March 20, 1997 at 3 o’clock in the afternoon, I’m going to be out of luck. I was more sanguine about my bold decision to finally part with all of my tax returns from the last century, and the first decade of this century. Surely the IRS will let those bygones be bygones.

Today will be part two of the Retooling, and the harder part of the two day ordeal. This is the day that I plot and scheme my way to solvency. I start out by taking inventory of assets under management. Then I examine every detail of the previous year’s transactions. I then plot all of this data onto a spreadsheet, comparing it to the same numbers from the previous three, five, and ten year numbers. From this data, I can then make a reasonable projection of what I can expect for 2018. I say reasonable because, I am in the investment business, an enterprise known for laying waste to a whole host of well thought out projections. Still, I will labor on with my planning. I will then make a list of the many special expenses facing me in the coming year. A quick survey reveals many such expenses on the horizon:

# My son’s wedding

# Kitchen remodel

# New carpeting upstairs

# Two three week Maine vacations (self inflicted)

Once tabulated, I then will determine just how much business I will have to produce to meet these obligations, working backward from the amount of money required to the amount of effort necessary. I have a feeling that today’s calculations will be a sobering exercise. However, this year I will be aided in my work by a new partner:

This fine new leather briefcase was a Christmas gift from my wife and smells even better than it looks. It was bought to replace my old briefcase with which I have had a wildly successful 30 year run. But, the thing was starting to show its age, and the high fashion ladies that work in my office have gone to great lengths to shame me for carrying it around. While it is true that it was in bad shape, even getting to the point where it would leave little chunks of itself behind on any surface on which it was thrown down, it was still hard to retire the old girl:

So, I didn’t. I placed it on the floor behind one of my filing cabinets...just in case this new one is cursed or something. Listen, I built this business carrying this old thing around. I’m not about to throw it away just because it’s actually started decomposing. I am nothing if not loyal.

Anyway, I have said all of this to be able to explain the best part of yesterday. While cleaning out a drawer of my credenza, I came upon a photograph that stopped me dead in my tracks:

I found it at a particularly low point in my day. The enormity of the task was beginning to weigh on me when this picture slipped out of a pile of thank-you notes I had kept from clients over the years. I stopped. I sat down. There was no clarifying remarks on the back, so I have no idea where we were or what the occasion was. I just stared at these two strange people, familiar, yet almost strangers. We couldn’t have been more than mid thirties, meaning that this was over 25 years ago, meaning further that we were broke, with two young children. I have that cocky look of a man on his way up who thinks he knows everything, who is trying desperately to make everyone think that he isn’t actually scared to death that he’s going to be a horrible failure. But then I look at my wife...there she is, maybe 30 years old, a stay at home mother of two toddlers, looking radiant, thrilled to be dressed up and out from under the crushing weight of Mom responsibilities, if even just for this one night. That smile. Those eyes. She is ready for whatever setbacks I will encounter. She is ready, willing and able to provide the encouragement I will need when the skies become dark and laden with doubt. Every day when I come back home from my latest triumph or failure, she is going to be there to make things better. She will not allow me to give in to self pity on the bad days, or to pride on the good days. She will remind me that no matter what happened that day at work, I had duties and responsibilities right here at home, speaking of which, would I give the kids their baths? 

I slipped the picture into a special compartment in my new briefcase. It will remain there for the rest of my life.

A Ridiculous Meal

Last night, I took the family out for our only restaurant meal of the week. It was at Maggiano’s, and it was ridiculous.

Our reservation was for 7:30 pm. We arrived five minutes early to discover a large jostling crowd just inside the revolving door. Pam made her way through the throng to announce our arrival only to be told that they were behind in their reservations due to the fact that a man had fallen down the stairs earlier. In literature, this is what is known as foreshadowing. 

We found a spot in the lounge to wait out the promised fifteen minute delay, which turned into thirty. But, it’s Christmas...and who are we to begrudge the proper care of an elderly man fallen down a flight of stairs? We relaxed at our table until our buzzer finally began it’s buzzing. We were escorted to a table by a waitress who was oddly unaware of any man having fallen down the stairs. I let it go. She seemed nice.

There was a special Holiday Menu which extolled the virtues of the family style ordering regime whereby the table picks one salad, one appetizer, two pastas, two meats, and two desserts from a list of possibilities, all for the exploitive price of $44.95...each. But hey, with the pending lawsuit coming from the old man, a restaurant has to do what a restaurant has to do. My family surprised me by reaching consensus quickly. Our table would be served a Caesar salad, zucchini frittes, gnocchi with Italian sausage, ravioli, chicken piccata, beef tenderloin, topped off with a dessert of apple crustada and tiramisu. Of course, my kids being my kids, they ordered a strange assortment of adult beverages featuring copper cups, festive colors and what looked like twigs from the herb garden sticking out of the top of the glass. 

I am a veteran of Maggiano’s, so I know the importance of pacing oneself early in the meal. Although I truly love the zucchini frittes and could put on a gluttony clinic on them alone, I limited my intake to two. I also showed Herculean restraint by completely passing on the bread basket sitting provocatively at my left elbow, it’s heavenly bread smells wafting skyward. No... I knew what was coming, so I resisted.

Then our able waitress brought the main dishes, struggling to find space on the table for the four huge plates. The first taste of gnocchi put an end to my restraint. I began devouring all of the delicious bounty set before me like a man possessed. I warned myself quietly to save room for dessert, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to resist the tiramisu no matter how many slices of tenderloin I inhaled. By the time it was over, we had six takehome boxes of overflow, and a bill for over $400. My wife made the observation that we could have stayed home and ordered pizza instead, to which I observed, Yeah, for a month. As I rose from the table to leave, I was supremely grateful that I was on the ground floor of the establishment, since if I had been asked to negotiate a flight of stairs at that point, I would have suffered the same fate as the future plaintiff in the case of Old Geezer vs Maggiano’s.

After driving around for an hour or so looking at Christmas lights, we finally made it back to the house where we all managed to waddle into the house without incedent. When someone suggested that we all get back into our Christmas jammies, Sarah made her first Dunnevant-esk quip when she deadpanned, Sure...if they still fit.

Now, 12 hours later, Pam is preparing her famous Christmas breakfast. The enthusiasm level for this long awaited meal isn’t as robust as in past years. 

Something tells me we will rally...

The Night Before the Night Before Christmas

‘Twas the night before the night before Christmas, when all through my castle,

All of us were asleep, enjoying a break from the hassle.

The hastily wrapped presents were thrown under the tree when done,

And I fervently hoped no one would notice the price tags left on each one.

Two exhausted retrievers were draped awkwardly across two humans in two different beds, 

While visions of UPS drivers danced in their heads.

And, Mama in her Soma silk pajamas, and me in my Hanes underwear, 

Had just settled what was left of our brains, for a night of fitful sleep somewhere.

When from inside my house there arose such a maddening racket,

I felt like I was caught in a scene from Full Metal Jacket.

Away to the hallway, I stumbled like a drunk

Tripping on chew toys, lost in a funk.

There was no moonlight, just the TV glow from Jimmy Fallon,

The only luster on the lawn came from the neighbor’s Christmas Dragon 

When what to my wondering, half closed eyes should appear,

But a giant FEDEX truck and two guys drinking beer!

Nothing I could do to quell the dogs from their barking, 

While outside, two drunken delivery men on my quiet street were parking

A handful of Amazon boxes on my lawn they did scatter,

When I decided to venture out to see what was the matter.

It was then that I discovered the reason for the helter skelter 

As I listened to the tale of our 21st century Santa’s helpers

These elves had been delivering our treasures for thirty six hours without lapse,

How could I then find fault with their copious consumption of Pabst?

Now that this knockoff poem has lost all rhyme and reason,

Perhaps it best that I leave you with a reminder of the season.

The men and women in their trucks, vans and trolleys, 

Charged with delivering our My Pillows, Keurigs, and dollies,

Lift a prayer, and offer a tip, bring hot cocoa and offer a sip.

And after dropping off boxes, he turned with a stagger

He looked at me and his finger did wagger 

Why should I worry about the fate of my liver,

When I still have a hundred more packages to deliver?

And I heard him exclaim to the gathered crowd of yokels,

Merry Christmas to all...and would it kill you to buy local?

Breakfast at Satterwhite’s

Waiting on my oldest child, along with her husband, and faithful dog to arrive. The house looks great. Presents are piled under the tree, the infamous Snow Village has graced us with a partial appearance, and our neighbors have inflated the Christmas Dragon to its full nine feet of wing-flapping horror to greet them. Meanwhile, my last full meal was consumed this morning at 7:00 am at Satterwhite’s, a grill which I last visited 30 years ago, on the occasion of one of my most ill-advised projects which featured my attempt to consume one of their famous Mammoth Burgers by myself. It was a fool’s errand. For those of you not from around here, back in the day, Satterwhite’s was quite the place. Actually, it still is, despite the explosion of growth in Goochland County, this classic old-school dive has not only survived, but is now shrouded in fable...like my story about the famed Mammoth Burger. 

Actually, it wasn’t really a burger at all, more like a giant slab of meatloaf on a ginormous bun. I have searched the interwebs high and low in vain searching for a photograph of one of these babies, but none exist. You’ll have to use your imagination. The thing was about 8 inches in diameter, and the slab of meat loaf was about three inches thick. It came with ketchup, dill pickles, yellow mustard, and 25% off your first bypass operation. I mention all of this because visiting Satterwhite’s once again after such a long absence was a wonderful experience that has me kicking myself for abandoning the place once all the development came in and shuffled all the old places to the sidelines. Everybody wants to try the newest place that everybody is talking about, right? Most of the old places gave up and disappeared...but not Satterwhite’s. Clearly, they haven’t been pouring money into refurbishing the place’s look...nearly identical to how it looked the day I woofed down approximately three quarters of that Mammoth Burger...

I think they call that look, Whitewashed Cinderblock Chic. No matter, the inside hasn’t been updated either...

But, if you want two eggs, with toast, and a side order of country ham big enough to use as a doorstop, and a cup of coffee for $10? Then, Satterwhite’s would love to serve it to you...on a 50 year old table, sitting on one of those thick, heavy plates, plopped down on a paper placemat. It was so much food, I am able to type this blog out semi-coherently, despite having had no ensuing meal in over 12 hours. Now, that’s value, people.

Buy local...but more importantly, eat local!

Merry Christmas to Me

2018 will bring a first into my life. It will be the first year that I will take two Maine vacations. The first will be on Pemaquid Lake from July 14, thru August 4. This will be our annual summer vacation and will feature all of my kids together for at least one of those weeks. The second was just booked two days ago. I had thought about it for quite a while and then suddenly decided to do it. I booked a fall vacation back to Quantabacook Lake at the absolutely perfect Loon Landing from September 14 thru October 5. These two trips are separated by a mere five weeks. That means there will be two soul crushing drives up there and back...but if you want to make an omelet you have to break a few eggs.

I cannot begin to describe for you what joy this brings to my heart. The prospect of spending six weeks in Maine endows 2018 with magical curative powers. No matter what fate may befall the Dunnevant household in the coming year, I’ve got six weeks in Maine going for me. Everything will be alright! No matter what hijinks comes from Washington, no matter how dizzying the gyrations of the stock market, I’ll have six weeks in Maine in my back pocket. 

 It’s true that this is an expensive proposition. It’s not only the rental cost but also the lack of productivity over the six weeks I am away from my business. I have no paid vacation time, an unfortunate byproduct of owning your own business, so if I’m on vacation, production halts. However, I am able to make up for some of this by busting my backside while I am working. But, regardless of how much more diligent I am, it won’t completely make up for the lost time. But, here’s the thing...I like money as much as the next guy, but I turn 60 in 2018. I’m at least two thirds of the way home. Money is just going to have to take a backseat to the enjoyment of life and time with the people who matter most to me. And, while six weeks on a lake in Maine ain’t cheap, it is still considerably cheaper than owning a place up there.

So, there you have it, Merry Christmas to me!!

The Snow Village Cometh

Somewhere around lunchtime today, I will figuratively shut down the office for Christmas, that is...I will no longer be actively engaged in the affairs of business for the duration of the holiday festivities. This will usher in the stretch run of household preparations whereby all of the last minute details get hammered out at the Dunnevant estate. There are still tons of presents to wrap. The leaves must be gotten up once more, Pam must devote all of one day to the baking of Christmas goodies, and last minute decorations must be dealt with. Specifically...these:

Yes, boys and girls, these are what is known as Department 56 snow village houses. My wife went through her Department 56 phase,(along with mountains of cash), many years ago, and I have a garage full of them to prove it. Each year when the weather starts turning colder I trudge out to the garage, climb a ladder, and start hauling these babies into the house. Once Pam is through, our entire downstairs looks like a Victorian village from a hundred years ago, complete with an entire population of snow people dithering about on their fake lawns and fake streets. There are many neighborhoods in this Potemkin village, there’s restaurant row, a thriving downtown, and a particularly snobby suburb that dominates the mantle above my fireplace. 

This year, I had thought that circumstances might allow us to forego this labor intensive project. After all, to accommodate the installation of our new hardwood floors, every stick of furniture in the downstairs of our house has to be packed up by January the 15th. But no...I am informed by the project manager that since this will be my son’s fiancé’s first Dunnevant Christmas, the snow village Will be erected in its entirety. I have no constructive roll in this project, other than serving as the designated Teamster, hauling each house in from the garage. Then my job becomes getting the hell out of the way while Pam recreates 1920’s Peoria throughout the house. When it is done, I have to admit that our house never looks better. 

Of course, there is one problem with...the village... that I am hesitant to mention, since it might call into question my mental health. There’s a small part of me that is creeped out by the townspeople. There are the kids making a snowman in front of the blue house, that weird couple getting ready to walk into the post office over on Main Street, and the strange guys serving as the moving crew outside of the house for sale over on Maple. I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something sinister about all of these people. For one thing, they look awfully big for these houses, so part of me thinks they’re  from out of town. But, the worst part is the fact that I’m half convinced that they bad mouth us when we’re not in the room, like those toys in Toy Story. We turn out the lights and head upstairs for the night and I bet all of them all gather in front of Christmas Tree lot and start with the put downs...Did you guys get a load of those pajamas the old guy was wearing tonight?? ‘Hello, it’s 1950 and we want our pajamas back!!...then loud guffaws all around. They think I don’t know what they are saying behind my back, but I know...yes, I know.

Photograph of the Year 2017

A year ago about this time I began what I promised would be a yearly December tradition. It was called Photograph of the Year. The idea was to pick just one picture from the previous 12 months that captured the essence of the year for me. More precisely, I wanted to pick the one image that I never wanted to forget. Last year I chose this one:

I then challenged everyone to follow my example and show me their favorite pictures from 2016. I got zero responses. (What lazy readers I have!)

But, a promise is a promise, so this morning I have been pouring over the hundreds of pictures from 2017, searching for that one special, transcendent one. It’s not easy. If I go with the image that most sums up the political foolishness, I might consider this:

On the other hand, if I wanted to capture something symbolic of how I felt each morning reading the news?

But, as is so often the case with me, I find myself being drawn to that most special of places. There are so many to choose from:

But, once again, the winner has a familiar look and feel. Only this time it was my turn as the photographer:

So, once again I challenge you to go and do likewise. Pick out that one special photograph that you want to always remember from 2017. If you wanted to prove that you were here on this earth in 2017 and that your existence mattered, find the picture that proves it.

You’re welcomed.