A Bird’s Song

I’m told that we are only two weeks away from the arrival of Spring. I’m also told that it is always darkest before the dawn. These two rumors seem connected. Glancing at my weather app this morning, I see two snowflakes beside this coming Sunday and Monday. My heart sinks.

It is fair to say that I hate Winter. It has not always been so. When I was a younger man, I loved it, the more snow the better. Now, it is something to be endured. February, always my least favorite month of the year, was terrible this year. It seemed like every day was either cloudy or raining. Now, the whole world is damp and chilly. Shriveled brown leaves cling to the oak trees in my yard. Sticks and pine cones are scattered everywhere from the recent winds. And now...snow’s coming.

Winter is a time devoted almost exclusively to my professional obligations. After 36 years I have developed a routine that front loads most of my client meetings into the first five months of the year. This intentional scheduling allows me the flexibility to travel during the summer months, before ramping up again during the Fall. So, March 7th finds me half way through the busiest, most hectic part of my year. It’s a good thing too since there is literally nothing else to do which involves venturing outside. Dismal low clouds, 40 degrees and misty rain conspire against outdoor pursuits.

But, this morning there is one bird in my backyard who hasn’t gotten the memo. Despite all the dreariness, this guy is perched on a limb singing his heart out, the brightest, happiest little warble you’ve ever heard. No other bird replies, his is a solo performance. Still, he persists with enthusiasm. It’s as if he knows something that nobody else knows. Pam says it’s a Carolina Wren. The more he sings, the more I think perhaps he is a she. Optimism, I have found, is most often a feminine quality.

Regardless, a bird has given me encouragement this day.

Would that we all had such a song in our hearts...

https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&source=web&cd=21&ved=0ahUKEwjn24v8mtrZAhXBwFMKHdp6C6QQt9IBCFowFA&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D7GLIFUtXj2M&usg=AOvVaw2S-iAh-z4T13Zzkw-0egah

Bob’s Apples

Once upon a time there was a man named Bob who owned an apple orchard. The apples grown in Bob’s orchard were delicious and plentiful. Each year when they were ripe he would take them into town and sell them at the farmer’s market, and each year the people bought all of them, since they were delicious. Year after year this happy tradition repeated itself, Bob grew his apples, harvested them, transported them into town and sold them to his eager customers.

Over the course of time, Bob realized that the people really loved his apples. Furthermore, he was the only apple seller in town. It occurred to him that he could raise the price of his apples and his customers would pay the higher price because A. Bob’s apples were delicious and B. His were the only apples in town. So every couple of years Bob would raise the price of his apples and every price increase was tolerated without complaint by his customers.

Then, one year when he was unloading his truck full of apples at the farmer’s market Bob noticed to his great surprise that there were two other apple stands at the market, filled to the brim with fresh, ripe apples. Moreover, the prices charged by these two new apple sellers were considerably lower than his. But, since he had so many faithful customers who loved his apples, he offered them at the same price as before. When the customers arrived at the farmer’s market, many of them refused to even consider buying apples from these two new apple vendors. But before long, a handful of them wandered over to the new stands and tried the free samples they were offering. They discovered that the new apples were also delicious, not only every bit as delicious as Bob’s apples but 25% less expensive. Suddenly, Bob experienced a 25% decline in sales and revenue. Bob drove back to his farm and considered this new reality.

He spent much time in thought over the winter. What was he to do? His first thought was that he would have to lower his prices. But, he quite enjoyed the lifestyle that his higher prices had afforded him through the years. Then, he considered repackaging his apples to make them more appealing. Maybe he could bake some of them into pies and pastries, or make sauce and cider out of some of them. But, that would require a lot of extra work. The more he thought about his new rivals, the angrier he became. He did some research and discovered that these two new apple merchants weren’t even from the area. In fact, nobody had ever heard of them. Turns out, they were from a neighboring county. It was upon this discovery that Bob hit upon a strategy for dealing with this new, unwelcome competition. 

Bob drove into the county seat and paid a visit to his local magistrate, who happened to be his brother-in-law. Bob explained the situation in detail and presented a plan of action...These guys don’t even live around here. They can’t even vote for you in your next election. And yet, here they are, undercutting me and reducing my profits, and I can and will be voting in your next election. The local magistrate quickly discerned the logic in Bob’s argument, but raised a potential objection...Bob, I see your point, and I am very grateful for all you do for my campaign, but if I punish your competitors, it will benefit you but it will also raise the cost of apples for all my other constituents. Bob looked at his brother-in-law and smiled...True, but last year I gave your reelection campaign a large donation without which your reelection probably wouldn’t have happened. The way I see it, the least you can do is return the favor. Pass a law that requires a 25% fee for all out of state apples sold at the farmer’s market...problem solved.

Within five years, Bob’s competitors had disappeared, his orchard had been decimated by a worm infestation, the farmer’s market had been shut down for code violations, and the price of apples had quadrupled because of acute shortages. But, Bob’s brother-in-law was now governor of the state and had passed a law which guaranteed Bob an Apple price subsidy which paid him not to grow anymore apples.

And this, boys and girls, is the story of tariffs.

The Hex Continues

Last September, Pam and I spent three idyllic weeks in a cottage on Quantabacook Lake in Maine. It was as if we had found the perfect lake house on the perfect lake in our favorite place in the world...midcoast Maine, USA. But then, we came home, and ever since we opened the door to our house in Short Pump, our lives have taken on the characteristics of something approaching demon possession. I’m not one who normally goes in for such things, but the word hex has made an appearance in my vocabulary. The last six months has visited upon us a series of Keystone Cop-style misfortune. Consider...

# An exploding dish washer

# A brand new coffee maker who’s maiden pot featured burning internal electronics

# A week long stay in a hotel which featured a door to nowhere through which poured freezing air 24/7

# A hole in my library wall, put there by piano movers, which took nearly a month to repair

# A failed washing machine which was replaced with a new washing machine which seems incapable of...washing clothes

So, I came up with an idea. My wife and I need to get away. I know what I’ll do. I’ll schedule a couple of annual reviews with my Myrtle Beach clients, and take Pam with me. We can make a long weekend of it. We’ll have a chance to disconnect from our suddenly dysfunctional Short Pump life and bask in the easy pace of the beach. It will be therapeutic, I reasoned. An opportunity to recharge our batteries, I thought. And, I was absolutely right. Right up until the instant yesterday afternoon...when it wasn’t.

Pam gets an email informing her that the lovely $1300 Apple computer she just purchased at the Lynnhaven Mall in Virginia Beach is ready for pick up! In addition to this surprising news, Pam is informed in a rapid-fire series of emails that she has now established accounts with over a hundred stores selling all sorts of cool stuff from Kalamazoo to Kuala Lumpur. These emails came in standard English, but also German, Arabic, Spanish, French, and because identity theft is nothing if not inclusive, Vulcan. 

The next three hours featured my harassed and harangued wife making frantic calls to banks, credit card companies, and internet providers, one such call placed her on hold for over an hour. A police report was filed. Tears were shed. There was no therapy, no basking, no beach. Our daily bible reading from Ezekiel has offered not one verse of help!

By 7:00 last night, she was exhausted and exasperated...and all of us were hungry. We decided that it was probably too late to get a reservation at a nice place, and since we didn’  feel very nice, this was probably a good thing. So, we decided to go low brow, and throw all pretensions of our diet out the window. Right up the street is a local establishment that practically screamed the word Dive!! The name alone was an advertisement...Duffy’s Seafood Shack. Just in case we needed a reminder of exactly what kind of establishment we had just entered, this sign on the ladies bathroom door helped clarify...

The menu was slightly oily and featured all of the artery clogging standards of low country cooking, but their description of shrimp and grits caught my attention by stating that this particular dish was, mentioned in the New York Times!! Granted, it didn’t say what exactly it was mentioned for...cholera? Projectile vomiting? Nevertheless, I took a chance. Despite my recent run of bad luck, despite the very real possibility that I might be under a hex of biblical proportions, I figured that my chances of becoming violently ill from an entree served up at a restaurant that brags of it’s world famous deep fried corn on the cob, were less than 30%.

Best shrimp and grits EVER.

This morning, my stomach feels calm. It’s sunny outside. The wind has died down, and my daughter is in route. What can possibly go wrong?

Stay tuned.

Time To Escape

For the next three days, this will be the view from my back yard. I have business which takes me to see clients in South Carolina, providing me with an excellent excuse for a getaway. This condo belongs to a close friend and he generously lets me use it every year when I go to meet with these particular clients. Pam will be with me. My daughter will drive over from Columbia after work on Friday to spend a couple of nights with us. The weather doesn’t look particularly promising...mid sixties with high winds, not exactly beach weather. But, at a place like this and at this season of life...who cares about the weather? It could be blowing a gale with sideways rain and I still would rather be anywhere but here at the moment.

There’s just something about being on the water that calms the spirit. Pam and I prefer the lakes in Maine, but the ocean is a very close second. It’s peaceful and hypnotic. When you take a walk on the beach, the broad horizon reminds you of how vast is the earth and how very small you are. But something else...it also reminds you how small your problems are, and there is great comfort in that reminder.

You sit long enough watching the waves roll up onto such a massive beach, your perspective will change. The ebb and flow of the oceans are ancient and eternal. Who knows where this water has been? What kind of amazing journey has the shell made that presents itself at your feet? If only it could speak. You stare at the thin line to the East which separates gray and blue and imagine what the children of Portugal are thinking as they gaze at the same line in the West. The sounds, the pounding of the surf, the roll of the waves, the seagulls and sand pipers. Before long you can’t even remember who’s President.

I will take my morning coffee on the balcony, even if it requires a winter coat. I will sit in a chair on the beach, even if I have to wear my Boston Red Sox stocking cap. It will require much self discipline to organize my tax documents while I’m there, although it will be a goal of the weekend. No matter how hypnotic the tides, Accountant Carl simple must have my documents by next week. But, if I must  organize and assemble tax documents, I would much rather do so after a meal of low country seafood. Making lists of deductions to the sound of lapping waves seems much less daunting. The salty air makes everything more inviting, doesn’t it?

Mild Irritants

Yesterday, my patience was put to the test by a series of what can only be fairly described as mild irritants. Nobody committed any crimes, no one set out to intentionally foul my temper, in fact, none of the guilty parties were even vaguely aware of my existence. All of these mild irritants happened while I was behind the wheel of my car...

I was running a bit late, and I hate being late. I had been detained on the phone longer than expected, so I was in a small hurry to get to my next appointment. Many irritating things happen to people who find themselves in small hurries.

The first stop light I encounter after leaving my parking lot is usually backed up, but fortunately I was second in line behind what looked to be a female of millennial age who was driving a Honda Civic adorned with a Feel the Bern bumper sticker. When the light turned green, she sat immobile as a stone, head tilted down towards her lap where she was clearly engrossed in an impassioned text conversation with her BFF about the latest outrage being foisted upon her by the patriarchy. A full five seconds passed, which in this situation is akin to three dog years. I resisted deploying my horn. Surely, she would snap out of it any second. Two more seconds...three, her Olympian-level thumbs still raging at the very misogynistic air that we breathe! Finally, I stood on my horn, at precisely the same instant that several cars behind me had reached their limits. The flummoxed feminist was startled out of her texting tirade long enough to accelerate into the intersection, but not before she gave us all the universal sign of love and friendship.

Two stop lights later, I found myself third in the queue behind a motorcyclist and a driver of a green late model pickup truck with an empty gun rack in the window. This guy didn’t look like the cell phone type, so the prospects of a clean getaway from the light were promising. However, this particular guy had both windows open, (odd, since it was drizzling rain) and had that far away look of someone who is listening intently to someone speaking. His mouth was ajar, head tilted skyward focused on nothing. The wind shifted and I heard the distinct voice of Rush Limbaugh. The light flashed green, and pickup guy moved not an inch, transfixed by some eloquent point about Donald Trump’s latest three dimensional chess moves being made by the man with talent on loan from God. Luckily for me, before I even had a chance to reach for the horn, the motorcyclist began waving his hands wildly and screaming something obscene, which did the trick.

I was now finally on the interstate, picking up speed and seeking my customary spot in the center lane of the three that constitute 64 east from Short Pump to Richmond proper. As is sometimes the case, I soon encountered a fellow traveler who was not keeping up with the general flow of traffic...that is to say, he/she was going slower than me. I then did what I always do when I come up against those insufferable people who insist on doing the speed limit— I deftly swung over into the lane farthest to the left, which everyone knows is called, the passing lane, so named because it’s sole purpose in life is to facilitate drivers who want to pass their slower, less aware and less pressed for time Highway-mates. It was at this point in my interminable commute that I came upon the least mild of the aforementioned mild irritants...the slow poke in the passing lane. This particular one drove some sort of Volvo with one of those Coexist bumper stickers. The speed limit on this particular stretch of interstate 64 is 60 mph. However, anyone who actually goes 60 mph on this stretch of road runs an excellent chance of being killed. Even the losers in the far right lane, ( reserved for student drivers and octogenarians), go at least 65 here. Volvo-guy is chilling along at 58, oblivious. At this point, I’m seething, talking aloud to no one in particular...Dude, if you want me to Coexist with you, you can start by dragging your hippy dippy moonbeam self out of the freaking passing lane!!! Meanwhile, the guy who I thought was going too slow for the middle lane eventually pulls up beside me and gives me an arrogant side-eye as if to say, Good luck getting around Woodstock there. You shoulda stayed in your lane bub...

I was eleven minutes late for my appointment, but managed to bottle up all of the potential road rage. It’s stored somewhere in my subconscious, and will make a shocking appearance at some point in my future when I least expect. It’s going to be quite the fireworks display!

Incoming Mortars

Unless you happen to be a member of a royal family, or a tenured politician, everything I am about to say about life will sound familiar to you. It matters not whether you are of the greatest generation, a baby boomer, a millennial or a generation X-er. All of us who have spent any time on this earth as sentient beings will understand and appreciate what follows.

It has been my experience in my nearly 60 years that life is a series of stages not unlike the life of a combat soldier, long periods of boredom interrupted by short bursts of intense mayhem. An infantryman can trudge along on patrols for days in a monotonous vacuum, then suddenly an ambush plunges him into utter chaos and violence. Perhaps this metaphor is getting stretched a bit, but civilian life can feel very similar. One can go days, weeks, even months where life clicks along like a well oiled machine, then suddenly a series of mortars rain down in rapid succession, blowing the well ordered routine to bits. Consider...

A dear friend falls seriously ill, effecting many people who you love dearly.

You are presented with an unexpected $20+K expense that demands your immediate attention.

Your upstairs air conditioning unit fails and the repairman speaks ominously of coil repairs.

Your washing machine presents evidence of a leak, forcing an unplanned $700 purchase.

One of the ripple effects of your friends illness washes a boarder onto your shores for at least a month.

Your wife is involved in one baby and one wedding shower in a two week period that also includes three members of her family going into three different hospitals for three different operations.

All of this is introduced into your life inside the space of 5 Days.

None of this is unique to me. Many of you reading this have been so buffeted by life’s unexpected slings and arrows. It could certainly be worse. It could just have easily been my wife who fell ill. If so, everything else on my list would be meaningless. As frustrating as all of these things are, none of them represent unbearable burdens. They are simply...stuff that happens. The fact that stuff like this always seems to happen at once, is a profound mystery. But even this might actually be a blessing. Just when you start to feel as if life has begun to bore you...a whirlwind of challenges rain down, clarifying the mind, exhilarating the spirit, arousing the competitive juices. To continue the metaphor, perhaps it’s a bit like Churchill’s famous observation, Nothing in life is so exhilarating as to be shot at without result.

So, I will buckle down. I will plot and scheme and gameplan my way out of this. I will brace myself for other curveballs to come. Through it all I will remain grateful that I am surrounded by people who are worth my best efforts.

Conceding Defeat

In the wake of the most recent school shooting in Florida, an intense national debate over gun control has exploded all over social media. I have been a participant and an observer. I read the arguments, some reasoned and articulate, some wild and unhinged. I find myself agreeing with something one minute and then having doubts the next. It is all confounding and maddeningly complex. A perfect example of the complexity can be found in people’s reaction to the revelation that no less than four cops were on the scene of the shooting but refused to enter the fray summarized as follows:

Advocate of gun control: So, four good guys with a gun were not able to stop the bad guy. I think this should put an end to this arm the teachers bulls**t.

Anti-gun control guy: So, four cops were unwilling to come to citizens’ rescue and stop a mass murderer. I think this should put an end to this you don’t need a firearm because the cops will save you bulls**t.

One of the many ideas being tossed around is the notion of arming teachers. The plausible idea is that if each school had its share of randomly, secretly armed teachers, each properly trained and vetted, the kids would have a fighting chance in the event of an active shooter on the premises. Less plausibly, it is suggested that the mere possibility of armed teachers would in itself serve as a deterrent for a psychopath. But instead of getting into the weeds of the effectiveness of such a scheme, I would rather discuss the deeper meaning involved in the idea itself and that is this:

Anyone who is on board with the idea of arming teachers has officially conceded defeat. Your support of armed teachers is an admission that this nation has dramatically failed and is dysfunctional beyond repair.

Think about it for a minute. Try to imagine floating the notion of an army of concealed carry teachers in American schools fifty years ago. Heck, imagine doing so ten years ago. It would have been laughably unserious. (In what universe are employees thought responsible for their own safety while at work rather than their employers??) But now, large numbers of reasonable people are blithely suggesting that it would be a good idea for school teachers to enter the school house fully armed with deadly force. Why? Because everything else has clearly failed. 

First of all, we can’t count on the security guards we hire to actually do their jobs and engage a shooter. We can’t count on the school boards to budget and employ enough security at our schools. We can’t count on the FBI to follow up clear and unequivocal warnings from people who are screaming their evil intentions for everyone to see and hear all over social media. We can’t count on our police or judges to enforce the laws we already have on the books which make it more difficult for psychopaths to obtain weapons. We can’t count on our politicians to even consider crafting any new restrictions on the sale of semi automatic weapons. We can’t even get them to agree on tougher background checks for such purchases. We can’t count of Hollywood to stop glorifying gratuitous violence. Nothing seems to satisfy our insatiable appetite for bloodier and more sadistic video games. At each and every step along the rocky path that has led us to this point in our history, the systems that we citizens count on for protection...have failed. So now we think...Ok, let’s arm the teachers.

Here’s what arming teachers means to me. It marks the end of American Exceptionalism. It calls into question my full throated embrace of the concept of individual liberty. It makes me question whether of not our constitution has become a suicide pact. When a civilization gets to the point where the physical safety of its school children is in such great peril yet no remedy can be agreed upon because it might infringe on some wackos ability to purchase a military style rifle, then something has gone terribly wrong. But, there can be no liberty without responsibility. Self government doesn’t work without self discipline. If we as a people cannot come together to craft a compromise on guns, we will deserve the violence that will continue all around us. When the next massacre of innocents happens, all of us who failed at this moment will have blood on our hands.

I don’t know what the answer is. I don’t know what specific law or combination of laws are the right ones to enact. Some might do more harm than good. But, here’s what I do know. The status quo is killing us.