Thank God For Spell Check

Hardly a day goes by when I’m not made aware of my limitations as a writer. I enjoy writing about as much as anything in this world. I do a lot of it, not only on this rather prolific blog, but also the occasional story that pops into my head. But no matter what it is that I’m writing, I bump up against my shortcomings.

In terms of this blog, it’s my poor punctuation and grammar skills. What punctuation and grammar problems, you ask? Well, the reason you don’t notice that many is because my wife corrects all of them for me. It usually goes like this...

Pam: On this morning’s blog...don’t use a comma here, a semi colon works better. And, this particular phrase sounds clunky. Oh...and this participle is dangling.

Me: (after corrections are made)...How’s this?

Pam: Better.

The problem goes back to high school and my abysmal academic record. Whenever it was time for my English teacher to cover grammar, I would zone out. My body might have been in class, but my mind was a million miles away, God knows where. The only subjects that could hold my attention in school were history and literature. Everything else was a blur. Pam thinks that grammar was particularly difficult for me because at my core I rebelled against the very concept... I hate rules and having to follow them. Whatever the reason, I obviously didn’t learn anything. 

When it comes to writing stories, my problems are more complicated. An idea for a story will pop into my head out of nowhere. I will sit down and start typing, almost continuously for an hour or two, sentences tumbling out fully formed, organizing themselves into paragraphs right before my eyes. This will go on for days and takes very little effort or organization on my part. It just happens. Before I know it, there are 10,000 words and five or six chapters in the document, a precise, discernible and consistent plot containing a half dozen characters. Then, I think..where did that come from?? But then, suddenly, everything stops. Whatever river of imagination that produced this universe of characters and plots dries up, and they sit there flat on the page, waiting for me to tell them what to do. It’s like the literary version of suspended animation. Days go by, then weeks...nothing. Sometimes I will re-read the thing from the beginning hoping to find the spark. Nothing. Then, I’ll be in the middle of cutting the grass or a set of sit-ups at the gym when the flash of an idea will come...and it all starts up again. This ridiculous writing style has produced one complete novel, two half baked ones and a trove of short stories along with a couple dozen aborted attempts. It is also the reason I don’t write for a living. 

So, I’ll publish this blog and wait for Pam to alert me to some grammatical infraction or another, and thank my lucky stars for spell check.

Complaining About The Weather?

It is 6am in the city of my birth and the humidity sits at 98%. My handy WWBT weather app informs me that for the next three days I can expect a 90% chance of thunder storms with locally heavy downpours. The first sunshine emoji I see in the ten day forecast is next Wednesday, and even that one is half covered with emoji clouds. It would be quite easy to fall into despair at such a prediction. The prospect of unrelenting rain and thick humidity isn’t the sort of thing that puts a bounce in your step. However, upon further reflection...things could be a lot worse.

Suppose the forecast for the next ten days called for blistering sunshine and highs in the upper 90’s? How about if the temperatures were forecasted to be in the upper 50’s, a record breaking cold snap for the month of May? We could be mired in a ten day tornado watch, or bracing for the earliest hurricane to ever threaten landfall on the Mid-Atlantic States.

The thing about weather is that it always is pissing somebody off. As much as I hate the current forecast, people with gardens love it. As much as I hate upper 90’s, there’s some heat worshipper out there who is thrilled to death. 

The cool thing about Virginia though...we get it all. Every kind of forecast you can imagine eventually becomes operational. Blistering heat? We got that. Stifling humidity? Check. Sub-zero freezing cold? We’ll have a few of those this winter. You want snow? Wait for January and February. Want delightful cool temperatures and fall colors? Yep. Want a few weeks of verdant green, soft breezes and pastel colored sunsets? That would be April. 

You people out in San Diego have year round delightfulness and all, but after a while don’t you just get tired of the monotonous sunny skies? You guys in the Arizona desert, does fall even happen to you? And my poor Maine brothers and sisters, what must it be like to endure six months of winter, then three months of Garden of Eden perfection separated by three months of...mud?

So, no...I will not be complaining about my weather forecast. This is Virginia, the land of free range weather, and the blessing of endless variety. That’s worth celebrating if you ask me.

Life Changer

Had a fascinating conversation with a younger friend of mine the other day. He’s in his mid-forties and on the cusp of a sizable promotion at work. He was trying to decide whether it would be worth it to uproot his family and move away in pursuit of this new position which offered both much more money and greater respect and prestige in his profession. The opportunity to build greater wealth had a lot of appeal for him, since it might allow him to retire earlier than he had thought possible. Still, the upheaval it would bring to his family dynamic and quality of life was a concern. 

As I listened to him it occurred to me that when I was in my mid-forties, something happened to me that forever changed my perspective on the entire money/prestige thing. Emergency open heart surgery will do that to a person, I suppose.

I never had some dramatic, Hollywood-style epiphany. In the weeks of recovery afterwards I was too busy trying to put one foot in front of the other to bother myself with deep existential thoughts about the universe and my place in it. But once I returned to work, something had changed. My business is an intensely competitive enterprise which runs on the twin engines of money and growth. One thing always suggests the other. You are either getting bigger and wealthier or you are shrinking and dying...or so says the conventional wisdom. However, I discovered that there is nothing quite so clarifying of thought than the prospect of eminent death. Suddenly, I started examining everything in business through the prism of, is this really as critical as I think it is? It didn’t take long for me to realize that when it came to the old paradigm of growth and more and more...my heart just wasn’t in it anymore. 

So, I started making changes. I replaced income goals with vacation goals. My primary driver would no longer be exponential growth, but sustainable, manageable growth. I would trade in an increasingly more complex future for a much slower pace. Each year on January 1, the question became, how much time off will I take this year? And since I work for myself and there is no such thing as vacation pay, that meant that I had to be willing to accept less money. In the fifteen years that have gone by since I lay in that cold room counting backwards for the nice Asian anesthesiologist, I suppose I have forfeited quite a bit of money. On the other hand, I’ve never missed a single moment that mattered with my family. I’ve had time to read a thousand books, write a million words...and I have taken some incredible vacations! 

Owning your own business makes all of this possible. I am grateful to be where I am. I’m aware that for people who work for someone else, these decisions can’t be made as easily. My work has placed me in the enviable position of having a measure of control over my schedule and my income. The freedom that comes from such ownership is the single greatest benefit of my life’s work. But, getting off the big, bigger, biggest treadmill was the best decision I ever made, which means that having open heart surgery at age 45 was one of the best things that ever happened to me. 

How weird is that?

Making The Trains Run On Time

Tomorrow is Mother’s Day. Ever since my Mom passed away, it’s been the occasion of many fond memories, but also a bit of sadness. I suppose that this is a natural thing and as it should be and will be for the remainder of my life. At present there are but two mothers in my life, my mother-in-law and my wife. My mother-in-law’s claim to fame will forever be bringing my wife into this world and raising her so well. My wife, on the other hand, has been and continues to be a legendary mother. A few examples...

To say that the two of us had different parenting styles would be a world class understatement. But, it’s one of the things I believe helped produce two pretty amazing kids. We had different jobs. While their mother was busy demonstrating the cardinal virtues in word and deed in front of our children, I was busy teaching them how to field grounders and break up a double play. While Pam labored to instill a love of books and reading in them, I was upstairs giving them their baths and teaching them how to execute a proper armpit fart. Pam spent countless hours cultivating an appreciation of the arts in our kids, teaching them about what it is to love and cherish fine things. I spent countless hours perfecting the tickle-monster bedtime routine, complete with ethnic diversity twists like the dreaded Chinese tickle-monster....don’t ask. But, it’s not like I taught them nothing of lasting value...the wrestling skills they retain to this day? All me!

But, in our house it was always Mom who made the trains run on time. She’s the one who packed their lunches every day for 12 years, never failing to include a hand written note of encouragement, or an occasional corny joke. It was Mom who always filled out the endless paperwork of childhood, the bureaucratic paper trail of American adolescence. It was Mom who made sure their teeth were straight, their clothes were clean and that everything matched. Mom was the one who scheduled their doctor’s appointments, made sure they showed up everywhere on time. It was Mom who always was there when they returned from school, with a snack, demanding a full report on the day’s adventures. It was Mom who would not tolerate a bad attitude or an uncharitable remark. It was Mom who taught them the crucial importance of manners, an old school term which essentially means...respect. And it was always Mom who did all the worrying. While I always reminded her that...the kids will be fine...she put in a lifetime of 18 hour days making sure they would be. 

Watching my wife with our kids all these years has convinced me that motherhood is more art than science. There is nothing accidental about it. Being a mother, it seems to me, is an eternal commitment to the hard details of life. It is a relentless pursuit, a tireless advocacy campaign, whereby anything or anyone who gets between your children and their best interests is in for an existential fight to the finish. If you were dumb enough to pose a threat to our kids, there would be hell to pay. But, having said all of this, what made Pam so incredible as a mother was the fact that she steadfastly resisted the urge to hover over them. She wasn’t one of those insufferable helicopter moms who think it their job to insure that junior never skins a knee. Pam made sure our kids were prepared for everything, but success or failure was their job. Pam was willing to allow them to fail. 

I had my moments as a dad. Even though I was responsible for financing my family’s adventures, I never became one of those guys who was always too busy making money to show up at the game or the concert. My kids always knew that Dad would be there..at everything. But it is not a case of false modesty to say that in our house there was always only one indispensable person...Mom. The kids knew it. I knew it. Even Mom knew it, and she never buckled under the weight of the job.

What a woman...

                              

31 Years of Parenthood

Thirty-one years ago today, I became a parent for the first time when my daughter, Kaitlin Elizabeth Dunnevant was born. Like all first time parents, I was woefully unprepared for the job, having not been endowed by nature with any of the requisite skills required for successful parenting. I was neither patient, long suffering, or particularly handy with diapers, having changed exactly zero of them ever in my life. I brought no remarkable wisdom to the parenting table, no natural inborn love of children. In fact, it would have been more accurate to say that I didn’t much care for other people’s babies. They were smelly, demanding, and the interminable crying drove me nuts. But, despite being as ill-equipped as humanly possible for such a responsibility...there she was.

Fortunately for us, she was a dream baby. She hardly ever cried, and never for no good reason. Within a couple of weeks she was sleeping five or six hours straight...at night, like human beings are supposed to. Pam and I couldn’t help stumbling onto the vain idea that we were, in fact, great parents, a conceit that would crash to the ground in tatters when our son was born two years later, introducing us to that most crucial virtue...humility. It turned out that it wasn’t so much that we had been great parents with Kaitlin, but rather, that she was a great baby. And so, the pattern of her life was laid out early...my daughter is simply...a great person.

This morning, I woke up thinking about her. It’s weird how that happens sometimes...you wake up with one of your kids on your mind. So, I found myself shuffling through a thousand pictures I have of the two of us through the years. Since it’s her birthday, here are a few of my favorites...

One of her favorite traditions, the annual carving of the pumpkins. Patrick always asked for a scary face, Kaitlin always, always wanted a happy, smiling face. 

College dorm room after a day of slave labor, Kaitlin secure in the knowledge that she had me wrapped around her little finger.

Somewhere in Maine, our forever happy-place.

Michie Tavern for lunch...

Myrtle Beach, where she proved her love for me by not being ashamed to be seen in public with me wearing that shirt.

So, as my little girl celebrates her birthday today, I celebrate her, and thank God for bringing her into my life.

Fashion and Faith...sigh

So, apparently there was a Met Gala last night in New York City which featured a Christian/Catholic theme. All of the beautiful people were there trying to out-do each other on the weirdly camouflage carpet. As a Christian, I am supposed to be appalled and distraught by this blasphemous display. The event has provided me with a huge opportunity to have my feelings hurt. The above photograph, I am assured was the most offensive of the lot, featuring Rihanna dressed like some sort of Pope/Prostitute. The whataboutism brigades were out in force this morning wailing about how when some teenager in Utah dares attend a prom in a traditional Chinese dress, charges of cultural appropiation fly around all over the place, but a bunch of Hollywood liberals can denigrate Christian traditions with impunity. The more sarcastic Tweets observed that they will eagerly await next year’s Islam-themed gala where the likes of Kim Khardasian and Rihanna will come dressed in provocative skin tight burkas, images of the Prophet plastered onto their ample bosoms.

What to think of all this?

Well, for starters, most of the loudest critics of this event were Catholics, and I am not a Catholic so I can’t speak for them. Maybe if I were all of this would feel more offensive. I’m told that the local Cardinal in New York actually provided Rihanna with her head gear, and that the theme of the event had something to do with a collection of Catholic art and artifacts at one of the Met’s sister museums. Be that as it may, it should come as no surprise to anyone who hasn’t been held captive in a cave for the last fifty years that given the opportunity, Hollywood celebrities will always make fools of themselves where fashion is involved. Throw religion into the mix and you’ve got a recipe for..well, for...this...

To which I say...who cares?

Here’s the thing people, I’m exhausted. Enjoy a couple of tacos anymore and you get accused of culturally appropriating Mexicans. You can’t swing a dead cat without either offending someone or being offended by something. I just can’t keep up with it all anymore. I suppose I should look at a photograph of some starlet in a low cut gown festooned with a crucifix and feel spiritually violated, but I just can’t summon up anything approaching indignation. You know why? Because I really don’t care. These people don’t offend me. Why should they? Why should I expect people outside of my faith to be sensitive to my tender feelings? How they choose to dress is their business. There are far more calamitous things going on in this world for Christians to be concerned with than some silly fashion gala in New York City. Sure, the Christian faith is a much more inviting target than Islam would be, but the reason for that is a compliment to my faith since the concepts of freedom of expression and tolerance found the tender soil required to survive and grow in the soil of the Judeo Christian ethic in the first place. So, of course Christian traditions come in for more mockery than Islamic ones in the West...people who regularly mock Muslim traditions in Muslim countries mostly wind up dead.

So, save yourselves the aggravation and stop letting everything hurt your feelings. Just smile and move on. Save your passion and energy for something that really matters. The world has enough snowflakes.

A Question For All of You...

Here’s a question to ponder. If money were no object, and you could travel anywhere in the world to celebrate, say...a 35th wedding anniversary, and you could allot two weeks for such an adventure, where would you go?

This is the question which has been bouncing around in the fever swamps of my addled brain for the past few weeks. The anniversary in question isn’t until 2019, and our plate is currently full with wedding machinations. Still, it’s never too early to begin planning such a momentous occasion, since half the fun is in the dreaming. In order to have a memorable trip, one first has to be able to imagine it.

So, if you could go anywhere for two weeks with the love of your life...where? 

First of all, it has to be a place that would be enchanting to both of us. Sure, a two week jaunt to the Baseball Hall of Fame would be amazing, especially if we could spend a couple of days touring the beef jerky outlets while we were there. But, something tells me that Pam would be underwhelmed. No, it has to be somewhere neither of us has ever been or wouldn’t ordinarily go. That eliminates the following otherwise excellent choices:

The Cayman Islands

Hawaii

The Virgin Islands

England

Switzerland 

Mexico

Bahamas 

Puerto Rico

Jamaica 

Maine

California 

Key West

It needs to be somewhere exotic, or full of historical significance. It also needs to have amazing food. Popular use of the English language would be nice but is not a requirement. Air conditioning is a non-negotiable if I expect my wife to agree to come along.

Ok then...the question has been put to you. Please respond with your thoughtful suggestions.