The Naming of Things

Yesterday’s blog about the name change controversy has gotten me to thinking...no small feat...about the fact that we Americans have always been fond of naming stuff after famous people. Just yesterday I took the John Rolfe parkway over to the Willey bridge on my way to John Tyler Community College. Everywhere you look in this city, there’s some school, building or street named after some dead guy. It just stands to reason that at some point, after several generations have come and gone, somebody is going to ask the question...Hey, who the heck was Ed Willey?? Then maybe some group of civic-minded people will suggest changing the name to honor a more recent hero or heroine. This, I believe, is right and proper.

As far as the naming of schools is concerned, I got curious and decided to do some research. I wondered which American President had the most schools named after him. I guessed correctly:

94 John Kennedy 

73 Thomas Jefferson

53 George Washington

52 Woodrow Wilson

45 Abraham Lincoln

24 Theodore Roosevelt

20 John Adams 

Of the more recent Presidents...

15 Ronald Reagan

10 Barack Obama

3  Bill Clinton

2 George W. Bush

1 George H.W. Bush 

Modern sensitivities are such that each one of these men carries with him politically incorrect baggage. Depending on how easily offended you are, it might scandalize you to discover that there are 52 schools in this country named after Woodrow Wilson, that well-documented and virulent racist. Thomas Jefferson and George Washington were both slave holders, Washington reluctantly so, Jefferson with great passion (figuratively and literally). Abe Lincoln is an all timer, and John Adams was one of the few Founders who never owned a slave and thought the institution a blight on the country.

But...what about John Kennedy? 

In the wake of his shocking assassination, the entire country mourned that such a young, virile man could be struck down. As a result of this grief, Americans went on a street, building and school-naming frenzy to honor the man. To this day, our 35th President remains an icon of the Democratic Party. This is a very curious and unexplainable phenomenon. In today’s Democratic Party John Kennedy would be to the right of...well, practically everyone. In fact, he might be kicked out of the party altogether. Dude was a staunch anti-communist, a tax cutter, quite reluctant on civil rights and suspicious of Martin Luther King. In the modern Democratic Party, the #MeToo crowd would crucify the guy. Still, there he sits, at or near the top of the food chain of the party’s heros. Go figure.

Anyway, my point is, with regards to the naming of things, I believe that each generation should have a say. New heros always come along, and at some point the Estes Kefauver Bridge will no longer make any sense. But, something tells me that until we can all get passed this phase of hyper-polarization in which we find ourselves, I suggest that we stick to naming things after flowers and trees, and inanimate objects.

Changing Names

What’s wrong with this picture? Where to begin?

This is the photograph which accompanied the story yesterday about the name change of this school from J.E.B. Stuart to Barack Obama Elementary school. While the comments section was blowing up with outrage about the name change, I couldn’t stop looking at the broken glass, the stuck window and the grass that hadn’t been mowed in weeks. Then I researched the school and learned about the abysmal test scores, the plague of underachievement by whatever metric you chose to measure the actual educating going on inside his building...and I thought, Changing the name of this school from J.E.B. Stuart to Barack Obama is the educational equivalent of rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic. But, by all means, let’s spend six months studying and $26,000 changing the name of this school.

Ok, I suppose I should make something clear...I don’t object to schools changing their names. I completely understand and have great sympathy for the idea that maybe a school which is 90% African-American might not want to any longer be named for a Civil War General, who although perhaps the finest cavalry officer of the entire war (despite his lapse at Gettysburg), fought for the losing side, a side which was fighting, among other things, to preserve the legality of human bondage. So, if a school in 2018 wants to fly under a new banner, one that might inspire more pride in the community they serve, I have no problem with it.

But, that picture...

Richmond City schools have a boatload of big problems. Their buildings are crumbling. Their students consistently underperform in English, science and math scores. Half the time they can’t even get the furnaces to work in the winter and the air conditioning to work in the summer. But they can commission a study on changing the name of one their schools, come up with a list of ten candidates, even let the kids and teachers vote on the thing, then pick the guy who came in tenth in the voting as the winner. What could possibly go wrong?

But, at least it’s done now. The kids no longer will have to be called Stuart’s Stars. 

That should fix everything.

Meticulous Planning

For the last six months my wife has been immersed in every imaginable detail of planning a wedding. This feverish planning has produced more spreadsheets and Google Docs than the Mueller Investigation. Meanwhile, I have largely been on the sidelines, a helpless observer, only roused to action when there’s a bill to be paid. As a result, I have felt somewhat useless, like I’m not carrying my weight. So, I have decided do a little planning myself. There won’t be any Google Docs involved, but that’s not to say that I haven’t given this a lot of thought.

In less than five weeks, our first three-week Maine vacation will begin. 24 hours after we arrive at The Chill House on Pemiquid Lake on the 21st of July, Jon, Kaitlin, Patrick and Sarah will fly into Portland, which will give Pam and me one day to buy groceries. Accordingly, I have decided to take it upon myself to plan the menu for the entire three weeks. Here’s what I have so far...

Breakfast:

- blueberry pancakes

- scrambled eggs

- bacon/sausage

- fried bread

Lunch:

- lobster rolls 

- fluffernutters

Dinner:

- steak

- chicken

- shrimp

- lobster

- ice cream

Repeat......

How’d I do??

The handy part of this menu is how easily it can be replicated on our second three-week Maine vacation coming up in September/October!!

What’s so difficult about planning? I mean, seriously??

S.C.C.S...Killer of Good Days

There’s probably nothing in this world more vital, more intrinsically satisfying and reassuring than that morning cup of coffee. For me, it comes around 6 o’clock. It brews while I absentmindedly empty the dishwasher, thinking of nothing. Then I pour it into one of my oversized mugs.  I add a tablespoon of carcinogenic powdered creamer, or Coffeemate, then an eighth of a teaspoon of Truvia, another soon to be discovered carcinogen.        

Then, I sit down on the sofa, open my iPad and take that first delicious sip. Temporarily, all is right with the world.

But every so often something bad happens. I get distracted. Maybe it’s some moronic item in the news, or maybe I get an inspiration for a blogpost. Suddenly, I am in another place, far away from my living room. By the time I snap out of it, a significant amount of time has passed. It’s then that I instinctively reach for my forgotten cup of coffee to finish off what’s left in the mug only to discover that something positively dreadful has happened. It’s ICE COLD. It’s also too late. My mouth is now full of cold coffee and I must make a lightening-quick decision...do I swallow, or expel it back into the mug? Ok, this isn’t exactly the type of lightening-quick decision on which civilization hangs, but it’s no small thing either! The worst part about the surprising cold coffee swig, (or S.C.C.S for short), is that you feel like the victim of a cruel trick, like you’ve been betrayed by your best friend or something. My coffee is cold?? What, in the name of all that is holy, is going on here??!! After this inauspicious beginning, there’s no telling what horrors await you on this day. I mean, if you can be betrayed by your own coffee, anything is possible. So, for the rest of the day, you’re giving everyone the side eye, every interaction shrouded in paranoia. Trust no one. Double check everything. Today, there is treachery in the air. Enough of this sort of thing happens and you wake up one morning to discover that Donald Trump is President!

And... it’s all because of the dreaded S.C.C.S.

The Limit

 

I love Netflix on many different levels, not the least of which being the 381% profit I have made off of it’s stock. But, what I really love about Netflix is the concept, a company which serves as a portal through which a universe of entertainment is brought into my home cheaply and efficiently. Their original programming is superb. So, yeah...I love Netflix.

But, not everything that comes streaming into my living room via Netflix belongs there. Last night provided a perfect illustration of this truth.

Recently, Pam and I were in a show hole, that miserable state of television purgatory where you finish binge watching a really great show and suddenly find yourself with nothing interesting to watch. We stumbled on a new British detective show called Marcella, the premise of which was quintessentially British...a brilliant but deeply troubled detective battles her own inner demons while tracking down a vicious killer. It’s not the best show we’ve ever seen by any stretch, but it was well written and well acted and we made it through the first season pleased enough to give season number two a shot. Last night was the first episode of season two. 

Almost from the first five minutes I felt uneasy. Something felt wrong. But if I’ve learned anything from watching British television it’s the fact that you have to be patient. Sometimes it takes a while for a show to get interesting. But, if you hang in there you’re almost always rewarded. Thirty minutes in, it became apparent that season number two of Marcella would feature our hero tracking down and catching a sadistic pedophile serial killer. Ten minutes from the end of this first episode I thought to myself...Why am I watching this? When it was over, I turned to Pam and said...No. We won’t be watching this show anymore.

Censorship is a horrible thing when it is practiced by governments, but for individual human beings it is an essential function of mental health. Years ago I heard a non-religious speaker say something that I have never forgotten about this subject...Stand guard at the door of your mind. His point was that each of us has to serve as the guardian of what we allow inside our brains. If you want to lose weight, you probably shouldn’t flip through a donut magazine. If you have a gambling addiction, you probably shouldn’t move next door to a casino. And if you want to maintain your sanity in the midst of an increasingly dysfunctional and evil world, maybe you shouldn’t invite a story about men sexually abusing young boys into your home.

Despair is an addictive drug. It’s easy to fall into and difficult to climb out of. The news that gets filtered down to us through the news media is often overwhelmingly depressing. Watch enough anguish and injustice every night and it’s easy to lose hope. The solution isn’t to retreat into a pollyannish world of Leave It To Beaver and Andy Griffith every night. Sometimes, we need to be confronted by the world as it is, in all of it’s evil glory. But, I believe there is a limit. That limit is probably different for each person. But, it is essential that each of us knows what that limit is and that we have the wisdom and courage to say...No.  Not that.  Not here.

Last night I discovered that limit. I will not organize a boycott. I will not call for Marcella to be taken off the air. I will simply exercise by rights of free agency by not watching. While standing guard at the door of my own mind, I have discovered something that I would rather not expose it to. I wasn’t placed in this world to limit what my neighbor wants to watch on television. But I better be careful what I watch. 

Dad’s Greatest Hits

This week of Father’s Day has me thinking of my own Dad. He’s been gone four years now. Life plows forward at its breakneck pace. Most of the time I’m too busy to think about him. But then an anniversary will come along...his birthday, the day he died, or Father’s Day, and it will all come roaring back. Luckily for me the majority of these memories are good ones. My Dad, unlike many, didn’t leave a legacy of bitterness and regret in his wake. None of his children turned out psychologically damaged by his indifference, or scarred by abuse. All he left us was a thousand stories to tell, stories of his peculiar habits, Herculean strengths, and impeccable character. This week, I’ve picked out a few of my favorites, a Dad’s Greatest Hits, if you will. Like this one....

My Dad has been in the hospital for five days now. He has heart palpitations that haven’t responded well to several medications. My brother, two sisters and I have taken turns sitting with him. I have been with him last each night, so I see him after a long day of hospital drudgery. Some nights have been better than others, for him and me. 

I arrive around 7:30. He never fails to smile at me as I walk in. He looks tired. I tidy up his covers, get him something to drink and ask him about his day. He tells me that he had a good day. Every day is a good day. He hesitates to provide anything that sounds like a complaint. He speaks glowingly of his nurses. He tells me that he got a visit from Chuck Ward or Mark Becton, and what a blessing they were to him. He tells me about the food and that it isn’t very good, but it’s OK because Linda brought him some homemade soup and Paula snuck in some wonderful cookies. 

When he tries to tell me a story he forgets his words, then apologizes for being so forgetful. My heart breaks a little that he feels the need to apologize. We watch Huckabee. He loves that show. Tonight Huckabee isn’t there and there is a pretty blond in his place. Dad informs me that she is Dana Perino, who used to be President George Bush’s press secretary. Dad likes her because she is very smart, and pretty too. He listens intently to a story about very bad parents. He can’t imagine how any father would provide kegs of beer for his sixteen year old son’s birthday party. “What’s this world coming too?” he asks me. 

I watch the night nurse come in to give him his medicine. She is perky and smiles a lot. She gently places each pill in his mouth and then gives him ginger ale. There are so many pills. She is very patient, and jokes that she should probably have given him the sleeping pill last since he might fall asleep before he makes it through all his pills. Dad smiles. 

After Huckabee is over Dad struggles with the remote and finally asks me just to turn the television off. We sit in silence for a few minutes. Finally he tells me what a good job his kids have done taking care of him since Mom passed away. 

We go through our nightly ritual when it’s time for him to go to sleep. I turn out the light and tell him I love him. I pull the curtain and then shut the door to his room. He’s right across from the nurses station and he tells me that they talk too loud. Sometimes he feels like yelling out to ask them to be quiet, but that would be rude. I walk down the long hallway towards the elevator past rooms with open doors. Terribly sick men and women, all of them alone. There’s a portrait of former Governor John Dalton right next to the elevator. Every time I pass it, I become irritated for some reason. Is there no place on earth where we can escape politics?

I arrive at my car in the mostly empty parking lot and sit there in silence for a few minutes. I think about my Dad and marvel at what kind of life he has lived. After losing his wife of 65 years and after five days in a hospital bed, he still finds things to laugh about and still finds people to be thankful for. 

“What kind of day did you have Dad?” I ask him. 

“A good day, I had a good day,” he answers.

Russ’ North Star

Yesterday from the pulpit I heard this statement...What we spend our money on is a reflection on what we value. The point of this was to get us to examine where are hearts are when it comes to how we spend money. For example, if you flip through your checkbook and discover that you spend a thousand dollars a month on makeup, you might value your appearance too much, etc...A quick examination of my spending habits reveals several interesting things:

- Over the past year, my largest creditor, by far, has been the Internal Revenue Service. This reveals the fact that I value my country and my freedom. It also reveals my sincere desire not to be sent to prison.

- Next comes my mortgage. I value the roof over my head. Five more years and she will be paid for!

- Then, something interesting...a category that surprises me. I spend a crazy amount of money on something that my wife refers to as things that bring our family together. I hadn’t really thought about it, but she’s right. 

All parents spend money on their kids. Even when they grow up and move away, we can’t help ourselves. I’m told that it gets even worse once grandkids arrive. Here’s the thing, when you’ve spent twenty something years raising them, then suddenly they’re grown up and independent, it’s hard to break the old habit of buying them stuff, ok? Anyway, I think it’s especially difficult when they move far away. That’s where vacation spending comes in. In my case, it’s all the fault of my father-in-law, Russ White.

Not long after I fell in love with my wife, I got invited to go along with her and her family to Maine for their yearly pilgrimage to a place called Dummer’s Beach. It was a dumpy little campground in the middle of nowhere at the edge of a magnificent mountain lake, the likes of which this Virginian had never seen. The place was magical. I soon learned that this lake had been the summer home of my wife’s family for their entire history. Each and every summer, starting in a tent, the Whites would live at the lake. Russ would make the thirty minute commute to his job during the day for three months...from a freaking tent! As the years went by, they graduated to a pop up camper, then to an RV, but the one thing that didn’t change was...the family was together at Dummer’s Beach. Russ had placed a North Star in his family’s firmament that was as dependable and reliable as the sunrise. They would be together in this place, every summer.

I had never had anything comparable when I was growing up. My family never really took vacations. There were a few here and there, but nothing like the White compound in Maine. While I managed very quickly to fall in love with Maine, what I really fell in love with was the idea of a fixed place and time that was set in stone for...the family. 

I would wind up making at least 25 Dummer’s Beach trips. Russ and Vi can’t make the long trip as often anymore. So, ten years ago, Pam and I discovered MidCoast Maine, and have started our own tradition. Now, it’s gotten almost ridiculous...this year we will spend six weeks up there. There are no tents...we rent fabulous lake houses large enough to accommodate my kids and our friends. It costs a lot of money, money that could be spent perhaps more wisely elsewhere. But, each summer, there’s a place for my family to gather. All the kids have to do is...get up there. We provide the rest. It’s something that they have always been able to count on in their lives...summers in Maine. As long as I’m alive, it will always be so. When grandkids arrive, they will be introduced to the wonders of Maine.

It’s not just me and my family. Russ’s North Star has also inspired my extended Dunnevant family to establish our own summer vacation traditions. Many years ago, inspired in part by Pam’s Maine stories, the Dunnevant’s started going to the beach for a week in the summer. The first such beach house rental was a hell hole dump in Sandbridge. Now, each house is a multi-story mansion with eight bedrooms and a swimming pool. Twenty of us descend on the place for a week every other year. It has become its own tradition and holds a special place in the family lore. It’s crazy, chaotic and cramped...and great fun!

So, when it’s time for me to write those staggering checks to the rental company in Maine, I blame Russ White. He’s the one who first set down this marker. He’s the one who demonstrated what it means to prioritize family, and create lifelong memories that revolve around not just family, but...place. I will forever be in his debt.