My Mom With a Stun Gun?

A couple of months ago, my sister sent me a text containing the following story. At the time, I was swamped in wedding prep work and didn’t have time to respond. But, some stories are just too good to ignore...

For all of you parents out there...who of us has not wished we owned a stun gun at times? Getting teenagers to wake the heck up can be like raising the dead sometimes, am I right? Here’s this poor woman, scrambling around trying to get ready for church...on Easter Sunday no less, and junior won’t budge. What’s a frantic mother to do?

Well, Sharron Dobbins of Phoenix, Arizona made a command decision...You talk about Jesus rising from the dead? I’ll raise your lazy a** from the dead right now! Zzzaappppp!!! After witnessing the incident, it took all of four minutes for Mrs. Dobbins’ other son and nephew to throw their suits on and report for duty, bibles in hand.

Unfortunately for Mrs. Dobbins, this sort of thing is frowned upon by local law enforcement who charged her with felony child abuse. In court, Dobbins explained...I only sparked that taser to get the kids up for church on Easter Sunday. I aimed it at his left leg. 

Hmmm...

My mother never owned a taser. Thank God in Heaven. 

Her technique for waking up her lazy children was to stand at the foot of the stairs at 7 AM on Saturday mornings clanging two large metal pans together and shouting...It’s 7 o’clock in the morning...half the day is gone!!

Aside from the sketchy math of this formulation, the ear-splitting racket caused by this ridiculous stunt was every bit as invasive and disturbing as a taser. It also served to remind us kids that our mother was borderline crazy and consequently not to be trifled with. The prospect of Mom owning a taser sends shivers down my spine even now, and she’s been with Jesus for four years!!

So, I read about Mrs. Sharron Dobbins of Phoenix, Arizona and I thank God that my Mother died before the mass proliferation of stun gun technology.

Trump and Putin

I don’t really want to write this blog. The subject matter gives me indigestion. I’m not an expert on the subject, just a guy with an opinion. But, that Trump/Putin news conference yesterday in Helsinki was one for the ages and to not even mention it seems like some sort of blogging malpractice. So, here goes.

When I was growing up, it was always the Progressive Left who couldn’t bring themselves to say a discouraging word about the Russians. Back in the late 60’s and all through the 70’s, the Left tied themselves in rhetorical knots making excuses for Russian behavior. The air was thick with moral equivalence arguments. In a way, this was predictable. In those days, the American Left was still enamored with communism and the great hope of Marxist ideology. The Berlin Wall was still standing. Whatever sins and human rights abuses the communist dictatorship in Moscow were guilty of were excused or ignored, because in the minds of many on the Left, it was preferable to the evils of capitalism. It was this instinctive hostility to America and our interest in favor of the Soviets that drove me away from the Democratic Party in the first place.

Oh, how the worm has turned.

Yesterday, I watched an American President with an R next to his name make excuses for a former KGB officer. I watched an American President with an R next to his name say that he preferred to believe a former KGB officer rather than the unanimous conclusions of his own national security officials. Then, this American President with an R next to his name trotted out his own moral equivalence arguments, placing his country on an even moral plane with Russia. It was an astonishing performance. If I were the head of the CIA, FBI, or any other National Security Post in his administration, I would have already submitted my resignation...because this President just threw me and my department under the bus.

To be fair, several high ranking Republicans have registered publically their disapproval, closing ranks behind the American Intelligence community. Democrats, on the other hand, have finally found a Russian leader they despise. Better late than never, I suppose.

This is just so freakin weird. The self proclaimed great deal maker, got played like a Stradivarius by a two bit thug, a man who has spent his entire life nurturing contempt for the United States of America, and working for its defeat and humiliation. But, there they were, on a stage in Helsinki, short dumpy Putin in his cheap suit and heavy jowls looking like he had just eaten a dissident, standing next to the tall, hulking, red-tied manchild, who looked exactly like a casino building developer who was double parked, wishing and hoping that one day he could be like the short dumpy man in the cheap suit.

I have officially now seen everything.

Getaway Week

Today marks the beginning of getaway week, a week spent preparing for Maine by disentangling yourself from the thickets of your life. Leaving that life for three weeks is no small feat, as it involves a clipboard full of check list items that run the gamut from lawn care to a compliance-approved away message on your business phone. Here’s just a few of the items I have so far...

-get prescriptions filled

Ok, this one irritates me since it used to not be a thing. Now that I’m 60 and in a more advanced state of physical decrepitude, making sure you don’t run out of cholesterol medicine while you’re gone is of crucial importance. One more example of the ignominy of ageing.

-meet with dog sitter

This trip to Maine is to a house that is not dog friendly, which means that Becca, the dog whisperer, must be dealt with. She recently stayed with Lucy while we were in Nashville and did a great job, so we were lucky enough to get her to do the job for this trip. She already knows Lucy, understands her idiosyncrasies and seems charmed by them. But since this is a three week gig, she will have more stuff to do...like water the grass, protecting my tomato plants from critters, etc... 

-inspect and inventory floats

Without question, this is my most crucial assignment of the week. Making sure that we have six fully operational floats is essential for a successful Maine vacation. I will need to get them out of storage, make sure they are cleaned, identitify any leaks or potential leaks, and above all else, make absolutely certain that we have an ample supply of D batteries for the inflation machine. Any failure in this protocol will result in great tumult and lamentation by the women in my family. A defective float is an unthinkable contingency too horrible to even imagine. Why, the mere possibility of a float failure is one of the things that haunts me during getaway week. When four o’clock in the afternoon arrives and it’s time for the group cocktail float, the last thing you want is to be the man responsible for a float failure. That’s why this particular list item is written in ALL CAPS and red ink.

-study route

This may seem like a strange item since this will be at least the thirtieth time I have made this drive. One would think that I would have the route memorized by now. No..no, this drive is a two day, white knuckled, bowel churning, spittle-flying nightmare where you make one mistake and you’ll find yourself in the middle of Brooklyn in a driving rainstorm during rush hour. In addition, in recent years we have gone to great lengths to avoid I-95, crafting an entirely new western route which takes us through western Pennsylvania. Miss your exit out there and the worst thing that can happen might be getting caught behind an Amish couple out for a joyride. So, yes...I will be poring over the Apple Map directions with excruciating care.

-wrap up loose ends at work

By “loose ends” I mean get everything I’m working on to a point where I can leave for three weeks without returning to a hot mess. This isn’t easy, but it’s made infinitely easier by my intrepid assistant who communicates with me via email and the occasionally snarky text, to keep me up to speed on developments while I am away. So far, no catastrophic geopolitical event has taken place while I’ve been in Maine, no freakish stock market free fall, or client death. (RAP,RAP, RAP,TAP,TAP,TAP...)- that’s me knocking on wood!!

Ok...let getaway week activities commence!

A Parenting Win?

I just saw a post from a friend of mine who is in the midst of a three week adventure with his wife and two kids, touring a half dozen of our National Parks out west. He made the observation that it felt like a parenting win.

He doesn’t know the half of it.

Choosing to spend your money on introducing your kids to the beauty of creation is world class parenting.

Spending three weeks of your summer with them, being present with them is the very definition of parenting. It communicates to them their value....Mom and Dad must love us, if they want to be with us for three weeks!!

The experiences they will have on a trip like this are worth more than a hundred creature comforts. When those girls are grown, they will both talk about that time Mom and Dad took them out west long after Mom and Dad are gone. 

Our National Parks are a treasure. They contain some of the most stunning real estate in the entire world. When we visit, we are reminded of the vastness and wonder of creation. We discover something much bigger and deeper than our day to day problems. It invites big thoughts, and stirs the imagination. Hopefully, it also instills a reverence for the natural world and a desire to protect it.

A three week camping trip with kids is no picnic. I’m sure they will get on each other’s last nerve several times along the way. But, here’s what I know. Material possessions are great. I have nothing against having nice things. I would rather drive a nice car than beat up rusted hulk. I would rather live in a nice house than a shack in the woods. I would rather have nice clothes than walk around in rags. But, there is so much more to life than...stuff. Prosperity is great but if it only results in shinier stuff, it’s wasted. If the power of prosperity is turned to providing life long experiences with the ones you love, something magical happens. Something like conversations around a campfire late into the night. Something like laughing together all afternoon in floats on the lake. Something like watching the sunset to the sound of burgers sizzling on the grill. Something like the thought that comes over you that no matter what life might have in store, there will always be these people, this family, who love you.

A parenting win?

 More like a triumph.

Thanks, golf.

Couple of days ago, a friend of mine says, Why don’t we break away Thursday morning to play golf? I was reluctant since this week has been full, the kind of schedule one has when preparing to go on vacation for three weeks. But, my appointments on Thursday were in the late afternoon so I said yes. Our tee time was at 9:30. He calls me at 8:50...How far away are you? I worked it out so we can go off of 10 if you get here early. That way we’ll have the course to ourselves. I was just leaving the house when he called, so I raced over, walked straight from the parking lot onto the 10th teebox and we were off! Three hours and fifteen minutes later, we were having lunch on the patio, smoking cigars. This, ladies and gentlemen, is how golf was meant to be played.

The fact that we never encountered another living soul on the golf course was not the only reason we finished so quickly. My friend and I have one thing in common when it comes to golf. We both play fast. We are see ball, hit ball players. Our “pre-shot routine” takes all of ten seconds. There are no ponderous debates about club selection, the vagaries of wind and yardage. You will never catch one of us tossing blades of grass in the air or gazing at the top of trees as if a better understanding of wind direction could possibly make a discernible difference in the result. That stuff is reserved for guys who play golf for a living. My friend and I would much rather spend our time talking trash, questioning each other’s manhood, planting seeds of doubt by reminding each other of the hazards of each shot...Alright Dougie, don’t worry about that lake. You hardly ever slice and besides, you’re too weak. You probably don’t have enough length to even reach the water! Or even better, our pre-putt advice...Hey, don’t hit this one too hard. If it rolls past the hole it might go all the way off the green. On the other hand, if you don’t hit it hard enough it it might roll back to your feet! 

I hate everything about golf except actually playing the game. I never practice, never “work on my game.” I don’t warm up before a round. All of that bores me to tears. What I love about golf is the fact that I’m outside for four hours in a beautiful setting with good friends. My cell phone is turned off. Sometimes there’s a friendly wager on the table. I get to smoke a cigar. You get to disengage from the real world for a while, escape fluorescent lighting, and return to a more natural setting. It frees you up. You find yourself having real conversations. 

I shot an 86. Played pretty well. My friend played out of his mind and shot 82. He still has manhood issues.

The real world was waiting for me back at the office. It never goes away. But yesterday, I escaped it for a few glorious hours.

Thanks, golf.

Why Maine?

My first Maine vacation of 2018 commences in 10 Days. Pam and I will drive up over two days, have one day to buy groceries and set up, then both sets of kids will fly in to Portland. All of us will be together for the first week, then Kaitlin and Jon will stay for a second week, then Pam and I will have the place to ourselves the last week.

I’ve spent lots of time in this space extolling the virtues of Maine, although all the words in the world can’t properly communicate it’s charms. Maine has to be experienced. To that end, I have selected some of my favorite photographs from my years of vacations there. My hope is that they will communicate in ways that words cannot, the delights of the place. So, why Maine?

The beauty. The serenity. The food. The weather. The wonder. 

That’s why.

The Letter

I received a letter in the mail about a week or so ago. A real, old fashioned letter, hand addressed in cursive, with a stamp in the top right hand corner instead of the metered postage stripe common to mass mail. The trip to the mail box has lost all of the romance it had when I was a kid. I would send away for stuff all the time, from cereal box offers of spy decoder rings to requests for autographed pictures of my favorite athletes. You never knew if this would be the day when that 8x10 of Joe Namath would come! Now, everyday it’s the same...random bills, coupons for discount pizza, slick little catalogues from bizarre stores I’ve never heard of like JJill, along with the ubiquitous Kohl’s circular and a ton of Bed, Bath and Beyond 25% off coupons. During an election cycle, my mail becomes a month long primal scream of propagandized bulls**t. Getting the mail has become a depressing exercise, a symbol of yet another charming grace that has been taken from us by technology. So, this letter, this hand written address, this plain white envelope got my attention.

I opened it and found two single spaced typed pages...a serious letter. I had received it the very day that Pam and I had gotten home from Nashville and the wedding. It was in the stack of mail that had come while we were away. I had slumped down in my recliner, completely exhausted. After the first paragraph, I hastily glanced at the second page to see who it was from. Instantly, a knot arrived in my throat.

It’s going to be difficult to describe the contents of this letter without it sounding like self promotion. But, I will give it a try.

It was written by a young woman who was in the large youth group that I served over a decade ago as a teacher and adult leader. I have largely lost track of her, since she and her husband and child have moved to another city. She was writing to thank me for what she described as the pivotal roll I had played in her development, and to list for me the many lessons I had taught her in those days. She spoke of conversations we had had which shaped her and still today are with her as she leads a department of 100 employees in her job. I was overwhelmed by her words, astounded that she would, after all these years, take the time to write such a thing. I sat in my chair, trying to recall the specific details. Some of them came easily, others, not so much. But, I remember this girl. She was the one everyone loved, but who had a hard time loving herself.

To hear her tell it, I was this towering pillar of wisdom and righteousness. Nothing could have been further from the truth. I was an uneven leader at best. I was often rough on the kids, short tempered, and improperly blunt. Half the time I was the ring leader of ill-considered pranks that wound up getting kids in trouble. I could be dismissive and insensitive at times. In other words, I was the ultimate imperfect vessel. The fact that I was able to be used by God to have an impact on a group of kids despite those shortcomings remains in my mind, a miracle. My Dad always used to tell me that people who say they can’t become active in ministry because they aren’t spiritual enough, don’t understand ministry or spirituality. I believe his exact words were...God can hit a straight lick with a crooked stick.

I was the mother of all crooked sticks.

But, apparently, along the way some straight licks were hit. That this beautiful, accomplished professional woman, mother and wife would take the time to write me a letter of thanks all these years later is something I will never forget.