Score One For the Internet

Like millions of other people, I play this game. It’s essentially an on-line digital version of Scrabble. I’m decent at it, although I lose more often than some of the people I play. Nevertheless, I find it a pleasant enough diversion and a passable mental calisthenic. But, the best part of the game is the opportunity it affords to meet people from all over the world. Take Natalia, for example.

She was suggested as a suitable opponent by the slightly creepy Words With Friends algorithm several months ago. I was assured that she possessed a similar skill level as mine. So, I took them up on their recommendation , something I rarely do. I prefer playing old friends...like Pam Lawrence...who, incidentally, is a beast!

I won our first game rather handily. During our second game, I decided to strike up a conversation using the chat feature. She had a very Russian-sounding last name, so I took a chance and asked her where she was from. I discovered that she was born, raised, and still resides in Moscow. Over the time we have been friends, it has been fascinating to discover things about her life in the old Soviet Union. She has been equally curious about what it is like to live in America. We talk mostly about our dogs and the brutal Russian weather. We have now played almost 30 games. I’ve won 18...Words With Friends keeps a running tally of our competition. But, yesterday a thought occurred to me. She has gotten better and better with each game and now I struggle mightily to beat her...and English is her second language!!! Suddenly, I felt intellectually inadequate. I shared this revelation with her and her reply was classic Natalia...It’s ok, I try to improve skills by playing game!

But, here’s another thought that has occurred to me. Although it is fashionable these days to decry the societal damage being inflicted upon us by the internet, and some of the charges are no doubt true, Words With Friends is an example of something that connects people from all over the world in positive ways. Anyone can play. It doesn’t matter what your politics are or your religious beliefs. There is no violence, virtual or otherwise, no blood and gore. Just two people trying to find a way to use the letter Z on a triple word score tile. While doing so, sometimes conversations develope that bring people closer together by highlighted the many things that we all have in common, our universally held desires for good health, happy family life, a good dog, and better weather.

Score one for the internet.

My Weird Hobby

I have a strange hobby. In my spare time, I enjoy writing stories. It’s terrific fun to create a universe of characters, then propel them along a path of your own design. It’s very much like being God, if you think about it, a heady experience. Sometimes, these stories evolve into full length novels...https://doug-thetempest.blogspot.com/2015/09/momentum.html. But, that’s where it always ends. A Life of Dreams sleeps in the bottom drawer of my night stand, neatly typed, unknown and unread.

About a year ago, while sitting at the end of the dock at Loon Landing, the idea for a strange story came into my head, Maine lakes being famous breeding grounds for strange stories...see: Stephen King. I didn’t write a word down until I got back to Short Pump, but once I started, the story came pouring out of my head faster than I could write it down. In no time at all, 25,000 words had brought a dozen characters to life, complete with a gruesome murder. Then, as quickly as the story had come to me, it abruptly left. Whatever reservoir of creativity it had come from suddenly dried up. I haven’t written a word since...over six months now...nothing.

So, I took a chance and sent it to a buddy of mine who writes a little himself and who I trust would have the guts to tell me the truth, asking for his opinion. Is this even worth trying to finish? Is it nonsensical? Are there plot holes big enough to drive a truck through? I must admit that his response surprised me...he loved the thing, unequivocally loved it. Now I want to finish it. I’ve read it through a couple of times trying to get swept up in the narrative and find the loose thread of thought that I lost six months ago. Hopefully I will find it and be able to bring it back to life.

The question is...why? When and if it gets finished, it will move in next to A life of Dreams in my nightstand. I lack the connections and determination required to become anything but a self published writer. Part of the reason for this is that I’m not starving. I run a successful business. I write for fun, not because I need money. But the other part is...the only part of writing I enjoy is...the actual writing. All of the business of publishing bores me to tears. So, as soon as the writing is over, my interest level drops to zero. Maybe one day when I’m retired I’ll become interested in pursuing that part. But for now, I’ll stick to writing. Maybe I’ll publish this current project like a serial on my blog...a new chapter every Monday. That might be fun. I should probably figure out a way to charge readers like 25 cents per chapter, put a pay portal on the blog or something like that. Can that even be done? Ha!

Here’s chapter one...free of charge!!  https://doug-thetempest.blogspot.com/2018/07/chapter-one.html

My Companion

4:47 AM and my eyes spring wide open at maximum consciousness. This is seldom a good thing. Sleep is a mysterious thing. I find that when I am the busiest and most exhausted at bed time, that’s when I sleep poorly. On lazy days, I sleep like the dead. So, I  come downstairs, do my morning chores, then sit down with my mug of coffee while it’s still blackest night outside. 

Then, this knucklehead, who normally prefers to lounge at the foot of our bed all morning long until I have to virtually drag her downstairs for her morning constitutional, perambulates down the stairs, and presents herself on the sofa all bright eyed and bushy tailed as if to say...what’s up, dad? I need to pee. I oblige her dutifully. I throw on my coat, grab a poop bag and head out into the culdesac to collect her latest bowel movement. Five minutes later, we are back inside. She takes a drink of water, then plants herself next to me on the sofa...out like a light.

What a life this one has. She sleeps like it’s her job. She probably logs at least 18 hours of shuteye per day. The other 6 hours is divided between eating, sniffing, grooming herself in unseemly ways, playing with me, and being vigilant against a whole host of invisible phantoms that conspire against her sanity. Just because we cant actually see these monsters doesn’t mean they aren’t out there ready to destroy us all if it wasn’t for her diligence. Just to remind us that she is always at work, sometime she will rouse herself from a snoozle nap, lift her eyes towards the ceiling and some unseen thing and let out a soft growl and an inside bark or two. Then, her mission complete, she will settle back again into her nap. Sometimes I wonder what color the sky is in the world where Lucy lives...

Ancient and Strange Memories

A photograph was shared on my Facebook page today from the Friends of James River State Park group. This is the beautiful State park that occupies the piece of land that used to belong to my mother's family, the Dixons. The old house that my great grandfather built and where my grandparents used to live is shown in a grainy black and white photograph, taken from the cow pasture that used to run along the side of the property where the family graveyard was...and still is. Greenhill was the spooky house at the end of a long dusty dirt road.

My first memories of this place were when I was five or six. Other family members reading this might dispute what follows, but after 55 years, its the best I can do. On that little back porch there was some sort of refrigerator which contained small 8 oz. glass bottles of Dr. Pepper, my grandmother's favorite drink. Legend had it that she drank one at 10:00, 2:00 and 4:00, just like the bottle instructed. Whenever we came for a visit, she would give me one. She always wore an apron. Never saw her without one, and whenever she would wrap me in her arms for a hug, I would always breathe in the smell of the last meal she had prepared. The long picnic style table which was in the kitchen, right across from the wood stove would always be crammed with people whether it was meal time or not. Whenever I watched  my grandfather eat a meal it was the most awe inspiring thing in the world for a little boy. Here was this strong bull of a man devouring whatever was placed in front of him like his life depended on it. It was as if he was worried that someone might take it from him before he was done. Never saw any man before or since eat that quickly!! After breakfast he would take me to watch him milk the cows and throw slop into a trough for the pigs. Every once in a while he would let me sit behind the wheel of his Desoto parked in one of the barns. I remember it had a push button transmission. I thought that my grandfather was the greatest man in the world. 

For a little boy, Greenhill was a wonderland. There were animals everywhere. There was fishing to do down by the river. Every second was spent outside, partly because what five year old wouldn't want to be outside?? But part of the reason I spent all my time outside was because I was afraid of the inside of the house. The bedroom where we kids stayed whenever we visited had a single free hanging light bulb which splashed strange shadows all across the dark red walls. Was it dark red or dark green? It's a little hazy, but whichever color it was, it was dark and foreboding. Consequently, I always woke up before daybreak and escaped down the stairs where no matter the hour, I would always find my grandmother, apron in place, busy with something. She would talk to me and pat me on the head. I remember it being so comforting...

This is a picture from the river side of the house way back at the turn of the 19th into the 20th century. The man leaning back in the chair is John A. Dixon, who I believe was my great grandfather. To look at this picture is a strange experience. What would it be like to travel back in time just for one day at that very spot and have a conversation with my ancestors? How amazing would that be?

I'm confident that many of my more family-history aware relatives from the Dixon clan will correct any factual errors in my recollections. But, its been fun today to be reminded from where I came... 

The SOTU Show Has Been Cancelled

So, apparently this year’s State of the Union show is the latest casualty of the government shutdown, proving that old adage that behind every dark cloud there’s a silver lining. Don’t get me wrong, the fact that our government has been partially shutdown now for over three weeks remains a colossal failure of our democracy, and an embarrassment to anyone who claims devotion to self-government. Nevertheless, the cancellation of this year’s SOTU is a giant step forward for the country. Let me count the ways...

When this nation broke free from the British monarchy, it threw off the presumptions of authoritarianism along with it. The Founding Fathers, with the exception of John Adams and the now universally lionized Alexander Hamilton, constructed a form of government that divided power three ways with the intention that anyone’s attempt to seize and concentrate power would be met with institutional and constitutional opposition. Stalwarts of liberty like Thomas Jefferson and James Madison--Virginians-- were contemptuous of anything that smacked of monarchy and resisted mightily the concept of titles and both would have been appalled at what the modern imperial presidency has become. When George Washington chose retirement over the continuance of his power, he set the gold standard of presidential leadership consistent with liberty.

Ever since FDR chose his continued power over retirement, the Presidency has been exalted over the other branches of government. Calvin Coolidge wouldn’t recognize the office were he alive to witness the ridiculous pomp and partisan caterwauling that define the modern SOTU spectacle. 

For the first 137 years of this Republic, the speech was written by the President and sent to Congress to be read aloud. Leave it to this nation’s first truly progressive and authoritarian president...Woodrow Wilson--alas, also a Virginian-- to muck it all up. Wilson was of the belief that he knew best what the country needed and felt unduly constrained in his intention to transform it in his progressive vision by the notorious straight jacket known as our pesky constitution. Endowed with an exalted view of his powers of persuasion, Wilson thought it would be a grand idea to give the speech himself, thinking that the power of his presence might be enough to sway opinion. Thus was born the modern SOTU speech, which has devolved into an embarrassing partisan pep rally. Democrats sit on one side, Republicans on the other. The Vice President and the Speaker of the House sit behind the podium looking like two dour bookends, framing the President as he gives his platitudinous address, roused from their stupor every two minutes by undeserved standing ovations. Tight shots of congressional leaders looking grave and concerned fill our television screens making all of us wonder how any of these lightweights ever were elevated to such lofty heights. Ordinary citizens sit next to the First Lady up in the gallery, serving as props for some point the President wishes to make. Each bland resuscitation of political talking points is met with thunderous applause by the President’s party as if he had just revealed the secret to immortality. 

So, Nancy Pelosi’s decision to cancel the 2019 edition of this debacle will go down as her second greatest contribution to American Democracy, just below her eventual decision, at age 100, to finally retire. Let Mr. Trump write his speech, hire James Earl Jones to read it, and broadcast it over the radio. Not having to watch 535 preening politicians jockeying for face time will probably add a half a point to the country’s GDP!

Beach Week 2019

2019 is the year of the Dunnevant family Beach Week vacation. It’s a biennial event. Nineteen people, renting an 8 bedroom, 8 full bath house somewhere on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, is not for sissies. Finding a house which is large enough, close enough to the beach, suitably endowed with a proper kitchen, a pool and hot tub, a massive enough living area to accommodate 19 people for a sit down dinner, one that doesn’t cost a small fortune, and one which is available during the one week that 19 people can all agree on is no small task. So, to that end, the search begins the first week of January and is greatly assisted by my wife and her dazzling array of Google docs, spreadsheets and organizational life hacks.

The first family email went out a few days ago with the aforementioned Google doc attached. It has prompted a flurry of responses. Already, huge obstacles have appeared, not the least of which is something called the...Great Beach Refurbishing Project of ‘19...whereby, the storm ravaged beach between milepost 11 and 21 will endure a re-sanding project over a 5 month period which happens to include the entire summer. The department, bureau, or agency in charge of this project has declined to provide any information on when exactly it will begin or specifically where it will begin. So, if you rent a house anywhere between milepost 11 and 21, you run an incalculable risk that during your chosen week the beach in front of your house might be closed, or worse...inhabited by scores of illegal immigrants doing the dirty, hard jobs that Americans just won’t do, right at your doorstep! The burning question now is...do we roll the dice and take a chance on renting a house in this trouble zone?? What are the odds that our vacation will be ruined? 

To establish those odds...if I understand how Vegas works...you first have to calculate the amount of beach mileage affected, and then divide that by the number of days in the five month window. Then, since the work is being done by an agency of government, you have to factor in delays, impact studies, public hearings, work stoppages because somebody saw an endangered species crawl into the dunes somewhere, grandstanding press conferences by local politicians trying to either claim credit for the work or blame somebody else for the debacle that it has become, and finally... the potential of a government shutdown. What is a vacation planning family of 19 to do?

Despite all of these obstacles...we will figure it out. That’s just what we do. We air all of our concerns, we balance competing preferences, we all make the required concessions and compromises necessary to accommodate what is best for the majority of us, consistent with our objective of a happy and fun family vacation.

If the Dunnevant family, a tribe known far and wide for our raging opinions and contentiousness, can figure this out...how come the people in Washington DC cant?

Winter in RVA

This is essentially every snowstorm forecast for the City of Richmond over the last 2000 years. There’s this thing called the rain/snow line and it lives here in the winter. Therefore, depending on where it decides to sit can be the difference between making our local weather folks look like geniuses or making them look like clueless buffoons. It’s also why the best weather people in RVA are the ones with the most humility and good humor...in other words, Andrew Freiden...in a rout.

I live where the little white dot is on the map. Which means, while I might only have 2 inches of slush on my deck at the moment with sleet and rain falling, I can get in my car and drive 4 miles up to the Rockville exit on 64 and watch 6-10 inches of snow falling. Or maybe, by 4 o’clock this afternoon this fickle R/S line will have changed its mind and drifted south. 

Godspeed, Andrew. You have the toughest meteorologist gig in the country.