How Would You Like to be Remembered?

Thirty six years ago I entered the workforce as an agent for a company which no longer exists called, Life of Virginia. My first day on the job I was introduced to the guy who I would share a tiny 10x10 office with for the next six months. I quickly gave him the nickname...Hexhead...and we got along great. A mutual friend from those old days sent me a note this morning informing me of his passing. Hexhead is dead. This news has transported me back in time to what life was like thirty six years ago. Its been part fond nostalgia and part nightmare.

Some things from those days are nearly impossible to believe. In 1983, I shared that tiny, cramped office with a guy who chain-smoked Marlboros. Hexhead made no apologies, never asked if I minded if he smoked, nor would I ever have expected him to. If I walked down the hall, about every other office had at least one smoker. Every single day, I went home smelling like cigarette smoke. But of all of my worries and concerns back then, the fact that my office-mate smoked was 36th on the list. I try to imagine what I would do today if someone came in my office and lit up a Marlboro!! In one generation smoking inside public buildings has gone from being ubiquitous to unimaginable. Amazing.

Hexhead was a good dude, if a bit rough around the edges. He had a loud, infectious laugh, and a great sense of humor. There was also no chance in a thousand hells that he would make it in the insurance business. He marched to the beat of a very different drummer, one who had only a passing knowledge of the beat. There is one clear memory I have of the man and it’s a doozy...

One Friday, our sales manager invited several of us for a day on the Chesapeake Bay on his beautiful sailboat. Girlfriends and wives were invited, so Pam...then my girlfriend...came along. It was a gorgeous day and as the boat cut it’s way briskly through the water while we sipped our adult beverages...all was well with the world. Then Hexhead got up and moved from the stern of the boat to it’s bow for a better view. Unlike the rest of us who were wearing swim suits so we could dive in if it got hot, Hexhead was sporting cutoff jeans. When he sat down in front of the rest of us at the front of the boat we all instantly realized that he was not wearing underwear.

There he was, oblivious...his full glory prominently displayed for all to see. We laughed. We cried. We had the mental image permanently burned into our brain for all of eternity...so much so that when my friend sent me the news of his passing...it was the very first memory that..er, um...reared it’s head.

I read the obituary. It was exactly the sort of obituary I would expect his family to write. He loved life, was full of fun and whimsy, loved by everyone. Yes, yes and yes. RIP, Hexhead.

Squirrels and the Existence of Evil

 There are two universal constants in my life, which at this particular moment are front and center. These two constants are completely unrelated, and writing about them both in the same blog post may seem odd to the reader, but this is my blog and therefore I owe you no explanation.

The first universal constant is the existence of evil in the world, the latest manifestation of which has been the Virginia Beach shooting and Mr. DeWayne Craddock. By all accounts, Craddock was an unremarkably normal man. He had no criminal record, was well educated, a civil engineer stable enough to hold a steady, responsible job for over 15 years, and came from a good family. But something inside him snapped and inexplicably turned him into a man capable of killing 12 of his co-workers in cold blood. It is a human trait to seek explanations, to assign blame and find a culprit. It is part of our need to discover meaning in life. We all construct belief systems that serve as a template for understanding the world around us. But...what if there is no explanation other than the existence of evil in the world? Some will dismiss the existence of evil in this case by saying that Craddock was obviously mentally ill with some undetected and untreated psychosis, which if properly diagnosed could have been treated and this violence could have been avoided. Perhaps that is true. But, mental illness or not, the act of killing 12 colleagues, in and of itself, is an unspeakable evil that cannot be explained away simply by giving it a name and classifying it as a disease. We prefer our mass murderers to look and act the part. We prefer that they are political extremists. We feel better when we discover that they came from an abusive family or were drug addicted or unrepentant racists. But when they turn out to be the DeWayne Craddocks of the world, what then? If someone like him...like us...is capable of this, what do we do then?

The second universal truth has to do with this photograph which I took this morning at 6:38 AM....

There I was, drinking my coffee and checking out last night’s boxscores, when I glanced up and saw a squirrel sitting up on his haunches, with a lovely rose blossom in his bony little mitts chowing down like a fat kid on a box of doughnuts. There was absolutely nothing I could do. If I bolted out there with my pellet gun, he would be long gone by the time I could get a shot off. If I raised a window and stealthily tried to shoot him from inside my house, his little squirrel ears would hear the slightest squeak from the window and flee. So I just sat there watching this pathetic and worthless creature laying waste to Pam’s beautiful roses. It is my sincere conviction that squirrels were placed into this world for the sole purpose of my eternal exasperation. It is clearly God’s way of introducing a daily dose of humility into my life...Yes, Doug...there are some things in this world that you cannot fix, problems which you cannot solve. Chill out.

Evil and squirrels...but I repeat myself.

Best Dog Culdesac in the Neighborhood

These past couple of days have been glorious. Yesterday when I walked out onto my deck at 6 AM I wrote that Maine had come to Short Pump. This morning it was exactly ten degrees cooler, which turned me into a liar since actually...today is much more like a July morning in Maine than yesterday was! Be that as it may, it is a wonderful thing to be visited by such perfect weather. We have taken full advantage. Last night Pam whipped up an Instant Pot meal extraordinaire called Mongolian Beef something or other. We ate it with our good friend, Al Fresca...

And yes...my wife is still wearing her apron, in my opinion, one of the sexiest garments ever fashioned by human hands.

Lucy loves it when we eat outside. She spends her time alternating between full sniffing interrogations of all quadrants of her yard to bouts of rolling around in the grass on her back, tongue flopped out of her mouth, not a care in the world. As soon as she senses that we are done eating, she brings me her frisbee and insists on a session of catch and keep-away. After three or four throws and three or four demonstrations of Lucy showing off her athletic grace, she is done and back to back scratches in the grass.

We are able to enjoy our back yard this year because we employed the services of an outfit called...The Mosquito Authority. For a tidy sum of cash, I contracted with this service which promised to rid my yard of mosquitos...guaranteed. I was skeptical, but desperate. Before these guys came along, our deck was the mosquito capital of Short Pump, a bloodsucking feeding ground. But now, after a couple of months under their protection, there hasn’t been a mosquito sighting, much less a bite. It’s like a miracle. Of course, if six months from now, one of us begins to grow a new appendage, one of us sprouts a sixth toe, or one arm suddenly gets longer than the other...we’ll know why!

The other day I was out on the deck doing my early evening squirrel reconnaissance when I happened to look over into my neighbor’s back yard and noticed their new puppy standing at their back gate, giving me the once over. This lovable beast is...Boss...their aptly named mastiff puppy who is, without putting too fine a point on it, HUGE, and getting bigger by the minute. Anyway, there he was, ginormous paws gripping the fence, ponderous head cocked to one side, beckoning me to come over for a scratch. What was I to do? Of course, I had to agree. Luckily, I have great neighbors who don’t mind me letting myself into their backyard to play with their dog (at least I HOPE not). Anyway, by the time Boss is full grown he’s going to be bigger than me, so I have a vested interest in getting on his good side. When I returned to the house, Lucy was on me like white on rice...as manic as one of those bomb-sniffing dogs from the Department of Homeland Security. She demanded to know where I had been and who I had been with. She could scarcely hide her disappointment when she discovered that I had been with...Boss. All Lucy knows about Boss is that he was this adorable new puppy next door one day, then she turned her back for a minute and the next thing she knew he was this towering beast slobbering all over her beautifully clean coat!

Our culdesac now officially has the best dog population in the entire neighborhood...

Lucy the Golden

Van the Pug

Boss the Mastiff

Pippen the Golden Doddle

Maverick the Lab

Kane the German Shepard 

...and Buddy the whatever

Why I Hate Running

I hate running. I have always hated running. Even when I was much younger and much faster. Hated it then, hate it now. Nevertheless, there I was this morning out on the sidewalks of Short Pump around 8 am, doing the very thing that I hate. Why?

There are many reasons. First of all, in life there are many things we do which we hate doing. I hate shaving every morning...but I kinda have to. I am in a profession which frowns upon waltzing into an appointment with a client in a t-shirt, sporting a three day growth. So, despite the great annoyance, I shave. I don’t particularly enjoy going in for a colonoscopy every five years, but I do it because...well, cancer. Running is part of my exercise routine. You can spend but so much time on an elliptical, or a stairclimber. At some point you have to mix running into the mix for cardio if for no other reason than to break up the monotony. But, after doing this off and on for the past twenty years, you would think that at some point you would come to some sort of accommodation with running. At some point maybe you would warm up to it, grudgingly admire its benefits. Nope. Still hate it.

But, I am nothing if not stubborn and disciplined, so I trudge on. I even set little goals for myself...try to beat previous times and previous distance limits...that sort of thing.

So, this morning, I sat out to try and run the 5K distance...3.1 miles in under 26 minutes. Why? I have no idea...other than stubbornness. I haven’t been able to in quite a while, for another thing, and its been ticking me off. So, off I went...

I always hate the first mile. That’s when I start arguing with myself...What are you doing, Dunnevant? You hate running. Why are you out here? You’re getting older and slower by the minute. Keep this up and before long, kids on tricycles are gonna start passing you! Somewhere on Broad Street, my MapMyFitness app shared the embarrassing news that I had completed one mile in 8 minutes and 59 seconds. Pathetic. At the time I was approaching the Chuy’s in West Broad Village. I wondered if they were open at this hour. Maybe I could stop in for a Dos Equis!!

The only thing worse than the first mile of a 5K run is the second. By this time, I’m on the back side of the lake in the Village and starting to sweat profusely because for some stupid reason I have picked up the pace. There’s that stubbornness thing again. It’s during the second mile when your hips start feeling unpleasant. Adding insult to injury is the fact that you are not even halfway done. Part of you wants to bag it, slow down and walk back to the house. But another part...the vain and stubborn part won’t allow this perfectly reasonable decision. You plow on, faster and faster.

The third mile completely blows, even worse than the first two miles put together. At the 2.5 mile post you glance at your app and see that you’ve got a shot at breaking 26 minutes. The only problem is that your hips, hamstrings and knees seem to have gotten together and plotted a coup. At the corner of Three Chopt and the John Rolfe Parkway, there’s only .18 miles to go and you find yourself in an all-out sprint up the slight incline, legs burning like five alarm chili, heart pounding in the chest, and sweating like a the barnyard turkey on Thanksgiving. As you reach the finish line you glance at the timer.....26:00. For the love of all that is Holy...are you freaking kidding me?? After all of that, I’m ONE SECOND SHORT.

This is how running works. Despite your very best efforts, despite all the discipline and stubbornness in the world, not to mention the anger one has to generate to get faster each mile...I still fall short.

On the positive side, those 673 calories I burned means I can have a cookie or two at church this morning.

Perceptive readers will have noticed that my times went way up for the remainder of my run. That’s because I stopped running...the only wise decision I made all morning. I simply walked back to the house, tired and frustrated at being so close and yet so far. But, the thing is...I’ll do it again. I’ll be out there somewhere in Short Pump arguing with myself for the first mile, bargaining with myself the second, and flailing around like a maniac down the homestretch. I’m just glad Pam doesn’t run with me. She would be mortified at my behavior. Why do you have to do everything so, so...hard??!! She has asked me this question at least a thousand times in our 35 years of marriage. 

I have no satisfactory answer.

Virginia Beach

My beloved Commonwealth of Virginia is once again in the news. And once again, it’s not because we are for lovers.

At this hour, 13 souls have perished in Virginia Beach, victims of a disgruntled long time city-government employee of the Public Utilities department. He had been fired the day before and apparently came back on Friday to exact his revenge. While at this point we don’t even know the shooter’s name or background, it boggles the mind to imagine what on earth he possibly could have done to get fired from a government job. He must be a piece of work.

No doubt most of the conversation in the days to follow this horrific event will center around gun-control or the lack of it. What always comes to my mind when something like this happens is...What ever happened to conflict resolution skills? Sure, losing a job you’ve had for twenty plus years is no day at the beach, but who decides that the proper response is to march down to the office the next day and start slaughtering everyone in the building? What mind set is at play here, and why do so many Americans chose it?

Some will say it’s all the fault of guns...if they weren’t so easy to obtain, these kinds of crimes wouldn’t happen nearly as frequently. I can agree with this position only up to a point. Before the gun comes into the picture, the decision to commit mass murder comes first. Why? By what reasoning does someone conclude that killing 13 people is even a possibility? 

Some will suggest that pervasive violence on television is to blame. Others will claim that violent shoot-em-up video games have brought us to this place. Still others will shoe-horn their pet philosophy into the debate...It’s Capitalism, man! No, it’s racism and misogyny!!

All I know is, something has gone off the rails when human beings normal enough to hold a job for twenty years start mowing their former co-workers down in cold blood. For me, the shooter’s race, sexual orientation, or political views...or the race, sexual orientation or political views of his victims is irrelevant. What I care about is...what combination of factors is leading more and more people to come to this sort of unspeakable end? We better devote ourselves to finding out...and soon.

Of Course You Know...This Means War

If you look carefully at this bird feeder you will notice a series of scratches on either side of the feeding hole. They were put there by a tribe of squirrels which have descended upon it of late. Since the despicable tree rats are too heavy for the spring loaded rest which is designed to prevent such theft, whenever a squirrel latches on, the holes shut tightly in their rat-like faces. At which point, the fuzzy-tailed rodents are left with gnawing on the housing of the feeder, hoping to create a new hole. Thus has the gauntlet been thrown down. This intrusion cannot stand. 

Unfortunately, my trusted Daisy 35 finally gave up the ghost last winter, but before I had a chance to replace it, my friend, Chip Hewette, came to my rescue by loaning me a far superior weapon...this much heavier and manlier death machine...

Each morning, every lunch hour that I am available, and every evening, I can be found cutting a wide path of death and destruction through the squirrel community. For the most part, my aim has been true and the resulting slaughter has been highly effective in reducing the annoyance of their relentless thievery. But, tonight as I was waiting for dinner I happened to glance out onto the deck and noticed a disturbing sight. There, splayed out spreadeagle, like a sunbather at a nudist colony was a large and grizzled veteran squirrel. All four paws stretched to their full length, tail drooped lazily across the railing of the deck, his beedy little eyes half closed as if he were about to doze off for a nap. Talk about humiliation? What have I been fighting all these weeks for if not to create a climate of fear and trembling in their midst? How, after all the hellfire that Chip’s pellet gun has belched forth, could such an elderly squirrel make such a mockery of my efforts? It was as if this arrogant punk was making a statement...You think we’re afraid of you, gun man? We laugh at your air gun!!

Of course, by the time I grabbed the gun and opened the door to the deck, old gramps had hightailed it into one of the thick oak trees and was protected from my wrath. I could practically hear the lot of them giggling with their high-pitched squirrel voices. I retreated back inside to hatch a new strategy. But, despite this little display of defiance, I will not be deterred from my mission to rid my back yard of these flea-bitten rats. I will redouble my 
efforts to protect our birds, I will steel myself for whatever it takes to protect My tomatoes and Pam’s herbs from the sniveling gray menace.

To quote one of America’s greatest revenge tacticians...Bugs Bunny...Of course you know...this means war!!

Nothing New Under The Sun

Question of the day: What was your first significant memory as a child?

Early memories are difficult for me. It’s as if I made it through the first six or seven years of my life with none of them. For someone who has the ability to remember encyclopedias full of meaningless minutiae, this has always been a frustration. Why were my formative years so uneventful? At least there weren’t bad memories, right? There’s always something  to be thankful for.

But, everyone has a first memory, and I am no exception. I was five years old. I was playing outside in the middle of the day when I was surprised to see Linda and Donnie walking up the driveway, oddly home from school early. It was November 22, 1963. President John F. Kennedy had been shot and killed in Dallas, Texas. Chesterfield County schools had decided to send everyone home for the day.

Of course, as a five year old, I didn’t comprehend much, but I did sense that whatever it was, it was important. I remember my mother running out of the house to hug them tight. I remember going inside and Mom making sandwiches for us...everyone talking in hushed tones. We had no TV, but the radio was on WRVA and even their voices sounded strange, clipped and shaky. Thats about all I can recall from that day. Something big had happened and I could feel it.

Five years later, brother Bobby would be killed in a hotel in Los Angeles. I watched it live as a ten year old, seated on the floor of my grandmother’s trailer, on a black and white television with rabbit ear antennas sprouting upwards forming a V...for violence. Earlier that same summer, Martin Luther King had been shot. I didn’t see it on television but I remember everyone talking about it. The grownups seemed worried, distraught at the direction the country was headed. There were riots, black kids throwing rocks, white kids carrying signs, angry about one thing or another. I had no profound insights about it all as a ten year old kid who’s primary passion, despite social upheaval, remained...baseball. But, I do remember feeling unsettled. The world was suddenly a strangely unpredictable place. Everyone seemed furious and fever-pitched.

Which goes to show you just how wise King Solomon actually was when he said, There is nothing new under the sun.