Old vs. New

My wife often accuses me of being an old fuddy-duddy, in that I never like anything new, always preferring the versions from my younger days. I must admit that the accusation is mostly true, but not universal. For example, it is my firm conviction that modern country music isn’t country music at all, but rather synthesized pop songs written about nothing, sung by mostly men with southern accents. But...Brad Paisley is still great. There are always exceptions to the rules. I might generally disapprove of modern television programming, but when something like Breaking Bad comes along, I have to admit that it’s as good a drama as has ever been on television. 

However, my attachment to things from my younger days is not absolute.  Craft beer is ten times better than a single can ever brewed by Miller, Coors and Anheuser-Busch combined!  Every single time I turn on the heated seats in my car, I say a prayer of thanks for modern innovation! In fact, from a technological standpoint, I am quite thankful to be alive in 2019. My life has been made infinitely more convenient than it would have been if I were 61 in 1958. My cell phone alone is a life changing marvel. You couldn’t pay me enough money to go back to the rotary phone days. Advancements in medicine make this the greatest time in history to get sick. Ailments which used to carry life sentences can now be cured with over the counter remedies. You want to book a vacation? Try doing that in 1965. Good luck getting that road atlas folded back up.

It’s true...I still prefer 1970’s baseball to the modern game. Games were shorter, players tougher. That doesn’t mean that I can’t realize and appreciate the fact that Mike Trout is an all-time talent. I liked the NBA much more when it featured Michael Jordan, Larry Bird and Magic Johnson...but that doesn’t mean that I can’t see and appreciate the greatness of Lebron James. 

Then there’s social media. Contrary to my wife’s putdowns, I have always been a big fan of that most modern innovation. Facebook has a thousand flaws, but it’s ability to bring us together has made keeping up with old friends immeasurably easier. Almost all forms of social media have tremendous potential for good, along with extraordinary capabilities for mischief. Whichever outcome you enjoy depends almost entirely on your behavior as the user. I have been on Facebook for over a decade, Instagram for just a couple of months, and Twitter for almost seven years. 90% of the time I enjoy Facebook. I don’t entirely understand this Instagram business, can’t figure out the purpose of the thing. Maybe I’ll figure it out over time. With Twitter, it’s a different story...

I’m thinking seriously about deleting my account. Why? Mostly because I think it’s making me dumber. I am told that the average user of Twitter is much wealthier, younger, and liberal than I am, although I have heard from plenty of older conservatives. Its just the medium itself that doesn’t lend itself well to reasoned debate...and that’s exactly what Twitter is...a debating platform. A more accurate description of Twitter would be to say it’s a place people come to make misrepresentations of their enemies positions on every issue imaginable. The goal is to come up with the best meme, to own, to troll, to say things that you would never say to another person face to face. At first it was entertaining as hell. I would gawk at the proceedings, mouth agape, for hours. But soon it became like rubbernecking a horrible accident on the freeway, searching for a severed head. It’s started to make me feel guilty for exposing myself to so much cheap hatred. I always come away feeling...dumber, far less enlightened, and generally in an ill-temper. I don’t think it’s worth it. That old scripture verse comes to mind...

...I will set no vile thing before my eyes...

Psalm 101:3

Ordering My New Zealand Brochures

It is now June of 2019. In less than a fortnight the Democrats will hold their first televised Presidential debate. There will be 20 candidates on the stage, three less than the number of declared candidates. It will mark the unofficial beginning of the 2020 election season.

Saints preserve us.

It was my wife who reminded me of what the next 18 months will bring on our trip down to Isle of Palms. Out of nowhere she said, Can you imagine how horrible the next election is going to be? I can’t, actually. First of all, I still haven’t gotten over the last one...https://doug-thetempest.blogspot.com/2016/11/the-morning-after.html.

This feels like unchartered waters. There is no precedent for Donald Trump. The Democratic Party has never in my lifetime been so enamored with Socialism, or at least this willing to admit it. There is talk of wiping out student debt, making college free, Medicare for all, wealth taxes, guaranteed income for all, slavery reparations. It’s like all the dudes and dudettes wearing the Che Guevara t-shirts back in the 60’s are now running the show. Then, there’s Joe Biden. I know that all the polls say he’s the front runner, but I don’t buy it. He looks ancient to me. This doesn’t seem like the year that the Dems will nominate an old white man. The real front runner seems to be Elizabeth Warren. But, what do I know?

Pam asked me if I thought anyone in the Republican Party will challenge Trump. My answer was an emphatic...No. They have made their bed, now they have to lay in it. So, it will be Donald Trump vs. a Democratic Party candidate who will be the preferred candidate of every television network not named FOX NEWS, every newspaper not named THE WALL STREET JOURNAL, every movie star, pop singer and television actor in the country. Every poll will predict a landslide victory for the Democrat. A long list of A-list celebrities will promise to leave the country if Trump wins. Evangelical leaders will predict the unleashing of the four horses of the apocalypse if Trump is defeated. Twitter will become more dangerous to your health than a swim in the pool at the Chernobyl Hilton.

I hear New Zealand is a nice place...

A REAL Dad Tribute

Without even looking, I know that my various social media feeds will be full of Father’s Day tributes. There will be photographs of fathers and sons, and all sorts of conflicting claims as to which one is, in fact, the world’s best Dad. To quote Mister Potter from It’s a Wonderful Life...sentimental hogwash!!

What Facebook, Twitter and Instagram need today is a tribute to the real contributions that our Dad’s have made to our development. What I’m talking about isn’t some song and dance about the virtues of honesty, loyalty and hard work. No...I’m referring to the things our dad’s taught us that no one else could. Who but Dad could have made sure we understood where we came from by reminding us that we were not...born in a barn? What could have contributed as much to our understanding of the connection between consumption and employment more than Dad’s refrain, Would somebody in this house learn to turn the lights off when they leave a room?? We don’t work for the power company!! And what about the Hobson’s choice dilemma presented to us by dad’s instruction...Pull my finger?

But all of these important contributions made by our dad’s pale in comparison to their most enduring contribution...The Dad Joke. To that end, I believe that today is the perfect day to remind us of the proud and enduring sense of humor that our father’s have bequeathed to all of us. Enjoy...

You hear that news story about the cartoonist found dead in his home? The details were...sketchy.

Last night, Mom and I watched two DVD’s back to back. Luckily, I was the one facing the TV.

Went to a seafood disco last night. Just my luck, I pulled a mussel.

Two cannibals were eating a clown when one says to the other...”does this taste funny to you”?

An invisible man married an invisible woman. I bet their kids aren’t anything to look at either.

I went to bed last night wondering what had happened to the sun. Then it dawned on me.

What’s the difference between an angry circus owner and a Roman barber? One is a raving showman, the other a shaving Roman.

Yesterday I accidentally swallowed some food coloring. The doctor says I’m fine, but I feel like I’ve dyed a little inside.

Last night I dreamed that I was drowning in an ocean of orange soda. Eventually I figured out that it was just a Fanta Sea.

Why did the skeleton belch? Because he didn’t have guts enough to fart.

Have you heard that new music group called Cellophane?

No, what kind of music do they play?

Mostly...wrap.

A steak pun is a rare medium done well.

What do you call a group of killer whales playing classical music? An Orca-stra.

An Almost Perfect Day

What a day. What an amazing day.

It was supposed to be overcast. Instead, the sun came out around ten o’clock and stayed out all day, setting in a fireball of orange and pink. A breeze blew every time it started to feel hot.

We walked into the center of the resort where all the shops and restaurants are, and rented a couple of bikes for the rest of the week. We tried to remember how long it had been since we had ridden bikes together and realized that it was over twenty years ago in Bar Harbor. We had both forgotten how much fun it is, how much like a kid it makes you feel. We rode around all morning on this very flat strip of high priced real estate, gawking at the fabulous homes and lush vegetation, delighting in the charm of the white picket fence, which is a staple here. 

Of course, me being me, I got a little freaky with the bike at one point and had a brief encounter with a metal fence post, resulting in a jammed finger and a bloody forearm. No day isn’t complete without at least one eye-roll from Pam. 

After sandwiches at Hudson’s Market, we gathered up our beach gear and traipsed across the 600 feet of sand until we finally found the ocean. Walking the equivalent of two football fields loaded down with beach chairs and coolers is not for sissies. But, it was worth the trip. It was a gorgeous afternoon.

After a short power nap, I hopped on my bike and rode up the street to the Links Course for my 5:00 tee time. I have never had a tee time so late in the day, but it was all I could get. The course was in magnificent condition, and my rental clubs were brand new Callaways. I shot 44 on the front side, which featured an almost comical 8. I will not bore you with the details...but I deserved it! At the turn, I picked up my wife who had come up to have a cocktail and read her book on the balcony of Huey’s. She served as the cart driver for my back nine. She was also my lucky charm...shot 41on the back!

However, there is no such thing as a perfect day. There’s always something, am I right? Ok, so after 18 holes of golf, it was almost 8 o’clock, and we were both very hungry. Unfortunately, Huey’s was only opened for members last night, so our perfect plan to eat at the golf course was foiled by eilitism. No worries, we would just ride our bikes back to the Village Plaza and pick from the various eateries there. By this point in the day, we both started to notice a tightness in our legs, a gentle reminder from God that although riding bikes sure did make us feel like kids, we are not, in fact, kids. Being seriously hungry didn’t help either. But as we saw our first choice...Woody’s, come into view, all was well. Right up to the point when it wasn’t. Woody’s had closed at 5:00. No problem, let’s go across the street to that BBQ place we saw earlier. The young, overwhelmed maitre’d thus began her soliloquy...

Yeah, well...we are really, like, super busy right now and like, we only have like three waiters and each of them have like three tables each and it’s taking a long time to like, serve people...so it’s gonna be like, a while.

At this point, although hungry, we had not yet reached hangry level, so we demurred. There was always that burger place we had heard so much about down on the boardwalk. Now, it was 8:45, and we had to make the long walk to our third choice. We arrived only to be told by a befuddled young man bussing a table that the kitchen was closed...but if we wanted a drink, the bar was opened.

When I looked into the eyes of my beloved...I saw it for the first time. My wife was not only hot and sweaty from all the bike riding and walking, but now she was hangry. There’s always the Terrace in the Boardwalk Inn, I suggested optimistically. She replied with the one word, all purpose response she always uses whenever she’s started to become annoyed...Sssuure!

The Terrace Maitre’d, while possessing a better grasp of her native tongue, was equally confusing in her response to two people who just wanted for somebody, somewhere on this resort property to feed us!!....We have been very busy tonight, but the guys are bussing tables right now and it shouldn’t be more than five minutes. Can we offer you a menu while you wait?

Twenty minutes later, no table. Despite the fact that both of us were so hungry we could have eaten the maitre’d, absolutely nothing on the Terrace menu appealed to us at all. We left in a huff of righteous indignation and headed over to our last resort...Hudson’s Market. Alas, their kitchen had also closed at 5:00.

At 9:15 in the evening on a day when you have biked multiple miles, walked like packmules across a desert of sand, and played a round of golf...your body becomes a rebellious and petulant child. It demands food...any kind of food. Then I saw the...ice cream. Ten minutes later, Pam and I were sitting in rocking chairs gulping down large quantities of the hand dipped stuff. It would be our dinner, at least until we could find our way back to our condo in the dark...on bikes, where a half a sandwich and an orange left over from lunch awaited us.

Other than our dinner dining experience, yesterday was as good as it gets...

Morning Beauty After The Storm

I’m sitting on a screened in porch listening to the thunderous surf in the distance. It was exactly what I was doing for over an hour last night during the wind and rain, watching the heat lightening out over the Atlantic. It is cool this morning, but thickly humid. I just got back from a short walk on the massive expanse of beach on this island..200 yards from dunes to water massive...the widest, flattest stretch of sand I have ever seen. Inexplicably, a single driftwood tree sits perched on the highest spot on the beach, begging to have its picture taken. I obliged...

The beach is so wide and so flat, it makes the sky look bigger than the sky is supposed to look. The last time I saw such a big sky was when I was in Montana as an 18 year old and discovered exactly why that State is called Big Sky Country.

I’m not sure what we will do today. This is supposed to be the only cloudy day of our week. Maybe I’ll use that as an excuse to play the golf course that is right down the street. Dinner last night at Huey’s featured this view...

...which seems a bit unfair. How is a guy supposed to give his undivided attention to his wife of 35 incredible years with this view just to the left of her beautiful face? I would post the competing picture I took of her but after 35 years, I have learned a few things. One of those things is never post a picture of your wife on social media without first obtaining permission to do so. I only look stupid!

For the record, last night’s amazing dinner included this item from the appetizer menu...

Low Country Egg Rolls...filled with collard greens, pulled pork BBQ and drizzled with a smoked mustard sauce. 

Yeah, when you see that on the menu, thats when you know you’re nowhere near Connecticut.

I Win

I get to spend the next five days in this fabulous place...

...with this beautiful woman...

The place is Wild Dunes in Isle of Palms, South Carolina. Neither of us have ever been there before. If the website can be believed, we will have an amazing four nights. The occasion is our 35th wedding anniversary...a month late. Lucy will stay here, accompanied by Becca, the dog whisperer, and the cost of the trip will be paid for with Capital One points. 

I win.

Gail

It was twenty two years ago when I took the call. Everyone had gone to lunch and I was the only one available to answer the phone. Her husband had passed away and he had a policy with Life of Virginia and could somebody help her with the claim? I took down her information and set a time to have her come in, only she didn’t want to drive all the way to Richmond. She lived in Hopewell. Could I come to her? 

Thus began my over two decade relationship with an elderly woman named...Gail. That she would become not only a great client but a dear friend was one of the most unlikely outcomes imaginable, for Gail was and is the most unique person I have ever met. When I pulled up in the circular driveway of her house she greeted me at the door wearing an outlandish pink and green pair of velvet pants and a silk blouse, with an unfiltered cigarette hanging out of her mouth, I remember thinking...Holy Crap. What is this I have gotten myself into? She was tiny, a wisp of a 64 year old woman, with a warm grin on her face. She thanked me for driving all the way out to Hopewell, a place she described as...a place with no hope where ain’t nobody doing well, except me!! Then, I heard that laugh for the first time, high pitched and unrestrained. I walked inside very gingerly.

Her house was beautiful on the outside, all elegant lines with a finely trimmed yard. Inside, the place was a hot mess. It wasn’t dirty, but there was stuff everywhere. Gail was a hoarder. I kept a sharp eye out for cats, but thankfully the only animal was a small Pekingese who appeared from beneath the rubble and was frantically barking at the tall, nervous man in the dark suit. Gail barked out a raspy command..Sweetie!! Shut the hell up!!!! “Sweetie” was never heard from again.

When we finally found a place to sit around an antique table piled high with what appeared to be every piece of junk mail she had received over the past ten years, she slapped her dead husband’s policy down in front of me. I suppose you expected me to be dressed in black, since my husband died. Well maybe I should be, but I look like a God***** old woman in black. Besides, Ed loved these pants.

As I processed the paperwork, she told me her life story. With her husband’s death, she was now completely alone. She had no surviving family, neither did he. They had no children. There was literally no family left, no uncles or aunts, no distant cousins. What she did have was tons of friends and the ugliest Pekingese in the entire world. She grew up as an Army brat, lived all over the world. Her husband was a lawyer. She was once a great singer and dancer and had the photographs to prove it. I looked at the young girl in the pictures. She was a beauty. The more we talked, the less uncomfortable I felt. The stories she told were fascinating. What a life she had lived. In the couple of hours I spent with her that first day I discovered a complex woman with an astounding back story. I wasn’t quite sure how much of it was true, but if she was making it up, well...she was one heck of a storyteller. Her sentences were lively and flowed naturally, as if they had been written in advance, and carefully crafted. All of it was sprinkled with the most hilariously colorful profanity I have ever heard from another human being. Must have been the Army background.

She ended up investing the proceeds of her husband’s insurance policy with me. In the months and years that followed, she entrusted more and more of her money with me. In all of our 22 year business relationship, she has never made the trip north to my office. I have always made the drive to Hopewell, probably over 50 times by now. Over the years we have talked about everything. She wanted to know all about Pam and the kids, was fascinated with my parent’s story. She was astonished to discover that I was a Christian. She had a million questions, including this one...Ok, Mister Christian...what’s your favorite verse in the Bible? I answered with Deuteronomy 8:17-18...You may say to yourself, my power and the strength of my hands have produced this wealth for me, but remember the Lord your God who gives you the power to produce wealth... Tears came to her eyes. Then she dismissed me with a colorful phrase. The next time I saw her, she met me at the door with a beautiful, professionally framed, hand stitched rendition of...Deuteronomy 8:17-18. 

Last week I received a call from the lawyer who has her Power of Attorney informing me that she had been placed in a nursing home after being found unresponsive in her home by a friend. Yesterday I went to see her. She lay there in a crumpled pile of covers, face twisted upwards, mouth ajar, her vibrant personality obscured by the ravages of time. I held her hand and looked closely into her face, and called to her. She opened her eyes and mumbled something I couldn’t understand. Her friend interpreted...She said Dunnevant. She knows its you. Then she drifted back off to sleep, or whatever state she was in before, something that looked and felt more painful and disturbing than...sleep. The doctors say she wont be going home again. She might not make it much longer, or she may hang on for months.

I’ve been around in my business long enough to know the rules of life. Clients get old and die. All the money eventually passes to others, in Gail’s case to seven environmental advocacy groups. It’s all part of the job. But every client is not like Gail. I will miss her friendship, her wit and wisdom, and yes...the side-splitting profanity. 

About ten years ago she asked me out of the blue...If I were going to read just one book in this Bible of yours, what should it be? I thought for a moment and answered...If I were you, I would read the Gospel of John. She nodded and said...Well, Doug...you ain’t me, but I will read the Gospel of John, just for you. Six months later we met again for a review. In the middle of my presentation to her, she slammed her hand down on the table and said, By the way...I just finished up the Gospel of John and I’ve got to admit...Jesus was a bad-ass!! I busted up laughing and we ended up talking for over an hour about her thoughts on the subject. For what its worth, I’m not sure I’ve ever met anyone who understood who Jesus was and what his message was more beautifully than my strange, and profane friend.

It takes all kinds of people to make a world...