The Still Small Voice

A few nights ago, before it got so hot, I found myself out on my deck around dusk, trying to unwind from a tough day. The fact that I was outside at all after 6 o’clock is the result of the miracle that is the Mosquito Authority. I employed their services earlier in the Spring and for the first time in our 21 years in this house, I can lounge on my deck at night, wearing shorts, without fear of being hoisted aloft by a swarm of the blood-sucking pests. Since the day they first showed up in their scary-looking hazmat gear, and coated  my property with a fine but deadly mist, we have been gloriously mosquito free. Lest anyone raise the objection that by doing so I have put the planet and my own health at risk by introducing unnatural chemicals into the atmosphere, let me assure you that I did my homework...I thoroughly researched the company and their product, including an analysis of all known side effects and was satisfied that any risk was infinitesimally small. Besides, when it comes right down to it, do we really need two kidneys?

Anyway...where was I? Ah yes, I was outside enjoying my deck. It had been a difficult day. Nothing had gone right at the office. One small frustration after another had accumulated and built up to form a contentment blockage of sorts. Plus, I hadn’t felt well much of the day, I had been a bit dizzy and felt lightheaded and out of sorts. 

So, I’m sitting in a chair out on the deck and I noticed the new solar-powered lights that Pam had bought a while back, to affix to the umbrella over the dinner table. They were supposed to gather up sunlight all day, then when night falls, they each flicker on and provide mood lighting for three hours or so before they fizzle out. For some reason I began to fixate on them. None had yet come to life, and it was getting darker by the minute. It was around 8:45. 

Suddenly the first light blinked, then sprang to life. At that exact moment a voice inside my head said...Name something you’re thankful for.

Ok, let me stop right here and clear the air. I did not hear an audible voice. I’m not claiming that God spoke to me. It could just as easily have been the Los Dos Amigos I had inhaled at Casa Grande for lunch. But, it might have been the Holy Spirit. Who knows? All I know is it was a rather clear directive. So, I obeyed and said the first thing that popped into my head...I’m thankful for Mosquito Authority. Then I sat in silence, feeling shallow and self-obsessed for not saying I was thankful for Pam. About that time, the second light flickered on...My wife! I’m thankful for my wife.

Over the next few minutes I waited for each light to come on and with each new gleam of light, I offered up another of the many blessings that I enjoy, things that are precious to me, things I am very grateful for. I’m thankful for my daughter and her husband....I’m thankful for my son and his wife...I’m thankful for good friends.

There were eight lights in all. But, I wouldn’t have run out of things to be thankful for if there had been a hundred. After it was over I watched the darkness lower over the back yard, gathering up the last light of the day and taking it away to wherever it goes...all but the feint light from Pam’s eight solar lights, and me alone with my settled heart.

You Watching The Debate?

Are you planning on watching the big debate? It’s the first of many in this season’s Democratic presidential primary race. No? Well, in case you plan on skipping it, I can fill you in on the highlights, even though it hasn’t happened yet. I don’t plan on watching it either. It’s not that I am ambivalent on the subject of one of the two major political parties trying to decide who they will nominate to run against Donald Trump. That’s kind of important. But, last time around, I tried my hardest to watch several of the debates...Democrat and Republican...but I just couldn’t make it through to the end. They were excruciating. It was like watching someone who clearly thinks they are a great singer doing a really terrible job...singing. It’s the same trouble I have whenever the really lousy singers crash and burn in one of those American Idol auditions. Way too embarrassing for my taste.

Anyway, in case you missed it, here’s what happened:

1. All ten of the candidates on stage agreed that Donald Trump is the worst human being to ever walk the Earth. He’s like Hitler, Stalin and  Pol Pot all rolled into one. If we don’t replace him in 2020, not only will the Republic be finished, but the entire planet will be in deathly peril.

2. Elizabeth Warren will claim that there is another wealth in the bank accounts and on the balance sheets of the 1.4 million people who comprise the top 1% of taxpayers in America to pay for literally every new program she can possibly conceive of, including wiping out all outstanding college debts, making college hereafter free for all, and paying for an as of yet undetermined sum for slavery reparations. She will even be able to throw in Medicare for everyone as a bonus. If asked, she will reply that she is quite sure that these 1.4 million super rich people will make no changes in their behavior that might remove the confiscatory bullseye off of their backs. The other candidates will accuse her of not going far enough...allowing her spin doctors to cast her as the moderate in the race.

3. Most everyone on stage will rightly call into question Donald Trump’s sanity for even thinking about going to war with Iran. If I were actually watching, this is the part where I would stand up and cheer.

4. Some of the candidates will call for impeachment proceedings against the President. A couple of others will suggest that the best way to do in Trump is to defeat him in 2020, then prosecute him as a private citizen where they will not be constrained by executive privilege. That way he might actually wind up in jail. This will be the part where the crowd goes wild and breaks into the Lock Him Up, Lock Him Up chant, with not the slightest hint of irony.

5. The subject of immigration will dominate the proceedings, with one candidate after another bemoaning the fate of the families torn apart at the border. After a gallon of crocodile tears have been shed, someone...overcome with an irresistible urge to let it all hang out...will declare, What right do we have to deny access to any human being who arrives at our doors? National borders are nothing more than a vestige of our racist past. It’s time for all of the world to live without borders. It’s time not to build walls, but time to tear them down. Let them all in!!! Someone else...not sure who, maybe Tulsi Gabbard...will reply...That’s right, Julian. Let’s start with that security gate around your estate in Malibu!

6. Most everyone will pile on poor old Joe Biden for having the gall to try and get along with a few of his horrible colleagues from 30 years ago. There will be charges of latent racism, accusations that he isn’t sufficiently woke on a whole host of issues, not the least of which is the #MeToo movement. The suggestion that he is too old for the job will hang heavily in the air, despite the party’s reputation as the vanguard home of all of the ism movements...including ageism. Here’s a Pro-Tip...whichever candidate is kindest to Biden is the one who knows that they aren’t going to win, so they want to keep their Vice-Presidential options open.

That’s about all I’ve got. There might be some sort of bombshell moment that I have not anticipated. One thing I have a high confidence in will be the reaction of the media....they will go on and on about what a fine performance all of these candidates had, of how remarkably deep the field is this year, of how deeply worried the President should be.

Meanwhile, Trump will further beclown himself with a flood of middle school-ish live-tweets during the proceedings. The Vegas line on number of Pocahontas references is 3.

I’m taking the over.

It’s On!

There’s no turning back now. The pre-trip planning meeting/confab has taken place. The ladies of the family all gathered here last night to plot strategies. Floor plans filled the screen of the TV. Google Docs from past grocery lists, along with menus from years past were displayed with digital accuracy. Tactical issues were on the table, room assignments hashed out. There was key lime pie. I remained firmly ensconced in my recliner upstairs with Lucy, safely out of harm’s way. Within two short hours, we had a plan. Dunnevant Family Beach Week...is on.

In a fortnight, 19 of us will descend on this unsuspecting house in Salvo, on Hatteras Island for the 16th iteration of this tradition. We have come a long way since that very first mildew and cockroach infested bungalow in Sandbridge 30 years ago. Back then, Mom and Granny Till did most of the cooking. Somewhere along the line somebody came up with the fateful and ill-considered idea to assign each family the job of making dinner for everyone. As of this hour, Pam is the only one who has not decided on a menu. My suggestion of subs and Krispi Kreme went over like a lead balloon. She seems hesitant to plan a meal which requires me to cook on the grill since it’s charcoal only...as if I am incapable of making the adjustment from gas. Nonsense. I am capable of both undercooking and burning the hell out of any cut of meat, regardless of what fuel is used!!

There will be no dogs this year. Becca the dog whisperer has been employed once again, much to Lucy’s delight. I have secured a couple of new, disgusting practical joke props to add to my reputation for mischief and juvenile chicanery. Let’s just say that if it creeps, crawls, or slithers I’ve got it covered.

This year, it appears that my clan will have the bottom floor of the house, the six of us occupying the three bedrooms and two bathrooms down there. Of course, this means that I will have to walk up not one, but TWO flights of stairs each day to get my morning coffee. In the spirit of compromise and congeniality, I have chosen to overlook this outrage. 

Our Newest Dunnevant!!

We got the news while we were in Isle of Palms via FaceTime. Then Saturday, out of nowhere, a barrage of pictures and videos...

This handsome little guy is my new GrandPup. As of this hour, he has no name. He won’t be picked up for good for another 3 weeks. But, he has been picked out...or rather, he picked Patrick and Sarah out.

Just in case you’re keeping score at home, this makes three Golden Retrievers in the Dunnevant tribe, which will make for a lot of chaos and Tomfoolery the next time we are all together in the same house. This year’s Christmas picture promises to be a doozy!

Mom and Dad are thrilled. And from the look of those paws, eventually they are going to have a lot to be thrilled about!

Pam and I couldn’t be happier. For one thing, we love Goldens, and secondly, getting and caring for a puppy is excellent training for that glorious day when we get a FaceTime call from one of our kids announcing the pending arrival of our first Grandchild!!

Equality at the Cross

Recently I have been forced to face a long time nemesis of mine, a nearly life long prejudice that I developed during college and never have quite turned loose of since. It is a story filled with resentment and irony, and like all prejudices, ultimately debilitating. It started my freshman year at the University of Richmond.

I was blessed with an incredible family. My parents were amazing people who loved their four children to the moon and back. But, we never had any money. My dad was a Baptist minister of a smaller country church which didn’t pay a lot. We always lived in housing supplied by the church...a parsonage...as it was called. I don’t remember thinking anything of our relative poverty while I was in middle school and high school since most other kids I went to school with were in the same shape. But when it was time for me to attend college, things changed. Dad informed me that he would not be able to help me out with any of the costs of college, so it was probably out of the question for me to go away to school. I would have to commute and University of Richmond was his alma mater so...In order for me to attend college, I was going to have to work almost full time hours somewhere, and even then would be required to take out loans every year. So, I was fortunate enough to land a job at an equipment company out at the Hanover Industrial Air Park where I worked five days a week from 12:30 to 5:30. That meant all morning classes and late night trips from my home in Elmont, Virginia to Boatwright library at night. There was no use bitching about it...it’s just the way it was.

I began to notice...and resent...the many guys at UofR who were from up north, Connecticut, Massachusetts and New Jersey. They drove BMW’s and were sent allowances from their parents every month. I envied them their cars, their free afternoons, their exuberant college experiences. My Volkswagen barely got me from campus to Ashland everyday, and by the time I had spent 5 hours in an unairconditioned warehouse building wooden pallets all day, and a couple of hours in the library, parties were a rare luxury...not a nightly ritual. Over the four and a half years it took me to graduate, I developed a deep resentment for...rich people...the kinds of people who gave their teenage sons European luxury cars, the kinds of people who inherited money, the kinds of people who joined country clubs and sent their kids to Collegiate. I listened to them talk about their money, I heard the stories of their wealth and became keenly aware of my own heritage...a grandfather who was a share cropper...and slowly, a bitterness began to form in my heart. A chip climbed up on my shoulder and in many ways has never left.

Of course the ironies of such a prejudice are striking. I have made a living as an investment advisor, helping regular people get rich and rich people get richer. My profession places me smack dab in the middle of the kinds of people I learned to resent all those years ago. I love my clients. They are great people. Yet..I still feel uncomfortable driving through an affluent neighborhood. Even though I can afford it, there isn’t a country club anywhere in the world that I would join. And now...for the last three years I have found a church home that I dearly love...but in which I am surrounded by people who send their kids to Collegiate!! Like I said, ironies abound.

Here’s what I’ve learned at Hope Church. The unspeakable heartbreaks of life are no respecter of persons. God is not impressed with our money, our cars or our homes. Tragedy befalls all of us, rich and poor alike. Cancer takes our kids from us. Our kids get destroyed by addictions. Those we love the most still lose their way and take their own lives...whether we live on River Road or in public housing. Although we all know this intellectually, it becomes real when it happens to someone you have come to know. 

Attending an affluent church like Hope has been an adjustment for me. I still feel a bit uncomfortable there at times. The old resentments rise to the surface at the strangest times. But, I’ve met some incredible people there, people who are forcing me to examine myself and my resentments. I’m learning to look past the surface, to take the time to get past the superficial. Underneath the trappings, we are all human beings trying to make sense of the world, searching for transcendent meaning. It is at the cross where we discover our equality. It’s the place where we lay aside our differences. For the first time I’m learning how to do just that.

What Do I Do With My New Hour??

I deleted my Twitter account last night. My wife had suggested that I could just block people who made the experience unenjoyable for me...and she had a point, but upon further reflection I just decided to be done with it. For one thing, the Twitter statistics told me that I spent an average of over an hour a day on the thing. So, by deleting Twitter, I have reclaimed 30 hours of my life back every month. That’s like gaining back an entire day each month, 12 days a year. What will I do with all this new free time?! Well, this morning, I spent a good chunk of it shooting squirrels, a much more fulfilling hobby.

But, it has gotten me to thinking...what would be a better way to spend a spare hour every day than flipping through Twitter?

1. Become a more consistent and thorough flosser.

2. Spend more time praying for friends, family and enemies.

3. Take some time to write friends the occasional note of encouragement.

4. Learn the proper use of the dreaded apostrophe ie..its vs. it’s...which has always been the bane of my literary existence.

5. Learn how to bake bread.

The worst way to use my new hour each day?

1. Spend an extra hour on Facebook.

2. Immerse myself in all things Trump.

3. Learn everything there is to know about Bernie Sanders.

4. Figure out a way to communicate to Lucy that thunder will not, in fact, kill her.

5. Give soccer a chance.

Alrighty then...I suppose I should get started!

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