Hard To Pretend I’m Not In Heaven

Every time I come up here I feel conflicted about...Facebook. Let me explain...

On the one hand, this is my favorite place in the world. Everywhere I look I see beauty and wonder. Here’s a very small example...

I mean, for heavens sake, I can’t even write a blog without being enchanted by it! So, naturally I feel compelled to share it with everyone. If there is a line between sharing and it’s notorious twin brother—Facebragging—I probably have crossed it. By posting so many pictures and writing so many blogposts about my adventures up here, will I run the risk of alienating the reader? Will all of this Loon Landing love start to grate on your nerves? Will I come off as just another privileged white guy bragging about his carefree life while everyone else is trudging off to work? Maybe. It’s certainly a possibility.

But on the other hand, I could be spending all my energy ranting about politics. I could be sending out cryptic coded messages about someone with whom I hold a bitter grudge. I could spend my time fishing for compliments by posting something like...Some days it just doesn’t pay to get out of bed..#ineedprayer. I suppose I could post recipes, or share my latest Map My Fitness running map. Maybe I could entertain all of you with my fascinating opinions on the national debt and the glaring errors of our fiscal policy.

What is Facebook and other social media for if not the dissemination of joy and happiness? I don’t know about you but I would rather see pictures of babies and puppies all day than participate in a single online shouting match between a Socialist and a Trump-loving evangelical. Speaking of puppies, meet my new Grandpup...Frisco Rutherford Dunnevant...

The family resemblance is uncanny, don’t you think?

So...while I will try to be sensitive over the next three weeks with regards to over-sharing this fabulous place with the world, I make no promises that I will be successful. I suppose you all can vote with your feet if I get too carried away. But, I just can’t pretend that I am not in heaven. When I drive down the long dirt road through the Maine woods that ends at this place, I am overcome with a desire to bring every single person that I love in this world with me...even if it’s only for one day. I want everyone to sit on this dock. I want everyone to hear the loons, breathe the clean air and feel the cool breezes in July. I want everyone to smell the barbecue chicken cooking on the grill while watching the sunset in a furious explosion of color through the pines across the way. I want all of this for everyone...even those who voted for someone else.

All Is Well.

We have made the drive to Maine using the western route many times now after years of trudging up that 21st century trail of tears known as Interstate 95. The western route is an hour and a half longer but far less stressful and the scenery is incredible. What’s not incredible is the Ramada Inn of Pottsville, Pennsylvania.

When traveling with Lucy, we have to find pet-friendly hotels in far away places sort of on the fly. Friday was one of those days. We left Hatteras Island at 7:20 AM for what ended up being a four hour drive to Short Pump. So far, so good. By the time we had repacked the car to accommodate Miss Lucy, eaten lunch, and rested a bit, we departed for Maine around 3 in the afternoon. I had no idea what the traffic would be like and how far I would be able to go without getting too tired...so Pam, my travel agent, was severely handcuffed in her job of finding the right hotel in the right town. To make a long story short, she settled on the accursed hotel mentioned in the first paragraph above that I simply can’t bring myself to type again.

First of all, the hotel was a thirty minute drive into the bowels of the Pennsylvania mountains from interstate 81. This particular drive recalled traumatic memories for me of the Deliverance variety, while Pam began shrinking in despair with each mile driven, the horrific memory of the Yokum Vacationland Motel debacle from twenty years ago. If you were in the Youth Group at GABC back in the day, you know of which I speak. If not, you’ll have to ask Pam about it one day. Our GPS wasn't impressed with our choice of accommodations either, since she decided to deposit us in the sketchiest, scariest section of Pottsville and then blithely declare...You have arrived at your destination...and frankly, I expected better. After some fancy footwork, I managed to finally find the place, a dismal brick building whose front entrance was roped off with what looked like police tape...not a good sign. The personality-free girl at the front desk offered this helpful explanation...We painted the steps today. Her next mono-toned words were...No, you can’t have a room on the first floor, we’re almost completely full. 

At this point, after ten hours of driving, hamstrings within mere minutes of full-fledged revolt, the only thing I could think of was...Wait a minute...this hotel, in this town, is sold out?? What...is there a sadists convention in town? Then, the charmless girl behind the counter showed signs of life...NO, its the big Yuengling Festival!! It’s their 199th anniversary celebration!! Oldest brewery in America!!

Actually, that explained a lot.

When we finally got Lucy into the loud and scary elevator and opened the door to our fourth floor suite, Pam was ready to turn around and drive straight through the night to Loon Landing, even if it meant she would have to drive. The place was 100 degrees...the air conditioner hadn’t been turned on all day. The dimly lit rooms gave off an industrial smell which, if bottled and sold as air freshener would be named...Inhospitable. It was the first hotel room I have ever stayed in which had not one single work of art hanging anywhere, the gray walls looking naked and forlorn. Pam immediately sat out stripping the bed looking for bedbugs. Finding none did not calm her nerves. She then gingerly stepped into the bathroom and determined in an instant that there would be no showers taken by either of us for any reason. Our strategy became crystal clear in my wife’s eyes...we would immediately fall asleep, and at the but-crack of dawn we would get the hell out of the Ramada Inn of Pottsville, Pennsylvania and never, ever speak of it again.

While taking Lucy out to pee in the giant parking lot across the street, I happened to glance at our credit card shaped room key. There was Ramada’s slogan emblazoned across it...Ramada Inn...you deserve this.

What, heinous crime against humanity was I or my descendants guilty of that would earn this hotel as its punishment?? As I watched Lucy deposit a prodigious pile just to the left of a loaded dumpster in a dimly lit corner of the parking lot, which was no doubt the scene of many a recent drug deal, I could think of no such transgression. We scurried back across the street and once again up the rattling elevator to our now 90 degree room. All three of us slept with one eye opened.

Yesterday’s drive was long and crowded. 

Lucy is thrilled. I am a new person. Pam had a wonderful shower.

This morning, I woke up to this...

All is well.

Finally.

Why Do We Do This?

When I tell people about the Dunnevant Family Beach Week, I often get this question...Have you taken leave of your senses? To be fair, this is not an entirely inappropriate question. Cramming 19 family members into a single beach house for seven days, for many, would be considered a violation of the Eight Amendment to the Consitution and it’s prohibition against cruel and unusual punishment. Indeed, there are times when the experience does test one’s patience. My comeback to this challenging question has always been a garbled, tortured mess, since it is sometimes hard to put into words the particular charms of this event.

Pictures help.

The first morning of the week I walked out onto the deck to drink my coffee and there was my niece, Darcy. I remember her first year when she was just a baby. Now here she was, a newly minted teenager, up before me, reading a book. Seems like two weeks ago we were all holding her in our laps reading her books.

Family vacations offer rare opportunities for generational interaction. My nephew, Bennett, is enthralled with my son’s video game playing skills. If Patrick is annoyed by his hovering, it doesn’t show. This is the sort of photograph that the two of them will look at years after I’m gone and smile at the memory.

...A rare gathering of the six of us under the same roof, rarer still since this is one of the only times all week where we all are fully clothed and free of sweat, sand and suntan lotion.

A quick side trip to Manteo to reenact Jon’s proposal to my daughter 5 years ago. It was in this exact spot, I’m told. I will resist any reference to how criminals always eventually return to the scene of the crime. Oops...

The women of the family, sunglasses fashionably in place, smiling for the camera on the top of the dunes at Jockeys Ridge. Evelyn, the youngest, already displaying advanced workin’ it skills. This, another photograph that will elicit many fond sighs for years to come. Aww, do you remember how gorgeous it was that night yau’ll?

This tradition, now in it’s 16th attempt, is a historical marker of sorts. Each year is compared to the one before. The locations change, the houses change, the experiences mount and are archived in our collective memories. Where one’s memory fails, another’s fills in the gaps. Still others just make stuff up...using creative license to help the history along. Soon, history becomes myth, and we delight in it.

The Waiting...(is the hardest part)

Tonight after dinner, I entertained the family with the blogs I had written upon the occasion of our arrival at the three previous Dunnevant Family Beach trips...in 2013, 2015, and 2017. It was pointed out by the assembly that I had not yet submitted a similar edition for 2019. Truth me told, I needed a day to decompress. It was quite the arrival.

Salty Paws, this year’s beach house, was rented from the Sound and Surf Realty Company, an organization committed to the twin principles of the customer is always wrong...and anything bad that might happen to the customer is merely the nature of the business. For example...according to the company website, check-in time for their properties is 6:00 pm. Despite this late hour, they assure the customer that should the property become available earlier, a text would be sent to the renter and early entry granted, Indeed, in 2017, when we rented from the same company, we received such a text at 1:00 pm. This year, we decided to shoot the gap and plan on arriving around 3:00. Bad decision. When Pam and I pulled up and discovered that the house had not been cleaned and it was already nearly 4:00 in the afternoon, my sister Paula was already rehearsing her finger-wagging tirade for the first company hack who had the guts to show up to face one of the infamous and dreaded hip-sisters. At roughly 6:00, our guaranteed check-in time, a hapless flunky pulled up in the driveway, and pulled a pack of bed sheets from the trunk of his car! His response to Paula was something about the fact that his company was understaffed, a fact that was definitely not our problem, but most certainly the problem of the Sound and Surf Realty Company...which after Paula’s tongue-lashing should have been renamed the Sound and Fury Realty Company.

By 6:25, all was well, and all 19 of us were allowed to enter the house, right after the wide-eyed cleaning crew had slunk away through a side door. I’m quite sure that these overworked and underpaid folks gave it their best shot, but when you’re pretty sure you can tell what the last family had for dinner last night from the crumbs still on the kitchen counter, you kinda know you’re in trouble. This morning, the first attempt to retrieve a coffee cup from the cabinet yielded a handsome white ceramic mug with a charming lining of fried-on scrambled eggs around the circumference of the interior. My reaction was first frustration at the poor cleaning job, but second and more importanatly...confusion at the question that immediately lept to mind, ie. who eats scammbled eggs out of a coffee mug??

But, time passes and eventually you get over the sanitation issues. I mean, what’s Lysol for if not for this occasion? So, I find a clean mug, pour my coffee and sit down on one of the comfortable but stained rocking chairs when this catches my eye...

Now, normally I’m not the kind of guy who pays much attention to...rules. But, this list of regulations for the use of the hot tub were alarming on many fronts. At the top of the form we are instructed that Hot Tub use is NOT for everyone. What it should have said was...Hot Tub use is not for ANYONE. For instance, how many people in this family over the age of 25 don’t take any prescription drugs? And I had no idea that hypertension and high blood pressure were, in fact, two different ailments?! But, assuming we pass the first prohibited list, the list of rules for use raise several disturbing questions... Take the third item on the list for example...

No use of hot tub if bottom cannot be seen clearly.

What in the Sam Hill is going on at the Sound and Surf Realty Company? I mean who are these people? Are they trying to tell us that we cannot enjoy the hot tub unless we are naked? You would like to give them the benefit of the doubt, but then three bullet points later comes the declaration: Do Not Use Alone. So, they are cool leaving us a filthy beach house, but gleefully encourage lascivious behavior in the hot tub!!

But, now that we all have the first 24 hours under our belt, we are warming up to the place. The air conditioning has been stellar, the plumbing, heroic. The performance of the electricity has been faultless. And although any exploration into a random drawer in the kitchen is liable to produce evidence of previous meals from perhaps years ago, for the most part we are happy with the place.

It’s a shame about that hot tub though...

I Miss These Guys...

What follows is a conversation I had last night with the two guys I recently mentored for 8 months as part of the Mentoring Ministry of Hope Church. I really miss these guys!!

Going Away For a Month

Today is my last day of work for the month of July. I will celebrate the 4th, then head to Hatteras Island with the family for a while, then make the drive to Maine. It’s what I have worked for all year. What am I saying...I have been working for this for 36 years. 

One of the reasons I decided years ago to go into business for myself was the fact that I hated having to ask for time off. I have no idea why it bothered me so much. Basically I found it degrading to have to seek permission from someone to go on a vacation. It wasn’t the only reason I decided to become my own boss, but it was a major factor. Fast forward 36 years and I can now go on vacation anytime, anywhere and for as long as I want. However...and life is always about the howevers...in order to finance such freedom, it takes lots of patience, planning and manipulation. I will finish up this manipulation today. 

The Dunnevant Family Beach Week will come first, and it will be the polar opposite experience from what follows in Maine. They are two different things entirely. The DFBW is a family togetherness thing. It’s 19 people in a gigantic house. It’s noisy and chaotic. It’s hot and muggy with lots of sand and sweat. There’s a pool and floats and squirt guns and all of the tomfoolery that comes with that combination. There are practical jokes which feature all manner of crude gags and slimy things. There’s a huge snack table. There will be many feasts around large tables with delicious food made even more so because we have spent all day on the beach. There will be lots of laughter and horseplay, teasing and playful ridicule between siblings. There will be a thousand memories from past trips. We will all think about Mom and Dad every five minutes. By the time the seven days are over we will be exhausted, completely spent from all the fun and...all the work. I will be with all of my kids, an entire week where all six of us are together under the same roof, something that only happens once or twice a year. That alone makes the week a win.

Then we pack up and drive back to Short Pump long enough to rearrange the packing of the car, and pick up Lucy, and head back on the road for as long as I can stay awake. I’m hoping to make it to Connecticut and the safety of a dog-friendly hotel. The next day we will finally make the .8 mile trip down the dirt road that deadends into Loon Landing. The sigh that will escape from our lips will probably be audible in New Hampshire when we see this for the first time...

The time we spend at this place will not be noisy or chaotic. It will be neither hot or muggy, with very little sand or sweat. There’s no pool...unless this counts as one:

Meals will be taken not at large sprawling tables, but at a little round one out on the deck:

My kids will not be with us this year. We will be alone, just the two of us. This is simultaneously sad and delightful, for reasons that require no explanation. 

Maine will be slower, the kind of pace that lends itself to reading and other contemplative arts. We will spend lots of time gliding across the still waters of Quantabacook in kayaks, lost in our private thoughts. I will spend time standing on the edge of this dam, the cold water rushing over my bare feet, fishing...

But, despite the much calmer pace of life that Maine affords us, by the end of the day we will both be exhausted...just like we were on Hatteras Island, its different somehow and yet the same. Nights at Loon Landing are darker than dark, the skies filled with a million stars. We will sleep hard and deep and wake up rejuvenated...

So, two different places, two different experiences. It’s not a matter of which one is better. They are both unique. They both serve a purpose in our lives.

I am eternally grateful for both of them...and the decision I made all those years ago to go into business for myself.

Sandy vs Max

In June of 1962, Sandy Koufax had the best month of his career. He went 4-2, struck out 73 batters, pitched a no-hitter and posted an ERA of 1.23. I was four years old and completely unaware. Four years later, at the insistence of my brother, I had become a fan. My first two heros were Mickey Mantle and Sandy Koufax. In the fifty some odd years since, a lot of players have come and gone, and I have loved many of them. But, no players have even been able to surpass Mantle and Koufax in my imagination...until now.

What I loved about Koufax was the mystique that surrounded the man. It’s like he landed in the world of baseball from outer space, dominated the game like nobody ever has before or since for six glorious years...and then vanished, his career shortened by an arthritic arm. Here he was, this lefty who threw 98mph and had a curveball like nobody had ever seen...

Unlike most pitchers, Koufax threw straight over the top, an odd arm angle which probably contributed to the development of his arthritis. Of course, back then great pitchers like Koufax didn’t have a pitch count. In perhaps his greatest year ever (his next to last year of 1965), the man threw 27 complete games. To put that in perspective, the best left handed pitcher in the game today, Clayton Kershaw, has 25 complete games...for his entire career.

My favorite Koufax story though is what happened to him at the end of spring training in March of 1965. After throwing another complete game in a March 31th game, he woke up the next morning to find his left arm black and blue from his wrist to his shoulder. Team doctors examined him and gave the diagnosis that he would have to be limited to pitching only once a month, with the strong suggestion that he should probably hang up his cleats. Instead, Koufax endured the most painful year of his magnificent career on a regimen of nightly codeine, powerful anti inflammatory drugs and essentially horse liniment rubdowns on game day along with another round of codeine in the 5th inning of every start. It was the only way he could get through the games. After each game he would sit with his pitching arm in a tub of ice water for over an hour. With the pain that he was under, Koufax began to tip his pitches. Players on the opposing team could tell whether he was going to throw a fastball or a change up or a curve by the way he held his arm before the pitch. The great Willie Mays said...”I knew exactly what Sandy was gonna throw me every pitch...and I still couldn’t hit the guy!” So, how did he do that painful year 54 years ago? Let’s see...he went 27-8 with a 2.04 ERA. Amazingly, he somehow managed to pitch a mind-boggling 335 innings in which he struck out 385 batters. Sadly, the next year would be his last, his career cut short at age 31.

But, someone has finally come along to dislodge the great man from the throne chair of my baseball heart...Max Scherzer.

He’s a righty, throws almost sidearm. He doesn’t complete many games because he pitches in the era of pitch counts and high octane bullpens. But if they would let him, he would finish every single game he starts. This guy is the toughest competitor in today’s game with the most dominant stuff and the most intimidating persona...he with the one blue eye, one brown eye scowl...

He’s the guy I would spend $100 for a ticket to watch. In June of this year, Max had the best month of his career. He went 6-0, struck out 68 guys and had an ERA of 1.00. Oh, and during June he happened to break his nose during batting practice. Never missed a start.

While, it is my opinion that Sandy Koufax is the greatest pitcher to ever play the game of baseball, Max Scherzer is the greatest pitcher playing the game...today. That’s enough to insure that I will never miss one of his starts.