Christmas Comes Early

Yesterday was my Christmas. That’s because yesterday I locked down another fabulous cabin in Maine for 2020. We will be staying in Loon Call Cottage on beautiful Crawford Pond from June 27th thru July 25th.

No, this is not Loon Landing, our favorite spot. Due to a scheduling foul up, we weren’t able to secure it for the weeks we wanted. But, after weeks of relentless searching, we found this place. Lest you think that because the word “pond” appears in it’s name that it’s a tiny body of water, think again. It’s 11 miles in circumference...

...with lots of nooks and crannies for Pam to explore on her kayak and paddle board. The fishing, by all accounts, is off the charts. AND, it has a swimming dock!!

Three bedrooms, and more importantly, three bathrooms! 

It’s no Loon Landing but nothing else could be. What it is is...on a lake in Maine, and available for an entire month!! Amazingly, this place is only 12 miles from the ocean and this beautiful town that Pam and I love so dearly...Camden, Maine.

Lest you think that I intend to go the entire year of 2020 without returning to Loon Landing, think again. We have the first two weeks of October scheduled for that particular piece of paradise, and we are praying that something dreadful befalls the person who has the place the last week of September so we can gobble up that week too!! Just kidding!!

So, my Christmas is complete. I don’t want or need another thing. Maine has been booked and all is well.

My Brave Friend’s Bad Day

Since it’s Friday, an update on my brave friend.

She’s having a hard time. Each new chemo treatment brings greater discomfort and the attending miseries associated with that poison can be nightmarish. Some mornings when I text her I can tell she’s not feeling well. There have been more such mornings lately. She sounds more frustrated, angrier, sick and tired of being sick and tired. But today, I ended up fussing at her. I felt bad about it, but not bad enough to take any of it back. So I called her to make sure she wasn’t angry with me. She wasn’t. She’s just angry at cancer.

Here’s the issue. My brave friend is a worker. She’s always been a worker. Like me, when she was a kid she had chores and worked with her Dad in the garden. All of her adult life she has run her own business. Working is in her blood. The problem is she thinks she can still go in to work like she doesn’t even have cancer. She has convinced herself if she stays on the sofa and works from home she would be giving in to cancer. I basically responded that she was an idiot, and needed to drop this hero crap, stop being so stubborn and allow her body to heal. Her platelets are down precisely because she is working too much. Its not giving in to cancer to give your body its best chance to heal by resting. She says, “But, I’ve never been sick before! I don’t know how to not work.” To which I replied, “Well, you’re sick now, sister! Drop this hero act and slow down!” After this exchange it occurred to me that I might not have the greatest bed-side manner.

After we talked on the phone I started thinking about how I would be dealing with life if it were me who had cancer. I realized that somebody, probably Pam, would have to give me the exact same speech I had given her. When bad things happen to me, like open heart surgery 17 years ago, I get angry and aggressive. I want to fight. Pam was constantly trying to reign me in from trying to do too much too soon after the operation. I was a horrible patient. And here I was this morning lecturing my friend about her stubbornness. Pot, meet kettle.

But, just because I might not be the best messenger doesn’t change the fact that the message was true. My friend needs to give herself the best chance at victory. That means dialing back her schedule, resting more. Sick people. You can’t tell ‘em anything!! The worst part about this morning was...she didn’t laugh at my joke. Didn’t even realize it was a joke. 

But, tomorrow is another day. Onward and upward.

25 Year Old Me v. 60 Year Old Me

I don’t know about you, but I find it fascinating how people change as they get older. I’m not talking about physical changes as much as attitudes and preferences. It’s a well documented fact that as we age our perception of life changes. Our buying habits change, our tastes in everything from fashion to food changes. The things we find interesting at 60 are often miles apart from the things we thought were interesting when we were 25. Take me for example.

Some things have not changed about 25 year old me. I still love baseball, still crazy about dogs, and I’m still in love with my wife. I still love anything with sausage in it, still love the taste of cold beer, still love my morning coffee. Still love reading, still love to travel, and still hate having to wear a suit. Still love practical jokes, still love taking physical risks, provoking arguments with people just to stir things up, and the occasional inappropriate joke. Still love my big, opinionated family. Still love Jesus. Still overwhelmed by grace and the power of forgiveness. Still can’t sit still at all the times when adults are supposed to sit still. But...thats about where the similarities end.

The 60 year old me is a much different guy in many ways. I have lost interest in college basketball, professional football and golf. In my twenties and beyond I was attracted to politics, fascinated by the rough and tumble of it all and quite hawkish about America’s foreign policy. Now, I am repulsed by politics and about as dovish as it is possible to be. I have been disabused of the idea that just a bit more money will make my problems go away. I find that with age comes much less certainty in the infallibility of my conclusions. 60 year old me understands his weaknesses much better than 25 year old me, who had a hard time admitting he even had any. 25 year old me was all about the law. 60 year old me is much more into grace. 25 year old me was obsessed with making his mark on this world. 60 year old me is hoping I didn’t make too big of one. 25 year old me was driven to become a success. 60 year old me desperately wants success for others. 25 year old me thought he knew everything. 60 year old me is astonished at how little he knows.

But, I still have a mischievous streak in me. I still enjoy pushing people’s buttons, which brings me back to the inappropriate joke. My problem has always been that I LOVE THEM. Of course you can go too far with anything, some jokes, although funny, probably shouldn’t be told in mixed company. But when I’m debating whether or not to tell a particular joke, I often make my decision based on if the laugh it produces will be an embarrassed one. If so, I usually go with it. So, today I leave you with this classic:

A businessman boards a flight and is lucky enough to be seated next to a stunning looking woman. They say hi to each other and he notices she is reading a manual about sexual statistics! He asks her about it and she replies,' This is a very interesting book. It says here that American Indians are the most well endowed men and that Polish men make the most sensitive lovers. By the way, my name is Jill. What's yours? 

“Tonto Labowski, at your service.”

Buddy the Elf and Mrs. Claus

Thanksgiving has come and gone. Today we all wake up to December the 2nd staring back at us, making demands. Thanksgiving was late this year which means that there are only three weeks left before Christmas. That dull ache in the pit of your stomach is the first flaring of panic rising from deep within when you contemplate all that remains to be done between now and then. All the Google docs and family Christmas websites in the world can’t change the fact that there are only 20 shopping days left until Christmas. Nothing says Let’s celebrate the Savior’s birth like a three week mad dash to buy as much gold, frankincense and myrrh as we can get our hands on!

I always feel out of sorts in the time between Thanksgiving and Christmas. For one thing, business is winding down, end of the year requirements being largely administrative. This frees me up to be of assistance to my wife during this hectic time. But I never know exactly how to go about helping her. She becomes like a whirling dervish this time of year, flitting about here, there and everywhere doing elf-like jobs. Take yesterday for example. We enjoyed a brunch with Kaitlin and Jon before they left to drive back to Columbia. When they were out of sight, she asked me to help her rearrange the family room furniture so we could get the big tree down from the attic and in place. Once that was done, she seemed content. She had working feverishly as hostess all weekend so I thought she was done with decorating. I even left to head over to the gym for a workout. When I arrived back home, it’s like a crew from Flip This House had descended on the place. Not only was the big tree in place, but five others as well. Gone was all the fall regalia, replaced by the Christmas finery. She had been at it for almost five hours and showed not the slightest sign of fatigue....

This is by no means all of it, there are four more trees in place upstairs. None of the trees have been decorated yet, not all of the seasonal knickknackery has been hauled down from the attic...but this was an astonishing accomplishment for one woman and one terrified dog to get done in one afternoon while I was doing cardio!!

So, now I have guilt. Once again, the majority of the prep work gets done by my wife, while I roam around the house asking if she needs me to pay for anything, write a check for something. Yes, it is true that I will be in charge of outside decorations. I am also tasked with anything that requires heavy lifting, something for which I am increasingly ill-suited due to a variety of age related issues which I would rather not discuss. So, basically I become my wife’s hired hand during the holidays, an entry level laborer with few skills but very eager to impress the boss, a real life Buddy the Elf to her Mrs. Claus...

Thanksgiving In Four Photographs

There are four photographs from Thanksgiving that tell the story of how the day went for the Dunnevant’s.

This is the Over The River and Through the Woods shot. We were heading over to Linda’s for the big meal. The rule is supposed to be that Christmas music cannot be played until the return trip, but that rule got violated. 

This was to be the first Thanksgiving ever without Patrick in attendance. We were missing him, missing Sarah... a lot. But, while we were eating the meal, they were busy posting a video of a gorgeous song that Sarah had composed about Thanksgiving and the longing that rises in the heart on this day. It was beautiful and made our day.

Then, there are these people, my brother and two sisters. Life without them would be unimaginable and nowhere near as fun.

Meanwhile, Miss Lucy’s life was being interrupted by our prolonged absences and the presence of her ginormous and incorrigible cousin, Jackson. When we finally returned from our very long day, I snuck upstairs to take a quick nap on my recliner. As soon as I extended the foot rest, she appeared at the door, big old goofy smile on her face. Then she did what she does every single time I attempt such a nap. She deposited herself on top of me, with her back legs on the floor, demanding head skritches. She stays up there for five minutes or so, then jumps down and curls up on the floor at my feet.

I hope that each and everyone of you had as wonderful a Thanksgiving day as I did. God Bless you all.

A Thanksgiving Plea

Ok, I am not a cook. I am not burdened with having to prepare a Thanksgiving feast for anyone. However, I have a lot of experience eating, and as a world class consumer of Thanksgiving feasts, might I make a couple of suggestions? For the sake of all that is holy and sacred, please do not serve either of the dishes above.

Canned Cranberry Sauce

One of the few curses of living in an advanced, consumerist, capitalistic country is the unfortunate fact that if it is possible to put literally anything in a can and sell it at a profit, somebody will. Thus, the persistent survival of this ghastly mistake. Anything with the word sauce in its name should not be able to be...sliced. Moreover, sauce should not respond to the human touch by...jiggling. Generally speaking it is always a dependable rule of thumb that sauce which has...ridges...should always be avoided.

Beets

This lowliest of all forms of vegetable life shares a color with canned cranberry sauce, and is equally revolting. Yes, yes...I know all about how good they are for me, their abundance of iron and whatnot. But the trouble with beets is the fact that cooks the world over have been trying desperately to insert this pitiful thing in recipes since Alexander was only Good. They stew them, broil them, steam them and the meaner cooks out there eventually pickle them, all with disastrous results. Leave them at it long enough and inevitably they come up with a dish called Red Flannel Hash...

If this looks like a skillet full of raw steak, strawberries and uncooked hamburger, you are right. Oh if that were only the case!! No, no...those red things you see everywhere are chunks of beets. Trust me folks, there isn’t enough salt, pepper and hot sauce in the world to make this edible. Because I married a Maine girl, this dish appears all too frequently at family gatherings...like Thanksgiving. Upon reading this I’m sure that my wife and her sisters and parents will leap to the defense of Red Flannel Hash. They always do. It’s a pride thing.

Pretty much anything else that is on the table at Thanksgiving is a winner. But, for the sake of humanity, lose all the purple stuff!!

A New Car

Ten years ago, I bought a car. Ten years before that, I bought a car. So naturally, yesterday I bought a car. I didn’t set out to purchase automobiles every ten years, it’s just worked out that way. It’s the same way with Pam, I buy her a car roughly every ten years. There are several reasons for this, I suppose. First of all, I don’t like buying cars. They are expensive. They are also depreciating assets and I am not in the depreciating business. The fact that the car I purchased yesterday is worth considerably less this morning as it sits in my garage is profoundly disappointing. The process of buying cars, although improved, is annoying, as it involves sometimes ruthlessly disingenuous salesmen and their equally ruthless managers, all intent on separating me from as much of my money as is legally possible. Nevertheless, there I was at Moore Cadillac yesterday enduring my once in a decade unpleasantness.

As is always the case with my car purchases, this one was a demonstrator. Why should I take the initial depreciation hit when I can let someone else do so? Usually the cars I buy have two to three thousand miles on them at time of purchase. This one, happily, had only 227. Like my old car, this new one was also red. I like red cars. They are easier to find in parking lots. I fully intend to keep this one for another ten years.

The problem with buying cars only once every ten years is that when you get a new one, it takes three hours for the sales guy to explain to you how to turn the thing on. The technological advancements in automobiles over the past decade has been astonishing. As my man Bob sat beside me explaining all of the bells and whistles of my new Cadillac XT5, I felt like I did when I bought my first smart phone, “what the heck??” There I was taking my test drive when all of a sudden my seat began furiously vibrating beneath me. At first I thought there might have been a squirrel trapped down there, but was informed that I had merely allowed the car to drift out from between the white lines of my lane. OOOO-K, good to know! Then I was warned that if I was foolish enough to not slow down fast enough because of an approaching backup, first the car’s seat will start to vibrate, then a bright red flashing light will illuminate the entire dash, then the car’s computer will suddenly and violently apply the brakes, along with a caustic warning by Charles, my computer’s British-sounding voice...Hand’s on the wheel, eyes on the road, mate! In fact, it became clear to me as the two hour tutorial continued that there would be many such tongue lashings, flashing lights and beeps directed my way as the new owner of this vehicle. To drive this car will be an exercise in computer based denunciations and stinging invective directed at me for my various shortcomings as a driver by a pleasant but firm British chap who does not suffer fools. I am told that there is a way to shut off this abuse, but I rather think that it will do me good to be dressed down every once in a while by my car. Back out of many parking space too fast and this thing will slam on the brakes and demand to know where the freaking fire is!! Let your speed creep up to 80 on the interstate? Better be ready for old Chuck to chime in, “Yes, indeed. This will be a fine day to die. Proceed!!” Weave in and out of traffic too frequently and my friend will inquire as to whether or not my life insurance is paid up.

As I drove my new car off the lot at 5:30 in the afternoon, after arriving there at 1:00, it occurred to me that this will probably be the last car I buy which allows me to drive. Ten years from now when I’m 71, my final car will most likely be of the fully automated self-driving variety. No telling what kind of backtalk that computer will dish out!