The Month of Nerves

Thirty days from today, Pam and I will leave Short Pump at some as yet to be determined hour of the night to make the drive to Maine for a month of lake living twenty minutes from the Atlantic Ocean. Due to COVID-19 concerns we will be making the drive up straight through for the first time in probably twenty years to eliminate the need for a hotel. I’m thinking we will leave around 1:00 in the morning which will put us at or near Camden, Maine somewhere around 4:00 in the afternoon. However, this arduous journey is the least of my worries.

It’s probably a dangerous reality of my life that I place so much significance on my time in Maine. It is the central event on each year’s calendar, the measuring point for everything else. How many days before Maine? is a question that is eternally asked in my house. In recent years even the month of July isn’t enough to scratch the itch, so we’ve added a two-three week fall trip. This year its even worse. I’ve thought of little else for the past eleven weeks of this insufferable pandemic. But now that it is so close I can practically smell it, the reality of the risks we face have become clear and are as follows:

1. Suppose one of us gets sick in the next thirty days? 

2. Suppose someone we love gets sick in the next thirty days?

3. Suppose there is a catastrophic surge in cases nationwide that forces another lockdown quarantine to be declared A. Before we leave or B. Once we are there?

4. Suppose one of us gets sick after we arrive in Maine—where the medical facilities aren’t as numerous or as well-equipped?

I’ve often thought that it was possible to love something too much, to desire a thing with too much intensity, transforming it into something close to an idol. For me, my time in Maine is getting close to that status. So, this year, I want it even more, which means that for the next thirty days I will be sweating bullets. June will be a month of nerves, a time of great caution in the Dunnevant household.

Maine has been and continues to be my get out of jail free card. Can’t imagine losing it in 2020 of all years.

Memorial Day Picnics in the Age of COVID-19

Today, the Dunnevant Clan comes out of its COVID cocoon for the first time for a Memorial Day picnic. In true Dunnevant fashion, it will be a groundbreaking event since it will be the first such picnic to take place...in shifts.

So, depending on where you stand on the wisdom of reopening the country, what follows will either terrify you or cause a spontaneous eye-roll of derision. That’s ok. We are a divided nation. I’m ok with both reactions. I also care not a whit for what you think about our picnic. The fact that my crazy family has managed to go nearly three months without a gathering of any kind is a testament to something...I’m not sure what. I wouldn’t have thought this family had it in us to obey any government mandated rule for this long, but we are a family full of nurses, teachers and germophobes.

The family mover and shaker, my big sister Linda Schwartz, sent out a family email announcing her intention to host the event several days ago. The stated purpose of the email was to seek consensus on the particulars and to insist that nothing would happen until and unless all of us agreed to the format. After a deluge of back and forth emails, it was determined that we would arrive...in shifts as follows:

12:30...First crew consisting of Jenny, Matt, Darcy and Bennett, Paul, Christina, Ezra and Evelyn. This is the younger crowd, the test run, the guinea pigs. Any deadly errors which might occur in this time slot will be corrected in time for the...

2:30...Second crew, including Pam and me, Paula Ron and Ryan and Linda and Bill. Each family unit will sit at an appropriate social distance. Linda will help everyone’s plates while wearing appropriate protective gear. Dinner will be provided by a local BBQ joint in Ashland and will be ladled up with a six foot extendo-spoon that Bill found on the internet. Survivors of the first crew will stick around for no more than 15 minutes of greeting time upon arrival of second crew, then beat a hasty retreat. Once the younger crowd is gone, Bill and Linda will haul out the heavy liquor. 

It should be noted that Becky, Ruaridh, Ava and Cameron will not be in attendance because of Ruaridh’s asthma. My son and daughter and their spouses live entirely too far away, while my big brother and his wife will not be able to make the drive from Maryland, without running afoul of that State’s much more draconian lockdown laws, which include but are by no means limited to, confiscation of all personal property and forced attendance at all future Baltimore Orioles home games.

It goes without saying that this entire affair will take place outside in the back yard. Anyone who insists on entering the house to go to the bathroom will only be allowed to do so in full hazmat gear with a rope tied around their waist. 

So, if national polling is to be believed, roughly 55% of you will think that we are being ridiculously over-cautious. 40% of you think we are taking entirely too many chances with this selfish gathering. The remaining 5% want to know what kind of heavy liquor, exactly?

The answer is...I lied. Linda and Bill are teetotalers.

Imperfect Algorithms

So, yesterday I received this in the mail...

I wondered, “That’s odd. I don’t remember writing him.” But, it’s not every day when you get a letter from the President of the United States, especially one that requests in bold red letters that you reply at once. It’s no secret to the readers of this blog that I’m not exactly a big Trump guy. Nevertheless, Presidential communications still have the power to stir the imagination. I sat myself down in my library where I traditionally open letters from Presidents and carefully opened it, being careful not to damage the envelope for posterity.

I have highlighted for the reader several undeniable truths found in this intuitive and prescient letter.

1. I am among a select group of conservative grassroots leaders.

There can be no question about this. Select indeed, since last I checked there are no conservatives of any kind left in the Republican Party. Well, maybe Rand Paul might let slip a howl of protest about the trillions of dollars of new spending and sovereign debt piled up over the last couple of years every once in a while, but everybody knows Paul is a crank. No, We’re all Keynesians now.

2. My active political involvement.

Indeed. I have been known to vote from time to time.

3. The experience I bring to the table is critical to our Party’s success.

The word our is carrying an awful lot of weight in that sentence. Pam and I have never been registered Republicans in the 36 years of our marriage. As a single man, I have never been a registered anything, although I think I did register for the draft at one point. It is true that I have cast votes for many Republican candidates, some who won and some who lost. But is also true that I have voted for a Democrat or three along the way. Still, I must confess that I do bring a lot of experience to the table...mostly concerning my photographic memory of Beatle lyrics and a skull full of baseball trivia.

4. As someone who has their finger on the pulse of your community.

Undeniably true. I have always had my ear to the ground and nose to the wind for all things Short Pump. I mean if you want to know who serves the best hot pastrami sandwich around here, it’s Boychiks, am I right? If you need a heads up on speed traps, I’m your guy.

Listen, I might have my finger on the pulse of my community, but the rest of my hand is always grasped firmly around my wallet when it comes to anyone asking for political contributions. When I finally arrived at the purpose of this executive communication...seen at the bottom of the page, I must say I was a little let down. 

When I asked my son about this letter and why it was sent to me of all people since I am none of the things this letter claims me to be, he pointed out that the algorithms that political parties use to compile their mailing lists aren’t perfect. Data is often conflicting but the algorithm only sees...this guy has a blog and seems to have conservative political inclinations...not...this guy’s blog has been making fun of Trump for the past five years. He also pointed out that the poor saps who happened to give money to Obama in 2012 and Trump in 2016 are probably getting deluged with letters right about now!

Memorial Day Plans and an Update on My Friend

The family received an email from my big sister, Linda Schwartz last night announcing tentative plans for a socially distant Memorial Day BBQ at her house. I use the word tentative since it will be the first attempted gathering of the Dunnevant Tribe since COVID’s rude arrival nearly three months ago. Linda asked for our input on ideas for making the affair safe and acceptable for all. “Perhaps we can break up into two groups to stay under the 10 person group limit, half of us coming for lunch, the other half for dinner,” she offered as a suggestion. No worries, we all replied. Since it will be outside and the tables will be arranged far enough apart to accommodate CDC protocols, having all of us at the same time would be fine, we reasoned. Then someone suggested that to get around the 10 person group limit, we could simply declare ourselves a church to stay within the law. Of course, I couldn’t pass that up...

“I like the church idea. We could call ourselves the First Church of the Perpetual Holy Ghost Barbecue COVID Cure Congregation.”

To which my wife responded: 

- Covid Congregational

- Pandemic Presbyterian 

- Quarantine Quakers

- Masked Methodists

I immediately saw this for what it was...a cry for help! It was my wife’s way of saying...Oh My God I have been quarantined inside this house with this man for entirely too long!! I am TURNING IN TO MY HUSBAND!!!

But, I have to say, when I read her email I was overcome with great pride.

Speaking of pride...an update on my friend.

So a couple days ago she was out for her daily walk when she took a nasty fall, scraping up her knee and landing awkwardly on her shoulder. Luckily one of her neighbors was out in her yard, saw her fall and came running to the rescue. At first she thought she might have broken something in her shoulder but it turned out to be just a bruise. This bit of news came on the heels of yet another potential setback in her recover when a suspicious polyp was found and biopsied. That too proved benign, a great blessing. But honestly when she shared all of this with me I felt like screaming at God. Her story sounds and feels more like Job every day and occasionally I get angry about it. But she remains supremely confident in her recovery and in the sovereignty of her creator. She is a marvel. A few days ago when Pam was preparing our anniversary slideshow she ran across these pictures from back in 2006...

That’s her and her husband, Johnny.

This is a group picture taken the same night down in Amelia Island in much happier times. My friend with her two big brothers from Short Pump.

Keep her in your prayers. She is tough as nails, but despite that strength needs all the prayers she can get.

36 Years

 

For 36 years now, this woman has endured this man.

Can I get an Amen?

Sofa Church, Socially Distant Umpiring and a Wedding Anniversary

It’s May 18th and there’s no baseball. The MLB is presently in negotiations with the players trying to cobble together a shortened season for 2020, the year of dashed hopes. Meanwhile, my wife and I have pretty much exhausted the present supply of watchable shows on Netflix, Amazon Prime, Hulu, and Starz. On the plus side of the ledger, our COVID-19 Rummikub tournament continues uninterrupted. As of this hour my wife is slightly ahead on points due to her diabolical sandbagging talents. Yesterday was the 10th consecutive Sunday that we have attended Sofa Church. The Live-streamed service is fine. Our staff tries really hard to do it well. It still sucks. When your communion elements are grape flavored Sparkling Ice and a sandwich thin, something of the poignancy of the moment gets lost. 

But, there’s always good news lurking out there if you know where to look. The State of Maine just lifted the quarantine rules for out of state visitors effective July 1. That means that we will not have to confine ourselves in the lake house for the first two weeks of our stay! It had been originally through the month of August so this is a huge relief. Of course I can think of many fates worse than being quarantined here:

With this view every night:

So, I’ve been thinking about how baseball can possibly have a season, even a shortened one, in the world of COVID-19. The first item on the agenda will be...how is anybody going to get professional baseball players to refrain from...spitting??? Assuming that miracle can be performed, how is it possible to maintain social distancing between the catcher and the home plate umpire. If the umpire has to move six feet behind the catcher, his ability to maintain a consistent strike zone (already damn near impossible) will be hilarious to behold...

UMPIRE:  STRIKE ONE!!!

CATCHER: Dude...he hasn’t thrown a pitch yet!!

 The complete elimination of sunflower seeds from the dugouts of the big leagues will be like asking Congressman to go a week without hogging a microphone. It will be like asking Donald Trump to quit Twitter. Unthinkable.

Tomorrow is a big day. It will be our 36th wedding anniversary. It will be pouring down rain. Our kids will be hundreds of miles away. No restaurants will be available. I have yet to come up with a proper plan for the evening. But, we will celebrate nevertheless. She is the love of my life, the one indispensable person in my world. She was my best decision, the one thing about which I am most proud. Although a couple of nights ago, she gave me pause. I happened to be walking through the den and there she was watching a television show about celebrities watching television. She was giggling and chuckling, throughly enjoying herself. I said, “what the heck are you watching?” She replied happily, “Its so funny...there are all these famous people being filmed watching television, just regular shows.” It might have been the very first time I have ever been embarrassed to be married to Pam Dunnevant. Then I thought that after 10 weeks of COVID-19, I should cut her some slack. Right now I suppose we all take our entertainment wherever we can get it.

Anyway, I’ve got 24 hours to come up with a plan for our wedding anniversary. Wish me luck.

His Eye Is On The Sparrow

I was walking around the culdesac yesterday afternoon when I saw one of my neighbors firing up his grill. I walked up his driveway and struck up a conversation. I was interested in how his wife was holding up in her job as an ICU nurse. It was crazy hearing about the protocols they go through each time she returns home from a shift. But then he told me about her very first survivor of COVID-19, a 54 year old man who just recently was taken off the ventilator after five weeks. It looks like he’s going to make it. Every other case they have had has been fatal. The one bit of information I forgot to ask was, how many cases they’ve had? Next time I see him, I’ll remember to ask. He did say that some of the cases have been otherwise healthy people, one guy who was an avid runner. But, think about this 54 year old man who spent five weeks on a ventilator, heavily sedated, isolated from every single person who ever loved him. Think of his wife and children, unable to see him, comfort him as he lay in a hospital bed fighting for his life. Think of the disorientation he must have felt to wake up and be informed that it’s been over a month since he was admitted!

The past two evenings Pam and I have sat out on our deck in this marvelous weather we’ve enjoyed, as the sun has set behind the houses in the distance. We are able to lounge around for hours out back thanks to the wonderful people at the Mosquito Authority, by the way. Best money I’ve ever spent. Both nights right around 8:05 every bird in the neighborhood begins singing all at once, a mad, frantic chorus. Each night it happens just before sunset. Our bird watching son in law informs us that it is their night song, an instinct inbred in birds of all kinds which causes them to herald the rising and setting of the sun. We listen to the delightful sound and marvel. Then it becomes dark and the sun catching lanterns on the railings of our deck come on, having stored up solar energy all day, and now illuminating the stained glass cardinals...

In a minute, the stars will come out and the birds will be silent. Then the crickets will begin their dull chirping, rhythmic and enchanting. My wife lifts her cell phone skyward and watches it’s screen reveal the constellations with a new app she has downloaded. Here is Capricorn, there Sagittarius. I watch her face lit up by the soft glow of the screen and ponder my great good fortune that I am not the 54 year old man on the ventilator, or the avid runner who’s life was snuffed out by a virus.

The birds and the crickets know no such virus. They chirp and sing at every sunrise and every sunset all the while running the risk that some creature larger and more powerful than they will devour them. For them, every minute of their existence is a risk. And yet we are told that their creator takes notice when even one of them falls. As I sit in the darkness of my backyard, listening to the hum of the crickets, I take great comfort in the fact that...his eye is on the sparrow.