Enough.

In the ten year history of The Tempest I cannot count the number of times I have written about a black man getting killed by a police officer. Ferguson, Baltimore, now Minneapolis. Then I wake up this morning and see this:

There was a time when I would have decried this sort of anarchy, criticized the destruction of private property and pointed out the pointlessness, even the counterproductive nature of such behavior. Indeed, if I were the owner of the Arby’s in the above photograph I would be rightly furious of the wanton destruction of my livelihood. But honestly, after the last ten years, I have to ask myself a difficult question...What would I have African Americans do? Call their Congressman?

Here’s the thing...I am a law and order guy. I generally support the police. They perform one of the most difficult and dangerous jobs in America for low pay. However, the overwhelming majority of them are finding it next to impossible to do their job precisely because of the presence in their number of too damn many bad apples. And when some of them get caught committing some heinous, racially charged murderous act, the odds are that their actions will be protected by a system that circles the wagons around bad actors and rules cold blooded murder as justifiable homicide.

It’s impossible to put myself into the mind of a 25 year old black man in an inner city of America. But when I make the attempt, I feel myself filling with rage at the injustice. If I were that 25 year old black man, you would have a hard time convincing me that the lives of  African Americans are thought to be as valuable as the lives of whites in the suburbs. Anybody who thinks the justice system available for George Floyd is the same justice system available to Doug Dunnevant is living in a fantasy world. This fact is what is driving the violence right now, the feeling that nothing will ever change so, screw it...burn it all down.

I am not condoning violence. The scenes above are horrific and represent failure on everyone’s part. But neither am I going to clutch my pearls and wag my fingers at those hopeless protesters. Are there simple opportunist among them who don’t give a s**t about the death of George Floyd, but see a chance to raise hell and loot? Sure. But most of the people on those streets are just fed up. So this time, I’ll take a hard pass on making a law and order argument until these folks get some justice.

Enough.

Anxiety Eating

I have learned recently that I am an anxiety eater. 

Over the past couple of weeks a new development has introduced itself into my life which has supplanted the COVID pandemic from its post atop my worry list. As a result, and unbeknownst to me, I have started to anxiety eat. Apparently when high stress/worry scenarios appear in life some people lose their appetite. Other people...eat. Count me among the second group. And we are not talking broccoli and cauliflower here people. For me it’s been chili cheese fritos, cappuccino fudge ice cream, caramel popcorn and anything else that can easily be shoveled into my pie hole. Despite putting in over 15 miles of road work over the past ten days, two days ago I tipped the scales at a robust 202 pounds, 10 pounds heavier than I was before the lockdown.

As a result of this extra poundage, I immediately swore off...snacks. It has now been 48 hours since I have indulged my craving for these guys:

This has not been easy. The popcorn isn’t that great actually, but it’s crunchy and sweet and satisfies some previously unknown weakness in my character. The ice cream...cappuccino fudge blast...is a sinful late night temptation. But, friends, that little number in the middle is perhaps my greatest weakness. I would read you the list of ingredients but, I would be ashamed. Chili cheese Fritos have absolutely no nutritional value. Their only purpose is to tempt you with their worthless yet diabolical deliciousness. With each handful you can literally feel your arteries hardening. Nevertheless, whenever I happen to walk past the pantry no matter what time of the day or night, I feel like Odysseus sailing past the Sirens. But I have no one to tie me to the mast, so my arm involuntarily finds itself being thrust down...down into the crusty, burnt orange abyss of fat larding nirvana. 

So, why is this half empty bag still in the pantry, you ask? This is a fair question to which I have no satisfactory answer. Despite its presence, I have resisted now for 48 hours. At some point they will be stale.

Who am I kidding? Stale or not, in a moment of weakness I would be on that bag like a fat kid on a box of jelly doughnuts. I should throw them out now. And I will. I swear.

At some point...

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?