Knuckle Dragging Work

Here’s my day yesterday captured in one photograph...

No, I didn’t stuff 62 thirty-nine gallon bags with leaves in one day. This is actually two months of bagging leaves. Yesterday I gathered them from their various locations and dragged them to the curb where the Henrico Department of Leaf Removal has promised to take them off my hands. Actually, I dragged 40 of them to the curb, then added another 22 that I stuffed full yesterday. Although I am paying the price this morning, doing this type of knuckle dragging work is about as satisfying as anything in my life. Why? It’s complicated.

I handle money for a living, a decidedly non-knuckle dragging occupation. When I come home from work and Pam asks me about my day sometimes its hard to give her a direct answer—“Well, I had an annual review with the Blogdonovich’s who informed me that their retirement date has changed, so I’m going to have to rework their portfolio, blah, blah, blah...”  But, when I work in my yard, I don’t have to wonder whether or not I’ve done any good at the end of the day. I don’t even have to say anything, all I have to do is point to that giant pile of bags...That’s what I did today! There is concrete, undeniable evidence of my labor. 

It all started when I was a kid. Dad gave me the job of cutting the grass and getting up leaves and everything else that had anything to do with the yard when I was eleven years old. He made a big dramatic deal of it..Son, this is a big job, a big and important responsibility I’m giving you. Don’t let me down! I complained at first, pointing out the salient point that I knew not one single other eleven year old who was so employed. Dad’s response was something along the lines of, And isn’t that a shame? There was no arguing with the man. But I soon discovered that I actually liked the job. In a weird way it was...fun. Still is.

One key difference between then and now is the level of my physical decrepitude. I can still do the work, still enjoy doing the work. But, I have to pace myself, and even then I wake up the morning after a day like yesterday feeling as if I have been the loser in a prize fight. 

...but just look at those bags. Is that not the most beautiful sight?

The Fall

Daniel Sebastian Fitzgerald’s life had been an unqualified success right up to the day he took a drink from an unopened bottle of water he found while jogging in a park less than a mile from his house. At least that was the initial conclusion which most of the family had settled upon after every other explanation for his implosion had failed to withstand logical scrutiny. So bizarre were the circumstances surrounding his metamorphosis that a family of educated people had been reduced to believing an unproven and unprovable theory involving a random bottle of water that had never been found or tested for toxins that might have explained how an otherwise circumspect 56 year old man could have so suddenly and spectacularly gone off the rails. The Fitzgerald family, being as unaccustomed to and unprepared for scandal as any tribe in North America had not handled the drama well. Accusations began to fly within the family, blaming everyone from his wife of 30 years, to his impossible to please father, to his meddling mother, all the way down to his disrespectful children. But, the writer has gotten ahead of himself. The reader by now is naturally wondering about the nature of Daniel Sebastian Fitzgerald’s metamorphosis, and not nearly as concerned with the infighting of his extended family. I will attempt to tell the tale honestly without bias or judgement, for in the day and age in which we live, this story needs to be told.

1. Family History

William and Margaret Fitzgerald carefully considered the name they would bequeath to their first born in the fall of 1963. The Fitzgeralds were second generation wealthy, William having inherited a small fortune from his self-made father and having married into the Sebastian fortune which had flowed to Margaret upon the untimely death of both of her parents, who had tragically perished when the catamaran they were sailing capsized during light winds in the Chesapeake Bay less than two years after Daniel Sebastian Fitzgerald’s birth. A manufacturing failure discovered within the workmanship of the mast ultimately added to the Fitzgerald fortune in the form of a settlement check from lawyers representing the boat company. William...it was William, never Bill, or worse...Billy, had for years been embarrassed at his wealth for the old fashioned reason that he had done nothing to deserve it other than being fortuitously conceived. His own career as a lawyer served only to provide him a place to go every day and a respectable answer to the oft-asked cocktail party question, “So William, what do you do?” The answer that he was an attorney quickly led into a pleasant ramble about his time at Princeton, and the early years of clerking for this judge and that. But as a matter of profitability, his law practice netted him barely enough money to cover his ample overhead. He had enough skill and connections to make an honest go of it but found the lack of urgency too much to overcome. Being independently rich, he discovered, had sapped him of any work ethic he may have inherited from his father. Eventually, William and Margaret had made peace with the happy accident of their births and stopped feeling guilt about their wealth. They had come to see their good fortune as, in fact, the very embodiment of the American Dream. They had come into their money the truly old fashioned way...by inheritance and summary judgments.

So, the choice of a name for what was surely to be the third generation of prominent and successful Fitzgeralds was crucial. Consideration must be given to tradition, the family tree and proper nobility. For William this meant a name that did not lend itself to truncation, or the degradation of a nickname. Daniel Sebastian checked off all the boxes, Daniel, after the Old Testament hero of the lion’s den, and Sebastian, the surname of his wife, the family name that provided 60% of the Fitzgerald net worth. However, William would ultimately regret the choice. It took virtually no time for little Daniel’s school friends, even those well bred enough to attend St. Paul’s, to twist Daniel into a hundred ugly iterations. Dan the Man, Danny-Boy, and the especially infantile Book-em Danno had all taken turns as the nickname of choice during Daniel’s middle and high school years, bringing his parents untold grief. When, over the course of time, it became obvious that nothing was to be done about the fact that their son would forever be known as Danny, William and Margaret accepted it as the price they would have to pay for raising such a popular and winsome boy. For Danny had turned out to be everything that his parents weren’t, optimistic, fun loving, adventurous, gregarious, empathetic and magnanimous, all traits that hadn’t appeared over several generations of either branch of the family tree. The Fitzgerald’s had largely been known as a stoic lot, full of industry and toughness to be sure, but not known for the warmer gifts associated with the human condition. Grandfather Fitzgerald, builder of a thousand brick ranchers and split levels throughout central Virginia, was an efficient and meticulous businessman known for being a fair boss, excellent craftsman, and ruthless negotiator, but in all of his life no one could recall him donated a single dime of his considerable fortune to a single charity beyond his church. His personality, such as it was, could best be described as distant. William had inherited all of the distance, none of the industry and all of the money. Although Margaret had been blessed with respectable warmth and charm along with a passable sense of humor, she had inherited the Sebastian family pride, the imperious kind that served as a stiff arm to the lower classes who were unlucky enough to stumble onto her path. Her single purpose as a mother to her son had been to protect him from bad influence which she narrowly defined as those outside his rank and station. To her eternal consternation, every such effort had failed. Danny counted among his friends an endless succession of misfits and ne’er do wells who brought with them their course language and sloppy manners. There was simply nothing to be done. Their son had developed a tendency of attracting friends everywhere he went, for good or for ill. His parents had been reduced to glorified overseers, doing their best to influence their son towards the right friends and away from the wrong. Despite this troubling tendency, Danny had given them not one minute’s trouble. He was respectful of their authority, dutiful and obedient, an excellent student and well liked by everyone.

Then he met Kate.

Kate, (not Katherine, the birth certificate actually said Kate), Buchanan had crashed into the Fitzgerald family like a runaway freight train in the summer of 1982 when Danny announced to his parents that he had met the love of his life and that she would be spending a week with them at the river house over July the fourth. Kate Buchanan had been exactly what Margaret Fitzgerald had warned her husband would happen if he permitted their son to attend Virginia Commonwealth University instead of Princeton. It should never have been allowed in the first place, their son matriculating at a state school known for nothing other than a basketball team and a campus life littered with drugs and bohemian habits. Princeton would have delivered the world to his doorstep. With VCU they would be lucky if he graduated without a stint in rehab. But here was Margaret, looking on in wordless horror as Kate Buchanan exploded out of the passenger seat of Danny’s BMW, dressed like a gypsy, radiant smile beaming out from under that ridiculous Panama hat, running up to engulf her boyfriend’s mother in an inappropriately familiar embrace. It had been the beginning of the most awkward week of Margaret’s life, filled as it was with the realization that her son was irretrievably ass-over-tea-kettles in love. Meanwhile, William had been struck mute by the presence of the girl, barely contributing a word to the conversation for the first hour or so, overwhelmed as he was by the pure novelty of someone who combined outrageous fashion and personality with such astonishing beauty. As the week wore on, Margaret and William were united in their belief that the girl would be an unmitigated disaster for their son, but equally convinced that the relationship would never last. Danny would soon tire of this whirling dervish. How could he not? The child babbled on all week about every conceivable topic that people like Margaret and William couldn’t possibly have cared any less about, while Danny sat there bewitched, hanging on every word. 

He had met her in an introduction to sculpture class, the sort of class he never would have taken had he gone to Princeton, when fate had placed him next to her on the back row. She had arrived to class carrying nothing with her that might have identified her as a student. No back pack, no books, no purse. Just a loose fitting tie-dyed T-shirt, no bra, and her angelic face. For Danny it had been love at first sight, or at least lust, which at 18 years of age amounts to the same thing. At the end of class during which not a single word of conversation had passed between them, she had extended her hand to him and said, “My name’s Kate. You’re cute.” Thus had began the manic affair that now had belched itself upon the banks of the Rappahannock River. Margaret and William smiled knowingly at each other. He would tire of her in time. All was well.

But like millions of parents before them, Margaret and William had underestimated the enduring power of both passion and love. By the time Danny had graduated with a worthless Bachelor of Science in Advertising degree, they were still in love and announced their intention to marry at the earliest possible date. When Margaret and William had objected to the match, Danny and Kate had responded by eloping, then sending his parents a postcard from Key West, officially beginning a 30 year strained relationship between Kate Fitzgerald and her in-laws. Although the arrival of grandchildren, a girl, Caroline, and a boy, Teddy (not Theodore), had softened the general frostiness of their discourse and injected a touch of warmth on both sides, animosity still hung heavily in the air whenever they occupied the same space. Despite the animosity, Margaret and William always managed to cover over their disappointment with the pleasant veneer of manners, never revealing too much, never letting slip any openly hostile words, always preferring the veiled insult, the soft contours of the pulled rhetorical punch. It infuriated Kate to be on the receiving end of their passive aggression, to the point where she had begun to take great delight in offering translations in real time to anyone who might be within earshot.

Margaret: Kate, my dear, you look healthier every time I see you.

Kate: What Grandma means kids is that Mommy’s getting fat!

Ever since the children had arrived it had become one of Kate’s joys in life to refer to her Mother in law as “Grandma.” Margaret hated nothing in the universe more than the ghastly title, always answering with, “Grandmother.” Of course, the children picked up “grandma” and used it gleefully as soon as they learned to talk, a delicious victory for Kate and a thorn in the side to Margaret who visibly winced at the sound of the word. Such pettiness was unlike Kate, a fact that her husband often reminded her after each family visit. Kate could only admit the truth.

“Yes,” she would reply. “When it comes to your mother I can be a real bitch. I should just ignore her, but I can’t help it. I do so love watching the way her bottom lip quivers right before it stiffens up and pushes out whenever one of the kids says ‘Grandma!!’ You’ve got to admit, honey. It’s pretty funny.”

“It’s hysterical,” Danny would always respond. “But what’s the point? It only makes things worse between you two.”

“Actually, it makes no difference whatsoever. Your mother will be your mother for as long as she lives. And as long as I remain your wife she will hate me, and never in a million years will she ever admit to hating me. Am I right?”

“Yes. You are right.”

Thirty years of the battle between wife and mother in law had raged without any meaningful cease fires. Even once Margaret became an octogenarian she still delivered her patented silk-covered verbal bricks in nearly every conversation. After watching Kate remove an over-cooked roast out of the oven, the silver-haired, face-lifted matron hadn’t missed a beat, “It is quite remarkable how unspoiled by failure you continue to be.” But on the fateful morning when Danny had stumbled back home from his Saturday morning run, white as a ghost with a nasty abrasion on his forehead, Kate’s skirmishes with her in-laws would intensify into a full blown war.

Wearing a Mask

You know what the worst topic for a blog is right now? Anything having to do with COVID. I’m so fed up with this pandemic I can hardly bring myself to type out the word...COVID. But, here I am writing about it because, just like those annoying AMWAY people from the 1970’s, it just won’t go away.

After a summer of relative progress, cases are skyrocketing again. Yesterday we set a death record of over 3000 in a single day. Hospitals are filling up and various jurisdictions around the country are attempting to institute lockdowns with varying degrees of success. Ordering Americans to do anything in unison is much like herding cats. Apart from the official numbers published by the agencies and departments of government keeping tract of the pandemic, there are  personal experiences to consider. For months and months when this all first started, Pam and I didn’t know a single soul who had COVID. All that has changed in a big way over the past couple of months. Suddenly, people all around us have come down with it, close friends, neighbors, members of our own family. It has become more real to us, less theoretical. 

But, there is also good news. There always is if you take the time to look. There is a very low mortality rate associated with this thing. The people we know who have tested positive have all recovered or are recovering...a very good thing. However, when I see what it has done to my dear neighbor, who has been sick as a dog for over a week now, I want no part of this thing, and neither do you. Also, a vaccine is on its way, a ray of hope that at some point next year we might actually get beyond this miserable nightmare.

In the meantime, it seems to be spreading like wildfire, prompting government officials to issue new edicts to battle the spread. Here in Virginia, our Governor plans a 2:00 news conference this afternoon to announce the latest measures. Close to half of my state’s population will reject whatever words come out of his mouth instantly, regardless of what he says. The reasons are complicated. Part of it is...he’s a jackass. Ralph Northam gives people lots of reasons to dislike him. In many ways he is the quintessential do as I say not as I do political hypocrite. Old blackface is a slippery one. But, as much as I dislike him and his Alfred E. Newman face with its condescending uplifted nose, I actually think that his handling of the COVID spread in Virginia has been exemplary. Our numbers have compared favorably with most other states and that is in no small part to the proactive steps his office has taken over these past 8 months. But for  many Virginians, the fact that he is a liberal Democrat means that everything he says is suspect. Like literally everything else in America in 2020, COVID has  somehow turned into a partisan issue. Indeed the simple, basic task of wearing a mask has become a type of Rorschach Test for politics. To some, wearing a mask in public is just a basic preventative measure, the very least that one can do to protect themselves and others. Its an easy ask. To others not wearing a mask has become a badge of honor, a stick it to the man statement of independence, a proclamation that they will not bow or bend to anyone attempting to take away their freedom. So, no matter what the Governor proposes this afternoon, expect more of the same, polarization and division.

My view is pretty simple. Since I have no idea whether or not I have COVID, I would rather not take the chance of spreading it to total strangers at the grocery store or at the bank, or at my church. So, while I am inside those places, I’ll be wearing a mask. No matter how unlikely it might be, if I discovered that my not wearing a mask ended up spreading COVID to someone else, I would feel terrible. A secondary reason for wearing a mask is my desire to lower my chances of catching it from someone else. 

Something I have read a lot over the past few weeks is some version of this...I’m just going to live my life without fear. After all, God is in control. Many, though not all, of those who are of this mind are also against wearing masks. Setting aside the theological aspects of free will and the sovereignty of God for a moment...the one thing I would like to ask those who fall into this category is, “Would you leave for a long car trip without a spare tire in the back?” I mean, why bother taking precautions if God is in control? Look, if its God’s will for you to have a flat, why fight it, right?

As an imperfect and highly flawed Christian, I believe I have a responsibility to others to model humility and grace in my dealings with them. This includes, for me, wearing a mask during a pandemic. Because I am told in scripture to consider others concerns more than my own, I feel compelled to set aside my own feelings about wearing a mask—the discomfort and annoyance—for the greater good it can do of halting or slowing the spread of this viral pandemic. It has nothing to do with politics or my notions of freedom or individual rights. It’s more about common decency and respect for the human beings around me.

Of course if you believe that COVID is a fake news media creation designed to usher in totalitarian governance and make money for pharmaceutical companies and nobody is dying from COVID, its all a hoax and masks are worthless in the fight because there is no pandemic...then none of what I wrote will matter to you. But...for everyone else? Wear a mask.

The Nobel Prize in Medicine Goes To...

Seventeen months ago I introduced all of you to my friend Pam Cole, who had just been given a cancer diagnosis. Since that time I have informed you of her progress from time to time in this space. There is no finish line when it comes to cancer, I’ve learned. Although she is done with all the treatments, she will still be going back periodically for scans and blood work for the rest of her life. Each clean scan she gets will be an excuse for a party. She has one last procedure coming up on December 29...unless COVID postpones it yet again! But, what a battle it has been. A year ago, she was about as sick as a human being could be without actually being dead. Now, she’s baking goodies for a sick friend, and just got back from her first weekend away outing with some girl friends to Williamsburg. Amazing.

We chatted this morning about what its been like for her, this past year and a half. Of course, she gave all the credit to God and her doctors, which is probably technically appropriate. But I hastened to point out another theory as to her successful battle with cancer...my jokes. I’ve actually done some tabulating and have been shocked to discover that since Pam got sick, the poor woman has endured over 1,000 of the lamest, most juvenile, moronic, and occasionally inappropriate Dad Jokes ever assembled in one place for the treatment of a cancer patient. Considering her miraculous recovery, I’m thinking that I should at least get Honorable Mention status by the Nobel Committee when they hand out the prize for Medicine this year. This morning’s offering was fairly typical of the genre:

A friend of mine makes Christmas Wreaths for a living. He recently decided to make one out of fresh $100 bills.

He calls it...a wreath of Franklin.

She awarded it with a face-palm emoji...for the thousandth time. Every once in a while she would reply, “You’re just not right”, which in all honesty is a fair observation to make after someone sends you this at 5:30 in the morning...

Have you heard about the new branch of Hip Hop where all the songs are about relationship attachment issues?

Its called Cling Rap.

Her finest moment in all this time was back in one of her darkest periods. She was sick as a dog and hanging on by a thread. I had just sent her three truly horrible Dad Jokes. She paused for quite a while and then sent this awesome text...Don’t you think I’ve suffered enough?

Merry Christmas, Mrs. Cole!!

Christmas Town...a Beautiful but Bizarre Little Town

A new personal record for waking up early in the books this morning, as I rolled out of the rack wide awake at 3:20. After emptying the dish washer, brewing some coffee, and making sure the world hadn’t completely gone to hell while I slept, it was only 4:00. Needless to say, I had some time on my hands. I took the time to post a video of Main Street in Christmas Town on Facebook. The townspeople arrived yesterday, and immediately, downtown was bustling. But, Christmas Town is more than just downtown. So I thought I’d let you guys see some of the neighborhoods in this fascinating place.

This is the home of  Fred and Millicent Stanwick who live in the fashionable Brevers Village Subdivision, so exclusive it has its own newspaper. The kid on the left is Tommy Snodgrass, who has been waiting all morning for his chance to throw that piece of firewood at the paperboy, Billy Dunlop. Tommy and Billy have been feuding ever since Kindergarten.

Nobody can figure out how George and Gladys Glotzbach get their kids to shovel the snow, but there they are every year slaving away while Mom and Dad do God knows what inside where it’s nice and warm. I mean, is there no child protective services in Christmas Town?

Ahh yes, the Leibovitz family. Malcontents. Always trying to sell the place and move out of Christmas Town. They think they are too good for the local rubes.

Snow angels, indeed!! The Wilson kids are the two biggest hellions in town. Constantly starting trouble, getting in fights. It is rumored that the boy, Butch, is into drugs.

There’s a skating pond on the edge of town. Butch, taking advantage of no adult supervision, just knocked little Billy Dunlop on his ass then skated off with his girlfriends. Kid’s nothing but trouble!

Just outside the city limits there’s the old Dixon cabin. No electricity, no plumbing—note the outhouse out back—and once again old man Dixon sends his kids out to chop wood for the stove. I think this town has a problem with child labor laws. It’s rumored that those two bears hanging out on the porch are domesticated. Nobody is quite sure what a giant battery case is doing propped up on the roof, but the Dixons are hicks so nobody asks too many questions...

Quiet street. Really smart zoning, putting the library and the hospital side by side.

But then, there’s this. The church, a daycare place and the dang high school jammed together like sardines. So weird. Also notice that yet again the adults of Christmas Town are nowhere to be found, even in the front yard of a day care center where kids are out playing in the freezing cold!

Much has been made of the lack of ethnic diversity in Christmas Town, so it was with great excitement that the local Chamber of Commerce announced a new exotic Chinese restaurant was coming to town. Unfortunately, 2020 was a bad time to introduce Asian cuisine to the citizens of Christmas Town during a pandemic with roots in Wuhon, China. But it did celebrate its first customer the other day...but the couple had to drive all the way from New York City.

Maybe the fact that the local doughnut shop is literally attached to the police station explains why you never see cops anywhere in town.

So, there you have it, a quick tour of Christmas Town where kids do all the work, there is always snow on the ground and literally nothing is to scale.

Every Flourish...

Yesterday was a day devoted to Christmas decorating at the Dunnevant house. Actually, its been going on for over a week now, room by room. Pam is something of a maniacal genius in this regard. When it is all finished there will be seven Christmas trees. There will be Department 56 Christmas villages all over the place. The people who will soon populate these villages know nothing of COVID, refusing as they do to socially distance, and not a mask to be seen. Today is the day devoted to bringing these mythical residents of Christmas Town out of exile. By the end of the day they will all be out there in the snow covered streets doing wintery things. I envy them.

In past years, I must confess, this decorating obsession of my wife’s has been a little annoying. Not that I don’t love the end result, but it has seemed a bit excessive. When I hear her complain about never having enough time to get crucial things done I silently mumble to myself, “Here’s an idea...maybe don’t spend ten days decorating the house!” But this year...I’m loving every excessive flourish. This year it seems perfect. This year, I celebrate every twinkling light, every ornament, every wreath. This year it feels like striking a blow against everything that 2020 has been. We may have endured a horrifying political season, a miserable election, endless social upheaval and this interminable and infuriating pandemic, but Christmas is coming. We may not be able to hold everyone in the family close, but our lights will shine like a million stars if we have anything to say about it. And, it isn’t just us. Our culdesac looks like a cross between the North Pole and Vegas...and I’m loving it. Makes me want to gather my neighbors in a circle out in the street, hold hands and sing that weird ending song from the Grinch... Fah who foraze! Dah who doraze!

Everyone knows that Christmas trees tell the story of a family. Ours is no different. Every weekend trip away to someplace nice has an ornament. Every vacation, every life event is represented. When we hung the ornaments last night it was like an episode of This Is Your Life. The soundtrack featured Harry Connick Jr, James Taylor, Nat King Cole, and The Carpenters. Then Pam opened up the kid’s hand made ornaments that used to go on the “kid’s tree” years ago. They have been in a box for the past few, but not this year. No, this year they need to be on the tree...

Cat Plague

Anyone who has read this blog for any amount of time will be aware of my love for dogs. What you may not be aware of is my loathing of cats. I have for the most part tried to keep this loathing under wraps, knowing as I do the odd attachment many of my readers have to felines. Indeed, my own family is full of cat lovers, (mostly women I might add), so I try to tread lightly. Especially since perhaps the biggest cat lover of them all is my beloved niece Christina Garland. Now, anyone who knows Chrissy is aware that there isn’t a sweeter person in the world. She is a wonderful mother, wife, etc etc...but this glaring weakness in her character, perhaps, dare I say, her only weakness has always troubled me. I try to drop little hints to her about her cat problem, but it is quite true what they say that the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem. Unfortunately, Chrissy remains stubbornly unaware. I suppose I can’t really blame her. Her own mother, my sister, is an unrepentant cat person who recently indulged her life long addiction with yet another kitten. Now, every fifteen minutes she sends a Marco Polo of the little tyrant doing something “cute”, the mere image of which sends me into a sneezing fit. But, what can I say? You don’t get to pick your family!

The year of COVID has granted all of us extra time for self reflection. One thing that has become clear to me is that my attempts to rescue the cat lovers in my family from their dangerous obsession have been woefully lacking. To that end, this blog post is intended to be the opening salvo of a new, more robust anti-cat initiative. From time to time I will produce more and more public service anti-cat information in this space. Education is always the key to a better life. I can think of no other tool for the task of ridding Chrissy of her feline fever than...Gary Larson.