Root Canal Without Anesthetic

I would like to personally thank the Atlanta Braves for sparing the country the ghastly horror of having to endure a World Series between the Houston Cheaters and the Tinseltown Celebrities. We all would have found ourselves on the horns of an existential dilemma, ie…which of those two despicable franchises to support? Now, thanks to the Braves bullpen, we all have been saved. I will be cheering mightily for the Atlanta Braves, something I did regularly years ago when my hometown played host to their Triple AAA team, the Richmond Braves. Once the R-Braves left town and Washington DC got a team for the first time in forever, I began supporting the Nationals as my National League team. So this temporary allegiance to the A-Braves brings back a few fond memories.

If the Astros prevail I will be severely disappointed, clinging as I do to that ancient incantation…cheaters never prosper. However, there is one thing about the Astros that I don’t hate…their manager, Dusty Baker. The single silver lining of an Astros World Series victory would be that Dusty will have his manager’s championship to go along with the one he won as a player with the Dodgers in 1982, and as a consequence end up in the Hall of Fame. My connection with Dusty Baker goes back five decades, back when he was a blade thin outfielder with speed and power playing for the Richmond Braves, on his way to a distinguished big league career. I watched him play a couple of games at old Parker Field, probably in 1970 or ‘71, on a team that also included two other future big league stars…Ralph Garr and Darrell Evans. Now, fifty years later, he’s still hip deep in the game of baseball, managing a team within four wins of the title. 

But other than that, nothing good would come from an Astros victory. Go Braves!!

On another topic… I leave on Tuesday headed down to Nashville to attend a business conference for four days at the Gaylord Hotel. This particular affair is an annual event that I normally boycott for a variety of reasons, chief among them being the preponderance of meetings. There are far too many to count, one hour long gauntlet of dull monotones after another for four days. But, my industry loves this sort of thing, and a surprising number of guys like me wouldn't ever miss the chance to attend. Guys who do what I do for a living are all really in to networking and cocktail parties and making small talk with a thousand strangers. I’m perfectly capable of doing all those things. In fact, I’m pretty good at all three. But, after 38 years, I’m kinda done with schmoozing. Basically, I’d rather have a root canal without anesthetic. My rule has been, I attend these things once every five years. Its all my disposition can safely handle. The fact that the meeting is being held in Nashville made the decision easier, since it means I can visit with Patrick and Sarah while I’m there. 

I will drive instead of fly. That way, I have my car with me and can bolt anytime I want, the conference equivalent of sitting on the aisle seat at church. However, as a consequence of driving, I have been roped in to taking two passengers from my office along for the ride. One is a guy who has been in the business a year longer than I have, has the money to fly but is too cheap. The other guy is brand new in the business, just a kid really, who is super amped for what he refers to as our ROAD TRIP, BABY!! All I an say is the kid better have a strong bladder or he’s gonna rue the day he hitched a ride with me!

So, for everyone out there who considers me a friend…pray for me this week. I’m gonna need it.

Creativity Engine is on the Fritz

Writing is funny. Sometimes for me it is literally the easiest thing in the world. Half the time I feel like I could write a story on demand, out of thin air. But every once in a while it becomes hard, nearly impossible. Back in August of 2020, six months in to COVID, I started writing a story. At the time I wasn’t sure what it was going to be, a short story or novel. All I had was the basic premise and the broad outline of a protagonist. With a lot of lockdown/quarantine time on my hands, I started writing. I blazed through the first dozen chapters rather quickly. The story had exploded into something far more complex. It would be a novel.

Then around Christmas of 2020, I took a break and sat it aside for a couple months. The new year was starting and I was busy, but the characters were never very far from my mind, always dancing around in my head trying to get me to come and play. Finally at the beginning of this summer I took up the story again. One chapter after another poured forth from wherever it is that they come from. Every time I sat down to write the words came with uninterrupted speed and clarity. By August the thing had 24 chapters and 50,000 words. 

Then, one day everything stopped. The gears of the creativity engine had seized up and no matter how determined I was to write, nothing came….nothing.

So, there it sits, frozen, leaden, atrophied. I read random chapters occasionally trying to find the spark. Nothing. I still love the story and care a lot about the characters, but for the last two months, I got nothing.

This sort of thing never happens to me. The other three novels I’ve written were mostly uninterrupted 6-8 month journeys where I only took a few weeks off to tend to more pressing matters—like earning a living. This thing is different. I’ve hit a wall so formidable that I’m afraid I might never break through. Maybe this is where the story just runs out of steam and dies. Just because its never happened to me before doesn’t mean it never does happen. An unfinished story…I’m sure there are a million of them out there.

Fourteen months ago, this is how it started with this one paragraph introduction…

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.

Can’t Miss the Wedding

Yesterday was the last day we could RSVP for the upcoming wedding of the daughter of dear friends of ours. Pam asks, “So, what do we tell them?” She didn’t really need to ask since both of us knew that the answer was going to be…Yes, of course we will be going to the wedding. The only question was whether we would fly or drive, the venue being 650 miles away. Turns out that once you account for the cost of two flights, a two day car rental and the hassles associated with airports and connections etc. its just not worth it. So another road trip is in the works for us.

Here’s the deal…the older I get, the fewer things I want to miss. There comes a time when it occurs to you that some things are just too important. You just don’t want to miss the assembly. You can’t miss the concert, the play, the ballgame…the wedding. When my kids were little there was something every week it seemed like. But you just couldn’t miss one. You never wanted your kids to look out in the audience or the stands and not see you. Now, I’m counting the days until I have concerts and ballgames for my grandkids to attend. Until then, when a girl you have known, loved and worried about for the better part of 15 years gets married…well, its time for a road trip!

Life is short. Time is fleeting. Don’t miss the weddings.

What Kind of Woman Did I Marry?

It was late in the afternoon on Saturday. I was driving home from Maine on Interstate 81 south of Scranton. I had been on the road for nine hours already, bone tired, hamstrings barking. I still had a hundred miles left before our hotel in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. But, I had caught my second wind because Red Sox/Astros game 2 was on the radio. Now, with baseball to distract me, the throbbing pains in my butt and back from driving over 500 miles seemed to have diminished. Then my wife did something so out of character…she asked me a baseball question. First, some context.

In the first inning of the game, J.D. Martinez had hit a grand slam home run for the Red Sox. It was now the second inning and once again the Red Sox had the bases loaded with Rafael Devers at the plate. Pam, who is famous for her sports cluelessness, turns to me and asks a surprisingly prescient question:

“What are the odds that the Red Sox could hit another grand slam now after hitting one last inning?”

For a brief moment I was stunned that A. She had been paying attention to what happened an inning ago, and B. That she was even aware that the bases were now loaded. Once I recovered from the surprise I answered something like, “I suppose its possible, but not very likely. Grand slams are extremely rare, especially in the playoffs.”

What I didn’t know was that the radio feed of the game we were listening to had an almost 45 second delay from the television broadcast, and back in Short Pump my sister Paula was watching and had just sent Pam a text informing her that Mr. Devers had, in fact, hit yet another grand slam. So, my wife was basically messing with me. But, thats not all she was doing. She was also secretly taking photographs of me, first in nervous apprehension, and second in celebration…

This is the kind of woman I married.

Pride Goeth Before a Fall

Yesterday morning around 7:00 was the moment of truth. I had been putting it off ever since we got back from Maine. It was time…time to step on the scale. After two weeks of eating incredible food, devouring snacks of every description, and enjoying more adult beverages than is my custom, I was expecting the worst. Sure, I had lots of exercise, spent almost every day outside in the fresh air and all…but all that bread!! I turned on the shower, brushed my teeth while the water warmed up, then reluctantly stepped up to the plate and…nothing. I had gained…nothing. I was the exact weight I was before I left! I celebrated with a fist pump and stood under the hot water for a minute, about as self satisfied and cocky as I have been in a long time. 

…Then while reaching for the body wash I pulled a muscle in my neck. I could practically hear my mother’s voice, “Pride goeth before a fall.”

So, I have been in pain ever since, head cocked ever so slightly port side, a hand under my chin propping my head up to ease the spasms. However uncomfortable this has been, it has not prohibited me from feasting on post season baseball and the incredible runs being put on by the Red Sox and the Braves. I have enjoyed every minute of these games. I can’t remember watching a team hit quite as well as the Red Sox are hitting this post season. And watching any team beat the Dodgers has been glorious. Sure, I have my qualms with certain aspects of modern baseball. Eduardo Rodriguez goes 6 innings and gives up three runs and you’d think he was the reincarnation of Cy Young to hear the announcers gushing. Bob Gipson, Sandy Koufax, and Mickey Lolitch must be shaking their heads in disbelief at what passes for dominant post season pitching these days. But, I quibble. Its still baseball and I still love it.

Saying Goodbye to Maine

Friday will be our last day here, bringing to an end what has been seven weeks in Maine for 2021. As I was on the lake fishing this morning I tried to calculate how much time I have actually spent up here in my 63 years. It’s fuzzy and all runs together in my memory, all the trips to Webb Lake with the kids, and the ten years of coming to Midcoast. The best I could come up was just a couple weeks shy of an entire year. Then, this afternoon, I started reading a book by the famous Maine man of letters, John N. Cole. He makes this statement which I found both jarring and profound, “I have not lived all my life in Maine, but Maine is the only place I’ve lived my life.” Although it is not completely true for me since I love Virginia and am proud to be a Virginian—a title that still means something—it is at least partially true. The time I spend here has had a greater impact on me than any place I have ever been. I think differently here, eat differently, do different sorts of things. Life feels different, less rigorous with fewer anxious moments. Time loses its relentless grip, freeing you up to stay in the moment…something that I have always struggled to do.

This will be my last blog about Maine for quite a while. We don’t return until July 8th of 2022. That means that from now until then life gets serious again. Back home we have stuff to do, jobs that require our attention, people to see, places to go, grass to cut. I will have two stacks of mail to open. At home it will be 75% political attack mail warning me about how diabolical some candidate is and warning me of how absolutely vital it is that I vote for the other candidate.  My office mail will be 75% junk that wild horses could not make me open. Sometimes I think if it weren’t for junk mail, the Postal service could cut back to three days a week delivery and no one would notice or care, not to mention how much less trash would wind up in the landfill. I received no mail in the seven weeks we spent here. It felt like a great cleansing.

Plenty of bad things happened while we were here. The world doesn’t stop just because we have withdrawn temporarily. A close friend of mine lost a dear family friend to a surprise blood clot in the middle of the night. He was 41 years old. Two family members got COVID. William Shatner went to space. This world keeps on turning. Sunday afternoon when we roll into our driveway, we will be right back in the middle of it all, having been refreshed body and soul by a place that never seems to change. The wind is still fresh in our faces, the lake still shimmers with sunlight, and the loons still call out to us. The lobster is still sweet, the shops still smell of balsam and the sea, and the people are still delightfully quirky. And we still haven’t found our dream camp, which only means that we are an entire year closer to meeting her. 

I will close with another quotation from Mr. Cole from the book, In Maine:

“In Maine, I have watched the wind being born, birthing in the western sky and then feathering the bay’s silken surface with the first tentative touch of its young pinions. I have seen the nor’westers make a sea of our meadow, rolling the high grass in waves that break on the crest of our hill. I have felt the same wind fill a sail with a hard slap that sets my boat a running. It does the same thing to me. It dashes its fresh chill in my face, clears my head and sets my thoughts a running.”

Lucy’s Camp

In the Dunnevant family, much is made of the LVV award, given each year to the person who best displays their complete and utter worthlessness while on vacation. Sloth, total absence of initiative, and general laziness are essential for anyone who hopes to snag the Least Valuable Vacationer award. My daughter is the undisputed champion of the LVV, but since she’s not on this trip, my sister Paula has been the runaway winner. However, if there was such a thing as a Most Valuable Vacationer award, this trip’s winner would be equally unanimous…Lucy.

This dog has been living her very best life since we first pulled into the driveway 12 days ago. She loves everything about being in Maine, but the lake is her Valhalla. She parks herself at the very edge of the dock, stretches her nose in the direction of the breeze and sniffs like its her job. She is fascinated by the leaves that float on the water, totally enamored with my lures as they glide across the water’s surface. But swimming is what she lives for. Yesterday, I had been out on the kayak fishing for about three hours when I turned a corner and spotted our dock probably two football fields away. Pam texted me that she was going to let Lucy swim across to meet me halfway when I decided to head back to the dock. When I got a little closer—maybe one football field—I called her name. Immediately, she launched herself off the dock…

Her favorite swimming time is when she gets to tag along with Pam as she takes her paddle board out…

Sometimes, Lucy can’t decide if she should take a nap or not…there are so many things to do!!!

But, as long as Mom is close by, a nap can be taken anywhere.

But make no mistake…this is Lucy’s Camp!