Time to Laugh

It’s been a busy week. I’ve dealt with a lot, from grieving widows to stressed and overworked teachers. Sometimes, by the time Friday arrives you just want to laugh at something…anything. So, an old friend sent me this…

Not bad. Not bad at all. Then, there’s this…

My son once asked me how poo was made.

I took a deep breath and reluctantly explained it to him.

Clearly traumatized, he looked up at me with tears in his eyes and asked, “what about Tigger?”

Getting back to the stressed out and overworked teachers, my wife has been arriving home in darkness, around 5:30 every day this week. This despite the fact that her official day ends somewhere around 1:30. Well, apparently the apple didn’t fall too far from then tree. A teacher friend of my daughter recently took this picture of Kaitlin’s car in an empty school parking lot…

It is the life they have chosen, I suppose. It’s why every time I hear someone say, “yeah, but they get the summer off,” I want to beat that someone to a pulp.

Slack-Cutting

I’ve decided that I’m in the slack-cutting business. It’s a good business to be in at this moment in time since it seems I have very little competition. I could have —and probably should have — opened up shop years ago, but I didn’t have it in me. Back then I knew everything. 

You learn that some old friends of yours have separated and are contemplating a divorce. Twenty years ago news like this would have provoked a different reaction in me… back in the days when I knew everything. Divorce was simply a failure of the will, indicative of weakness and emotional laziness and more often than not an indication of infidelity, already committed or actively contemplated. I came to these conclusions not because of personal first hand knowledge, but rather from inflexible judgment. Twenty years later, although many of these judgments may still be true, I come down firmly on the side of mercy and grace, two vital components of the slack-cutting business.

First of all, I’ve never gone through a divorce. I have absolutely no idea what its like. I don’t know the first thing about the anguish, sadness, and pain experienced by the participants. I cannot think of any human experience that produces anything approaching divorce-level despair other than the death of a loved one. In many respects, a divorce is exactly like death. Something has died which produces both mourning and grief. Somewhere down the line I have started to react to news of divorce more like someone who mourns rather than judge and jury.

But, its not just divorce, it’s practically every area of human failing. Being in the judgment business is exhausting. I’m no good at it primarily because I’m much more aware of my own capacity for failure than I used to be. It’s such a strange thing. When I was younger I looked at most older people and felt that the older they got the more judgmental they became. But as I have gotten older its been a different story. I’m more aware of my own sin, not less. I’m more aware of my inconsistencies and hypocrisy, not less. Grace has become for me an absolute essential, not merely an abstract spiritual concept. Not only do I desperately need it, but I’ve found that giving grace to others has made me…happier. Leaving the judgment to God has taken a heavy burden off of me. Cutting people some slack can be a profitable business.

I wish my friends well. I pray for restoration if it is possible. But if not, I wish them well and hope they both find peace and a more fulfilling life.

Napping and Fartgate

Ok, Joe Biden isn’t the greatest President we’ve ever had. In fact, his first year has been awfully close to disaster territory. Having said that, I must rise to his defense with regards to the flack he has caught from two recent incidents which occurred during his recent European trip…the alleged presidential nap taken during the Climate Summit in Scotland, and Fartgate. First, the nap…

Yes. The president seems to be catching a quick power nap during a boring address by someone no doubt speaking a language other than English. I should point out that this was relatively soon after he arrived in Scotland from Washington, so jet lag played a factor here. Also, if there were a thousand cameras pointed at my face during any meeting I have ever attended in my 38 years of business meetings, I would not only be napping, I would be head thrown back, mouth wide open, snoring napping. I thought the fact that he wore a mask was well played. At least his head was erect, and his arms professionally folded. As public naps go, this one was pretty buttoned up.

Now, for the flatulence uproar…

So, apparently when Joe had a meet and greet with Camilla of the Royals, after a long day of climate change discussions, the President had a bit of a gas emission of his own. According to informed sources from the British newspaper, the Dailymail, the emission was “loud, long and impossible to ignore.” But, ignore it he did, always the safe play whenever this happens. Camilla was astonished by the the incident and apparently “hasn’t been able to stop talking about it since.” Well now…What ever happened to the famous royal family class and dignity? Since when is it considered good form to blab about another’s er…slippage to anyone and everyone who will listen? Especially when one of those listening is a reporter from the Dailymail?? 

Look people, the man is 78 years old. What are 78 year old men known for? That’s right…naps and involuntary flatulence. It’s just part of life. I say give the President a break. If you want to fuss at him for fiscal policy, immigration, the supply chain, or COVID mask mandates, have at it!! But he should get a pass on naps and farts. Look, if the most embarrassing thing his predecessor ever did was let one fly every once in a while and take a few naps, he would probably still be President. Besides, think about this…what President ever created any mischief while…napping? The answer is none. In fact, wouldn’t we all be a lot better off if more of our election officials would take more naps, not fewer, and of longer duration than Biden’s cat nap in Scotland?

Nap on, Mr. President, and go a little easier on the broccoli.

In Praise of the Suburbs

It’s almost impossible to watch anything on television without hearing someone slamming the suburbs and those who choose to live in them. It’s like death and taxes in Hollywood that the suburbs are where people go to die. It is always painted as a monument to a boring, cookie-cutter existence. The only real, authentic place to live is in the heart of the city. If you don’t hear sirens every night, you have sold out. Ok. I don’t begrudge anyone for choosing a downtown life. Go for it. But let me offer a different take on the particular suburb where I live, Wythe Trace.

Pam and I have lived here for the past 24 years. When we moved in the place was still being built, our street was still gravel. We are the only people ever to live in our house. Over the years we have had neighbors come and go. As they have done so they have gotten…younger and much more diverse. Our neighborhood is like the United Nations. We have found that there is an advantage to staying put in one place. The younger this neighborhood gets the younger we feel. We are surrounded by couples in their 30’s and early 40’s, all with several children. This means when I turn the corner on my way home from work I have to drive slowly because there are always a bunch of kids playing in the street. It is wonderful. 

Here’s something that happened earlier this week that convinced me that Pam and I have made the right decision by sticking around. I was walking down my driveway to get the mail when one of my young neighbors drives by, slows down for a second to chat. She is the mother of an adorable little girl and a brand new baby boy. Making small talk, I mentioned that I had just come from the back yard where I had prepared the grill to cook some burgers only to discover that my propane tank was empty. She immediately offered to loan me their’s since it was full, she practically insisted. I told her to not bother, we could always cook them on the stove inside…it was no big deal. We wrapped up our friendly chat and I was on my way. Five minutes later she rings our doorbell carrying her propane tank—which she had carried from two doors down! I couldn’t believe it. Sure enough, I hooked it up and cooked our burgers. The next day I let myself into their back yard and put the tank on their deck.

In our little culdesac in suburbia—that vast conformist wasteland—there are a dozen kids ages infant to 16. Along with all those kids there are bikes, skateboards, scooters, lemonade stands, frisbees, basketballs, trampolines, eight slobbering dogs, and lots of shrieking arguments and high pitched laughter, all the while their frantic parents are trying desperately to keep up. In other words, its exactly what our life used to be like. It is so nice to watch them without any of the pressure of actually having to do it anymore. Let me tell you city-living elitist out there, these parents are killing it.

So, here’s one unapologetic vote for the suburbs.

Thoughts About Dogs

Got my Booster shot last night at 9 o’clock. It is now 7 in the morning and I am feeling zero physical side effects, and as far as I can tell my mind has not yet been compromised. I have heard no voices up there telling me to give up my autonomy and vote Democrat. But…it’s early.

However, I was treated to an amazing cartoon from Gary Larson…

Anyone who has ever had and loved a dog will immediate understand this all too well. It’s one of the things we love about them, right? They are oblivious to the troubles of this world, even—and especially—our troubles. It’s not that they don’t care. In fact, their capacity for empathy seems limitless. Its just that no matter what is going on around us, they know a couple of things for sure…that they love us and want us to forget about all that and give them a scratch. Lucy has this thing where she will come upstairs and find me in my recliner, then plop her front paws on my lap and demand that I drop whatever it was that I was doing and talk with her about my day. She sits there just a few inches from my nose with that goofy look on her face while I give her scratches. And…I tell her about my day. She totally understands every single word I say and is unimpressed with my travails. To emphasize this fact she invariably lets out a long and mournful yawn at point blank range as if to say…Seriously? That’s all you got? Then she gives my nose a lick and for a couple of moments she lays her head on my chest and rests, all while her two back paws are on the floor. It can’t be terribly comfortable, but it serves to remind me that all is well. Then, as unceremoniously as she arrived, she hops down, turns around three times in a circle then curls up in a ball on the floor beside my recliner and falls fast asleep.

Most dog lovers I know could tell a similar story. We get them for 10-15 years if we are lucky and they cram more unconditional love and loyalty into their time with us than all the humans we know combined. But, God doesn’t let us have them for too long…because he wants them back.

A Significant Milestone

Do anything in this life long enough and milestones will be reached, a significant anniversary or numerical marker. For The Tempest today is such an occasion, this being its 2,500th post. It took 10 years and 10 months to get here. For those keeping score, that means that I have churned out 19 of these things every month for almost eleven years. That seems like an awful lot to me, too much, almost embarrassing. How could one person possibly have that much to say? Even more confounding to me is the question…why do you people keep reading?

This milestone carries a bit of pressure. What should be the topic of someone’s 2,500th blog post? Today is Election Day. Should I write about politics? Tonight is game six of the World Series. Should I write about baseball? Donald Trump’s PAC just announced that they are giving away iconic Christmas wrapping paper for a minimum contribution of $35…

I mean, that one would practically write itself. 

When the pressure is on, I usually default to the familiar. So, for number 2,500, I’m going with this:

There was an old man who lived beside a great forest. As he grew older and older, he started losing his hair, until one day, on his deathbed, he was completely bald. That day, he called all of his children together for a meeting…

He said, “Look at my hair. It used to be so magnificent, but it’s completely gone now. My hair can’t be saved. But look outside at that beautiful forest. It’s such a lovely forest with so many trees, but sooner or later they’ll all be cut down to make way for more and more people and this great forest will look as bald as my head.”

“What I want you all to do”, the old man continued, “Is every time someone cuts down a tree or a tree dies, plant a new one in my memory. Tell your descendants to do the same. It shall be our family’s duty to keep this forest beautiful forever.”

So they did.

Each time the forest lost a tree, the children replanted one, and so did their children and their children’s children, and their children after them. And for centuries, the forest remained as lush and beautiful as it once was, all because of one man…

…and his re-seeding heirline.

My Week at the Gaylord Hotel

It was a long week in Nashville, a universe away from normal. Living for four days in a place like the Gaylord Hotel is like taking a master class in cognitive dissonance…and the perfect place to be if your goal is to walk a minimum of 10,000 steps a day. Consider:

1. The Gaylord Hotel is too big. The massive layout is 2.1 MILLION square feet. It is nearly impossible to get from one place to another without a 10 minute walk. That’s perfectly fine but quite difficult for anyone over 75 years old or anyone carrying any unnecessary weight. 

2. If such a thing is possible, the Gaylord is too beautiful. The architecture, the gardens, the meandering paths winding along side the disturbingly real fake river are breathtaking to the point of distraction.

3. How much anything costs and how much anything is worth is of course two completely separate things. Many factors are at play from manufacturing costs to demand, level of scarcity, plus what the market for any good is able to bear. But when I needed lip balm and found a tiny sleeve of Blistex at a hotel shop then heard the lady say, “That will be $6.94…” I felt victimized. 

4. When you are attending a conference with 2,700 other attendees, you get to see the faces of people who do the same thing you do for a living at every turn for 96 hours and you hope and pray that you look and act different than many of them.

5. On the other hand, in delightful contrast, you realize just how special are the people from your own office. The people you work with are everything you knew them to be—smart, conscientious, thoughtful, and fun.

6. For everything there is a season, the old prophet says. Well, for me, roaming around from one honky-tonk to another on Broadway in downtown Nashville’s season has long past. A little of that activity goes a very long way. I mean…yeah, some of the bands were great, and the vibe and the history is interesting. But walking shoulder to shoulder with drunk strangers unable to communicate without screaming just isn’t a lot of fun—if you too are not drunk. Making the experience even more disconcerting were the presence of what must have been at least three dozen…

7. Homeless. This was not my first visit to Broadway, having done this a couple other times years ago with Patrick and Sarah. Back then there were a fair number of homeless people, but this time they lined the streets. They were everywhere, at the entrance to every bar, every restaurant. And this time a new wrinkle—almost all of them had a dog curled up forlornly at their feet. The homeless were almost all seated and few even held signs, most simply had a coffee can on the sidewalk in front of them gazing up at the throngs of revelers, hoping for a handout. It was as if they were saying…If you can’t have pity on me, do it for my puppy. Now, I know that the city of Nashville has probably a dozen programs to assist people in this condition. I also know that some of these folks are professional panhandlers and that I would be shocked at how much they haul in from gullible rubes like me. For this reason, I have always chosen not to encourage grifters. However, seeing them always cuts me on the inside. The juxtaposition of the partying masses with end of the road desperation is jolting. I watched one particular guy for probably an entire minute in front of some club and in all that time he never blinked his eyes, just sat there, emotionless, carelessly scratching his sleeping dog’s head. It’s the one clear image I have of Broadway…that one homeless guy, either a manipulative panhandler or a man at the end of his rope, closer to death than redemption.

There were plenty of bright moments on my trip. Best of all I got to see these guys…

Photo  Credit, the beautiful and talented Sarah Dunnevant

Patrick and I got to go to dinner and attend the Grand Old Opry on somebody else’s dime and we had a great night doing so.

I also had company on the drive back and forth, a very old friend of mine and the new kid, a former offensive lineman for the Hampden-Sydney Tigers who assured me for weeks that it would be an “Epic road trip!!”. An hour in to the trip down, THIS happened:

In the kid’s defense, he was able to rally, and despite having the bladder of a teenage girl, he eventually proved to be an excellent wing man. His taste in music was impressive in one so young and inexperienced, so much so that I have come to suspect that he is actually a 60 year old man trapped in a 26 year old’s body. But, then again, that 26 year old body has a 16 year old brain…so the boy is a work in progress.

So, the week is over and I am safely back home, reunited with Pam and Lucy, eager for the kiddos coming around tonight with their costumes. 

Finally, a few pictures of the Gaylord:

The view from my room.

All week, workers were decorating for Christmas. This was the first ornament I saw them put in place.

Soon, they were everywhere.