Five More Months

February 1st has arrived and with it comes an opportunity for me to check January off the list of months I have to live through before I get to go to Maine. It’s the fourth such month I’ve checked off since last we left—leaving five more to go. After February gets checked off, we’ll be closer to going than we are from leaving—always a happy occasion.

Please don’t misunderstand. I don’t mean to suggest that our life here at home is something simply to be endured while waiting around for Maine. Far from it. I love Short Pump and am thankful for all the special things and people that make it our home. But, Maine is the reward, the reason why I work. 

This year we will spend six weeks on Quantabacook, from the 9th of July through the 19th of August. The first two weeks Pam and I will stay at Summer Dreams, an adorable camp we stayed for two weeks last summer and fell in love with. Then on the 22nd of July we will move six houses down the lake to our favorite cabin in all of Maine, Loon Landing. For those four weeks we will have guests at some point. Kaitlin and Jon will come to visit, maybe Patrick and Sarah. Six weeks is a long time, but flies by in an instant.

Right now the place is under a 20 inch blanket of snow, the beautiful lake a massive block of ice. The temperatures will be in single digits for another couple of months. But slowly but surely, the warmth will return. Sometime in the month of April, the ice will implode on itself, collapsing into the depths. The trees will begin to bud, the grass will grow. Then all the shops in Camden will open for business, in every window sill, every pot and hanging from every street lamp flowers will appear. The Smiling Cow, Once a Tree, RiverDucks Ice Cream will all spring back to life. And we will be there, eager to hand over our money.

Five more months.

The Beginning

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 donating 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.

Mrs. Winston

The first influential African American in my life was my 4th grade teacher at Elmont Elementary school in Hanover County, Virginia...the estimable Mrs. Winston. She was a force of nature who came steamrolling into my life like a wrecking ball. In those days, I hadn’t had much exposure to black people in general, and never a black teacher, one who exercised authority over me. To put as delicate a spin on it as possible...I wasn’t exactly a model student at Elmont Elementary. I found it nearly impossible to sit still, had the attention span of a gnat, and an advanced talent at crafting paper airplanes and getting into fights on the playground. In other words, Mrs. Winston would have been forgiven for writing me off as a lost cause, and shuffling me off to her fifth grade teaching colleagues with a condolence card. But no...that wasn’t Mrs. Winston. For reasons that I will never understand, she took a liking to me. Although it frustrated me at the time, she decided that I had too much potential to continue on my present course of being a jackass. I became her project in 1968. Her plan was simple...she determined to make my life a living hell by refusing to accept anything from me but my best work. This meant after school detentions for even minor classroom infractions, whereby I would have to write on the chalkboard...I will stop being a Jackass...50 times while listening to her lecture me about education, behavior and manners. The upshot of all of this was straightforward... I fell in love with Mrs. Winston. Her relentless nagging made me for the first time in my young life a good student. I’ll never forget the tears that welled up in her huge expressive eyes when she showed me my report card with straight E’s for Excellent.

But 1968 was a different time. Towards the end of the year, my church was having a revival all week. Back in those days this was rather commonplace, and every revival had a pack the pew night whereby each family was tasked with filling an entire pew with friends and neighbors. One day after school, I marched myself up to Mrs. Winston and excitedly extended an invitation...Mrs. W, will you come sit with me at the revival meeting Friday night?

Here’s another thing I will never forget, the look of sorrow and sadness that came over her beautiful face. She looked down at me with an expression I had never seen before. Did I say something wrong? Was she mad with me? She asked me to sit down beside her, held my hands and said something close to the following. It’s been over 50 years so I hope my memory is reliable...Douglas, first I want to thank you so much for inviting me to your church. I would love nothing more than to be your guest...but not this time. When I couldn’t hide my confusion and disappointment she offered an explanation...Douglas, a revival meeting is an important thing. Serious business! Everyone needs to pay attention to the preacher...and I’m afraid if I go with you, more people might be paying attention to me than the preacher. We wouldn’t want that, would we?

I didn’t understand. I went straight home and told my Dad, who was the pastor of the church, what Mrs. Winston had said. Tears came into my father’s eyes. He sat his 4th grade son down and explained to him for the first time about segregation in the church, and how many people aren’t comfortable worshiping with people of others races. He finished with this observation...Son, listen to me. Your teacher is a very wise woman. She’s right about how people would be paying more attention to her than the preacher. But you know what else? If Mrs. Winston had come with you...I think she would have been the most holy, Godly person in the whole building.

For me, every single time something comes up about race in America, I always think back to my profoundly wise 4th grade teacher. I think...What would Mrs. Winston think of all this. Although America has made much progress since 1968, sometimes when I see racism still alive and well among us, I am profoundly grateful that Mrs. Winston is in heaven and not alive to see how far we still have to go.

The Horns of a Dilemma

It was a Sunday evening, the hottest night of the summer, and Benny’s fifteen year old hormones were raging. The church service was finally over and the grownups had all drifted off to the fellowship hall for a covered dish supper, which left all of the old Sunday School classrooms in the old building dark and cool. Benny’s favorite room had always been the dark-paneled twenty foot square space reserved for the Sojourner’s, the Sunday School class where all the monied old men gathered to listen to someone read a chapter from the Old Testament then sat around talking about business until the bell rang. Benny liked it because the chairs were made out of wood and had soft red seat cushions. He loved the secretary’s desk that sat between the two towering stain glass windows, the solid maple frame and shiny surface held up a green-shade desk lamp, which when turned on in the darkness blissed the place in soft yellow light. He didn’t have to wonder why this was the only class in the church which had seat cushions and wooden chairs. These were the old-timers, the power brokers whose ancestors had been the founding members of Bethesda Baptist Church, a proud congregation about to enter it’s third century of continuous operation. The fact that Benny’s father was the current shepherd of such a proud and pious flock was a subject of supreme consternation to fifteen year old Benjamin Caleb Adams. Many nights Benny lay awake in the cramped quarters of his church supplied housing wondering if anything could be more inconvenient for any self respecting boy than being a preacher’s kid. But, he had not been given a vote on the subject of his father’s occupation. And although the assumptions that came along with having a minister of the gospel for a father were infuriating, Benny never held his father personally responsible. He loved him as much as it was possible for any teenager to love a father.

 But, on this particular night, any resentments he felt in this regard were the last thing on his mind. His every thought throughout the interminable service of the past hour had been fixed upon the ravishing Amanda Lockhart, the beguiling blond with green eyes and delicious lips who was always game for any stolen moments of friskiness that Benny’s cleverness and audacity could bring to pass, and on this night, Benny had a plan.

After making a perfunctory appearance in the fellowship hall, and making note of the presence of both of his parents and Amanda’s equally ravishing mother, Benny led a giggling Amanda back down the hallway into the passageway that led into the sanctuary. Here they had to be careful. It was dark and hard to see and still close enough to the fellowship hall that you could hear muffled voices. Benny, knew the route by heart and artfully led them around the baptismal pool, past the pastor’s office and around the janitorial supply closet without tripping on anything, until finally he came to the solid mahogany door with the bronze plaque attached to the arms of the cross…Sojourner’s Class.

It had been a conscious choice. Benny could have picked any number of dusty rooms in this wing of the old building. There was the largest class where the blue-haired women met—The Agape Collective— mostly the wives of the Sojourners. But they had folding metal chairs and the room smelled like mothballs and urine. There were any number of other rooms equally sufficient for the job at hand. But Benny had developed a contempt and suspicion of this Sojourner crowd. Even at fifteen and having little interest in the inner workings of Bethesda Baptist, Benny had noticed that most of the people who were giving his father trouble came from this room. If he was going to risk trying to get around second and into third with Amanda, he couldn’t think of any room more perfect for such a pursuit. The prospect of getting caught was real, no matter how careful he had been coming up with the plan. So, in that dysfunctional way that fifteen year olds think, Benny figured, why not get caught in the room where the big shots do their plotting and scheming?

Once inside, Benny carefully closed the door until he felt the bolt snap into place, then waited for his eyes to adjust. He slowly made his way over towards the dark outline of the secretary’s desk, found the pull chain of the desk light and suddenly the room was bathed in intimate light. Amanda let out another giggle then, “Benny, I’d rather have that light off. Suppose someone sees?” Benny smiled at her then gave her a short kiss. “Sure, but don’t you want to see the place first?”

Benny pointed at the plaque hanging on the wall behind the secretary’s desk in between the two windows. It was shaped like the stone tablets of the Ten Commandments only made out of polished pine. Where the commandments should have been were shiny bronze plates with the names of all the previous class presidents going back at least a hundred years. The newest and shiniest one held the name of the current president…

“Well look here, the old buzzard himself, Horace G. Gardner—current president and president emeritus. How do you pull that off? Don’t you have to be dead to be emeritus?” Benny wasn’t sure what the word meant but when applied to Horace Gardner he figured it must be some sort of pretentious bullshit.

“Mom says that Mister Gardner is a great man,” Amanda offered, her first giggle-free sentence of the night.

“Yeah, that’s what everybody says. Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t. But his son sure is a prick.”

Harrison Gardner was the old man’s youngest son, current music minister of Bethesda Baptist and the sharpest thorn in the current Senior pastor’s side, he of the silky baritone, year round beach tan, and what passed for handsome with the over forty crowd. Along with the good looks came an easy charm, an affably cheerful nature which everyone in the church bought hook, line and sinker. Everyone, that is, except anyone who lived in the worn down parsonage across the street from the church. There it was universally understood that Harrison Gardner not so secretly coveted the top job, indeed, thought he was better suited for it than the current pastor in every measurable way, and had embarked on a whisper campaign to force Benny’s father out. It had been these ugly internal machinations of church life that had begun to sour Benny on the faith, turning his youthful attentions elsewhere. Benny tugged on the pull chain, pulling Amanda close as the room was plunged once again into the blackest darkness.

Benny and Amanda were both virgins and neither of them were particularly ready for any change in the status quo. Their attraction to one another was a matter of curiosity, electricity, hormones and the hypnotic coursing of blood carrying strange new warmth to exciting new places. Romantic sessions of the type going on in the Sojourners classroom were of the awkward groping variety which resulted in lots of dizziness and heavy breathing, but little else. In the midst of the action Benny thought to say, “the last time there was this much heavy breathing in here must have been the time old man Stanley’s oxygen machine blew a fuse.” Soon, the two of them were straddled across the secretary’s desk, its polished surface making it difficult to keep from sliding from one end to the other, making an already awkward encounter even more so. Suddenly, both of them froze mid-grope at the sound of shuffling footsteps coming down the hallway directly toward them. For an instant they laid there motionless, trying to listen over the pounding of their hearts. As the steps got closer, Benny made the executive decision to slide off the desk and dive underneath into the cramped space where a secretary’s legs were supposed to be. Just as he was able to fit Amanda beside him he heard the door open along with the sound of whispering.

There had been many such moments in Benny’s life despite his brief fifteen years on Earth. He had a talent for trouble, a natural proclivity for recklessness. There was the time that he got caught sneaking back into the house through his upstairs bedroom window after several hours of mischief which had involved toilet papering a prominent deacon’s house. There had been the time when he had caused his father great embarrassment by getting caught practicing his short game in the church cemetery by a descendant of Thomas J. Clinton who’s towering obelisk had unfortunately been chosen as the flagstick. But this particular situation seemed particularly fraught with peril since getting caught making out with Amanda Lockhart in the Sojourner’s classroom would not have done his father any favors at this juncture of his career. All of this weighed heavily on Benny’s mind as he held his breath and hoped for the best. Whoever had entered the room had not yet turned on the light—either a positive sign or an omen of hellfire. Suddenly, there was the rustling of clothing and hushed words…

“Oh Harrison…this is so wrong…(gasp)…so wrong.

“Yes baby…but if this is wrong, I don’t want to be right…oooh…”

Benny and Amanda both covered their mouths with their hands in horror, their bugged out eyes only inches apart. What fresh hell had they both stumbled into? Was this Harrison-freaking-Gardner, and had he just quoted a Luther Ingram lyric?? And who was he with? Certainly not his wife. She was at home looking after their two spoiled brat kids.

“If we get caught, we’re both dead, baby. But every time I glanced over at you playing the piano during that solo tonight I was imagining you naked. I just had to have you!”

This time the hands came off, their faces alive with a mixture of mortification and disgust as they both mouthed the name…Francis Powell?? It was at this point where everything changed for Benjamin Caleb Adams. Suddenly, he had become empowered. Finally he had been granted the one thing that he had never been able to grasp in his short life. Finally, against all odds the tables had been turned. Now…Benny had power. Harrison Gardner, the pretentious, slimy, phony windbag and erstwhile pretender to the Senior Pastor gig at Bethesda Baptist had now been caught doing the dirty with the church pianist and mother of three while his own wife was at home caring for his own children. How positively delicious!

“Oh Harrison, you’re incorrigible!!” 

Amanda’s eyes shone bright with something between glee and lust as she mouthed the word, “incorrigible??” Benny then had to discourage her surprising advances, which under the circumstances were not only physically impossible, but tactically inappropriate. This situation needed his complete concentration. A decision was going to have to be made shortly. How should Benny handle this fraught moment? Should he suddenly rise up from behind the desk and shout, “Surprise!! Caught ya!!” Or should he wait them both out, let them finish their wickedness then bide his time, waiting until the most opportune moment to blow this tanning bed wimp out of the water? 

Suddenly the breathing became louder along with one of them whispering to the other to be quiet. Benny tried to put the mental image of these two forty year olds having sexual relations while standing up out of his fevered imagination, especially since both of them were people whom he would have to walk by practically every Sunday for the foreseeable future. Mercifully, it finally seemed to be over, as they both began whispering barely discernible professions of devotion to each other. Then, the sound of the door knob turning, the shuffling of clothing and the shutting of the door. They were gone. So much for a shocking reveal. Now it was just a matter of figuring the best use of his new found clout. Benny quickly shuffled the reluctant Amanda out of the room, down the hallway and back into the fellowship hall.

 It was only much later that same night when sleep wouldn’t come for Benny that he realized the full implications of his night’s work. Apparently, what his father had always said about the knowledge of good and evil was true…with great knowledge comes great responsibility. He was now in possession of the sort of incriminating dirt that could rid his father of his Harrison Gardner problem once and for all time. But as he lay there staring into the darkness it occurred to him that he was now on the horns of a dilemma. This damning piece of intelligence came with a profound personal conundrum. How was he to share this story with his father without also having to explain what exactly it was that he and Amanda Lockhart were doing in the Sojourner’s room in the dark? His Dad was far too smart and much too familiar with his son’s aptitudes to believe that they were “praying together.” As valuable as his discovery would have been to his father and as anxious as he was to provide all the gory details, Benny wasn’t interested in being grounded for the duration of the summer. After a fitful hour, sleep finally came. At the light of first dawn, Benny gave the situation another think and this time came to the conclusion that life just wasn’t fair.

The next six months had been among the most uncomfortable of Benny’s short life. Amanda had moved on, now vaguely attached to his best friend to whom Benny held no resentment. It had been an amicable split, and neither of them had spoken a word about that night to each other since. But every time Benny saw Harrison at church it had felt excruciating. Occasionally he would notice the two of them looking at each other a touch too long in the choir loft. Each time he would throw up a little in his mouth. Many times he had come close to confronting him, especially on the rare times when they would run in to each other someplace private like the parking lot. But each time Benny had given up on the idea. Besides, he would only have denied it, Benny having no proof of anything. Who would everyone believe, the son of a founding family member and beloved music minister, or a goofy, trouble making teenager with a history of asshattery?

By the time winter arrived, Harrison Gardner-instigated machinations had picked up their intensity. Benny’s father’s position was getting more tenuous with each passing Sunday. Factions had appeared in the congregation, those who supported his father and a more vocal and growing faction that supported the music minister. Benny had been struggling under the burden of his knowledge, and growing feelings of guilt had begun to grow within him. Was his personal freedom more important than his father’s happiness and continued employment? It was time to face the music. He would walk over to his dad’s office and confess all.

When he arrived at the church he noticed that the office to his father’s study was closed, a rarity. Just as he reached for the handle, the door swung open and he found himself staring into the red, puffy, tear streaked face of Harrison Gardner who hurried past him without looking up. Benny cautiously walked into the office and saw his dad sitting calmly at his desk. 

“Hello Son. What can I do for you?”

Benny, momentarily rattled, asked—“What was that all about? That was Harrison Gardner, right?”

“Yes,” came the non-committal reply.

Benny prodded—“And he was…crying”

“Yes. I believe he was.” 

It had always been virtually impossible to get any church gossip out of his father. This was understandable and even admirable considering the assumed confidentiality of the confessional and all, but this was Harrison-freaking-Gardner we were talking about here. Considering the purpose of Benny’s visit he felt entitled to know why the enemy of his father had just left his office in tears.

“Dad, seriously? Harrison Gardner just walked out of here crying his eyes out. What the heck?”

“Have a seat son.”

Benny sat down as instructed as a feeling of dread swept over him. 

“It doesn’t appear that Mr. Gardner is going to be a problem for me anymore. His position of influence in this congregation is now at an end. This is very good news, I believe, not only for me, but for the entire church as well. However, I’m afraid it is very sad news for Harrison and I take no delight in it.”

Benny leaned forward. “Wow. What happened?”

Then his father leaned forward, placed both fists under his chin and began…

“A couple of weeks ago I received disturbing news about Harrison. I followed up the allegation with the parties involved and found the report reliable enough to believe that it might possibly be true. To make a long story short, the person who provided the original information then confronted one of the people involved and received confirmation of the truth. I just finished talking this issue over with Harrison and he has admitted his guilt.”

Benny finally took a breath and tried to looked shocked. It appeared as though he had been saved by the bell once again, wiggling off yet another hook of his own making. Then his dad continued.

“Interesting thing though…You know Tammy Lockhart, right? Amanda’s mom? Yeah, she was the one who came to me with the information.”

Benny worked hard to keep his composure. “Yeah? Well, we broke up quite a while ago…”

“Something about the Sojourner Class, of all things…”

Once again Benny, now flushed with color—“Like I said…we broke up, so…”

“But, you know what this means don’t you?” A barely noticeable smile began to form at the corners of his father’s lips.

“Sure, this means that you don’t have to worry about that greaseball gunning for your job anymore,” Benny answered with genuine happiness.

“That’s right, son. You know what else it means?”

A surprising sensation flowed through his bloodstream as Benny realized that this was not a question he should answer. This was a time for circumspection and silence.

“It means that you’re grounded.”

And just like that, in the blink of an eye, Benny’s world was back, spinning dependably on its axis.

The Book of Ruth

Here’s an update on the 90 day project. This morning I arrived at the book of Ruth. Honestly, reading this short little book felt like a warm bath and a cup of hot cocoa. Compared with almost everything that has preceded it, Ruth felt like something beautiful. It felt out of place, sort of like a commercial break in the middle of a horror movie. Let me try to explain.

The early books of the Old Testament describe a world of ubiquitous violence, impossibly degenerate human beings, and a God who comes across as angry and vengeful. There. I said it. Of course, considering how his creation was behaving, I would be angry and vengeful too, I suppose. So far, I’ve read about some of the most duplicitous, shameful men imaginable, and don’t even get me started on the poor women. For a 21st century American who has only known democracy, the rule of law, equal rights and the order that comes from modern civilization, it is jarring to read of a world where the only rule seemed to be the the strong preying on the weak. Murder, rape and treachery wasn’t the exception, it was very much the rule. Sure, there is the occasional hero to be found, Joseph, Caleb, and Rahab the prostitute, but by and large the ancients were despicable. Then, like a mirage in the middle of the desert, you arrive at the beautiful story of Ruth.

Finally, at long last, we find women who are treated with honor and compassion, men who act with nobility of purpose. In the midst of this amazing story we are also treated to perhaps the best writing in the entire Bible with this paragraph:

“Ruth said, Intreat me not not to leave thee, or to return from following thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people will be my people, and thy God will be my God: where thou diest, will I die, and there I will be buried; the Lord do so to me and more also, if ought but death part thee and me.”

In this story we meet that rarest of Old Testament characters—an honorable man, Boaz. We meet Ruth and her mother in law, Naomi. We learn of love, devotion and intense loyalty. We discover redemption, compassion and generosity, and the rare gem of a happy ending.

I won’t re-tell the story here. If you’ve never heard it, read it for yourself. It’s only a few short chapters. Even if you’re familiar with it, read it again. While, I have been using the Message version of the Bible for this project, I chose to use the old King James Version in the verses above for the simple reason that there are times when modern words effectively strip the beauty out of language. For me this passage will forever be a King James thing.

Putin on the Ritz

The beat of war drums has begun in earnest. Russia gives every indication that it intends to invade Ukraine at any moment. President Biden is mobilizing American troops for deployment to Eastern Europe. The expectation of our intelligence services is that Russia seeks to prompt some incident as a pretext for invasion, perhaps by appointing a hand-picked pro-Russian leader and installing him as Ukraine’s leader. After several ham-fisted attempts to address the situation with the press, our President has wisely gone silent for the past 48 hours. Better to remain silent and be thought incompetent than to speak and remove all doubt.

At this point I’m wondering what percentage of the American people would be in favor of sending American men and women to war over Ukraine? Indeed, what percentage of the American people could find Ukraine on a map? The answer to both questions would be roughly 5%. What vital American interest is served by war with Russia over Ukraine? There are none. Why would a country struggling to contain inflation, manage a pandemic, and bitterly divided on every contentious issue involving democratic governance, even contemplate adding war to the mix? I can think of absolutely no reason why this would be a good idea for America. If one of our biggest antagonists in the world is about to make the ruinous mistake of starting a war and consequently becoming bogged down for years in a bloody and costly conflict, why should we do anything to stand in their way? When your enemy is about to destroy itself, rule number one would be…don’t just do something, stand there!

Here’s what I think. Vladimir Putin is an old school, 19th century man. He thinks like an ultra nationalist who longs for Russian glory. He’s an ego-driven man who wants glory for Mother Russia and himself. In 2022, this is a recipe for eventual disaster for him and Russia. Should the rest of the world and the United States work to prevent war? Sure. Nobody wants war. But should the United States of America be committed militarily in a conflict where no vital American interests are at risk? 

Hell no!

40 Years

There’s usually no time for reflection in January. This is a hard work month for me. The beginning of the year means goal-setting, planning, and meetings—lots of meetings. Its the month when number crunching begins, the tallying of returns, the review of progress and the great recalibration. What did we do well? Where do we need help? What adjustments might be prudent? It can be a dizzying process, always made more so by whatever crisis happens to be sucking the oxygen out of the room. But this morning, like a bolt out of the blue, it hits me that I’ve been doing this for 40 years now. 40 years. To have been engaged in any occupation for 40 years is remarkable I suppose, but to have somehow survived in my chosen profession for this long feels miraculous. The investment business is a line of work that chews people up from the inside out. The stress of the job never goes away, it is as constant as the North Star. Even on the sunniest day, it’s that troublesome cloud on the horizon that nobody else sees. Nevertheless, this work is all I have ever known, so the stress has become so commonplace I can’t even describe it. To borrow that hackneyed phrase—it is what it is.

I have learned a great many things in 40 years, usually from making mistakes. This has always been true with me. My mother used to shake her head at my stubbornness, “Why do you have to do everything the hard way, Douglas?” My answers never satisfied her—“Because the hard way is more fun!” 

Here’s one thing I’ve learned. No matter what time it is, no matter what day, week, month, or year it is—there are always compelling reasons to buy and terrifying reasons to sell. Opportunity is everywhere, disaster lurking around every corner. There are abundant reasons for optimism, even while flashing red lights warn of perils. There are unprecedented technological innovations creating new products and services at breathtaking speed. There are new COVID variants, inflation, and war rumors in Ukraine. To be successful in my business takes an ability to strike the correct balance between greed and fear, dangerously exuberant optimism and paralyzing pessimism. Somehow, I have survived four decades. Pesto-Bismol, Imodium and Advil have been indispensable—a warped sense of humor even more so.

Like any other job done for 40 years, there are parts I love and parts I hate. I love the feeling you get when a plan comes together. I love when you are able to prevent someone from making a terrible decision. I love it when a client hits a long time goal. I love the people I work with, the camaraderie and the shared experiences. I hate the paperwork, the Byzantine labyrinth of regulatory minefields that must be daily crossed, the never ending pressure—is this the right call?? I hate the fact that I am never, ever finished.

But, this is the life I’ve chosen and it’s been a good life. It has prospered me. It has allowed me a degree of independence most people would die for. I’m grateful for every blessing.