Birthday Thoughts

My 64th birthday is now in the books. I spent it with my wife and daughter down in Columbia, South Carolina. Spending time with my adult children is a rarity at this point in our lives, so it was a special time. Kaitlin knows her father quite well, as was evident when I opened my present from her…

Just in case you are unable to read the fine print, this is a collection of exotic meats jerky, everything from alligator to camel and come with Buffalo Bob’s Big Game freshness guarantee. The collection comes complete with four hot snacks, elk smothered in jalapeño pepper sauce, and a special Cajun spiced alligator stick. This box of delicacies will give me literally weeks of taste bud thrills as I count down the days until Maine. Plus, I can mail in the logo from the front of the box back to Buffalo Bob and get a free 25 count bottle of Pepcid! As an added bonus, these jerky strips have so many preservatives, the box says, “consume by August of 3022.”

The rest of the week of my birthday will be spent in leisurely pursuits as I use the week to get away from the pressures of my profession. I will play some golf, do some writing, and putz around in my yard getting it ready for summer.

Like many people my age I am finding that each year I enjoy my birthday less and less. Somewhere along the line I discovered that I wasn’t a huge fan of being reminded of my age. Don’t misunderstand, I’m not one of those guys who constantly wishes he could turn back time and be young again. Absolutely not! I can’t think of anything worse than being asked to live again as a 30 year old. No thanks. Those were terribly difficult years. Paying the bills every month was a stomach-churning high wire act. No, I have no desire to endure the hours I put in working in my 30’s. My problem with birthdays now is the conflict I feel between gratitude for life’s many blessings and the sometimes agonizing feeling that I am running out of time.

I have enjoyed my share of success in this life. I have an amazing family and wonderful friends. When I took a moment yesterday to read through all the birthday wishes on Facebook it was a reminder of how many terrific people I have had the good fortune to meet during my life. But every year as April 3 approaches, I begin to feel a gnawing discomfort. It’s hard to describe accurately, partly because I’m not even sure what it is myself. What it boils down to is the feeling that I haven’t done that one big thing yet…something great. Sure, I married the right woman, brought two amazing people into this world, both could reasonably be described as great accomplishments. But, I can’t shake the thought that it isn’t enough. There has to be something else that I need to do. If there is, then at 64…I am running out of time to do whatever it is that lives nameless and rent free in my head.

But, until I figure it all out, I have a box of exotic dried meat From Buffalo Bob to distract me.

Our Spring Break Plans

So, this morning Pam and I are heading down to visit our daughter in South Carolina. Her husband is out of town and she is by herself and since this circumstance coincides with her mother’s Spring Break she naturally thought that the ideal Spring Break for Pam would be coming down to Columbia and waiting on her hand and foot. To remind me of what we are in for, late last night she sent me some screenshots of one of our text conversations from several years ago. Her comments are in the dark gray, my dumbfounded responses are in the light gray…

….fathers and daughters.

Thrilled!!

In the eleven year history of this blog, I don’t believe I have ever been as thrilled about any news story as I am about the colossal ass-whipping that Ukraine is administering to their Russian invaders. Seriously, every morning when I read about the latest heroic stand and see pictures of mangled and smoking Russian tanks I am nearly overcome with what I can only describe as joy. This is nothing less than the most shocking David and Goliath story since…well, David and Goliath. And now comes word that the Ukrainian army has taken the fight into Russian territory by blowing up a huge ammo dump. I nearly cried at this news this morning at 4:30.

Look, I know I shouldn’t feel this way. My Christian faith informs me that I should never rejoice in death and destruction. It is not charitable to react with unrestrained glee at the deaths of young men, all of whom have mothers who love them as much as I love my own kids. But, if I’m honest, there is a part of my heart and soul which hungers for justice. Its the same feeling that overcomes me when I hear of a guilty verdict for someone who victimized the weak, someone who preyed on the elderly or the infirm. It’s righteous vindication.

I watched for months the accumulation of Russian arms and men on Ukraine’s border. The numbers were scary, the Ukrainians would be so overmatched, like the pitiful Polish Cavalry on horseback trying to fight back against Nazi tanks during Blitzkrieg in 1939. But, ladies and gentlemen, I am here to tell you that these Ukrainians aren’t the Poles of 1939. They aren’t the French of 1940. These people are the Brits during the Battle of Britain…overwhelmed, outnumbered and surrounded, and defiantly pushing back against the most egregious land grab of my lifetime. It’s the most inspiring thing I’ve witnessed since the birth of my children.

And yes…I’m thrilled.

100 Days

100 days, but who’s counting? 

Yes, in 100 days Pam and I will depart Short Pump’s hearth and home for six glorious weeks on Quantabacook Lake. Our days and nights will become oriented around a completely different life than the one we live here in Virginia. Instead of everything revolving around Dunnevant Financial and River’s Edge Elementary School, life will revolve around the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, and the delightful things it lights up on the surface of the water, the fog as it shimmers across it in the morning, the parade of colors unleashed upon it by the setting sun in the evening, the way the wind stirs it violently when a storm crosses in the afternoon. Pam will kayak on it for hours at a time. She will launch out on her paddle board, sometimes alone, sometimes with Lucy at her side. I will bring fish from it, admire their beauty, then release them to fight another day. We will take our meals as close to her as we can, sometimes in animated conversation, sometimes in silence. We will wonder at the sudden appearance of a loon. Pam will engage them in conversation. Then as magically as they appeared, they will slip under the water without so much as a ripple. We will throw Lucy her frisbee from the end of the dock and watch her gracefully cut through the water to retrieve it, over and over again. We will snuggle up around a fire at night as the stars come out, listening to the loons call out. We will sleep like babies.

We will take invigorating walks through the thick and noble Maine woods. I will bring along a bug-zapper shaped like a tennis racket in case the stinging flies are out. (This is no Garden of Eden) We will drive into Camden and Belfast and Rockport and Rockland many times. We will have breakfast at the Camden Deli, shop for fun things at the Smiling Cow, marvel at the the delights to be found at Once a Tree. We will have lunch at The Hoot, dinner at Waterfront and Peter Ott’s, Ports of Italy and Delfino’s. We will shop for oddities at the Farmer’s Co-op. We will get ice cream at Riverducks and the Wild Cow Creamery. We will eat lobster rolls and sausage Reuben’s at Hazel’s. We will buy our groceries at Hannaford’s.

The kids will visit and share all these things with us. We will recall the fun of past trips, the time that Kaitlin’s float burst open leaving her flailing in the freezing water, the first time Sarah made a charcuterie tray and brought it down to the dock with cocktails as we watched the sunset, starting a new tradition. Kaitlin and I will enjoy morning and afternoon coffee together on the dock as we talk about life. All six of us will climb aboard all available lake-worthy crafts and watch the sunset from the middle of the lake  at the end of yet another perfect day. Then we will head back to the house and work on a puzzle together.

We will have other visitors probably. We always do it seems. We love sharing this place with friends, especially those who have never been to Maine. We are eager tour guides. But, if its just Pam, Lucy and me thats fine too.

100 days.

The Oscar Slap

The Oscars. Every year Pam watches. Every year I don’t. Apparently, I am not alone, judging by the precipitous decline in the ratings over the past ten years. From an all time high audience of 50 million at one point to a mere 9 million souls last year, the fall from grace for this icon of American culture has been epic. The big shots that run the Academy have been tinkering with the format, trying to make it shorter etc..to no avail. Something had to be done. Enter Will Smith.

So, I open up the old iPad this morning and its wall to wall Will. I watch him stride up on the stage and slap comedian Chris Rock across the face in what looked like a pulled punch. I will take the word of everyone who says that it was an actual slap born of fury at hearing a joke being made at his wife’s expense, and not a staged attention-grabbing, headline-writing skit designed to have the world buzzing about what happened at the Oscars. If Hollywood’s version of events is true, then Will Smith, winner of the best actor Oscar physically assaulted a comedian on national television for the crime of telling a joke that offended him. Is this STAGE II of cancel culture, whereby offending voices are not merely silenced, but physically attacked? Time well tell, I suppose.

Remember back when parents were implored by Hollywood types to teach their children that violence was not the answer? The paying customers for Hollywood’s product have had to endure endless moralizing about everything from climate change to gay rights to evil republicans for decades now. It’s always great fun to be lectured to about our retrograde attitudes about this and that by people who have grown insanely rich making movies like Fast and Furious 16. These are the people who constantly complain about how the rest of us keep stereotyping people of color, assigning the worst behavior of a few to impugn an entire community. So while a dwindling slice of the world is watching, we are treated to a black man storming the stage to hit another black man in the face for telling a joke about his wife. Violence is never the answer, indeed. Of course, I guess it depends on what the question is.

Already, the excuse making brigades are out in full force. The joke was far too personal, they insist. Jada Smith has alopecia which has forced her to shave her head, making her even more gorgeous, if that were possible…so making a joke about how she might be making a sequel to G.I. Jane was just beyond the pale. 

I’m beginning to think that the most dangerous job in America is being a comedian.

Reflections From the Wee Hours

I am currently having difficulty sleeping. This week I have woken up at some bizarre times, 3:45, 4:00, 4:45 etc…It’s nothing that I haven’t experienced before but its been a while. I have no trouble at all falling to sleep, usually between 10:00 and 11:00, but I don’t stay asleep for long. I’ll open my eyes randomly and glance at the digital clock across the room which is blurry since I’m not wearing my contacts. I squint and see that its 1:45 or 2:30. Then I drift off again until the next time I wake up and can’t go back to sleep, this time around 2 hours later than the first.

While I am asleep I dream, big, lush, expansive dreams. These are big productions, the kind of dreams that back in the day would have gotten some magician in King Nebuchadnezzar’s court killed. I remember every detail when I wake up the first time and have to lay there for a minute to assure myself that it was, in fact, a dream and I am not playing a round of golf at Augusta National with Tiger Woods, Big Papi, and David Dwight—wearing overalls. 

Most of the dreams are of the nonsensical farce variety, but some have been dark and disturbing, placing me in several dangerous and compromising situations out of which I am desperately trying to escape. We’ve all had these sort of dreams and we wake up from them trying to figure out what they could possibly mean. It is a pointless exercise. It was probably just something we ate. Nevertheless, it is no fun going through a week of dreamscapes.

Speaking of something I ate, last night an aroma coming from the kitchen was so provocative that I left my reading chair upstairs to investigate. There in the kitchen I found my wife experimenting with a new recipe which featured—Italian Sausage. You will notice that I have capitalized the word Sausage out of respect, since it is the one thing I always look for in the description of any dish on any menu at any restaurant. It is also one of the few aromas that can get me out of my reading chair…

I know what some of you are thinking…”Well Doug, there’s your dreaming problem right there!”…to which my response is, “I don’t care.” If sleeping better means I have to give up Italian Sausage, that’s a hard pass. Eating well is one of the genuine joys of life. Sleeping is not.

Speaking of joys of life, ( yes…my writing after a week of this is stream of unconsciousness), this morning when I opened my iPad there was an email from my church sent from Meg Carroll. I have no idea who this woman is, although I have probably seen her around. She is the Outreach Coordinator, it says underneath her byline. Anyway the reflections found in her email were so beautifully written and wise, I once again marveled at the length and depth of the bench at Hope Church. The staff at the place is crawling with smart and thoughtful people, all of whom are luckily given the chance to share their thoughts with us through these weekly emails. They have been a consistent blessing to me. Well done, Meg Carroll.

The Third Column

The conflict in Ukraine which began a month ago when Russian troops invaded that sovereign nation has now entered a dangerous new phase…

News of the war has now been regulated to the dreaded third column on DRUDGE. The famous news aggregator, like all other news organizations, is in the eyeball business, and has made the decision that the American people are no longer interested in the story. It’s back to the travails of the former President. Once again the famously short American attention span strikes.

Soon, news of the war, the plight of innocent civilians, videos of the plucky Zelensky will drift down further to the lower regions of the third column until finally they vanish altogether. This is a fact of life in the 24/7 news saturated digital age. The minute we are no longer shocked, horrified, or titillated by a story  we move on.

Meanwhile in Ukraine, the Russian army is still bogged down, having been held at bay by heroic resistance and exposed as a paper tiger. In response they have lashed out with the wholesale slaughter of civilian infrastructure while one after another of Vladimir Putin’s top advisors disappear into the ether. The world waits to see what will happen to Mad Vlad as he is nudged further and further into a geopolitical corner. As the brave Ukraine people suffer from hunger, depravations and death, we Americans are cheered by the prospect that our government is contemplating sending us a brand new round of stimulus checks to help us cope with the temporarily higher price of gas…