Dodging Bullets

Nearly eight decades ago, wave after wave of American, Canadian and British teenagers were dodging bullets while storming the beaches of Normandy to begin ridding the world of the Nazi menace. Seventy eight years later, here’s what was going on in America yesterday:

For the first time in my life I spent $90 for a tank of gas.

Meanwhile, the Congress of the United States has hired a former ABC news executive to produce the upcoming Thursday night hearing on the January 6th riot, to be broadcast in prime time at 8:00 eastern time. While nothing can apparently be done about runaway inflation, this Congress may be the first to be nominated for an Emmy.

The Carolina Panthers of the National Football League have hired the first ever bald, transgendered female cheerleader. Now, if only they could find a quarterback.

I received a letter delivered by the United States Postal Service a mere 13 days after it was placed in the mail…from six miles away.

A reporter with the Washington Post was suspended from his job after it was discovered that he had “re-tweeted” a joke posted by someone else. The re-tweet set off a firestorm of protest throughout the newsroom with colleagues demanding the re-tweeting reporter be disciplined. The offending joke was:

“All woman are bi. The hard part is figuring out whether its polar or sexual.”

I shared a joke via social media which did not result in nearly as much controversy…

I think I dodged a bullet.

Dealing With Lucy’s Embarrassment

The Dunnevant Estate has a new house guest. Ever since our kids moved out, Pam and I have enjoyed opening up their end of the house to a series of temporary tenants in need of a place to live. We have hosted groups of students on choir tours. We housed several semesters of Liberty University nursing students in town for their clinical studies. Most famously, we housed our nephew’s then fiancée—Bernadette—for eight months while she was homeless and  stranded between college graduation and matrimony. Now, Bernadette has struck again, a little over a week ago asking us if we could possibly house a youth intern at Hope Church whose housing had fallen through. Since neither Pam nor I are able to refuse Bernadette anything, we have a new house guest for the next 10 weeks or so. This time, its a boy. He arrived here tall and thin, quiet and well mannered. From the looks of it, after eating Pam’s cooking this summer, he will leave here much thicker but hopefully still well mannered. Lucy seems to approve, always a good sign.

After months of longing we have finally entered the 30 day window on our annual Maine summer season. Actually, we enter it tomorrow morning, but who’s counting? We finally have commitments from the kids on their weeks of participation. We are thrilled that they will both be joining us this year but disappointed that they will be with us on different weeks. Once again Pam gets to celebrate her birthday at the lake (July 19), and this year our stay will be for six weeks, our longest sabbatical to date. Miss Lucy will be joining us and is delighted to have a place to go to hide her hideous haircut from all the other neighborhood dogs, who she claims have consistently mocked her since that horrible day at the groomers. Look at Lucy! She look like lab!! Yo, Luce..did you get cookie wid dat cut?? Hahaha. Your human must be blind as bat. He probably say ‘it grow back’…hahaha. Maybe by winter…bruhahaha!! Lucy can’t wait to see the expressions on all their faces when we back out of the driveway heading for Maine. Lucy will be like…Good luck with hot and hoomid, suckers. When I comes back, I will be gorgeous again and you will all still be ugly mutt-face!! I tell Lucy that the only reason the other dogs tease her is because they are so insanely jealous. I remind her of the many advantages that she was born with and that she mustn’t stoop to their level, that she must rise up and be the better dog, to which she sneezes and snorts her frustration…Easy for you to say, you not one with hack job cut…even squirrels laugh…squirrels!!

As you can see, Lucy has not gotten to a place of forgiveness. She has kept me at paws length ever since the Petsmart debacle. But whenever I mention the upcoming Maine trip her face brightens, her tail—or what is left of it—wags enthusiastically, and she allows me to give her head scratches. I’m thinking that by the time we return from Maine we will all have put the whole nightmare behind us.

Old Men Planting Trees

One suicide. Cancer. A heart attack while throwing football in the front yard with the kids. Kidney failure. Old age. Covid. An automobile accident.

I have lost clients in a variety of ways, more in the past five years than the previous thirty-five combined. There is a reason for this. Like me, my clients are getting older. With age comes increased chances for all sorts of surprise endings. On very rare occasions I allow myself to reflect on my mortality. When I do I quickly realize why I do it so rarely. It is not a pleasant experience.

It is said that no one knows the time or place, the day or hour of their own death. It’s a good thing. When life is lived with the assumption that it will continue indefinitely, it encourages us to make decisions we plan on having to live with. Maybe if we knew when we would die it would release all the selfish demons of hell into the world. 

When I was younger I never thought about what the world would look like after I was removed from it. That’s because when you are young such thoughts are incomprehensible. Once you reach a certain age, that all changes. You begin to think about it a lot. There’s even a buzzword for it…legacy.

I’ve always loved that old proverb: Blessed is he who plants trees under whose shade he will never rest. Let the old men plant trees, though they will never expect to eat the fruit of them. I can think of no better way to live life after 60 than this. Finding a way to leave your part of the world better than you found it seems like the most golden of rules. Its why parents want something better for their children than what they themselves had. Sometimes I hear people say that they want their kids to go through the same battles that they endured. “Why should I shelter them from hard times” the reasoning goes, “If I do they won’t become tough enough.” My reaction to this sort of thinking has always been, “What…are you nuts??!!” Why would I want my kids to have it as hard as I did? First of all, my kids will be dealing with problems that I never dreamt of when I was their age. So why not make it easier for them where I can so they can be freed up to tackle these new problems?

Leaving things better. That’s the goal. Its not always achievable. Some things can’t be fixed. Some struggles are eternal. But when we can, when we are able, we need to plant some trees that someone else will picnic under.

Unspeakable Tragedy on the James River

Whenever this happens, it becomes clear to me that it is time to go to Maine. Unfortunately, we have 35 more days to endure before the glorious day when we arrive at Quantabacook. A friend in Maine replied when I sent him the above photograph, “It’s 75 with 40% humidity here.” He loves doing this to me. 

But as I spent half my day sweating through my shirt whenever I got in the car before the AC finally kicked in, I thought of the family of the girl who went missing on the James River this past Sunday and what their day has been like. For the entire week they and their friends have been walking along the banks of the river, mile after mile searching for their daughter. In 98 degree heat and stifling humidity, they have trudged through the trees, bushes, underbrush for miles while rescue and recovery efforts on the water by local officials has been underway. We are told that every day that passes, the odds of finding anyone alive get slimmer. At this point, they are most likely searching for her remains. And yet, they soldier on in the heat, hoping against hope. I ask myself what I would do if I were them after so long and I realize that I would be doing the exact same thing. Losing a child, losing a 28 year old young woman full of potential and promise, her entire life of endless possibilities in front of her, sounds like among the worst of all human experiences. Pam and I know the family. Although we were not friends, we attended the same church for many years. They were talented musicians who played in the church orchestra. Their beautiful daughter is the same age as my nephew. I have followed the parent’s updates on Facebook with a mix of profound sadness and admiration at their spirit, determination and their amazing grace. I have stopped several times throughout the week to lift prayers for them, feeble as they were. I have detected no self pity in any of their updates, just faith in God for whatever happens and gratitude for all the support that has come from lifelong friends. I wonder if my faith would be as strong. I wonder if I could maintain their hopeful spirit, their trust in a loving God. I hope so…but I’m so grateful I have so far never had to find out.

The Second Chance Trust

Last night, after two years of on again, off again inspiration, I finally finished writing novel number four. The previous three had all been wrapped up in 6-8 months. This one was different, a beguiling, frustrating battle. Maybe because it was written during COVID, the uncertainty of the last two years contributed to the frustration. The story came in torrents at times, then would recede into the hills not to be heard from for weeks, months at a time.

The last chapter of any work of fiction is the most difficult to write. How to end a story is far harder than beginning one. The idea for a story often comes in a flash of inspiration, but wrapping up a story is full of angst and doubt. Leaving your characters and their universe in suspended animation feels arbitrary and even cruel. But it has to be done. So last night, I typed out the last few words and put the story to bed. I am both proud of it and suspicious. Is it any good? Is it good enough to get published? Part of me thinks it doesn’t matter because I found great pleasure and satisfaction writing it which is its own reward, but another part of me is dying to know whether its good enough to be published.

So now it goes to my friend Denise Roy for a proofread, then to my daughter for a more literary editing job. This process will take a while. Each of them have day jobs. But eventually it will be ready for the next step. I have between now and then to decide what that next step is. Along the way I have sent chapters one by one to a few friends for their comments and thoughts, Dodie Whitt because she will read practically anything and has lots of opinions, Tom Allen who although disappointed that there were no pictures is always good for an insight or three, and a Maine buddy of mine, Alan Smith who is a fine writer in his own right. Eventually, I will let Pam read it. Her opinion is always the most valuable because at the end of the day she is the one I’m always trying to impress. I have stumbled upon a tentative title…The Second Chance Trust.

Wish me luck.

Tired of Being a Coward

When I first saw the news from Uvalde, Texas I decided that there wasn’t anything else to say about school shootings in this space since I had written over a dozen posts after similar carnage. Instead, I reposted two of the more detailed posts on the subject and let it go at that. 

Ever since I’ve felt like a coward.

The truth is that I can’t get the images of those children out of my head. I can never unsee the pictures of those two teachers who died trying to protect them. I can never shake the panic that wells up in me the instant I hear or read the words school shooting, that moment when the unimaginable enters my head…could it be Pam’s school, Kaitlin’s, or the classrooms of the half dozen other teachers I know and love? Then I immediately think of my nieces and nephews, the children of my friends and neighbors. When I hear that its some school in west Texas, I begin to breathe again. But, what about those west Texas kids? What about their parents? Those kids will never draw another breath, and those parents will never breathe again without the heavy weight of grief grinding away at their souls.

I’ve spent the last couple of days skimming through all the stale arguments about guns. I’ve read of statistics that suggest that this or that might work, others that draw the opposite conclusion. I’ve read passionate defenses of an unfettered 2nd Amendment, equally passionate pleas for banning assault rifles. 

On my Facebook feed, that hardy perennial—the calligraphy lettering against baby blue background which reminds us that guns are not the problem, just the people who use them—has made many appearances. I read the words and part of me agrees with the sentiment. Guns are inanimate objects, neither evil or good until put to use for either evil or good purposes. I get it. But the notion that a weapon designed to kill as many people as possible in the shortest amount of time is irrelevant to what happened in Uvalde, Texas is patently absurd. The fact that the particular weapon involved was purchased by a boy on his 18th birthday, even though that boy had a history of making unhinged claims on social media that he had big plans to shoot up an elementary school, is certainly not irrelevant…is it?

What disturbs me the most about this conversation is the fatalism of it all, the notion that at the end of the day we are powerless to prevent these horrors. There are 300 million deadly weapons in the United States, 17 million of them AR-15’s. Any attempt at confiscation would be a fool’s errand. Actually, I have made a similar argument in this space on more than one occasion and part of me still believes it.

But, as a citizen of a nation where school shootings are as ordinary as the common cold, to remain true to the proposition that there is nothing we can do to stop the killing is to give up, admit defeat, and get back to binging the Johnny Depp trial.

No. Not this time.

I am not at all convinced that any particular action we might take as a country would be a “solution”. I am equally unconvinced that any change in law we might enact would stop all such crimes. Preventing mass shootings will be a generational effort requiring many attempts at solutions. But I’ve grown weary of the defeatist attitude that has rendered us powerless to stop the mass murder of school children. 

I see this chart and I want to punch someone in the face:

Since the beginning of The Tempest in 2011 there have been the following number of school shootings:

Canada—2

France—2

Germany—2

Japan—-0

Italy—-0

Britain—0

The United States of America—-288

I refuse to accept this horrifying statistic as something that Americans simply have to endure. If this is the price we all are forced to pay so anyone anywhere at any time can purchase an automatic rifle, then I submit to you that the price is too damn high.

So, I am open to trying to stop it. Let’s try some reasonable restrictions designed to prevent crazy people from getting their hands on weapons of mass killing intent. At least make it harder, right? I’m tired of hearing how easy it was for some lunatic to buy an AR-15, how insanely simple it was for them to arm themselves with such deadly tools. If we enact a law that doesn’t work, we’ll have to try something else. It will be a process, a crucible we all will have to endure to make our nation less dangerous for our school children. But whatever you do, don’t tell me there’s nothing we can do. That is defeatist bullshit of the highest order and frankly, un-American. We put a man on the moon for God’s sake. What we truly can no longer afford to do is…nothing.

Patrick’s Day

This boy was born on May 25th. He was and is the son I had always wanted. Every time I get into a debate with him about politics, it occurs to me that he is, indeed, my boy. When he makes a better case than I do, I’m so proud of him I can hardly stand it. He has the sensitive, discerning heart of an artist, a natural musical gift that cannot be taught, and a blistering, sarcastic wit...my one lasting contribution to his DNA. His mother would probably say that his only fault is the fact that the lenses of his glasses are always filthy.