Silver Linings

The back is on the mend. I wanted badly to get in the kayak and head out but that would have been dumb…and Pam would have been furious with me if I did. Instead, I stayed around the dock with Lucy while she went out. However, in Maine you don’t really need to leave the dock to catch fish…

It must be said that Miss Lucy is in mid-season form already…

It has taken Pam a bit longer to hit her stride. It might have something to do with the fact that she has been working like a beast since my back went out, picking up my slack. But this was a good sign…

That’s her out there with her kayak tied to the swim float reading a book. 

So, last night something crazy happened. We were both busy cooking dinner, Pam in the kitchen, me out on the grill. It was one of our favorite camp meals, chicken kabobs with peanut sauce. We sat down at the table and slathered the sauce on everything, then said the blessing, thanking God for the privilege of being in such a place for six weeks. Then we both shoveled the first delectable bite into our mouths only to be shocked by a horrible discovery. I looked at her. She looked at me, mouths closed, our faces contorted in painful grimaces. Apparently, that container of sugar from which Pam had taken a third of a cup to mix with the peanut sauce was…SALT. In 38 years of marriage, this was a first. The dinner that had smelled so delicious while it was cooking was now ruined. Then Pam—in the first sign that she is rounding into ideal Maine shape—says to me, “Well, I guess this means we have no choice but to go get ice cream.”

A valuable lesson was learned which is that the secret to guilt-free ice cream consumption is destroying dinner. Silver linings.

This morning, for the first time since we arrived on Saturday, the lake is still…

First Day Complications

At 5:22 am on this Sunday morning I am cautiously optimistic. 

Yesterday around noon we arrived at the lake greeted by fabulous blue skies and sunshine. The breeze coming off the water made us feel a chill as we got out of the car. The thermometer said it was 74, but with no humidity and that fresh lake breeze it felt colder. We introduced Lucy to the place and she was ecstatic. Then we decided to eat our lunch before unpacking the car. We had stopped at the always dependable Fraternity General Store and picked up some sandwiches. Before lunch I took a couple pictures.

Then we sat about unloading the car. Ten minutes in to this enterprise, I reached into the back of the car for something and felt a knifing pain in my back. I froze in place and waited. Then a spasm…then another. A few minutes later I was laying on the hardwood floor with my knees pulled to my chest trying to make it stop.

There is never a good time to throw out your back. But some times are far worse than others. This was one of the those times. Lucky for me I am married to a calm cool and collected women who always seems to know exactly what to do in situations like this. As I lay on the floor fearing the worse she was busy unloading the car by herself all the while devising a plan. She presents me with a post-it note with the address and phone number of a Walgreen’s in Belfast, Maine and the phone number of the Short Pump Patient First with these instructions: “Call them and explain the situation and ask them to call in a muscle relaxer prescription.” Brilliant.

I call and am connected to a sympathetic and cheerful nurse who pulls up my extensive record of back pain related visits. “Ahhh,” she says knowingly, “You seem to have a history of this sort of thing. I see a visit in 2017, 2018, and two visits in 2020, all for muscle spasms,” as if I was about to win some repeat customer award or something. Then a worrisome sigh and the words you don’t want to here when you’re laying on the floor fighting off back spasm’s  on day one of your six week vacation, “Unfortunately…”

Because it had been over a year since I had been treated for back issues, they would not be able to call me in a prescription. The fact that I had been treated for back spasms at that particular location more times than Britney Spears has been in rehab made no difference to what was apparently a mandate from corporate. We were then forced to launch Plan B.

Pam drove into Belfast to make our first grocery run with strict instructions that I was to stay in bed and “do nothing until I get back.” Luckily, I am ideally suited for such a task. Lucy and I made ourselves as comfortable as possible and waited for Super Woman’s return. When she arrived back at the house, she brought with her an ice pack thing that you can strap unto your back via a Velcro belt, along with a heating pad with a built in massager. Then she handed me a cold Baxter Stowaway IPA and deadpanned, “Here’s your muscle relaxer.” The woman is gold.

So this morning I sit here in my rocking chair drinking my coffee, feeling the warmth and vibrations of the Relax-o-Matic 2000 Deluxe model 2, with the Mister Freeze Relief Belt warming up in the bullpen. So far, no spasms and except for a a little tightness, I seem on the mend.

Today is a new day.

What’s at the End of the Rainbow

I packed up my office laptop, transferred my bill-paying files from my credenza to my briefcase, recorded an away message on my office phone, then locked my door on the way out. I paid a month’s worth of bills ahead of time. I got my summer haircut, picked up a couple books from Hope Thrift, then instructed our summer intern in the fine art of watering the lawn. I gave Lucy her pre-Maine bath. Spent most of last night packing a suitcase and a duffel. Mostly, shorts and t-shirts, underwear, bathing suits and baseball caps. But, because its Maine, two jackets, four long sleeve shirts and two pair of long pants—you never know when it might be cloudy and not get out of the 60’s. 

Several rooms in our house have taken on the appearance of a teenager’s bedroom. All of this chaos, all of the piles of necessities will find their way into our car by the end of today, hopefully leaving room for Lucy, who doesn’t need much, just a circle big enough for her to turn around three times before curling herself in a ball for long naps. Pam will no doubt remind me at least twice to make sure I can see through the back window. She will ask me several times whether or not I have locked the doors to the house, then before we are even out of the neighborhood she will say, “I feel like I’m forgetting something.”

In exactly 24 hours from now we will be on our way. It will take twenty minutes or so before Pam gets firmly settled in her co-pilot’s seat. When she does, she will let out a long sigh, the first second she’s had to relax in weeks. Sometimes she gets emotional when it hits her that we are on our way. For me, I’m all in on conquering the trip and have no time for emotions, except the kind that burn on the inside—mostly gratitude and relief. Then there’s the thing that hits me every year as we pull on to the interstate, that little boy, Christmas morning thrill of anticipation.

Some time today I hope to get a massage to prepare my body for the rigors of the long drive. At 64 an 850 mile road trip takes a toll on hamstrings and backs. Pam ordered me a special car seat cushion that is supposed to promote better driving posture. It is supposed to arrive today. It better, because if it doesn’t I’m leaving without it. When I checked the weather forecast for Camden, Maine for the day of our arrival—Saturday—it promises to be 75 and sunny. In fact the ten day forecast shows no temperature higher than 78. At night it will be in the upper 50’s, low 60’s. 

For us, Maine is always what’s at the end of the rainbow…

The Coming Escape

I’m not sure I have ever needed to see everyone’s family 4th of July picnic pictures more than I needed to see them this morning. Out of an abundance of caution, Pam and I were laying low this past weekend. After several friends close to us came down with either COVID or the flu, and with our Maine trip only a few days away, the very last thing either of us needs is to come down with either one of those things. Discretion being the better part of valor, we skipped church and the Dunnevant family 4th celebration, hunkering down here at the house. We did whip up some delicious brats on the grill and played some patriotic music, but it wasn’t the same. The 4th of July is not a holiday meant to be celebrated alone.

So, this morning I began flipping through the family photos on Facebook, including some from the Dunnevant gathering up in Ashland. Group pictures of families holding little American flags, the wide-eyed faces of children being lit up by the glow of sparklers, babies sound asleep in the arms of uncles and aunts. They were all beautiful. I needed to see them, needed confirmation that the entire country wasn’t going to hell.

Earlier in the day yesterday came news of yet another psychopath with a rifle opening fire on a parade in suburban Chicago. Six dead, thirty in the hospital, and the deranged little suspect plastered all over the news, some nobody rapper, another confused young man with a deadly weapon. The rest of the news seemed filled with despair, the suggestion that America has literally nothing to celebrate anymore was heavily covered in almost every story I read. To hear the media tell the story we are hopelessly and irreparably divided and the future almost certainly contains either civil war or formal dissolution. Its hard not to agree with such a negative assessment. But then I look at the endless succession of pictures of grateful and happy celebrations and find reason for optimism and a reminder that its the media’s job to attract eyeballs, with the truth—only if absolutely necessary. Sometimes the perspective of people who report news isn’t the same as the perspective of people who read it. So, as Pam and I prepare to leave for Maine, we will chose to focus on the reasons we have for being grateful and happy, not the steady drumbeat of gloom and despair that attempts to make happiness and gratefulness feel like guilty pleasures.

While we are retreating to Maine for six weeks at a time that makes it feel like we’re the last ones to get out of town alive, I know better. America will still be here when we get back. For those of you who are thinking…Wait, isn’t Maine part of America? Yes and no. Yes, Maine is one of the fifty states. No, where we are headed feels like a place set apart from the rest of the country, something closer to heaven than hell. 

We’ll send pictures. I owe you that much.

A July the 4th Devotion

Over the years I have written a half dozen July 4th pieces here at The Tempest. Some of them have been humorous, like the time I described the 50,000 people I was crammed in with on a beach in South Carolina. Other times I have talked about the state of the country and my feelings about America. Reading back through them it is remarkable how consistent they all are. The first such July 4th post I wrote was from the year 2011 and featured this observation:

“Today seems different somehow and I think I know why. When I look out across the country today, I see just as many divisions as there have ever been in American political life. We are fragmented into interest groups, divided by ideology and culture. But for me there isn’t one interest group in America today, be they blacks, Latinos, gays and lesbians, unions, or Tea Partiers that I distrust as much as I distrust my own government.”

Eleven years later not much has changed about this sentiment. Losing faith in the institutions of power in America has done nothing to dampen my love of country. That might sound like a contradiction, but I don’t think it is. America can’t be defined solely by our government. Are we the people at least partially responsible for that deterioration of faith? Yes. After all, we elected these people. Many of us couldn’t be bothered to vote in that local school board election, then wake up appalled that some Maoist crackpot is suddenly writing curriculum. The abdication of civic responsibility by far too many of us has brought us to this sorry state of governance. So, given all the failure running amok in America today, why do I still love her?

Largely because this place has afforded me, a kid who came into this world with nothing, to reach for anything I wanted in this life. It gave me opportunities to improve myself. It provided me a quality public school education, that I only took partial advantage of because of youthful indifference and laziness, but still, I graduated able to read and write, do mathematics, and as a result of the tireless efforts of my devoted teachers, I understood my place in the world. When I attended college, there were plenty of jobs available in a robust private sector which allowed me to work my way through even while taking out loans. There were obstacles in my path at every turn, but I had within me the power to overcome them in no small part because of the foundation laid in my brain by loving parents and tough-minded teachers with inflexibly high standards, teachers who simply would not except anything less from me than my best.

As a grown man I am able to live in a beautiful, peaceful neighborhood filled with families from all over the country and around the world. When there is a party, a summer celebration, a Fourth of July parade, or a Labor Day picnic…they all come. We gather in a culdesac together and catch up. Pam and I watch the little kids and dogs running wild and consider ourselves among the luckiest people in the world. Do we even understand how rare this is in human history? How many societies or civilizations have been built, let alone endured, based on a country made up of people from everywhere united as one people? All of us, all Americans came here from someplace else at some point. The fact that we have survived—this idea—has survived is miraculous.

It hasn’t been easy, and it seems to be getting harder with every passing year as we subdivide ourselves, as we wall ourselves apart from each other. Instead of one nation, we seem to be drifting into tribes, an anthropological category with a troubled and violent history. But if we are to preserve our country, we will have to find a way to overcome what divides us and replace it with a concept of the common good that has always united us. Equal justice before the law, opportunity for anyone and everyone willing to work for it, and the personal freedoms guaranteed by our Bill of Rights. These are the things that hold America together. Each generation has to work to see to it that we live up to the best of our ideals. When we do there is nothing that America cannot accomplish. 

So, I still love this place, the great big mess of a place we call America. I want to be among those who are willing to work to insure that she survives.

Taking NO Chances

One week from now we will be on our way to Maine for six glorious weeks. The last time we were there was October 14, 2021 so its been nine long months. When a place takes up residence in your head your life starts to be defined in part by how many days are left before you go back and how long its been since you left.. But once you get to the one week to go point things start getting weird and difficult.

Its like the days of King Arthur when the valiant knight, after a lifetime of heroics can see the prize in front of him, tantalizingly close, but must endure the final gauntlet of terrors before claiming the damsel. The final week is our gauntlet. Here’s what happens…

First, there are the unending lists. There’s stuff to pack, stuff to get ready, stuff to plan, stuff to purchase, stuff to prepare. Generally speaking, Pam is the Chief Executive Officer of Stuff around here. It is her pain-staking planning work that insures a successful trip. My jobs are more in the area of manual labor, finance and logistics. I take my orders from the CEO.

Then there’s the whole issue of health. In the era of COVID, we have become rather paranoid about personal health in the week leading up to go time. We suddenly become fastidious about hand washing. We tend to avoid large crowds. We also avoid small crowds in small places. I had an opportunity to have lunch this week with the fabulously entertaining Tom Allen, but I turned him down. He had just returned from a family reunion in New Jersey, an entire brood of Allen’s all together in…New Jersey. I said, “You’re kidding, right? Although he promised he would take his weekly shower before he came, he seemed to understand my hesitance to expose myself to whatever madness might still be clinging to him after a weekend of Allen family Tomfoolery.

We will probably not attend church services this Sunday, our last large crowd exposure before Maine. No offense, fellow Hope Church folks, but we’re not taking any chances.

Don’t get the impression that we’ve locked ourselves away inside the house all week or anything. Besides, there are still a million errands to run. Just yesterday Pam had to head over to the mall for some shopping…

Horror in Texas

The news reports were difficult to believe at first, an unimaginable horror. A semi-tractor trailer abandoned on the side of the road near San Antonio, Texas with 53 human beings inside, dead from heat exhaustion, having died in the sweltering 103 degree inferno of what amounted to a cattle car. These migrants from Mexico, Honduras and Nicaragua had been picked up in Laredo, Texas by a human smuggler—crammed into the back of the truck in record high temperatures without ventilation or water, then abandoned on the side of the road when the truck experienced mechanical trouble. A local railroad worker heard a feint cry for help from inside the truck, where the gruesome discovery was made. Within hours of the discovery, political accusations began flying back and forth between our distinguished public servants.

I am not an expert on immigration policy. Although I’ve read a lot about it over the years, in all that reading I have learned that the problem is profoundly complicated, a toxic mix of greed, fear, human degradation, human striving for a better life, and political grandstanding. The purpose of this post is not to cast blame, but rather to try and get inside the heads of all parties involved in the grisly graveyard that was left abandoned next to a railroad track in Texas.

What on Earth would possess a migrant from Mexico to climb into the back of that truck? Surely, they could see what they were entering, they could feel the heat, would have noticed that there was no water. Why? How desperate would they have to be? What possible hell were they fleeing that could be worse than being packed like sardines inside a trailer on the hottest day of the year? My imagination is incapable of providing any satisfactory answer to that question.

What kind of black heart would you have to have beating inside your chest to agree to be the driver of that truck? What amount of money would be necessary to assuage the guilt of this inhumanity?

Who are the people to whom this shipment was destined? What companies or farms were planning on putting these 53 to work? Any discussion about human smuggling across the border has to consider the end consumer of the cargo. Any business that would knowingly hire migrants delivered to them in the back of a tractor trailer, is every bit as complicit in this horror as every other actor along the way.

All I know is that when I looked at the pictures my heart broke for our increasingly savage, broken world.