A Defense of Family Photographs

After each major holiday on the American calendar, social media platforms like Facebook and Instagram become filled with photographs of happy families enjoying the day. Then, like the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, come the denunciations of these platforms as phony, guilty of painting false narratives of American life and, worst of all, the sin of being…boring. I wish to offer a defense.

Long before the internet got invented by Al Gore, if you wanted to see family photographs you had to break out the moldy old picture album. This thing weighed ten pounds and had loose pictures falling out of it all over the place. You would sit on the sofa with ten other people all leaning in to catch a glimpse of old black and white shots of your glum looking grandparents dressed in wool suits in the middle of July. With each turn of the page the pictures looked less bedraggled and just a bit more clear, but still very few frivolous moments. Back then taking pictures looked to be deadly serious business, no time for tomfoolery. But then, somewhere around 1960, the photographs began to show signs of life. There were more shots of kids, dressed in more comfortable clothing doing more normal things. Less posing, more smiles. With each turn of the page and each subsequent decade the pictures became more entertaining. Then suddenly…color. All bets were now off. It became a free for all of goofiness. Thats when the ten people on the sofa began to laugh and point and say, “remember when?”

But nowhere in even the oldest family photo album will you find somber shots of your Aunt Ruth trudging across the courthouse parking lot, leaving her divorce hearing. Nobody ever took a candid picture of your Mom and Dad in a knock down drag out fight over the family finances. There aren’t any photographs of your sister sobbing in her bedroom after her boyfriend broke up with her. No one ever thought to bring a camera along when the family dog got hit by a car and had to be removed and buried in the back yard. There are several good reasons for these omissions from the official record. First, its none of anyone else’s business. For another thing, why on earth would any family wish to immortalize their dirty laundry for perpetuity on the public record?

So, families have been careful what images they allow outsiders to see long before Zuckerberg came along, and I for one am eternally grateful for this discretion. Nobody cares or desires to hear or see other people’s dysfunction for the simple reason that we have plenty of our own to work through. When I see thousands of photographs of happy people sitting around Thanksgiving tables, I smile and am glad to see them all together. At the same time, I am grateful that they weren’t stupid enough to publish the screaming, alcohol-fueled political debate between Uncle Ben and Aunt Betty.

When I often hear the phrase, keeping it real, my eyebrows raise a bit. Really? Do we really want people on social media to keep it real? A quick google search of social pathologies plaguing the American family will disabuse you of any desire to keep it real. I’ll take the pictures of three generations of Smith’s sitting on the front steps of the house any day of the week and twice on Sundays compared to some somber testimonial to despair.

So, keep those beautiful family shots coming people! I love them all.

A Memory Painting

Pam came home with this painting a couple of days ago. She’s into seasonal artwork, and this one spoke to her in a Thanksgiving/Christmas sort of way. Like any painting it is best appreciated when examined closely, something that a mere photograph cannot do. We’re not talking Rembrandt or Picasso here. This was probably brushed together in a sentimental art factory owned by some Chinese conglomerate by child artists working 16 hour shifts for all I know. Be that as it may, whoever painted this managed to capture something.

I look at this painting up close and I want to walk through that door. I already know what it looks like inside because I’ve been there before. There are old, scarred oak pews with straight backs and no cushions and a single aisle dissecting the room. Its cold inside and I’m the only one in the place. At the front there is a mahogany sacraments table with a large bible opened to the 23rd Psalm, with two brass candle sticks on either side. To the left is a black spinet piano with two or three dead keys. On the podium sits a beautiful polished wood pulpit with a cross carved in the front. Behind it to either side are two high back cushioned chairs. Behind the chairs there’s a recessed chamber that holds a baptismal pool. On the wall above the pool there is a painting of a receding river lit up by an oversized ray of sunshine, a white dove soaring in the air.

 I take a seat halfway up on the aisle. The place smells familiar. It is the smell of old men’s after shave, of dust and candles. A memory drifts by of animal crackers, kool-aid and vacation bible school. I am transported back to a simpler time when bald-headed men and white-haired women rustled my hair and tried to teach me important things. I remember all the squirming done in these pews, all the restlessness. But now, I am still. My eyes are closed and I feel an overwhelming gratefulness for this old building. I attempt a quick prayer of Thanksgiving but the words seem listless and ineffective. So I stop trying. Instead I open my eyes and look around again. This time the pews are filled with my family. All of them are there, even those long passed. I see friends I haven’t seen in years, every one I’ve ever been lucky enough to make. They are all here in the beautiful old church. I hear the piano come to life. We all stand to sing an old song…We gather together to ask the Lord’s blessing. Suddenly I feel the warmth generated by the crowd of witnesses.

Thanksgiving is nothing without memories. And this marvelous painting has brought them all back to me this morning.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

Walmart Tragedy

It is Thanksgiving Eve in 2022 America, and I wake up to news of seven dead in the break room of a Walmart less than two hours from my house, murdered execution style by one of the managers of the store.

So, while I spend my day preparing for the arrival of family for tomorrow’s festivities, there will be a cloud of sorrow for the workers and their families who will never celebrate another Thanksgiving without the crushing memory of this tragedy.

It’s Thanksgiving and I Have a New Job

This being the week of Thanksgiving, I have a new job—Pam’s Executive Assistant.

Here’s how we roll here at the Dunnevant house. 2022 is the year that we host the White family for Thanksgiving. In addition, Jon, Kaitlin and Jackson will be coming for several days. Patrick, Sarah and Frisco unfortunately will be Thanksgiving-ing in Nashville. This means that we will have somewhere between 12 and 14 souls here for the big meal.

My dear wife has taken the liberty of an entire week off from her day job to devote to this task. Why? A few reasons. First, she needs a break from sitting around a tiny table in a cramped room surrounded by phlegm-spewing elementary school students. Second, there is much to do to prepare for the festivities. If you have ever had the pleasure of attending a holiday get-together at my house you will know that Pam does it about as well as it is possible to do. She tends to the tiniest detail, leaves no stone unturned trying to make each day special. This is where I come in.

I am the sort of man who struggles with authority. Starting with my parents, then several unfortunate teachers, then professors, then bosses, I have consistently resisted taking orders. Ultimately all of this authority resistance resulted in me starting my own business. It suited my temperament. But there is one exception to this rule. I have never had a minute’s trouble completely submitting to my wife’s authority when it comes to the issue of…hospitality. The reason is simple. She is great at it. I have watched this woman plan and execute dinners, holiday parties and other special occasions for almost 40 years now. What I have learned over those years is that this woman is a beast who knows exactly what she is doing. In the early days of our marriage I might object to this order or that because it seemed..well…unnecessary or frivolous. Back in my ignorant days I might challenge her on one of her crazier requests.  Not any more. I have learned that if she wants something done a certain way at a certain time, there is a reason for it. When the results are consistently fabulous at some point you just shrug and say, “I’m all over it, sweetie.”

So, if she decides that since this year’s meal won’t begin until 4:00 it might be nice if we have all the outside Christmas lights put up so we can do a grand illumination after dinner, guess what I’m going to do? I’m putting up the lights. If she needs to clean bathrooms, vacuum the house, travel to Thailand to pick up some rare spice that she couldn’t find at Publix, I’ll get on a plane. The reason for my happy compliance to every request is simple—I know how great it will be, how much happiness and warmth she will be responsible for by the end of the day. And even though she does it all happily, I know what she really wishes she were doing…drinking hot chocolate while watching Hallmark movies with our daughter.

Tragedy Outside of Paris

What an awful experience. There I was sightseeing in a beautiful small town just outside of Paris when I heard a loud explosion. There was broken glass flying all around me. It was a miracle that I came out of it alive. But when I walked out into the street I realized that the explosion was at the cheese factory down the street. It bleu cheese everywhere, the Da Brie was scattered all up and down the street. Along with everyone else, I stumbled down the street in shock until I came across Alfredo who was unconscious. Someone shouted, “I havarti called emergency services!” But unfortunately Alfredo didn’t survive the blast.

As I walked through the rapidly melting streets, being especially careful to avoid the sharp cheddar, I took a whiff of the dairy air and wondered if this was a queso fire negligence. But a local then told me that there had been a string of cheese factory explosions. All I could think to say was, “Holey Crepe”. I will cheddar tear over this.

Three Disturbing News Stories

Three stories are competing for my attention this morning. I read about the latest dangerous escalation of the war in Ukraine, a missile of unknown origin having landed in Poland killing two. Then I learn more details about the murder of three football players at the University of Virginia by a former player, a resident of Henrico County. Lastly, I am informed that Donald Trump kicked off his campaign for President in 2024 last night. All three of these stories give me a queasy stomach and play hell with my confidence in humanity.

First, Ukraine. If it turns out that the missile in question was launched by the Russian military intentionally, there’s big trouble in River City. Poland is a NATO member, meaning that any attack on her must be treated as an attack on all member states, most notable—us. This is the worst case scenario for anyone hoping that this conflict will not conflate into a European-wide war. One is left hoping that the Russian high command will rise up and take Vladimir Putin out. Meanwhile we pray that the Poland missile was a stray anti-aircraft surface to air Ukrainian missile instead.

The killing at UVA involves yet another young man who appeared on UVA’s threat assessment team twice earlier this year. Signs of trouble were everywhere in this kid’s background, with the clear and bright benefit of hindsight. He was a victim of hazing, a participant in series of fights in schools in Henrico County, having endured his parent’s bitter divorce during high school which was so bad he had to relocate to Petersburg to live with his grandmother. So the news that he gets his hands on a firearm and starts shooting at his former teammates on a bus surprises absolutely no one—which is the worst part about the story, that we are not surprised.

The Trump announcement was expected. I suppose there is nothing to be said about him in this space that I have not said before. The fact that he thinks he has done anything to justify a second term is a monument to his colossal self regard. The only thing about the announcement which qualifies as good news from my perspective is the fact that it did NOT get top billing on Drudge. The minimal coverage and lack of breathless hype might be considered a sign that even conservative news aggregators are tired of him.

Sore Monday

Note to future self: It is not wise to spend two hours getting up leaves the day after running an 8k. This sort of thing would have been self-evident to any normal person, but for someone like me who still thinks he is indestructible it has been a painful lesson. 

Now that this thing is in the rear view mirror I can now turn my attentions to the final six weeks of 2022. This has not been a particularly enjoyable year from a business standpoint. Bear markets never are. Financial instability tends to make other areas of life unstable, which for a person of faith seems hypocritical. Shouldn’t my faith grant me a measure of confidence during times of great instability? Yes, it should. To the degree that I still struggle suggests a certain level of hypocrisy. But I am a work in progress, always have been.

These next six weeks are full of great joy and great anxiety. The joys of Thanksgiving and Christmas do fierce battle with the anxiety of preparing for both. But isn’t that the way life works? Everything of value and worth comes with challenges. Nothing is ever easy…except one thing. Lucy’s life…