Coping Mechanisms

Life isn’t easy. No matter who you are, where you live, or even how you live, life comes at you hard some days. Even the best of us have a hard time keeping it together. Sometimes the problems are momentous and overwhelming. Other times the issues are as insignificant as a wayward breeze. One minute you feel like the captain of your ship, the next you feel like an imposter hiding in steerage. 

Much of the angst of life at my age comes in the form of a growing sense of your own mortality. A health setback reminds you that you are much nearer the end than the beginning. You eventually get over it. Its too exhausting to keep turning it over in your head. Some people turn to therapy, start visiting mental health specialists, paying them hundreds of dollars an hour to listen to the great unburdening. I have a different coping strategy…

What did one DNA say to another DNA?

“Do these genes make me look fat?”

The other day I was walking through the parking lot at Publix and noticed a woman sitting alone in her car with the engine running, crying into a handkerchief. For a second I thought about stopping to see if she was ok. I pictured myself tapping on the window asking if there was anything I could do. But then I thought better of it. She was a woman and I am a man. It might have been awkward. She could have been mentally ill and my intrusion might have triggered an even bigger problem than whatever was causing her distress. So I kept my head down and walked into the store to buy English muffins. When I walked back to my car the crying woman was gone. I sat alone in my car for a minute wondering if I might have missed an opportunity…

How many telemarketers does it take to change a lightbulb?

Only one, but he can only do it while you’re sitting down to eat dinner.

I have a neighbor who has two little boys. Almost every night I see him in his back yard throwing whiffle ball pitches to his baseball loving son. He’s done it so much he’s worn a bare spot on the lawn where he stands to pitch. I’ve watched them night after night. I hear the sound of the ball against the tinny aluminum bat. Each day the little boy gets better and better. Every once in a while he’ll really get ahold of one and it sails over the fence into my yard. I throw it back and tell him how great he’s doing. It brings back a thousand memories of Kaitlin and Patrick in our back yard at the old house. I think about the first time Kaitlin powered one over the fence. The look on her face was magical. Then there was the time that Patrick blasted one over the roof of the house. He wasn’t nearly as impressed as I was. Just me and my pups playing ball in the backyard. I watch my neighbor and it all comes back like it was yesterday. But it wasn’t yesterday. It was nearly thirty years ago…

I spent a lot of time, money and effort child-proofing my house.

But, the kids still get in!

You discover that a rift has developed between a couple of people you volunteer with. Its nothing serious but its not nothing either. You hear that there have been hurt feelings and even tears. It bothers you deeply for some reason. Its not the end of the world. People disagree, even good people. Sometimes, especially good people. You wish you could fix it but it doesn’t even concern you, just something that happened. You know that it will work out with a little time, most things do. Time has magically curative powers. But lately you’ve developed a sketchy relationship with the concept of time. Its not something you feel that you have a lot of, so you’re more protective of it, you don’t want to waste it. You want to make every second count for something. You feel like nobody has time for hurt feelings…

What do you call a snitching scientist?

A lab rat.

You’re driving home from CVS where you picked up a couple prescriptions for your wife. You get to a stop light just up the street from your neighborhood and you see this sunset. It isn’t spectacular, but just a second earlier the dying sun had set a metal fence along Three Chopt ablaze in orange light. Now you sit waiting for the light to change and you watch it lowering itself into the trees and it makes you sad. Sunsets can be that way. They are the end of something, not a beginning. You think about the woman in the Publix parking lot and wonder if she’s alright…

I saw a sheep driving a pickup truck through town the other day. Finally a cop pulled him over.

Gave him a ticket for making an illegal ewe turn.

The thing is, everyone figures out a way to deal with the hard edges of life. For me, I have found great peace, purpose and meaning in my faith and the pursuit of the redemptive power and transcendence of the Gospel. But that’s big picture thinking, and while there’s certainly nothing wrong with that, I have found that where I require the most help are in the small details of each day. Human beings are great at developing what behavioral scientists call coping mechanisms. Mine has always been the escape of humor, even poor attempts at it. Its hard to explain really, but thinking of a cheesy joke while dealing with hard things helps to soften them. Sometimes it doesn’t work, but most times it does…

What did the French chef give his wife for Valentines Day?

A hug and a quiche.

I was reminiscing today about the beautiful herb gardens I had when I was a kid.

Good Thymes.

The Home Stretch.

It is about time I issued my annual public service announcement warning readers of The Tempest of what is to come. 2023 has been the year that I cut back on the number of posts here. However, in a couple more weeks this space will be filled with photographs and commentary from our Maine summer vacation. I will be providing a running monologue of events from the shores of Quantabacook. There will be photographs and videos of the many stunning vistas of Mid-Coast Maine. I will write about fishing and sunsets and the adventures of Lake Dog Lucy. I will regale you with stories of great food eaten at amazing restaurants. I will offer observations on the oddball ways of Mainers. I will brag about Pam’s paddle boarding skills. There will be way too many pictures of loons.

I will go on and on about our favorite shops. There will be close-ups of lobster rolls and frosty mugs full of Baxter IPA. When we have guests, you will hear all about our abilities as tour guides. When my children get here there will be lots of pictures of all of us lounging on the dock huddled around charcuterie boards. I will brag about the weather (I hope!). I will write a lot about the strange magic that seems to arrive with the morning fog and drift through the trees in the afternoon. Eventually you will notice a change in my writing. It will become less hard headed, more whimsical. I will hope that what comes across is not boring, repetitive or vain but rather a profound gratitude that I get to come to a place like Maine. We actually get to live here for most of our summers. When we do we try our best to fit in, not to transform this place to suit us. We make no demands of this place. We never want it to change, to become more like home, mostly because in a very real sense it is home. All of the differences, all of the idiosyncrasies are exactly what make it magical.

I will lavish money on a series of local establishments that we have grown to love over the years. I will not complain about the prices or the taxes. Its only money, after all. I will give free advertising to all of them, going on and on about their friendliness and excellence. I will enjoy living six weeks away from national chain anything. Instead I will do business in places with names like Hazel’s, Fraternity General Store, and Hoot. I will have coffee not at Starbucks but at Zoot instead. If we need emergency things, we won’t go to Walmart, but Reny’s. When I buy gas it won’t be at a Sheets, but Maritime. And if something goes wrong with either of the beautiful lake houses we have rented I will rave about the service and professionalism of On The Water In Maine, who will have it fixed practically before I hang up the phone.

So…you’ve now been fair and truly warned. This space is about to become the no negativity, all Maine all the time Blog. Ready or not.

A Jolting Week

What a week. A jolting, disquieting week of routine violence and even more routine Washingtonian stupidity. To make matters worse, Pam was away on a visit to our daughter, leaving Lucy and I to fend for ourselves.

It started with the shooting at the Altria. A nineteen year old kid gunning down a father and son in cold blood, injuring five others. There isn’t a single person I know who was shocked or surprised by the killings. Why would we be? What exempts Richmond, Virginia from this plague? Nothing. In fact these two deaths weren’t even the only ones of the day involving teenagers and firearms in the city. It has become as commonplace as jaywalking. We are desensitized to the barbarism of it. Besides, it was a Richmond city school. What did we expect, right? I heard more than one person comment on the fact that the eighteen year old victim was only eighteen years older than his father—who wasn’t even his father, but a step-father—further proof of the mishmash that the black inner city family has become. I hear these things and part of me admits to the truth of the underlying assumptions. I am aware of the horrifying statistics. But, another part of me recoils from such an emotionless, utilitarian disregard for the value of a human life snuffed out thirty minutes after his high school graduation. It was Huguenot High School…what did you expect? Not this. That school is filled with a thousand human souls of great nobility and infinite worth, everyone of them created in the image of God. The day that we all blithely expect a shooting at a graduation ceremony is the day that hope dies. Then I hear Richmond’s hapless mayor repeat the question twice to a group of reporters, as if we all didn’t hear him the first time—-“is nothing sacred anymore?” Come now, Mayor Stoney. You know the answer to that question.

Then, the only man in America with the power to upstage literally anything, Donald Trump managed to wipe the Huguenot High School shooting off the front pages with the news that he has been indicted on over 30 counts of espionage and gross mismanagement of classified documents and lying about said handling. He will be arraigned next week. Now the country will have to endure the embarrassment and folly of the government of a sitting President trying to convict the top rival for his job with crimes that could lock up The Don for the rest of his life. Sigh…Do I think that Trump will serve one day in jail? No. Do I think he is guilty of gross misuse of the secrets of the United States of America? If his own recorded voice is in fact him, Yes! The couple snippets I heard sounded like a middle school boy trying to impress his friends—“I probably shouldn’t be showing you this, in fact you shouldn’t get too close to this map!!” To what end would any President, even this nihilistic one, carry off truck loads of sensitive and classified documents and then store them haphazardly in his home which doubles as a resort hotel teeming with Saudi’s? I can think of no rational reason for anyone to behave this way. But then again, I have never been able to understand 45 using rationality. Will this be the end of him? No. Somehow he will survive. He always does. Once he is dead and gone, I am sure that he will find a way to scandalize us from the grave.

But, as disconcerting as this week was it has gotten infinitely better since Pam got home. Lucy is finally calm and secure. When one of us is away, she never knows quite how to relax. She is a herder of her people. We must all be in our place before she can rest. I’m exactly the same way when Pam is away.

The Most Underrated Form of Literature

One of the benefits of life long church attendance is exposure to that underrated category of literature known as the church bulletin. When I was younger and far less spiritually mature (last month), the bulletin provided me with a diversion whenever my mind would wander. The preacher would be going on and on about the immoral Amorites who were always slaying one thing or another, while I would be busy checking out what was coming up in church-world in the week ahead. At other times I would use that short little pencil attached to the pew in front of me to color in all the O’s. Sometimes I would make killer paper airplanes out of the bulletin which was always the perfect shape for such a project. Then it was everything I could do to resist turning that thing loose during the offertory prayer. 

But the most fun thing to do with the bulletin was scanning the thing for mistakes, misspellings, grammar errors and other hiccups that often made for some hilarious reading. What follows are some of the all-time classics of the genre.

National PRAYER & FASTING Conference: "The cost for attending the Fasting and Prayer Conference includes meals".

"Ladies, don't forget the rummage sale. It's a chance to get rid of those things not worth keeping around the house. Don't forget your husbands."

The Sermon this morning: "Jesus Walks on Water". The Sermon tonight: "Searching for Jesus".

Don't let worry kill you - let the Church help.

At the evening service tonight, the sermon topic will be "What is Hell?" Come early and listen to our choir practice.

Scouts are saving aluminium cans, bottles and other items to be recycled. Proceeds will be used to cripple children.

Please place your donation in the envelope along with the deceased person you want remembered.

Attend and you will hear an excellent speaker and heave a healthy lunch.

The church will host an evening of fine dining, superb entertainment and gracious hostility.

Potluck supper, Sunday at 5.00pm - prayer and medication to follow.

The ladies of the church have cast off clothing of every kind. They may be seen in the basement on Friday afternoon.

Low Self-Esteem Support Group will meet Thursday at 7pm. Please use the back door.

Weight Watchers will meet at 7pm at the First Presbyterian Church. Please use large double doors at the side entrance.

The 8th-Graders will be presenting Shakespeare's Hamlet in the church basement on Friday at 7pm. The congregation is invited to attend this tragedy.

The Associate Minister unveiled the church's new tithing campaign slogan last Sunday; "I Upped My Pledge - Up Yours."

You’re welcome, and have a good week!

Where Are All of These People Going?

Yesterday morning I left the house around 8:30 on one of my inexplicable pedestrian quests. This time the goal was to walk farther than I had ever walked before, return home without broken bones or other medical issues, then brag about the accomplishment the rest of the day. Two hours and six minutes later I did just that. Having wandered a circuitous 8.2 mile route around greater Short Pump. The goal will now be to complete the same circuit in a better time than 2:06:42. Even I am starting to think this is stupid. (See ridiculous map at the bottom of this blog)

After a delicious lunch at Tazza kitchen with Pam, I was looking forward to a long afternoon nap with Lucy. But then Pam announced that there was a cool thing happening at Bryan Park that she wanted to check out, something having to do with the Richmond Symphony and quintettes. Before I knew what was happening, Chip and Lynn Hewette were in the back seat of my car and we were on our way to a park I hadn’t visited since I was in my 20’s.

Where in the heck are all theses people going? Apparently, there is an appetite for classically trained musicians who are willing to perform under little tents spread out along a one mile trail in the woods. First up was a brass group, then woodwinds, then strings etc..

Each stop along this walk was a delight. There was classical music, some American standards, and even a Beatles song in the mix. All free of charge.

The only drawback was the fact that it was the hottest day of the year. Consequently, shady spots to stand or sit were at a premium. We found ourselves hustling along to the next tent before each mini-concert was over to find a spot. But other than that it was a fun afternoon. Bryan Park wasn’t anywhere close to how I remembered it. Of course, my memories are 40 years old and most likely unreliable.

Now its Sunday morning and time for church. David is preaching, I know because this week it was my turn to prepare the discussion guide. Its an interesting topic that was challenging for me for a variety of reasons. Can’t wait to see how he delivers this one. If you are a member of Hope Church and reading this in your pajamas debating whether or not to come or watch it on livestream, take a shower, get dressed and stop doing that…forsaking the gathering together…thing!!

*ridiculous map

Three Thoughts From This Memorial Day Weekend

Notes on this Memorial Day weekend:

- Yesterday morning I headed out for another long walk. While still within the confines of my neighborhood I came upon an inspiring sight. There was a young father pushing a stroller. There was a boy in the stroller maybe 2 or 3 years old with a death grip on one of those cheap 10 inch balls you always see in big wire cages at Walmart. Walking along with these two was an elderly man, maybe the younger man’s father. He was stooped shouldered and shuffled along with the help of a walker which was making a terrible racket on the rough surface of Aprilbud Drive. I nodded at them as I passed on the other side of the street as a smile came to my face. Watching the three of them together made my day, if you want to know the truth. There they were, three generations making accommodations for each other, like you do when you’re part of a family. I’m sure that Dad would have preferred walking along faster without the grating noise of his father’s walker. I feel certain that the old man wished he didn’t need the walker. He probably would have preferred sitting in his recliner taking a nap. The little boy wasn’t going anywhere without his ball, probably would have been perfectly happy kicking it around in the back yard. But there they all were taking a morning walk together. I thought about them for most of the remainder of my walk. I identified most with the Dad. It seemed like just yesterday when that was me. But truthfully, I’ve much more in common with the old man. I might not be hunched over and using a walker, but my day is coming. I wondered about the little boy. Did he have any idea how precious a thing it is to spend time with your father and grandfather? What will this little guy become? Maybe he will be the one who finds a cure for cancer. He might end up being an artist or a businessman. His future is sprawled out in front of him for the taking. I wondered what it must feel like for the old man, what emotions were at play as he walked beside his son—walking his son. I imagine a mixture of pride, gratitude, and bewilderment at how fast time flew by from his days as a boy. 

It brought to mind this photograph, the only one of its kind that I’m aware of, probably over 30 years old now…

-  Speaking of running, yesterday I determined that I would replicate the 7 mile walk from a week ago for which I took lots of heat on Facebook by the usual suspects, namely, my sister Paula who opined, “What is this compulsion you have to push yourself?!? Good grief. Chill out.” I should point out that this is nothing new from her. She always has something snarky to say whenever I do something fun or dangerous. But, I must admit that she asks a good question. The problem is that I have no satisfactory answer to the question of why I have always been thus, always pushing myself to do better, do more, go faster etc…But, yesterday my goal was a second 7 mile walk, only this time I would concentrate of walking as fast as I could possibly walk to discover how much time I could shave off. The original walk took an hour and 50 minutes which upon reflection seemed embarrassingly slow. So yesterday I finished in only an hour and  thirty nine minutes…eleven minutes faster, baby!

So, what was the point, you may fairly ask? I’ll tell you what the point was—I set a new personal best time for walking seven miles! That’s the point! I proved that I can do better. Until actually doing it, the possibility of improvement is only a theory. The proof is on this little scoreboard. I’m sure that this explanation will not satisfy my opinionated sister or any of the other naysayers and worry warts out there who will warn me of future replaced hips and knees. They may all be right. To which my response is, so what? YOU go out there and walk seven miles at a pace of 14:11 per mile! 

-  Last night our social calendar was full. First off was a baby shower held out in Hanover County, then a dinner out with three other couples to celebrate a birthday down in Chesterfield County on the western end of Midlothian. Both events were great fun. The baby shower thing featured one of my old Sunday School students from the Grove days, along with his older brother and sister, also kids I was close to back in those youth group days. To look at these three siblings now and see their lives flourishing despite the considerable headwinds they have faced is one of life’s greatest rewards. But despite their hard earned adulthood status, when I see them I still think of them as adorable, fun and mischievous kids. Always. I suppose that will never change and I’m fine with it.

Batting Cage Fail

Every once in a while in my profession I am presented with a vexing case which doesn’t lend itself to easy remedies. I spend hours and hours pouring over the details, trying to pick the right strategy. Which risk do I want to remove? Which risk am I willing to tolerate? Whenever this happens I feel the need to do something sporty to distract my mind. Sometimes I’ll go for a run or walk 18 holes while carrying my clubs, anything that will wear me out because when I’m exhausted I stop thinking obsessively about everything.

So this afternoon I threw my golf clubs in the back of the car and drove over to Bogey’s Sports Park to hit a bucket of balls. It was nice. I hit the ball well and the weather couldn’t possibly have been any finer. As I was preparing to leave I looked up the hill and noticed the batting cages.

I have a history with batting cages. Years ago when I was just starting out in business and well and truly broke, I used to use my lunch hour over at the batting cages just south of Ashland on Number One Highway. Back then they had a 90 mph cage and I used to wear that cage out until I was dripping wet with sweat. Of course, now that I’m 65 my days of putting a 90 mph fastball in play are over. Besides, nobody has a 90 MPH cage anymore. Anyway, before thinking my decision through properly, there I was buying two tokens, walking up to the cages with a too skinny, too light aluminum bat and one of those one size fits all helmets. Upon arriving I noticed that only two of the cages were open…70 MPH and 80 MPH. Gulp.

I dropped the first token in the 70 MPH machine and prepared for the worst. To my astonishment, I only swung and missed once in 20 pitches, fouled off maybe 4 or 5 and laced the rest of them right up the middle. For a brief and unrealistic moment I let myself believe I was a kid again.

One more token. Twenty more pitches. I determined that the 80 MPH cage was my destiny. How much harder could 10 lousy miles per hour be? But this was when I realized that I was out of breath and sweating profusely. Yep. Still 65 and not fooling anyone! So I sat down at one of the picnic tables to gather myself. I noticed that both of my hands were red and raw looking after only 20 swings. Better loosen the grip on the bat, I thought. Then it was time to step in against Mister 80 MPH heater.

When I finished, my hands were stinging and cramped with pain. My shirt was soaked through and thankfully there was no one up there to witness my pathetic performance. I managed to foul tip maybe four or five. I did put exactly six balls in play—all ground balls toward the second base side. The rest of the pitches were giant whiffs. Pretty humiliating, but my strategy had worked—I was no longer thinking about my troubling case.

When I arrived back home I cleaned up, then opened my computer to check the closing numbers on Wall Street. Thats when I saw the picture. It had popped up on my Facebook wall, a memory from 8 years ago, back when I could have done much better in the cage…

It’s probably my favorite picture of her. We were in the Cayman Islands, getting ready to go out for dinner. I took the photograph of her on the staircase in the front of the hotel. I studied it carefully and it brought back memories of that wonderful week. She is elegant, graceful and approachable. Her smile isn’t forced or tired. She is charming and fun, the kind of women who would never embarrass you. Her beauty is natural, never overdone or showy. She is tender hearted and kind, always thinks the best of people sometimes to a fault. The best thing is…that girl belongs to me.

My difficult case will take care of itself. Later tonight when my back starts to tighten up and my hands start pulsing with pain, she will look at me, knowing that I brought it all on myself and roll her eyes. 

But, she loves me anyway.