I Love My Church

My church has been reading through the book of Proverbs all month and hearing sermons about wisdom. Our pastors have asked members over the age of 70 to share some of the wisdom they have acquired over the years. When I was working in the Cafe yesterday I noticed that they had started to display some of the submissions. Many of them were anonymous, but others had first names only at the bottom. Two of them caught my eye…

Retiring to something instead of from something is some of the best advice I’ve ever heard. I have witnessed the retirement of over 100 of my clients over the years and have found this idea to be definitively true. Those who have a planned Second Act thrive. Thanks, Keith.

Becoming a better listener has been a goal of mine for most of my life. It doesn’t come natural to me. It has taken some work and lots of practice. But I have gotten better at it over time to my great benefit. Thanks, Susan.

I love my church.

Story Time, Mediterranean Food and Earlobe Hair

Random observations on this Friday morning:

- My mother-in-law has been battling back from quadruple bypass surgery this week. She’s 80 and tough as nails. My father-in-law has been by her side throughout the fight while becoming the favorite person of all the nurses on the cardiac floor at St. Mary’s hospital. Neither of these things surprises me in the least.

- One of the sweetest guys I know at Hope Church died this week. Roger had been battling cancer for some time. The last time I saw him at Hope Thrift he looked frail and weak, but he greeted me with a broad and genuine smile like he always did. He was a bright light even while deathly ill.

- This morning at Hope Cafe there will be the first ever Story Time at 10:00. I will be a casual observer today, but next Friday I will be the designated reader. Mom’s will be bringing their pre-school aged kids to the Cafe to listen to grownups read them children’s books for an hour. I’m excited about it, but I am hoping that Jennifer doesn’t ask me to read any of those dreadful Bernstein Bear books. They are the absolute worst!!

- Pam has us both on a Mediterranean food kick since the first of the year. It isn’t a diet, its just eating food cooked and prepared in the Mediterranean style. She has found a bunch of new recipes and we have been loving it. The food is delicious and as a side benefit, we have both lost a little weight. The only problem is the cleanup after dinner. You wouldn’t believe how many measuring spoons, bowls, utensils and various and sundry kitchen tools required to make healthy meals. Emptying the dishwasher the next morning takes forever and I don’t know where half the stuff goes. But I’m not complaining. The meals have been amazing.

- This week has brought another list of new aches and pains of unknown origin which have been visited upon my 65 year old body. Out of nowhere both insteps are now painful to the touch, mysterious bruises have appeared on my left forearm without provocation, and I have sprouted new hair growth out of my left earlobe. Sweet.

- As we near the end of January I am well on my way to achieving my goal of 5000 sit-ups and pushups in 2024. Last year I had the same goal and only made it to 3800.

- My garage door opener broke this week for just the second time in 27 years. Called a guy to come fix it and he showed up on time and did the job in less than two hours. The bill came to $891. Nice work if you can get it. Just another reminder that everything in and around us is in a state of decay. Our job is to manage that decay with as little embarrassment and angst as possible. So far, so good.

What Kind of Writer Do I Want to Be?

Preparing my book for publication has been quite the experience. Throughout the editing and proofreading process I have been forced to examine the work in more detail than I thought possible. I have discovered that it is one thing to write something, it is entirely another to examine what you have written honestly. Over the past two months I have probably read back through the thing a half dozen times and each time I find something else I don’t like. I still love the story and still feel fondness for the characters, but close and painstaking examination of my work has revealed a few writer ticks I didn’t even know I had. There are expressions I use too often, unnecessary phrases that pop up here and there that add nothing except annoyance. There are numbers I use too often—how many times can anything last “30 minutes”? 

But the big question that I have been forced to address is this—what kind of writer do I want to be? Back in the day there was that great rivalry and debate between Faulkner and Hemingway, Faulkner with his big fancy words and flowery descriptions, and Hemingway with his short, tight sentences and unadorned style. I preferred Hemingway then and now. Today both styles are on display in just about everything written by Cormac McCarthy. While I will freely admit that Mr. McCarthy is ten times the writer I will ever be, do I really want to use 500 words to describe the proper technique for scalping a head? I challenge any of you to read Blood Meridian and come out the other side a better person. I think I have a firm enough grasp on the extent of human depravity without needing one of Cormac’s 200,000 word novels to remind me of the depths to which we are capable of falling.

As a writer I don’t feel angry. I am not depressed or apocalyptic in outlook. I don’t feel oppressed or very much like an oppressor. I believe that human beings are capable of both creating beauty and destroying it. We are as equally adept at grand ideas and noble thoughts as we are treachery and deceit. I think that the best stories are the ones where characters display both extremes of our nature, grapple with them, then stumble upon a way forward. I want to tell stories that at least attempt to suggest that the better angels of our character have a fighting chance, that it is possible to overcome darkness, especially the darkness that lives inside the human heart. 

I love all types of writing. A good crime novel is great fun. Historical fiction is amazing. An occasional escapist romp is fun to read at the beach. So far, the novels I have written center around the relational conflict between friends, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives, the old and the young. I write stories about how delicate a thing friendship is, how fragile love can be and how easily it can be destroyed. But I also examine whether it is possible for broken relationships to be restored. I suppose my underlying conviction as a writer is that if the restoration of broken relationships isn’t possible, then we are all doomed. And if the redemption of the human heart is possible, most likely it will be miraculous.

Lucy the Vigilant

Lucy is quite famous for her quirkiness, her colorful neuroses. Long time readers of this space are familiar with her idiosyncratic behavior and many of you have been kept entertained by her antics over the years. Well, here’s another to add to the list.

My dog has never been fond of delivery trucks. She has never been a big fan of the United States Postal Service and their little white trucks. She has had a contentious relationship with the FedEx truck and the Amazon vans as well. But nothing quite gets under her skin quite like the worst of the species in Lucy’s mind—the dreaded brown UPS truck.

To be fair, as Lucy has aged she has become something of a grumpus when it comes to any strange vehicle or pedestrian who commits the unforgivable sin of appearing on the road in front of our house. She sees it as her duty to warn us of the potential grave danger presented to us by the mere presence of someone taking their dogs for walks on her street. Lucy fails to see the irony in her absurd stance on dog walkers, since one of her favorite things in life is when she goes for a walk throughout the neighborhood with me. But somehow when other dogs do it, its as if the four horsemen of the apocalypse have been unleashed.

However, her annoyance with delivery drivers started in earnest several Christmas seasons ago during that COVID year when everybody did 100% of their Christmas shopping online, which caused delivery driver traffic in our neighborhood to increase 1000% year over year. Lucy has never fully recovered.

I bring this up because of something fascinating that happened this afternoon around 3:30 in the afternoon. I got home from the office and as is my custom sat down in my recliner upstairs where Lucy quickly curled up in a spot right next to the chair. In ten short minutes she was literally snoring. Out like a light. Then just a few minutes later I heard a low growl from her. I glanced down at her. She was still sound asleep, dead to the world. Then a bit later another low growl, this one a bit longer. Again I looked down at her. Not even the slightest movement. Then she let out one of her patented soft barks. This is when she half growls/half darks which comes out sounding very much like someone saying harrumph. At this point it occurred to me that she was probably dreaming and her dream involved a delivery truck of some sort. But then suddenly she lifted her head with droopy, sleepy eyes and let out another low growl and another harrumph. At this point she began the long tortured process of unwinding herself out of her sleep posture onto all four paws whereupon she uncorked a vicious full body shake and a forceful bark and out of the room she bolted, around the corner down the hall until she reached the Palladian window at the front upstairs of the house overlooking the street. It was only then that I heard the distinctive grinding of gears and high pitched whine of the UPS truck which was still two streets away!!!

Some of you may doubt this detail. It seems like an embellishment. It couldn’t be possible for a sleeping dog to sense the presence of a delivery truck which had barely turned off Pump Road into our neighborhood, at least 500 yards away. But as I live and breathe, Miss Lucy is nothing if not diligent when it comes to protecting her humans from the UPS man, this despite the fact that in his approximately 500 previous deliveries to this address managed to do so with exactly zero loss of life or property damage. These facts mean nothing to Lucy. She knows the hidden agenda of all men and women in uniforms who drive loud vans and trucks and they are up to no good. There is no way in hell she is letting one of these people do us any harm. Not on her watch!

Powerful Memories

Some weeks are different than others. This most recent one was filled with big momentous things. The appointments at work all felt pivotal, each of them imbued with crucial importance somehow. In the midst of all this heightened awareness, a family member falls ill and suddenly its all hands on deck. St. Mary’s hospital once again becomes central to our lives. Its the place where my children were born. Its the place where 20 years ago I had emergency open heart surgery. There are memories in that building, not all of them pleasant.

The events of the week have caused me to recall my experience there from April of 2004. Some of it I remember quite vividly, but much of it has become muddled with the passage of time. I have also discovered that Pam’s memories of it are much different than mine. Over dinner one night we were talking about my recovery from the surgery and how long it had taken. My memories were that after a couple of months I was back at work and as good as new. Pam disagreed with this startling comment, “It was at least a year before you were all the way back.” When I protested she explained, “It was like there was a light in your eyes that went out and it took a year before I saw it turn on again.”

She went on to describe how when I was recovering in the hospital I didn’t want her to leave the room. Even after leaving the hospital and going home, for weeks I didn’t want her to leave the house. As she was telling me this I felt embarrassed, ashamed for being such a wimp. Then she said, “It’s like you thought you were broken, damaged.” That memory then flooded back. Yes. That I remember, feeling broken. Each hiccup, each twitch, real and imagined, brought stifling apprehension. You constantly ponder the inner workings of your body. You turn inward and become completely self-obsessed. Its unavoidable I suppose. You’ve got an hideous 7 inch scar down the middle of your chest. Its impossible to ignore.

But eventually you discover that you aren’t broken. You might have a scar to remind you of your mortality, but you are not broken. Finally, you start ignoring the beating of your own heart like you did every second of your life before it all happened. Then, I guess, the light came back on.

My Dreaded Medicare Call

Made the dreaded call to Medicare yesterday. After being handed off to three different departments and being on hold for 18 minutes, finally Dave’s voice came on the line identifying himself as a member of the fraud team. I knew immediately that I was in competent hands…

Dave: Mr. Dunnevant, first of all thanks for your patience. Secondly, you will not be handed off to anyone else on this call. The buck stops with me.

Me: Uh..wait…thanks?

Dave: I have pulled up the bill in question for five months of “incontinence supplies” and something tells me that you have never had the need for, much less used 200 catheters every single month since May…am I right?

Me: Yes!

Dave: This will not make you feel any better but you are not the first person I have talked to about this particular scam. We have had a rash of incontinence bills of late and are slowly making our way through them. This particular provider is no longer approved by Medicare.

Me: Do 200 catheters really cost $2090?

Dave: I have no idea what they cost. Medicare fraud types care little about the niceties of pricing. They just make prices up. You’ll notice that we paid the first five months of these bills but caught it in October and declined it.

Me: Actually, I didn’t notice that. But what about the other five months? It says here that you paid for those and this latest bill I got says that my share is $1247.

Dave: Mr. Dunnevant, I can assure you that you will not pay for anything associated with this bill. After we finish the investigation you will receive a final bill showing all of these transactions being voided out.

Me: When will that happen?

Dave: In about six months.

Me: So this doctor in Bristol, Connecticut and his fake company have made off with over $10,000 of taxpayer money?

Dave: Just from this one case. Yes. I’m sure there are hundreds more. But we will eventually find and prosecute those responsible.

By this time, my admiration for Dave and his professionalism has peaked. I remembered what my Dad used to tell me when I was a kid—“Son, whenever you can be an encourager.”

Me: Look Dave, I’ve only been on Medicare since April of last year but before this unfortunate incident I have been thrilled with the program. You guys have saved me a lot of money and handled every single claim quickly. So, I’m grateful.

Dave: Thank you, Mr. Dunnevant. For every one compliment like yours I get nine complaints from people who think Medicare sucks because it won’t pay for their gym membership!

So, say a prayer for my man Dave as he tracks down our money that has been stolen by some asshole in Connecticut 

Are You Ready for Election 2024?

For most of my adult life I have been a political optimist. What I mean by this is I never get too excited or disappointed by the outcomes of elections. I have voted for my share of winners and losers over the past forty-five years, but never has an election outcome changed my life. Despite the dire warnings I hear from political partisans during the heat of campaigns, life goes on its merry way even when the bad guy wins. I have the genius of our Founding Fathers to thank for this happy fact. They designed a system of government which is almost impossible to commandeer by any single rouge politician, what with all of its balance of power mechanisms and competing branches of government. Even when someone wins a landslide election, he can’t just ram his agenda through the labyrinth of duplicity which is the United States Congress.(See: Franklin Delano Roosevelt). I remember quite well how many times I was warned by friends and clients of the impending end of the Republic which was guaranteed to happen if Bill Clinton, George W. Bush, Barack Obama, Donald Trump or Joe Biden was elected. The Republic survived.

However, with today’s Iowa Caucuses, the 2024 presidential election begins in earnest, and I am dreading it more than any election in my lifetime. 2024 is a busy year for me. I have a lot going on, many things to accomplish, all the while droning on in the background will be the persistent, annoying soundtrack of presidential politics. The leading candidates are 77 and 81 years of age. One shuffles along stumbling and fumbling with his words, his skin having taken on that high shiny gloss of advanced age. The other runs on a platform of revenge and payback for past insults real and imagined, while he’s not appearing in court fending off what seems like 150 lawsuits. If these two ever meet on a debate stage it might be the most embarrassing moment in the history of both television and democracy. If the debate commission opened the broadcast to advertisers, the biggest players would be Viagra and Depends Undergarments.

But…it isn’t funny. None of this is funny. It only seems funny when humor is our only defense against it. No matter where we might stand on the political spectrum, if 2024 gives us a choice between Trump and Biden, we are all losers. Democracy will look like a spent fighter in the fifteenth round trying to hang on to the bell. Our friends will be watching the fiasco unfold and wonder what ever happened to America? Our enemies will be emboldened by the spectacle of two doddering fools vying for control of the world’s biggest and most powerful democracy. The American people will have no one to blame since it will have been us who asked for this matchup.

Although I’m still optimistic by nature and temperament, I am finding less tangible reasons to be so. The 2024 election cycle feels to me like the end of something, and the beginning of something else.