The Greatest Email of the Year!

This morning there was a very special email in my inbox from On The Water In Maine. I’ve been waiting all year for this one. It begins like this:

“This is the email you have been waiting for! There are now 3 weeks or less until your vacation in Maine!”

Thus begins the happiest time of the year for Pam and her husband. Soon various staging areas will pop up around the house, mostly on the dining room table, as Pam begins to execute her meticulous packing protocols for the trip. The other day she laid out three new bathing suits on the bed, took a photograph, and sent it to me in a text with the words, “Ok, I’m packed and ready to go to Maine.” 

Lucy is getting hyped too. A couple of weeks ago I started reminding her that she would be heading to Maine soon. She always pays close attention when I mention the “M” word, so she is pumped.

This summer will be a little weird in that it will be the first time that neither of our kids will be there since…ever. Kaitlin and Jon will be on a trip to England/Scotland/Ireland celebrating their tenth wedding anniversary, and Patrick and Sarah will be coming up for our fall trip. We do have guests coming so we won’t be up there for six weeks by ourselves, but it will feel different without the kids. Different, but still freaking fabulous.

Here’s the plan: weeks one and two will find us at the enchanting Summer Dreams, one of our favorite camps on Quantabacook. I’ve lost count how many times we have stayed there, but its always delightful…

Yeah…that will do quite nicely. After two weeks of this, we will pack up all of our stuff and head to the other side of the lake for four more weeks at a place we have never stayed before, Fernwood Cottage. A word of explanation seems in order since regular readers of this space will be wondering why we aren’t staying at our beloved Loon Landing. Well, it seems that the owners of that property decided (without consulting me!!) that they will be staying at LL for the entire summer!! The nerve! Fortunately, Tif and Meg, the dynamic duo at OTWIM came to our rescue with this property…

I think we will manage.

So, in a mere 21 days we will depart Short Pump for six weeks in Maine where seldom is heard a discouraging word and the skies are not cloudy all day. At least that’s the plan.

Blanket Lady. An explanation.

This morning I put a photograph on Facebook of a co-passenger of mine on a recent flight to Atlanta. I re-publish it here for your edification…

I have gotten several messages from perplexed readers asking for some sort of explanation. It actually deserves clarification because the actually story is quite hilarious.

So, I don’t fly all that much anymore, only once every three years or so. Years ago Pam and I flew all over the place at least once a year to some exotic location and I always considered flight great fun. This is no longer true due to a variety of reasons, 9/11, COVID, and the fact that human beings are horrible. But, I digress. The issue at hand is what to make of the coat of many colors draped over the middle seat of row 44 on Delta flight 2681 headed for Atlanta.

Before boarding this flight I had made the decision to engage whoever happened to be sitting beside me in conversation, perhaps make a friend, and make the trip go by faster. When I arrived at row 44 I was taken aback by the sight of a large woman wearing a solid pink track-suit with silver gemstones sewn throughout the fabric which gave off a porcupine-like spiked effect. Of course, in order for me to get to my window seat, this lady had to get up and let me in, which turned in to something resembling absurdist theatre. Now, I was facing being trapped against the fuselage of this airplane for the next two hours, unable to escape without a repeat of the difficulties alluded to in that absurdist theatre blast. Anyone who knows me will understand the dread that overtook me at this prospect. But, it had to be done. It was a full flight. There were no other seats available, and I am not a child. I am a grown man and I would have to step up and make the most of this hellish situation. Besides, I had that “make a friend-strike up a conversation” thing going for me.

Once we were all sufficiently wedged into place I thought to begin the conversation by asking her name, but then I noticed that she had earbuds jammed into her ears, attached to her cell phone. No worries, I thought. It can wait. Then I caught a glimpse at the expression of the terrified guy who completed our threesome. He wouldn't even glance in our direction, his right leg dangerously close to being in the line of fire of any future beverage carts later in the flight.

After what seemed an eternity of taxiing down several miles of concrete, the pilot floored it and we were launched down the runway. The next thing I know, my seat mate whipped out this blanket and proceeded to cover herself with it…from head to toe. I caught a glimpse of aisle-seat guy as this was happening and he looked as baffled as I did. She said nothing to either of us while she was engaged in the great covering, but it didn’t take a genius to see that there would be no conversation between me and blanket-lady. So, I settled in and tried my best to drift off to sleep. But then something truly remarkable happened. About an hour or so into the flight I felt a sneeze coming on. Considering the close quarters I tried my best to limit the damage but the sound was probably heard by the good people in row 25. But then suddenly the blanket moved ever so slowly as if the woman was turning her head towards the sound of the sneeze. Then a voice from underneath the fabric, “bless you.” Stunned, I replied, “uh..thank you?” And that was it, the sum total of our conversation. The blanket stayed securely in place until we touched down in Atlanta, whereupon she removed it, stashed it in her carry-on bag without a word, jostled her hair back in place and silently exited the plane.

It should be noted that despite this bizarre experience, my whirlwind 24 hour trip to Atlanta was a raging success. I got to see the Nationals play the Braves with my Son!

What Happens When Democracy Lays an Egg?

Today we pause to remember all of those who made the ultimate sacrifice for our freedom, those men and women killed in the service of their country. This is a good and proper thing. We should never forget them and their willingness to defend our nation, especially since the nation they died to save has lost its way.

It has been said that Democracy is the best form of government to have been created in this world and I believe it to be true. The injustices and gross violations of human rights wrought by both monarchies and the various flavors of communism are fully on display in the historical record. But, what happens when Democracy lays an egg? No form of government is flawless, so it should be expected that eventually Democracy would hock up a hairball. The hairball in question is the 2024 presidential election and the choice the American people will be forced to make between Joe Biden and Donald Trump, two adult diaper-wearing spent fighters speaking gibberish as they shuffle across their campaign stages. This is what the two major political parties have given us. This is the choice we are asked to make. Of course, there is a third party candidate on the ballot…Bobby Kennedy’s boy, who claims that even though a worm ate part of his brain he’s still smarter than the other two guys put together. The Kennedy ego survives.

Is this what the boys who stormed Normandy died to save? The answer is Yes. Democracy is the worst system of government ever devised by the human heart…except for all the others. Even when the wealthiest, most powerful country in the world is reduced to making a choice between two incompetents, at least we get to make that choice. Yes, any system that would offer up these two men to lead us is gravely flawed, and make no mistake—we are reduced. But, this is America. Every four years we get a say on who will lead us. We should be thankful for that right.

Although I am at heart an optimist, it is getting harder and harder to be so as a citizen of this country. In my short lifetime things that would have forever disqualified a person from seeking high office are now worn like a badge of honor. This is something I will never understand. I watch it happening and a part of me thinks, our day has passed. But then the history major in me thinks back to darker times than these and I am reminded that America has overcome worse than even this. If not now, I know that someday we will once again be a nation worthy of the sacrifices made by the men and women we honor today.

The First Two Weeks

It’s been two weeks since my book’s publication day. Reviews have started to come in. Many of you have asked me questions about the story. Many more have asked how sales are going and my answer is—I have no idea. One weird thing I’ve learned about the publishing business is how difficult it is to get information out of…anyone. For instance, royalties are only paid out four times a year, my first such payment won’t arrive until the first week of July, and that will only be for two months of sales. Only then will I know how sales are going. 

It’s been fun hearing people ask me what I was thinking when I wrote this or that part of the story. “Did you do this intentionally? Why did this character react that way? My answers are usually something along the lines of “Don’t read too much into that” or “I’m not sure if that was intentional or not.” It’s hard because I wrote it 12 years ago. If you had asked me these types of questions back then I would have had much clearer answers. Writing fiction is strange. When you’re in the midst of the thing everything is fresh and alive. But years later it’s almost impossible to reintroduce yourself back into the story. It’s like every part of that universe, each character along with their thoughts are forever in suspended animation. 

Reviews are also strange. You would think that I would resent anything negative said about the book. Although I much prefer affirmation where reviews are concerned, it’s been surprising how I have processed the criticism. With very few exceptions I have felt that the negatives have been fair. I read something someone says about this or that and I think, “yeah, I can see that.” Of course, nobody has really panned it so maybe that will feel different. But when you read where someone really understood what you were trying to say and was moved by the story, it’s a great feeling. To make a connection with someone through the written word is a uniquely human interaction, to do so through fiction is magical.

Oh, and yes…I have plenty of copies for sale directly from the author!

Rolling With the Punches

Alert readers will notice that although quite lovely, this is not the Grand Cayman Islands. (It’s a long and throughly modern story full of bureaucratic incompetence, ghastly customer service, and plenty of old fashioned greed.) But first I should point out the obvious truth that Pam and I are lucky to be here in this wonderful condo in North Myrtle Beach for the next several days celebrating 40 years together. The symbolism isn’t lost on us that 40 years of marriage doesn’t happen without a lot of improvisation, much of our happiness together has been about making the most out of busted plans.

Ok, so I suppose I should first admit that all of the trouble started with a mistake made by…me. I was the one who booked our Grand Cayman adventure. I found the resort and booked the flights on Expedia—which will henceforth be referred to as…X. This has always been my job in our marriage. I am the adventure planner. I come up with crazy schemes and then run them by Pam who is either thrilled or silent. Anyway, she was happy with my Cayman idea, but on Tuesday morning happened to mention in passing that she had noticed that our names on the airline tickets were Doug Dunnevant, and Pam Dunnevant, which do not match exactly our names as written on our passports—Douglas Lee Dunnevant and Pamela Jean Dunnevant. “What is your plan for fixing this before we leave,” she asked? Since people in customs look askance at any discrepancy in names on travel documents, I promised her I would fix it right away.

I called X, explained the issue to a thickly accented customer service employee who immediately informed me that in order to change these handful of letters on our airline tickets was going to cost us $250 per ticket. In addition, the tickets would have to be reissued and unfortunately our original flights were no longer available at the original cost, and additional $190 per ticket would be required and oh by the way, the new flights would take 9 and a half hours and require two connections, instead of 5 hours and one connection. 

The following two hours were spent speaking with four separate customer service Nazi’s at both X and American Airlines. In between trying to understand these indecipherable Indian dialects, I was forced to listen to electronic music which must have been composed by a couple of menopausal women in the middle of heat flashes, the kind of humans in so much discomfort that they decided to create the absolute worst music ever written, then put it in a loop and make frustrated customers listen to it for ten minutes at a time until the entire world implodes on itself. At the end of my two hour phone call which managed to set back customer service at least 25 years, I made the executive decision to cut my losses and cancel the Grand Caymans. I was refunded the resort costs and now am in possession of a rather large credit for future flights with American Airlines.

I was devastated by these events, mad at myself for forgetting about the name thing having to match passports, and feeling like a failure for screwing up our anniversary trip. But, I was not about to give up. We had a dog sitter all set up—we had to go somewhere!! 

Somewhere ended up being here, and we intend to make the best of it. This happens to be pretty close to the place where we honeymooned 40 years ago. The entry code for the door to the condo happens to be the last four digits of my cell phone number. Coincidence? 

….I think not.

40th Edition of our Honeymoon

In a couple of days Pam and I will be celebrating 40 years together at one of our favorite destinations, Seven Mile Beach in the Grand Cayman Islands. It will be our third trip there and hopefully not our last.

Of course, to get there a million preparations have to be made. I have some serious business issues to fix before we can even think about getting on a plane, which is always what happens when you plan time away. The here and now asserts itself. The months leading up to May 19th this year have been among the busiest of our lives, most of the busy due to the publication of my book. We both need some down time, Pam more so than me.

I booked this trip many weeks ago and at the time didn’t notice one particular detail. On our honeymoon 40 years ago the resort we stayed at was brand new, so much so that the chords of the lamps in our room hadn’t even been unwound…and there were no light bulbs in them. Well, it turns out that the resort I booked for the Cayman’s had its grand opening on May 8th—six days ago! 

Now, if we can both get through these next 48 hours.

What a Night!

You need to throw a launch party, they said. It’s absolutely crucial for establishing momentum for your book, they explained. My takeaway from this early conversation with the marketing specialist at Atmosphere Press was…Great, a party.

Several months, and hundreds of man-hours later—mostly by others—the launch party for A Life of Dreams is in the books. It was an incredible experience in so many different ways. To distill it down into a blogpost will be a challenge. This one might be longer than most, so get yourself a snack and let’s get started.

I will not here retell the story of my wife’s immeasurable contributions to the success of this event except to say that without her creativity and devotion the entire project would have gone down in flames. She is and continues to be the one irreplaceable of my life. But, she had lots of help…

These three women make the world go round for me. Whenever something important is in the wind they show up in force. My big sister Linda is the one holding on to my shoulders—the exact position she took when I was five years old when it was time for the family photograph at Sherando Lake. She has been trying to make me stand still for all of her life. My other sister, Paula, brought her organization and work skills to bear on this party by taking charge of things, but more importantly, baking and bringing the Cowboy Cookies. Of course my two capable brothers in law got roped into this event as well and their contributions were tremendously helpful and appreciated.

Then there were a long succession of friends and family who pitched in with great skill and generosity, from serving food and drinks, to set up and tear down, all the way to the group of four Generation Whatevers who manned the sales table like maniacs on commission!!

The only important contribution I made to the evening besides actually writing the book in question was choosing the emcee. This was an easy decision since it couldn’t have been anyone other than Tom Allen. Tom, being a writer himself, knows a little about the concept and could appreciate the nuanced answer I gave when someone asked me what I did when I got writer’s block. My answer was deep and insightful, “I don’t write.” Afterwards Tom says to me, “Why didn’t I think of that?” But seriously, he handled all emcee duties flawlessly with his customary wit and lightness. Plus, he works cheap.

But then there was this…

I had been quite nervous in the days and hours leading up to the party. In fact I spent one such day in a furious wage because of a printing error that had placed the first 19 pages of someone else’s book in front of mine! To make matters worse it was a book of poetry! Very bad poetry!! Just about the time I had cooled down from that fiasco it dawned on me that I would have to read a chapter of my book in front of 135 people, something I had never done. Look, reading a book like “The Watson’s Go To Baltimore” and doing all the voices in front of 15 family members at the beach doesn’t count as public reading. Mostly because, it wasn’t my book. So, I was nervous. But then I looked out at this crowd of people and immediately felt at ease. The people in these two photographs come from many different parts of my life. I could tell you stories about each of them. There are people I’ve known all my life, some for over forty years, others just a few years. But every one of them had gone to the trouble of coming out on a stormy, rainy Monday evening in Ashland to support me and to celebrate with me. I cannot tell you how much that meant. At my age a man becomes more aware of what and who is really important. All of us spend our lives working, providing for our families, accomplishing things great and small. We worry, we fret over things. We enjoy great successes, we suffer humiliating setbacks. Eventually we lose someone dear to us and we grieve. But along with the experiences that are common to man we also, if we’re lucky, accumulate a great cloud of friends who help us through all of it. These are the people who count, the ones that belong to your small tribe, the ones who show up to listen to a 66 year old first time published author read a chapter of his book, and they smile and applaud when you’re done. When this happens you’re tempted to think that you’re one of the luckiest people in the world.

After the reading there was a surprise guest who arrived by way of a note she wrote to be read aloud by Paula. My daughter who at that hour was busy having a wilderness sleepover with 50 5th graders, sent her congratulations via a heartfelt tribute about things I wasn’t even aware I had done for her when she was a child. She spoke of how I had contributed to her love of language and writing by watching me write in my old leather bound journals back in the day. Like most dads, I wasn’t even aware she was watching all those years ago. I was so busy juggling chainsaws while riding that unicycle up on the high wire, I didn’t even notice. As I listened to Paula read I realized that I might not even be the best writer in my own family!

Pam and I got home after 10:00 and Lucy was nowhere to be found. It was as if she had vanished into this air. It had been a stormy night and she is famously terrified of thunder and hard rain. Finally we found her in the utility room where she had apparently fled during the storm only to somehow pull the door closed behind her! So she was trapped in there all night. Now we have dog-owner guilt. Maybe I should write a book!

So, if you are reading this and were in that crowd last night, from the bottom of my full heart, thank you. If not, then buy a book, read it, like it, and write a review!