Thrilled!!

In the eleven year history of this blog, I don’t believe I have ever been as thrilled about any news story as I am about the colossal ass-whipping that Ukraine is administering to their Russian invaders. Seriously, every morning when I read about the latest heroic stand and see pictures of mangled and smoking Russian tanks I am nearly overcome with what I can only describe as joy. This is nothing less than the most shocking David and Goliath story since…well, David and Goliath. And now comes word that the Ukrainian army has taken the fight into Russian territory by blowing up a huge ammo dump. I nearly cried at this news this morning at 4:30.

Look, I know I shouldn’t feel this way. My Christian faith informs me that I should never rejoice in death and destruction. It is not charitable to react with unrestrained glee at the deaths of young men, all of whom have mothers who love them as much as I love my own kids. But, if I’m honest, there is a part of my heart and soul which hungers for justice. Its the same feeling that overcomes me when I hear of a guilty verdict for someone who victimized the weak, someone who preyed on the elderly or the infirm. It’s righteous vindication.

I watched for months the accumulation of Russian arms and men on Ukraine’s border. The numbers were scary, the Ukrainians would be so overmatched, like the pitiful Polish Cavalry on horseback trying to fight back against Nazi tanks during Blitzkrieg in 1939. But, ladies and gentlemen, I am here to tell you that these Ukrainians aren’t the Poles of 1939. They aren’t the French of 1940. These people are the Brits during the Battle of Britain…overwhelmed, outnumbered and surrounded, and defiantly pushing back against the most egregious land grab of my lifetime. It’s the most inspiring thing I’ve witnessed since the birth of my children.

And yes…I’m thrilled.

100 Days

100 days, but who’s counting? 

Yes, in 100 days Pam and I will depart Short Pump’s hearth and home for six glorious weeks on Quantabacook Lake. Our days and nights will become oriented around a completely different life than the one we live here in Virginia. Instead of everything revolving around Dunnevant Financial and River’s Edge Elementary School, life will revolve around the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, and the delightful things it lights up on the surface of the water, the fog as it shimmers across it in the morning, the parade of colors unleashed upon it by the setting sun in the evening, the way the wind stirs it violently when a storm crosses in the afternoon. Pam will kayak on it for hours at a time. She will launch out on her paddle board, sometimes alone, sometimes with Lucy at her side. I will bring fish from it, admire their beauty, then release them to fight another day. We will take our meals as close to her as we can, sometimes in animated conversation, sometimes in silence. We will wonder at the sudden appearance of a loon. Pam will engage them in conversation. Then as magically as they appeared, they will slip under the water without so much as a ripple. We will throw Lucy her frisbee from the end of the dock and watch her gracefully cut through the water to retrieve it, over and over again. We will snuggle up around a fire at night as the stars come out, listening to the loons call out. We will sleep like babies.

We will take invigorating walks through the thick and noble Maine woods. I will bring along a bug-zapper shaped like a tennis racket in case the stinging flies are out. (This is no Garden of Eden) We will drive into Camden and Belfast and Rockport and Rockland many times. We will have breakfast at the Camden Deli, shop for fun things at the Smiling Cow, marvel at the the delights to be found at Once a Tree. We will have lunch at The Hoot, dinner at Waterfront and Peter Ott’s, Ports of Italy and Delfino’s. We will shop for oddities at the Farmer’s Co-op. We will get ice cream at Riverducks and the Wild Cow Creamery. We will eat lobster rolls and sausage Reuben’s at Hazel’s. We will buy our groceries at Hannaford’s.

The kids will visit and share all these things with us. We will recall the fun of past trips, the time that Kaitlin’s float burst open leaving her flailing in the freezing water, the first time Sarah made a charcuterie tray and brought it down to the dock with cocktails as we watched the sunset, starting a new tradition. Kaitlin and I will enjoy morning and afternoon coffee together on the dock as we talk about life. All six of us will climb aboard all available lake-worthy crafts and watch the sunset from the middle of the lake  at the end of yet another perfect day. Then we will head back to the house and work on a puzzle together.

We will have other visitors probably. We always do it seems. We love sharing this place with friends, especially those who have never been to Maine. We are eager tour guides. But, if its just Pam, Lucy and me thats fine too.

100 days.

The Oscar Slap

The Oscars. Every year Pam watches. Every year I don’t. Apparently, I am not alone, judging by the precipitous decline in the ratings over the past ten years. From an all time high audience of 50 million at one point to a mere 9 million souls last year, the fall from grace for this icon of American culture has been epic. The big shots that run the Academy have been tinkering with the format, trying to make it shorter etc..to no avail. Something had to be done. Enter Will Smith.

So, I open up the old iPad this morning and its wall to wall Will. I watch him stride up on the stage and slap comedian Chris Rock across the face in what looked like a pulled punch. I will take the word of everyone who says that it was an actual slap born of fury at hearing a joke being made at his wife’s expense, and not a staged attention-grabbing, headline-writing skit designed to have the world buzzing about what happened at the Oscars. If Hollywood’s version of events is true, then Will Smith, winner of the best actor Oscar physically assaulted a comedian on national television for the crime of telling a joke that offended him. Is this STAGE II of cancel culture, whereby offending voices are not merely silenced, but physically attacked? Time well tell, I suppose.

Remember back when parents were implored by Hollywood types to teach their children that violence was not the answer? The paying customers for Hollywood’s product have had to endure endless moralizing about everything from climate change to gay rights to evil republicans for decades now. It’s always great fun to be lectured to about our retrograde attitudes about this and that by people who have grown insanely rich making movies like Fast and Furious 16. These are the people who constantly complain about how the rest of us keep stereotyping people of color, assigning the worst behavior of a few to impugn an entire community. So while a dwindling slice of the world is watching, we are treated to a black man storming the stage to hit another black man in the face for telling a joke about his wife. Violence is never the answer, indeed. Of course, I guess it depends on what the question is.

Already, the excuse making brigades are out in full force. The joke was far too personal, they insist. Jada Smith has alopecia which has forced her to shave her head, making her even more gorgeous, if that were possible…so making a joke about how she might be making a sequel to G.I. Jane was just beyond the pale. 

I’m beginning to think that the most dangerous job in America is being a comedian.

Reflections From the Wee Hours

I am currently having difficulty sleeping. This week I have woken up at some bizarre times, 3:45, 4:00, 4:45 etc…It’s nothing that I haven’t experienced before but its been a while. I have no trouble at all falling to sleep, usually between 10:00 and 11:00, but I don’t stay asleep for long. I’ll open my eyes randomly and glance at the digital clock across the room which is blurry since I’m not wearing my contacts. I squint and see that its 1:45 or 2:30. Then I drift off again until the next time I wake up and can’t go back to sleep, this time around 2 hours later than the first.

While I am asleep I dream, big, lush, expansive dreams. These are big productions, the kind of dreams that back in the day would have gotten some magician in King Nebuchadnezzar’s court killed. I remember every detail when I wake up the first time and have to lay there for a minute to assure myself that it was, in fact, a dream and I am not playing a round of golf at Augusta National with Tiger Woods, Big Papi, and David Dwight—wearing overalls. 

Most of the dreams are of the nonsensical farce variety, but some have been dark and disturbing, placing me in several dangerous and compromising situations out of which I am desperately trying to escape. We’ve all had these sort of dreams and we wake up from them trying to figure out what they could possibly mean. It is a pointless exercise. It was probably just something we ate. Nevertheless, it is no fun going through a week of dreamscapes.

Speaking of something I ate, last night an aroma coming from the kitchen was so provocative that I left my reading chair upstairs to investigate. There in the kitchen I found my wife experimenting with a new recipe which featured—Italian Sausage. You will notice that I have capitalized the word Sausage out of respect, since it is the one thing I always look for in the description of any dish on any menu at any restaurant. It is also one of the few aromas that can get me out of my reading chair…

I know what some of you are thinking…”Well Doug, there’s your dreaming problem right there!”…to which my response is, “I don’t care.” If sleeping better means I have to give up Italian Sausage, that’s a hard pass. Eating well is one of the genuine joys of life. Sleeping is not.

Speaking of joys of life, ( yes…my writing after a week of this is stream of unconsciousness), this morning when I opened my iPad there was an email from my church sent from Meg Carroll. I have no idea who this woman is, although I have probably seen her around. She is the Outreach Coordinator, it says underneath her byline. Anyway the reflections found in her email were so beautifully written and wise, I once again marveled at the length and depth of the bench at Hope Church. The staff at the place is crawling with smart and thoughtful people, all of whom are luckily given the chance to share their thoughts with us through these weekly emails. They have been a consistent blessing to me. Well done, Meg Carroll.

The Third Column

The conflict in Ukraine which began a month ago when Russian troops invaded that sovereign nation has now entered a dangerous new phase…

News of the war has now been regulated to the dreaded third column on DRUDGE. The famous news aggregator, like all other news organizations, is in the eyeball business, and has made the decision that the American people are no longer interested in the story. It’s back to the travails of the former President. Once again the famously short American attention span strikes.

Soon, news of the war, the plight of innocent civilians, videos of the plucky Zelensky will drift down further to the lower regions of the third column until finally they vanish altogether. This is a fact of life in the 24/7 news saturated digital age. The minute we are no longer shocked, horrified, or titillated by a story  we move on.

Meanwhile in Ukraine, the Russian army is still bogged down, having been held at bay by heroic resistance and exposed as a paper tiger. In response they have lashed out with the wholesale slaughter of civilian infrastructure while one after another of Vladimir Putin’s top advisors disappear into the ether. The world waits to see what will happen to Mad Vlad as he is nudged further and further into a geopolitical corner. As the brave Ukraine people suffer from hunger, depravations and death, we Americans are cheered by the prospect that our government is contemplating sending us a brand new round of stimulus checks to help us cope with the temporarily higher price of gas…

A Parable

In a village there lived a man who enjoyed favor among the brethren round about him. And it came to pass that when, after the passage of time he turned 3 score in years and behold, he stepped on the scales and became vexed at the number that did display itself thereon, 200 talents. The man tore his garments, put on sackcloth and sat in ashes for a fortnight. After much time spent in weeping and gnashing of teeth the man besought many healers and diviners throughout the Kingdom but found no remedy for his affliction. 

And it came to pass that the man set forth on a regimen of eating only food which had not been defiled by sugar and other impurities common in the land of the Fatstines and the Cholesterolites. And lo, it came to pass that the man began to drink much water and exert great effort in the lifting and moving of stones. Soon the neighbors in the village began to see the man laboring vainly day after day pacing about in great haste upon every road and path throughout the town and great was the laboring therewith. There arose then a murmuring among the people saying, “Wherefore doth our brother so vainly toil in our streets? For behold it appeareth that he cometh near to death during his daily vexations.” Many of them began to beseech the authorities both in heaven and on earth because of his peculiar habits. Still, the man persisteth in his habits until lo, three months had passed. Once again he visiteth the scales upon which he had stepped before, hoping that a new number would appear. Great was his confidence in the righteousness of the course he had taken, when behold, indeed a new number did appear…201 talents. The man’s countenance fell and great was the fall of it.

The man then straightaway sat out to find an answer through great learning. He read both ancient parchments and the newest scrolls from learned men and women throughout the kingdom when Lo, out of the east there shown a great light. A vision appeared to him and he was sore afraid. But a voice was heard coming from the great light saying, “Why fighteth thou so against the number which appeareth on thy scale? Knoweth not that once thou turneth 3 score years, in vain wilt thou lift stones and hasten through the streets, and deny thyself savory food to eat and fine wine to drink? Be still and cease with thy useless toil, and turn your eyes upon the fatted calf.”

Then behold the man discerneth that the vision was of the devil and straightway rose to his feet and with a loud cry spake into the midst of the light, “get thee behind me, Satan!”

Verily, the man vowed to redouble his efforts thinking that perhaps if he cutteth out the noontime raisin cakes, the thrice again visitations to the bread and honey bowl at the evening meal he would yet triumph.

Hope springeth eternal.

Forget March Madness…Here’s My Basketball Experience

Ok, this is the sort of thing that happens to you when you reach the point where your emotional age lags too far behind your physical age. Yesterday I had finished up a relaxing afternoon of yard work when I heard the sound of basketballs on the pavement next door. Sure enough, all three Garland pups were out there shooting hoops. So, I think to myself, I know what I’ll do…I’ll go over there and play with them for a while. When I arrived, there they were, each kid with their own specially sized ball, having a good old time. I made eye contact with Cash—the oldest—and he immediately hit me with a perfect bounce pass and I promptly shot an air ball from the top of the key. In my defense, I hadn’t shot a basketball since the first year of the Trump administration, so I was rusty.

But soon I started hitting my stride and made a few shots. It was great fun, especially when I managed to sink a nice fade away jumper from 15 feet despite being hammered mercilessly with a pool noodle by Sully—the youngest. It was about this time when one of my mother’s most famous lines flashed through my mind—It’s all fun and games until somebody puts an eye out! I had just been fed a beautiful pass in the corner by Kennedy—the adorable middle child— when I had the ridiculous notion that I would step back to make the shot I was about to make a “three pointer” The next thing I know I am ass-over-tea-kettles head first in the mulch after careening over a very large tree trunk log. The kids stopped and looked at me with very concerned expressions—“You ok Mister Doug?”

As is often the case after such asshattery, I sprang up like I had actually meant to nearly kill myself, and assured them all that I was fine. I was, I convinced myself, fine that is, or at least I hoped so. I could feel something happening with my left leg and my right knee, but I continued on in our lively shoot around. Then their Dad, Stu walked up and started telling me about how much progress Cash had been making with his game. He didn’t need to tell me. I could see that the kid could shoot. He sunk a couple of long baseline jumpers. I was very impressed. But in all that time, I never checked on any of the spots on my nearly 64 year old body that were now starting to hurt. The reasons for this trace back to a coach I had way back in my childhood who advised all of his little charges to never touch the place where you get hit by a pitch. Just run down to first base like nothing ever happened. I came through youth sports in the rub a little dirt on it phase of trainers and it has stuck with me ever since. 

Anyway, I get home and took a quick inventory. Left leg abrasion bleeding with two long folds of scraped off skin flapping in the breeze. Two contusions on right knee. Three large dirt stains on my freshly laundered shorts. But all things considered, not too bad. But then a couple hours later after dinner I lowered myself onto the living room floor to play with Lucy when I noticed a sharp pain coming from my ribs as soon as I landed on my stomach. Getting off the floor proved far more difficult than getting on it had been. When I made it into the bathroom I raised my shirt and noticed a six inch thin red line across my lungs where apparently my chest had impacted the aforementioned tree trunk log. Just a couple of bruised ribs, I’m thinking.

This is the sort of thing that happens to me more often than it should. I can’t explain it other than assigning some sort of  poor decision-making gene I inherited from one of the more challenged wings of my vast and storied family tree. Nevertheless, I can’t promise it won’t happen again. With age has not come the much ballyhooed wisdom. In my case I’m just as reckless as I’ve always been. Pray for Pam…