Returning To Golf

2014 is the year I plan on returning to the game of golf. There was a time in my life when I played the game quite often, as many as 30 rounds a year at my peak. But then I got busier, had open heart surgery and other inconveniences, and before you know it, I had lost interest in the game. I think last year I played four times, the year before that maybe twice that. This year will be different.

My skills as a golfer are sporadic and come and go more often than cell phone reception in West Virginia. I excel in only one area…the escape/trick shot, which should tell you everything you need to know about my game. It goes something like this, the guy I’m playing with hits his drive beautifully down the middle of the fairway, while mine gets overcooked into the trees, usually on the left side of the fairway. My opponent strides down the fairway confident that the hole is his. I find my ball on a patch of hardpan soil with a stand of trees directly in front of me. I take out a four iron and proceed to perfectly execute a low, sweeping hook around the trees and onto the green. It’s the only shot I can hit with anything approaching consistency.

What’s my handicap? I have no idea since I’ve never really had one officially calculated. My best score ever was a 75 shot three different times at three different courses. If I had to guess my average score I would say 88 or so. When I played a lot, maybe closer to 85. If I played a round today I would have a hard time breaking 90. I’m a terrible putter, prone to three and even four putt greens. I hit the ball fairly long for my age, I suppose. Unsurprisingly, I am an excellent trash-talker.

But here’s the thing with golf, and what I have missed the most. It’s a beautiful, relaxing walk. What other sport do you get to walk outside in the most beautiful part of any city while smoking a fine cigar and hanging out with friends? I’ve missed that aspect of the game more than anything.

Another thing, I will never, ever practice. Nope, hitting a bucket of balls at the driving range is golf without the beautiful walk thing, and just doesn’t work for me. Oh, and my clubs are all very, very old. My putter and irons,(the original Titleist DTs) are older than my Son. The newest club in my bag is a Mizuno driver which I bought maybe 15 years ago? This is the source of a barrage of disparaging remarks from my buddies every time I play. I am constantly told that if I would buy some clubs manufactured in this century my game would improve overnight. Perhaps, but this would require me spending upwards of a thousand dollars. I would rather keep the old clubs with which I once shot 75 three times. That way if I suck, I have an excellent excuse…inferior equipment!

So, if there are any golfers in the audience, don’t hesitate to ask me to play. In 2014 I plan to say, “yes!”

The Death of a Slur

I’m old enough to remember a very popular political slur that was once vigorously flung at mostly Democratic candidates. It was one of the most effective put downs in the business as it perfectly captured an alleged contrast between two vastly divergent philosophies of government. You heard it from the lips of every conservative candidate, and most Republican ones…career politician.

The implication was clear. Something had corrupted our democratic system to the point where there was no such thing as a citizen-legislator. The romantic image the founders put forth of men of great accomplishment who in their retiring years gave in to public pressure to serve as Senators and Congressmen, had been corrupted and replaced with political science majors with Master’s degrees in Public Policy who get their first job as a Congressional aid then hop on the treadmill to fame and fortune that is Washington, DC. So to lob the career politican bomb at someone was to brand him or her as an opportunist and moocher on the public teat. No more.

Two ostensibly Republican politicians have been in the news lately for all the wrong reasons, Chris Christie and Bob McDonnell. Both men have ardent defenders. Both are career politicians, having received practically every adult paycheck courtesy of the taxpayer. For many Republicans and conservatives this is apparently no longer a bad thing. But in my opinion it is at the very heart of our dysfunctional government. Men and women may go to Washington as neutral outsiders bent on fixing the broken system, but once there, they become the system and are suddenly blind to its faults. They suddenly lose their moral opposition to term limits, and discover the virtues of featherbedding and the need to hone their fund raising skills. Thirty years later, they are still there voting for bills they’ve never read in exchange for a commitment from some Congresswoman from Delaware to support a bridge to nowhere back in the district, the district being a place where they seldom visit anymore anyway. The place is hopelessly provincial!

There are exceptions. In our own State, Mark Warner actually ran a profitable business before getting into politics. He actually knows what it’s like to make a profit, meet a payroll, and compete successfully in the marketplace. Maybe because of that, I never read about him in the newspaper. He’s our silent Senator. I take this as a good sign, although I didn’t vote for him…or maybe I did. I can’t remember, which should tell you something about my degree of interest in the process.

I guess I am pining for an era which never really has existed, but should have; a time when men and women of great reputation, talent and a life of actual accomplishment in the real world, devote the golden years of their lives to public service, where they can tell that smart-ass 27 year old aid what it’s actually like to build a business, or write a great novel, or teach inner city kids classical music successfully. Then maybe Washington would possess something it lacks…wisdom.

Little Compromises

So, the blizzard of ’14 which blanketed Short Pump with 2 whole inches of snow and shut down schools for 4 days has had an unintended consequence. It has unleashed Pam the Painter. Yes, my wife has taken this unplanned and unPAID vacation and turned it into an opportunity for home renewal. She is turning life’s lemons into lemonade, making chicken salad out of chicken ...er, eh, you get the picture.

To say that my wife pays attention to detail would be damning her with faint praise. To say merely that she is a perfectionist would be an insult. When Pam brings her laser-like focus to painting the perfect straight line, it causes disruptions in global satellite communication so intense is the energy. Oh, and there will be no taping of walls when Pam wields her mighty brushes, these flawless lines must be fashioned totally free hand. “I just can’t get over how much longer this takes than I think it’s going to take,” she mumbles to no one in particular.

When this is all going on, I am relegated to walking through the rooms every thirty minutes complimenting how awesome it looks and asking if there is anything I can do. But I already know what she is thinking even if she doesn’t say it, “Are you kidding?? You’re only good for rolling ceilings and even then I’ll end up coming behind you to fix all the mistakes.”

So, imagine my surprise when she made this stunning announcement:

“Honey, you know how you’ve been asking me for 3 days if you can help? Well, I think I’ve got something for you to do.”

First I think it’s a trap. She is secretly resentful of my horrible painting skills and is getting ready to ask me to clean brushes as punishment. But then she says she actually wants me to paint something. I’m getting psyched. My wife actually has enough confidence in me to offer me a painting assignment? I’m ready, willing and able.

“Sometime tomorrow, I think I’m going to have you paint the inside of the pantry.”

The inside of what is basically a closet, 3’x4’ with no light, in which one human being can barely fit and once filled with food, no one will ever be able to see my handiwork. Perfect.

This is what passes for division of labor when it comes to home decorating in my house. I am only assigned tasks that do not offend the perfectionist obsessions of my wife. But, I suppose it’s a fair trade. In thirty years of marriage she has never once mowed the grass. Anything that has the potential to result in a hernia or ruptured disk is my domain. Pam is boss of all things aesthetic. It actually works out pretty well, although I’m still bummed that she said “no” to my suggestion of hanging the “dogs playing poker” painting over the sofa.

It’s the little compromises that make marriage work!

My Sister is Retiring

My kid sister is retiring after over thirty years as an Educator in Henrico County. I say “kid sister” when she’s actually two years older than I am, but being the youngest child grants me such prerogatives. In our family there was Donnie and Linda, the older two kids, then a six year gap before Paula and I came along, so it was always “us” and “them.” So when one of “us” retires, I can’t let it pass without comment.

Paula has always been the one I followed in school. My teachers would stare at me after the first week of class each year with a puzzled expression that comes over people when they think that something can’t possibly be true. They would finally manage to ask, “Um, you couldn’t possibly be Paula’s brother, could you?”

So, my entire school life consisted of being a disappointment to a long list of teachers who were hoping for another Paula. What they were hoping for was a student with bright intelligence, a Puritan work ethic, a keen grasp of the concept of decorum and discipline, and at least the ability to stay in their seat. With me they got the anti-Paula.

There was never a question growing up as to what my sister would become. She was teacher material from the beginning. But it also didn’t surprise me that she would end up teaching in the Talented and Gifted program. Her imagination and ability to never be boring made the TAG program a perfect fit. She ran roughshod over boredom. Her take no prisoners mock trials were the stuff of legend at Byrd Middle School. Let’s just say that if the Supreme Court would have allowed Paula’s 7^th graders to argue the case, we never would have been saddled with Roe v. Wade.

I’ll never forget the first time she asked me to come in to speak to her class. I say “never forget” in a purely generalized way since I can’t actually remember what I talked about. The thing I do remember was watching my sister in front of a room full of smarty-pants, over-achieving, West End children of privilege, in complete command. Those kids were eating out of her hand. She was large and in charge, and I was made to feel like a rock star simple because I was Ms. Dunnevant’s brother…whooooa!

After nearly thirty years of educating Henrico County’s finest within an inch of their lives, she was recruited into the fund-raising spider web of the Henrico Education Foundation, proving that she could have done anything she wished with her life. She was just as comfortable bossing around CEO’s in their boardrooms as she was with the kids in the classroom. She was never intimidated, she was the intimidator. No matter where Paula worked her real job title should have been Secretary of Getting Stuff Done. Or maybe, Secretary General of Get Out of My Way, I’m Busy Not Taking Shortcuts.

In short, Henrico will greatly miss her imagination, intelligence, creativity, work ethic, and discipline. Not to mention her world class sitting skills.

Congratulations, Sister!

The Worst Kind of Cruelty

Whenever I am watching television I am always a little bit nervous. You never know when it might happen. I’m always on edge, waiting for it, hoping that it won’t come. Just about the time you’re all wrapped up in whatever it is you’re watching and have let your guard down, it happens. You see one of those ads from the Humane Society.

Watching one of these commercials is about the most horrible experience imaginable. It takes me to such a dark place of the soul. To see innocent, beautiful animals treated in such a way rips a hole in my heart and I can hardly bare to watch. Why is this?

Needless to say, there are actual human beings treated far worse each and every day all around the world. This world has become a Petri dish of cruelty, with new forms of inhumanity mutating practically every day. But when I watch a news report of some mindless terrorist attack or a school shooting I am saddened, but mindful that on some level it is the result of a decision that was made by someone based on some screwed up ideology or pathology. But at least there was a reason. When I see an abused dog in one of these ads I see an animal that didn’t get to make a decision. His tragic circumstance is the result of evil neglect. His fate sealed by a cruel master.

For me it goes back to Genesis. When mankind was given dominion over the animals it came with responsibilities. We were entrusted with their care. They depend on our provision and hope for our mercy and when we offer them neither, a place inside me erupts with righteous indignation of the sort that used to start wars. It’s so strange that I can find it in myself to forgive almost any failing in my fellow man, but I can never bring myself to forgive Michael Vick.

A friend of mine posted a picture on Facebook yesterday of a Golden retriever that appeared on her front porch yesterday morning freezing to death. She looked to be about ten years old, beautiful but in bad shape. I wanted to drive out there myself and take her home with me. I finally had to delete the picture or I would have.

I would be a much better person if I was as moved to righteous indignation at the suffering of my fellow man.

The McDonnell Indictment

Last night I went to bed in Virginia and this morning woke up in Illinois.

Virginians aren’t used to having their top elected officials brought up on corruption charges. We generally don’t elect the Rob Blagojevichs of the world, although the jury is still out on Terry McAuliffe. So, it was quite disturbing this morning to thumb through a 43 page Federal indictment of our former governor, Bob McDonnell and his wife on corruption charges.

This case presents me with quite a conflict of sympathies. On the one hand, I am predisposed to believe politicians capable of practically anything. On the other hand, the only thing more suspicious than a governor driving a Ferrari is a Federal investigation of a governor driving a Ferrari, politically motivated prosecutions being more numerous than flowers in the spring and all.

I met McDonnell once back when he was Attorney General. He had given a speech at some business meeting I attended and I chatted with him afterward. He seemed nice enough. I voted for him when he ran for governor, but reading through the indictment I am again reminded why I have become so cynical about politicians. They just aren’t very…smart.

Are the McDonnells corrupt or merely naive? Was there a quid pro quo relationship between the numerous gifts received from Mr. Williams, or just cluelessness and horrible judgment? Who knows?

Either way, it’s not a happy day for the State of Virginia.

Meteorology means never having to say, "I'm sorry."

Everybody makes mistakes. No one is perfect. All of us have missed the mark from time to time. But Good Lord, what in the world has gotten into the weather forecasters in Richmond, Virginia?

There’s this guy who works out of his basement in Chesterfield who seems to have started a meteorological cat fight amongst the profession of late. As far as I can tell, this guy made his bones from one forecast ten years ago where he called for a huge snowstorm a couple of weeks before it happened and instantly developed something like a cult following. He has a web site and a presence on Facebook from which he routinely trashes all of the local TV weathermen, calling them every name in the book for having the audacity to disagree with his forecasts.

Well now, after his initial prescient call way back when, he has turned into the proverbial stopped clock of forecasting…worthless 99% of the time but right twice a day regardless. Practically every one of his big predictions ends up being a bust, and yet I don’t believe I’ve ever heard anything approaching an apology from him when the local TV guys he constantly rips end up being much more accurate. It has become a fascinating spectacle to watch him make some outlandish outlier forecast, then start calling his competitors names. Ultimately, more often than not he ends up making an unprofessional, boorish fool of himself. And yet, he still remains in the business, meteorology obviously being the kind of business where accuracy is neither required nor expected.

Now that I think about it, the weather forecasting gig is an awful lot like politics. Apparently, being consistently wrong is not a career killer. John Kerry can spend his whole life being wrong about every foreign policy question this country has faced over the last fifty years and what happens? He becomes Secretary of State.

So, if the past is prologue, the mean little dude from Chesterfield will probably end up running NOAA before long.