Peace, out.

 

I think that after 56 years on this earth, I have finally learned that when it comes to matters of race, it is best not to have an opinion.

Whether it’s the Trayvon Martin episode or the Ferguson, Missouri riots, there seems to me no middle ground upon which reasonable people can plant a flag of common sense. The emotions are too raw, the optics too explosive, the ancient resentments still too raw.

Criticize the policeman for using excessive force and poor judgment in the death of Michael Brown, and you are judged to be unsympathetic to the plight of besieged policemen and ignorant of the daily dangers they face for our protection.

Criticize the appearance of storm-trooper-like policemen wielding machine guns and armored vehicles as a dangerous militarization of law enforcement, and you will be judged as soft on law and order.

Communicate concern over the surge in gun sales in and around Ferguson as a potential dangerous escalation and you become an anti-second amendment liberal.

Offer an observation on the breakdown of the African-American family today as a possible contributor to the lawless destruction of property in Ferguson, and you become a “blame the victim” racist.

Use the term “African-American” and you are complicit in the balkanization of America.

Point out the fact that using the occasion of a tragic death of a teenager at the hands of a policeman to stock up on tennis shoes and Bud Lite might not be an appropriate expression of your anger, and you are just another privileged white guy who doesn’t understand life in the hood.

Lament the arrival of Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson on the scene and you are excused of trying to pick their leaders for them.

Point out the fact that since we are having so much trouble keeping the peace in the inner cities of America, perhaps we should stop trying to keep the peace in Iraq, and you are a dangerous isolationist.

Point out the fact that 6 years ago many liberals told us that the election of Obama was going to usher in a “post-racial America” and you are accused of hating him because he’s black.

Share your heartfelt opinion that the solution to the scourge of racial hatred in America can only be wiped out by a transformation of the heart which can only be accomplished by spiritual means and you are a religious fanatic bent on establishing a theocracy.

So, excuse me while I change the channel to ESPN and hunker down here in the suburbs. Engaging in this battle is a fight I am destined to lose.

Peace, out.

A Lost Puppy

 

This morning, I’m feeling a bit embarrassed. Although I am a grown man of reasonable intelligence and a passable resume of accomplishment, I have been reduced to bumbling incompetence because of the temporary absence of two women from my life.

My Administrative Assistant, Kristin Reihl, had the temerity to request time off for a vacation with her family at some lake estate in Minnesota. This has left me alone and vulnerable at my office. Since her departure, I have presented and closed five cases, all of which sit in a towering, forlorn pile on my credenza awaiting the completion of paperwork that must be done before they can be submitted. I can do it…I really can. However, words cannot possibly convey just how much I loathe each and every piece of paperwork involved in my chosen profession. Because of this unhealthy hatred, I hired Kristen, and upon completion of a case, I hand the entire mess to her and force her to endure it for money. It’s a great system…I give her what I hate and she takes my money. But this week, she’s up there in the Land of Lakes frolicking in the low eighties with no humidity, taking naps in hammocks and drinking wine all day while I sit staring at this pile of files.

To make matters much worse, this morning my wife left for three days in Columbia, South Carolina to visit my daughter and help her set up her new classroom. This means I will be alone until Saturday afternoon. When your children grow up and leave the house, it’s called the empty nest. When your wife leaves for three days after the kids have left, it’s more like large, empty, abandoned medieval castle.

Not that there aren’t some advantages to being alone in your home. I can walk around in my underwear while drinking cranberry juice directly out of the bottle. That’s always a good time. I can go out on the deck and fire up a fine cigar any time I want and not have to hear about how bad I smell when I come back inside. But, if a man smokes a cigar on his deck while his wife is away and she isn’t there to smell him, did it really even happen?

When Pam is gone, I am essentially a lost puppy. When you finish up the last thing at work, it hits you that she isn’t waiting for you at home. Something inside you deflates a little. When you get home you look around at the place and everything seems stale and boring. How could a home that was warm and inviting just 12 hours ago suddenly look like a dump?

So you head over to Q or Big Al’s for dinner. There will be no made from scratch crab cakes, no bruschetta, no caprese tarts for you for a while. You’ll have to make do with pizza and chicken wings and chicken fingers. You probably won’t shave for a couple of days either. What’s the point? It’s embarrassing to admit that after 30 years of marriage you still attempt to impress your wife by looking as good as possible, partly out of fear that if you let myself go, she would suddenly realize how much better she could do!

So, today will be filled with paperwork, and then I will go home and begin planning a welcome home celebration for Saturday night!

Tony Stewart and Ferguson, Missouri

 

 

The death of Robin Williams had the effect of sweeping all other news out of the way yesterday, which I’m sure was a welcomed relief for Tony Stewart and the law abiding citizens of Ferguson, Missouri.

Stewart, the famously hot-headed race car driver had been the subject of intense scrutiny for his killing of another driver at a short track over the weekend. After being taken out by Stewart’s car, Kevin Ward, all of twenty years old, bolted out of his car and onto the middle of the track, determined to confront Stewart for his tactics. When next Stewart made his way around the track, instead of slowing down to avoid the lunatic in the middle of the road, Stewart appeared to accelerate, sending Ward flying and ultimately killing him. Bad news. The initial investigation by the local sheriff’s office has cleared Stewart of any wrongdoing, but many race fans suspect in their heart of hearts that Tony lashed out at the kid in a flash of rage, and gave in to his baser instincts.

Ferguson, Missouri, a suburb of St. Louis, had been the scene of a recurring pattern of violence all too familiar to Americans. A black teenager gets killed by a police officer in a confrontation on the mean streets of some American city. The circumstances of the killing aren’t fully known, but enough details emerge that suggest that the kid was unarmed. Like the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, a “peaceful” candlelight vigil erupts into mindless mayhem and destruction of property. Soon, videos surface showing baggy-pants boys with baseball caps askew on their heads happily smashing the glass fronts of sporting goods stores making off with pairs of Air-Jordans, convenience stores making off with cases of beer, and Best Buys making off with big screen TV’s. Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton engage in a no holds barred race to be the first to arrive on the scene where one of them declares with not the slightest hint of remorse or irony, “There’s a Ferguson near you!”

I am not black. Therefore, I have never been the victim of racism. Consequently, any observation I may have about this sort of thing comes from my relative position of privilege. I can have a certain sympathy for the anger of a people who feel that one of their own might have been killed unjustly. But every time this happens, I watch the videos and read the descriptions of the violence and every time I ask myself, “Why aren’t those people attacking the police station, or the County Courthouse?” Isn’t their anger a result of injustice? If so, why not riot at the source of the perceived injustice? Why funnel all of your “anger” towards the destruction of businesses that had absolutely nothing to do with the killing? Why use the event of a tragedy to stock up on potato chips and tennis shoes?

We constantly hear the likes of Jackson and Sharpton decrying the fact that there aren’t enough businesses in the inner city to serve the needs of poor people. We hear them lament the fact that poor blacks in the inner city have to walk miles to find a grocery store that sells fresh produce. We are told that the reason that chain stores won’t locate in the inner city is because of their latent racism. But when I watch 16 year olds crashing trash cans into store front windows and then gleefully making off with thousands of dollars of inventory to the applause of everyone on the street, I wonder why any businessman would locate any business in the Ferguson, Missouri’s of the world.

Robin Williams RIP

 

 

I heard the news from my son in a text, Robin Williams had killed himself. He was to my generation what Jonathan Winters and Lucille Ball were to my Dad’s generation, a comedic genius. This morning I read about the details, addiction, depression, and wonder how he managed to live to be 63. The fires of brilliance burn bright and hot, then vanish, leaving the world a colder place.

The first time I ever saw him was on an episode of Happy Days where he played the whacky alien “Mork.” Even though that small role earned him his own show, “Mork & Mindy,” I seldom watched. My true introduction to Robin Willams was in his multiple appearances on Johnnie Carson’s Tonight Show. He would come out and do his standup comedy routines, then sit down for some of the most hilarious unscripted interviews ever filmed. Do yourself a favor and look them up on YouTube. They are a feast of manic, rapid-fire wit and energy that leave you exhausted from laughter.

He could be profane. His HBO specials were heavy on “F” bombs when they didn’t need to be. He didn’t have much patience with Republicans or conservatives, not exactly a unique position in Hollywood. Some of his routines were heavy on religious themes. One of my favorites was his Top Ten Reasons to be an Episcopalian, #10 No snake handling, #6 all the pageantry…none of the guilt.

Williams was an improvisational genius. He had a manic energy and lightening quick mental reflexes that made you think that he must certainly be on speed, which he probably was. Some say that his battles with depression began when his good friend John Belushi died of a drug overdose in 1982. Apparently the battle raged on for the rest of his life until he couldn’t cope with life any longer.

On the surface, it’s hard to comprehend how someone so talented, successful, well-respected and wealthy would ever kill themselves. It speaks to the debilitating power of depression, as deadly a disease as there is in this world.  

For the record, my favorite Williams movies are Dead Poet’s Society, and Moscow on the Hudson.

“Oh Captain, my captain” May he rest in peace.

Great Weekend!

 

 

Observations from the weekend:

Saturday’s mailbox contained a 5x7 envelope addressed to me from Bliley’s funeral home. Inside was a picture of my Mom and Dad. It must have been left behind from the viewing.

I can’t tell what the occasion was, probably a birthday. The minute I saw it, I felt the sharp pain of loss. It’s so strange how one can go days without even giving it a thought, but one word, one fleeting memory, one photograph can bring it all back, fresh and powerful.

Mark Becton preached a whale of a sermon yesterday. I have often shared my frustrations and criticisms of my church in this space. What I haven’t been as good at is communicating the blessings I receive there. Yesterday, he totally nailed his sermon. It was relevant, well-researched, well-illustrated and challenging.

Pam and I are really getting into this empty nest thing. After our impromptu trip to Bear Creek Lake on Friday, we cooked pork tenderloin on the grill Saturday night and binge-watched several episodes of The Boss. After church Sunday, Pam and I did something we never, ever do together…we watched sports on television!! That’s right, after a dinner of BLT sandwiches made with tomatoes from my garden/deck, the PGA tournament was still on because of a rain delay and Pam showed a genuine interest in the proceedings. To my amazement, she watched for nearly an hour with me and seemed to enjoy it. It probably didn’t hurt that Rory McElroy and Ricky Fowler were “cute.” Still, I can count on one hand the number of sporting events that she has watched with me for over ten minutes over the entirety of our life together. It was so much fun.

But, today is Monday and back to work I go. However, in a mere 108 more hours, I get to spend another weekend alone in this big old house with Pam Dunnevant.

Can’t wait.

Suppose the Shoe Was on the Other Foot?

 

 

There is a terrible movement of very violent and blood thirsty men in the Middle East.

The above sentence could have been written and would have been true in practically every era of recorded history, so I suppose I should be more specific. This particular flavor of barbarism goes by the name of ISIS, or the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria. They have come out of nowhere, multiplied like crabgrass, and now control large swaths of desert and cities formerly controlled by the two countries that now make up their name. Along the way, ISIS has demonstrated a blood thirst that rivals that of Sadam Hussein, a fondness for prepubescent girls that rivals Muammar Gaddafi, proving that old adage about being careful about what one wishes for. Perhaps before we decided to remove these two gentlemen from power, we should have had a clearer idea of who might replace them.

So now that ISIS has filled the leadership void in Iraq with 7^th century Islam, calls have come for the United States to “do something” to help the people fleeing the terror and destruction, some of whom are Christians. My Facebook wall has been filled with accusations of a Christian genocide, with the accompanying accusation that Obama is indifferent to Christian suffering. Over the weekend the President made the decision to drop humanitarian supplies and authorized “limited air-strikes” against the advancing hordes. Here we go again.

Once again it falls to America to police the world. It is somehow our job to enforce the rules of civilization on the uncivilized. For this we will be mocked, ridiculed and hated by virtually everyone.

I am aware of the arguments on all sides of the “America as world policeman” debate and I have great respect for those who disagree with my conclusions. But shouldn’t the question of getting involved in every dust-up on the planet at the very least come down to protecting American interests? Shouldn’t actual Americans have to be attacked before we charge in with fighter jets? Shouldn’t some American somewhere have to be in clear and present danger before we pull the trigger? The reason I ask this is because there is a conflict raging out of control this very minute that involves the deaths of scores of Americans. The bloodshed is unrelenting. Over the past 36 months, over 1,100 Americans have perished, over 130 of them children under the age of 16. The conflict shows no signs of letting up. Despite the tragic loss of life, the United States government has done nothing to stop the slaughter of its own people. No delegation has been sent to negotiate a cease fire. President Obama has authorized no intervention, not even economic sanctions. As far I can see, no effort has been made to stop the indiscriminate killing of American citizens. Instead, the City of Chicago has been left to fend for itself.

How would we feel if Russia was the world’s policeman? Vladimir Putin, after long discussions with his generals decides that he can no longer stand idly by and watch innocent people gunned down in the streets of a great American city. He authorizes a daring commando raid on the Southside of Chicago to restore order. Crack Russian troops begin patrolling Chicago communities hunting down the ruthlessly violent drug dealers who have long terrorized the windy city. Putin assures the American people that his country is not interested in territorial gains, and promises to leave the city as soon as the Chicago police force is purged of graft and properly trained.

Would we resent the Russians for such a humanitarian intervention? If I know the citizens of Chicago, their resentment would take the form of guerilla warfare against the invading army of a foreign country who had the nerve to stick their big fat Russian noses in our business.

Now you know how the Iraqis feel.

Playing Hooky

 

 

I will be spending several hours at the office today, Saturday. Why? Because of my wife.

She sends me a text Thursday afternoon with this out of nowhere request:

“How about we go to Bear Creek Lake tomorrow? We can pack a picnic lunch and go swimming and make a day of it. It’s supposed to be beautiful weather.”

Although I had a load of paperwork to complete on Friday, I immediately punted it into Saturday. So, there we were yesterday leaving the house at 9:30. I had inflated two of those pool lounge chairs, and thrown a couple of beach chairs in the back of the car. My wife had filled the cooler with sandwiches, chips, watermelon, cantaloupe, scotcharoos, water bottles, and because she is Pam, a tablecloth and summer-themed plastic plates.

Bear Creek Lake is a place from my childhood. My Uncle Jim and Aunt Sylvia used to take me there to camp and fish. The last time I was there was with Pam when we were dating. She wore a pink one-piece and had the undivided attention of every male on the beach that day. On this day, she wore a bikini with the same result.

We paid a total of $9 for the privilege of entry into the park and a day of swimming, and the use of shower facilities. The place was beautiful, and extremely well maintained proving that of all the things that government does, preserving and maintaining our National and State parks is one of the few things it does well.

Don’t get me wrong, Bear Creek Lake is no Megunticook. It is a tiny little thing. By Maine standards it doesn’t even qualify as a lake, more like a pond. The water is murky and filled with debris of the natural variety, sticks, grass, and various slimy things. But, on the positive side, the water doesn’t give you a heart attack when you get in and you can stay in for longer than ten minutes without losing a toe to frostbite.

We spent nearly six hours there, floating on the calm water, talking, remembering. There were lots of families, three generations, Grandpa in the water with giggling grandchildren while Mom and Dad relaxed on the beach, a comforting and encouraging sight.

When we were done, we drove home in a mere 50 minutes, thanks to the greatest road to hit Richmond in 50 years…288. While it certainly is true that Bear Creek Lake is no Megunticook, a 50 minute drive is no 13 hours either!

So, as a result of my wife’s great idea, I am now off to work…on a Saturday.

Soooo worth it.