Redeemed

 

                                                              Part II

 

“Shut up!!” he screamed, “I swear I’ll blow your goddamn heads off!”

He was trembling. Martha noticed his wild eyes with two black lines drawn underneath, just like baseball players on sunny days. Tears and sweat had cut thin gray streams through them. His hair was jet black and hung down over his face, long and stringy. From his right earlobe hung a string of beads. He wore a denim jacket and a black t-shirt. His jeans were filthy, with huge holes in them, one of which exposed most of his right thigh. He smelled very much like a dog who had been left outside in the rain. Martha felt another thought on its way.

“Is it money you want?”

Henry cut his eyes abruptly towards her. “Why not just give him the key to the safe deposit box?!” he thought.

“That’s right, grandma!” he yelled, “I want your money, all of it.”

“I wish I could help you, but we don’t keep much money around the house.” Her voice was calm and clear.

“That’s right son.” Henry had finally found his voice and it was booming. “See, we’re senior citizens. Don’t have much need for cash. Now, we’ve got money in the checking account and plenty in savings down at the bank, but cash? No, just don’t have a need for it.”

The boy slumped back against the door and began to cry weakly, slowly lowering the gun until it hung quietly at his side.

“My name is Martha and this is my husband Henry.” Martha managed a relaxed smile. “What’s your name?”

The boy stopped crying and looked at Martha through his filthy hair as if seeing her for the first time. He lifted the gun and pointed it at her, then waved it at Henry. “You two bastards may not have any money, but I’ve got this, so shut the hell up, so I can think!”

“Such language,” Martha thought, “What perfectly repulsive language!” She began to think about his parents, trying to imagine what kind of people would allow their son to roam the streets looking and talking like this. She was suddenly overcome with compassion. The power of this strange emotion overcame her fear. She spoke with surprising energy and confidence.

“Well, if you won’t give me your name, I’ll just make one up. I’ll call you John. Are you hungry John?”

“What?” Henry asked.

“You look like you could use some supper. When was the last time you had anything to eat?”

John looked at Henry, then back at Martha, confused and terrified in equal measure, saying nothing.

Martha sprang from her rocker and confidently turned her back on them both, starting for the kitchen. “Why don’t we all go in the kitchen and I’ll throw something together. It’s easier to think on a full stomach.”

John screamed, “Wait!” He raised the gun again, pointing it at Henry. “You first, old man! Don’t try anything stupid or…”

“You’ll blow my goddamn head off, I’m guessing.” Henry was beyond fear and had lapsed into irritation.

They walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table. John’s face began to relax a bit but his knuckles were still white around the handle of his shiny black gun. Martha was busy going through the refrigerator.

“I hope you like chicken because it looks like that’s all we have. How about I make you a chicken sandwich and heat up some soup?”

John was silent, staring at them both, a thousand thoughts raging through is head.

“So John,” Henry broke the awkward silence. “What do you do? I mean besides breaking and entering?”

“Nothing.” He spoke. “I don’t do anything. This is the first time I’ve ever done this.”

“Well, I suggest that you make this your last time. There’s no future in a life of crime. Besides, you’re not exactly cut out to be a criminal.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, for starters, I’ve never met anyone who would be easier to identify in a police lineup.”

Martha placed a steaming bowl of chicken soup on the table in front of John. Beside it she placed a chicken sandwich on a paper towel. She then poured lemonade into a blue plastic cup. “Help yourself.”

John instructed Martha to sit across the table with her husband where he could keep an eye on them both. He wanted their hands on the table where he could see them. Then he laid the gun a few inches away from his right hand and picked up the sandwich in one clean motion. He took a ravenous bite and swallowed it almost without chewing.

“No manners either,” thought Martha. “What kind of parents must this boy have?”

He plowed through the soup with equally ill-mannered haste, sloshing noodles and broth over the rim of the bowl. Hot chicken soup ran down his chin and formed a small pool on the table.

“I take it that the food suits you?” Henry asked loudly.

“It’s alright, if you like chicken,” John answered without looking up.

“They tell me that they serve chicken soup three days a week down at the penitentiary.”

John finally lifted his eyes from the bowl and narrowed them at Henry. He gulped down the last of the lemonade and wiped his chin on the dirty sleeve of his jacket.

“There’s lemon meringue pie,” Martha offered, feeling uncomfortable with the silence. She walked over to the refrigerator and cut a large piece of pie and placed it on a paper plate in front of him. “Do your parents know where you are John?”

“I doubt it,” he answered with his mouth full. “They think I’m in college.

“College?”

“They think I’m studying to be a big shot at school.”

“But I suppose you found out that you didn’t need to go to college to become a big shot, right?” Henry boomed. “All you needed to do was to grow out your hair, buy some pants with holes in them and rob old people of their life savings.”

John reached for his gun and pointed it between Henry’s eyes. “You’re just like my old man. You think you’ve got all the answers don’t you? What’s your answer to this gun pointed at your head Pops? You got an answer for this?”

“Life insurance.”

“John! Please don’t!” Martha pleaded. She reached out suddenly and clutched his left hand firmly with both of hers. He jumped, startled and afraid and pointed the gun at Martha.

“Talk to me John. I’ll try to understand. I’ll listen for as long as it takes. You don’t want to hurt us. I know you don’t. Will you talk to me? Please talk to me.”

John softened his grip on the gun and once again began to cry. Martha squeezed his hand and touched his shoulder gently like she had done so many times when her two sons were young and angry. She pulled her chair closer to him and they began to talk, Henry keeping a sharp eye on the gun and wondering if his wife’s Good Samaritan instinct was finally going to get them killed.

They talked softly about his parents who didn’t even know that their son had dropped out of school months ago. They had separated two weeks after he went away  for his freshman year. He hadn’t talked to either of them in months. They had probably been counting the days, cutting little lines in a wall someplace every morning, waiting for him to leave. He hated them. He hated everyone now. Nobody wanted him.

Martha told him that he was wrong to think that way, that God loved him and had a plan for his life. He told her that he didn’t believe in God. There didn’t seem to be much evidence for his existence. Martha offered herself as proof. “How could I have possibly had the courage to turn my back on you in there a minute ago if it weren’t for God?” She never let his hand go. He looked straight into her eyes and the room fell silent.

Suddenly, Martha got up from the table, walked into the bedroom and returned with an El Producto cigar box. Henry’s eyes widened and his face went pale. “Martha, have you lost your mind?”

“Henry,” she answered firmly, “Remember the other night when you said that we needed a gun to keep around the house? Well, this young man has one and I think we ought to buy it from him”

Henry never took his eyes off of John while answering, “Yes, I remember using those exact words.”

John looked at Martha in disbelief, mouth ajar, waiting for an explanation.

“Look John, you need money. We need a gun. Let’s make a deal. How much did you pay for this gun?”

“I stole it.”

Henry came to life. “You hear that Martha? He says he stole it. Imagine that. I mean, what are the odds?”

Martha ignored her increasingly confrontational husband. “Well, supposing that you had bought it, how much would it have cost?”

“I don’t know. Two, three hundred dollars?”

“Henry? You think 300 is a fair price?”

“By all means, Martha. We have absolutely no reason to doubt the boy’s word.”

“Then it’s a deal!” Martha opened the box lid and pulled out a huge wad of twenty dollar bills as Henry buried his face in his hands. John watched her count out fifteen twenties and lay them on the table.

“I thought you said you didn’t have any cash in the house.”

“I didn’t…for a thief. But for a friend, I can always find some extra money.”

 She extended her hand to John, waiting for him to hand over the gun. She was calm and confident. Henry watched it all happening as if in slow motion. He loved his wife with all of his heart, but it was this sort of thing that had always driven him crazy, her undying faith in the goodness of her fellow man. All he wanted to do was rush this punk and beat him to within an inch of his miserable life and if this all had happened twenty years ago he already would have. Instead he prayed under his breath that God would deliver them from her naiveté. This wasn’t Les Miserable.

John reached across the table and swept up the twenties and stuffed them in his jacket pocket, still holding firmly to the gun. Martha held her breath and hoped that nobody could hear her heart beating. Then he rose from the table, looked at them both and slowly placed the gun in Martha’s hand.

‘Thanks for the meal,” John finally spoke. “I feel much better.”

“I’m glad you liked it.” Martha suddenly felt exhausted.

“I better be going now.”

“Where will you go?”

“I’ve got a place, an apartment. It’s ok.”

“Well, if you ever need anything, I guess you know where we live.”

Henry began to seethe. Was this punk about to get away with it?

The three of them walked down a short hallway into the living room. John crushing bits of glass under his feet as he made his way to the front door. He looked down at the glass as if noticing it for the first time.

“I’m really sorry about the lamp. Was it very old?”

“Been in the family for three generations,” Henry thundered. “It was an antique, an irreplaceable original.”

Martha looked across the room at John and smiled. “Just like you, John.”

Henry waited for a minute, then said, “I couldn’t possibly take less than three hundred dollars for it.”

John opened the door. He reached into his pocket and placed the crumpled wad of twenties on the Ben Franklin desk, then disappeared into the night, shutting the door gently behind him.

Redeemed

Martha Rigsby knew her way around a rocking chair. Her father knew how to build one too back sixty years earlier when he had built this one. She swayed back and forth effortlessly, like something mechanical, keeping rhythm with the eternal ticking of the mantle clock, it too having been built by her father, the master craftsman.

It was 7:30 and this evening was progressing like all the others. Her husband of fifty-two years was in the kitchen cleaning up the dinner dishes, washing each dish carefully by hand, drying them with a clean dish towel and stacking them gently in the cabinet over the dishwasher. Henry Rigsby had bought the dishwasher from a Greek man who sold them from the back of a tractor trailer. He was told that it was “practically brand new.” He brought it home as a surprise for Martha on her birthday, six years earlier. Martha wanted no part of it, and had demanded that Henry return it  and get his money back, but he never saw the Greek man again. Of course, the thing didn’t work. They had called a repairman to come fix it but it was missing several pieces, so there it sat taking up space. Henry liked to point out that it gave the kitchen more counter space. It was a sore subject.

Martha shuffled through the paper until she found the sports page. She loved the summer months the most, because she loved to follow her beloved Cleveland Indians. Henry was to blame for her obsession with baseball since it was he who had made the mistake of taking her to her first Indians game forty years ago. She sat in the left 
field stands and fell in love with everything. She watched the outfielders chase down 
fly balls. She watched other fans scream epitaphs at several Indains for swinging at 
pitches that were a mile out of something called the “strike-zone.” She listened to the 
venders barking out enticements for peanuts, popcorn, hotdogs and beer. She watched the Indians get beaten 16-2. She wouldn’t allow Henry to leave the game until the very last Indian had struck out in the bottom of the ninth. She wondered how people could be so rude as to leave in the middle of a game. She felt embarrassed for the players, so much so that, over the vehement objections of Henry, she wrote a scathing letter to the editor as soon as got home, blasting the Cleveland fans for deplorably bad manners. She became a baseball fan for life.

Martha shook her head from side to side as she read the box score. “Worst pitching I’ve ever seen,” she said to herself, “We’ve got no pitching.”

“What’s that, Martha?” Henry’s thundering voice startled her the way it always did. “I can’t hear you. I’ve got the water running.”

It’s our pitching,” she responded, “worst I believe I’ve ever seen.”

“You say that every year. I think it’s time you got behind a different team. How about one of the teams from California? The Dodgers have plenty of pitching.”

“Why should I follow a team from California?”

“Because that’s where our two sons live and our grandchildren. Seems perfectly natural that their grandmother would start following the Dodgers.”

Martha turned the pages aimlessly for a while, then folded the paper neatly and 
placed it on the coffee table beside the TV Guide. Henry walked passed her and lowered himself, like a dish, carefully into his recliner. The front of his pants was wet in a dark blue line just below his belt. Martha usually never failed to remind him that if he would wear the apron he wouldn’t get his pants wet, but tonight she let it go. He reached for his book on the coffee table. For the hundredth time he read about the trials and tribulations of Ishmael, Queequeg and Ahab. In his seventy-nine years nothing had proven as consistently delightful as Moby Dick. With each new reading he would somehow find something new. He read with the wide-eyed excitement of a school boy.

Martha watched him reading as she worked on a cross-stitch calendar she had started three years ago. As she looked at him she remembered how she once used to wonder what he would look like when he got old. Back then she believed that he would be remarkably wrinkle free, with a full head of salt and pepper hair. He would be handsome at any age, she had been convinced. She smiled to herself when she considered that she hadn’t been far off.

“You know Henry, you turned out to be a rather distinguished looking old fool, if I must say so myself.” Martha had surprised herself.  She had done that a lot lately. Words would come flying out of her mouth before she had a chance to measure them and calculate their effect.

“Well, of course I did.” Henry never looked up from Herman Melville.

Then suddenly, “Are you fulfilled Henry?”

“Yes Dear. Dinner was wonderful. I couldn’t possibly eat another thing.”

“No, no, are you happy? Are you content? Do you have regrets about our lives?”

Henry took off his reading glasses, folded them and placed them teetering on the arm of his recliner. “What kinds of questions are these?”

“They’re perfectly natural questions for people our age to ask.”

“OK. Actually, I couldn’t be happier. I’m 79 years old, reasonably healthy, married the only girl I ever loved, and I’m not in a nursing home.”

“I’m certainly not the only woman you ever loved.”

“Well, you’re the only woman I ever loved who would agree to marry me, and now that I think about it, I do have a regret…that I never got involved in real estate.”

“I just find myself thinking about these things more now than ever before. I think about everything we’ve done and I realize how much of a charmed life we’ve lived.”


“God has been good to us,” was Henry’s stock reply whenever Martha would start with one of her “have we been faithful stewards” speeches. After a while he picked up his glasses, found his place in the book and once again launched into the deep.

The front door flew open wildly, slamming into the Ben Franklin desk, sending the stained glass hurricane lamp onto the floor where it exploded into a thousand slivers of glass. He held a gun tightly with both hands fully extended in front of him. He slipped on the shattered glass as he scrambled to shut the door behind him.

“Either one of you moves, I’ll blow your goddamn head off!” His voice shook like the voice of a 
child. Sweat poured from his face and his eyes were wild and lost. Henry was motionless, waiting for his heart to start beating again. He held Moby Dick in a death grip. He tried to speak but his mouth couldn’t form the words. Martha looked into the eyes of the young man before her. She felt her mouth go dry and all the color drain from her face. Her fingers and toes began to tingle. She felt the vague sensation of a thought about to be spoken. “Is there anything we can help you with young man?”

                                                              Part II

“Shut up!!” he screamed, “I swear I’ll blow your goddamn heads off!”

He was trembling. Martha noticed his wild eyes with two black lines drawn underneath, just like baseball players on sunny days. Tears and sweat had cut thin gray streams through them. His hair was jet black and hung down over his face, long and stringy. From his right earlobe hung a string of beads. He wore a denim jacket and a black t-shirt. His jeans were filthy, with huge holes in them, one of which exposed most of his right thigh. He smelled very much like a dog who had been left outside in the rain. Martha felt another thought on its way.

“Is it money you want?”

Henry cut his eyes abruptly towards her. “Why not just give him the key to the safe deposit box?!” he thought.

“That’s right, grandma!” he yelled, “I want your money, all of it.”

“I wish I could help you, but we don’t keep much money around the house.” Her voice was calm and clear.

“That’s right son.” Henry had finally found his voice and it was booming. “See, we’re senior citizens. Don’t have much need for cash. Now, we’ve got money in the checking account and plenty in savings down at the bank, but cash? No, just don’t have a need for it.”

The boy slumped back against the door and began to cry weakly, slowly lowering the gun until it hung quietly at his side.

“My name is Martha and this is my husband Henry.” Martha managed a relaxed smile. “What’s your name?”

The boy stopped crying and looked at Martha through his filthy hair as if seeing her for the first time. He lifted the gun and pointed it at her, then waved it at Henry. “You two bastards may not have any money, but I’ve got this, so shut the hell up, so I can think!”

“Such language,” Martha thought, “What perfectly repulsive language!” She began to think about his parents, trying to imagine what kind of people would allow their son to roam the streets looking and talking like this. She was suddenly overcome with compassion. The power of this strange emotion overcame her fear. She spoke with surprising energy and confidence.

“Well, if you won’t give me your name, I’ll just make one up. I’ll call you John. Are you hungry John?”

“What?” Henry asked.

“You look like you could use some supper. When was the last time you had anything to eat?”

John looked at Henry, then back at Martha, confused and terrified in equal measure, saying nothing.

Martha sprang from her rocker and confidently turned her back on them both, starting for the kitchen. “Why don’t we all go in the kitchen and I’ll throw something together. It’s easier to think on a full stomach.”

John screamed, “Wait!” He raised the gun again, pointing it at Henry. “You first, old man! Don’t try anything stupid or…”

“You’ll blow my goddamn head off, I’m guessing.” Henry was beyond fear and had lapsed into irritation.

They walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table. John’s face began to relax a bit but his knuckles were still white around the handle of his shiny black gun. Martha was busy going through the refrigerator.

“I hope you like chicken because it looks like that’s all we have. How about I make you a chicken sandwich and heat up some soup?”

John was silent, staring at them both, a thousand thoughts raging through is head.

“So John,” Henry broke the awkward silence. “What do you do? I mean besides breaking and entering?”

“Nothing.” He spoke. “I don’t do anything. This is the first time I’ve ever done this.”

“Well, I suggest that you make this your last time. There’s no future in a life of crime. Besides, you’re not exactly cut out to be a criminal.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, for starters, I’ve never met anyone who would be easier to identify in a police lineup.”

Martha placed a steaming bowl of chicken soup on the table in front of John. Beside it she placed a chicken sandwich on a paper towel. She then poured lemonade into a blue plastic cup. “Help yourself.”

John instructed Martha to sit across the table with her husband where he could keep an eye on them both. He wanted their hands on the table where he could see them. Then he laid the gun a few inches away from his right hand and picked up the sandwich in one clean motion. He took a ravenous bite and swallowed it almost without chewing.

“No manners either,” thought Martha. “What kind of parents must this boy have?”

He plowed through the soup with equally ill-mannered haste, sloshing noodles and broth over the rim of the bowl. Hot chicken soup ran down his chin and formed a small pool on the table.

“I take it that the food suits you?” Henry asked loudly.

“It’s alright, if you like chicken,” John answered without looking up.

“They tell me that they serve chicken soup three days a week down at the penitentiary.”

John finally lifted his eyes from the bowl and narrowed them at Henry. He gulped down the last of the lemonade and wiped his chin on the dirty sleeve of his jacket.

“There’s lemon meringue pie,” Martha offered, feeling uncomfortable with the silence. She walked over to the refrigerator and cut a large piece of pie and placed it on a paper plate in front of him. “Do your parents know where you are John?”

“I doubt it,” he answered with his mouth full. “They think I’m in college.

“College?”

“They think I’m studying to be a big shot at school.”

“But I suppose you found out that you didn’t need to go to college to become a big shot, right?” Henry boomed. “All you needed to do was to grow out your hair, buy some pants with holes in them and rob old people of their life savings.”

John reached for his gun and pointed it between Henry’s eyes. “You’re just like my old man. You think you’ve got all the answers don’t you? What’s your answer to this gun pointed at your head Pops? You got an answer for this?”

“Life insurance.”

“John! Please don’t!” Martha pleaded. She reached out suddenly and clutched his left hand firmly with both of hers. He jumped, startled and afraid and pointed the gun at Martha.

“Talk to me John. I’ll try to understand. I’ll listen for as long as it takes. You don’t want to hurt us. I know you don’t. Will you talk to me? Please talk to me.”

John softened his grip on the gun and once again began to cry. Martha squeezed his hand and touched his shoulder gently like she had done so many times when her two sons were young and angry. She pulled her chair closer to him and they began to talk, Henry keeping a sharp eye on the gun and wondering if his wife’s Good Samaritan instinct was finally going to get them killed.

They talked softly about his parents who didn’t even know that their son had dropped out of school months ago. They had separated two weeks after he went away  for his freshman year. He hadn’t talked to either of them in months. They had probably been counting the days, cutting little lines in a wall someplace every morning, waiting for him to leave. He hated them. He hated everyone now. Nobody wanted him.

Martha told him that he was wrong to think that way, that God loved him and had a plan for his life. He told her that he didn’t believe in God. There didn’t seem to be much evidence for his existence. Martha offered herself as proof. “How could I have possibly had the courage to turn my back on you in there a minute ago if it weren’t for God?” She never let his hand go. He looked straight into her eyes and the room fell silent.

Suddenly, Martha got up from the table, walked into the bedroom and returned with an El Producto cigar box. Henry’s eyes widened and his face went pale. “Martha, have you lost your mind?”

“Henry,” she answered firmly, “Remember the other night when you said that we needed a gun to keep around the house? Well, this young man has one and I think we ought to buy it from him”

Henry never took his eyes off of John while answering, “Yes, I remember using those exact words.”

John looked at Martha in disbelief, mouth ajar, waiting for an explanation.

“Look John, you need money. We need a gun. Let’s make a deal. How much did you pay for this gun?”

“I stole it.”

Henry came to life. “You hear that Martha? He says he stole it. Imagine that. I mean, what are the odds?”

Martha ignored her increasingly confrontational husband. “Well, supposing that you had bought it, how much would it have cost?”

“I don’t know. Two, three hundred dollars?”

“Henry? You think 300 is a fair price?”

“By all means, Martha. We have absolutely no reason to doubt the boy’s word.”

“Then it’s a deal!” Martha opened the box lid and pulled out a huge wad of twenty dollar bills as Henry buried his face in his hands. John watched her count out fifteen twenties and lay them on the table.

“I thought you said you didn’t have any cash in the house.”

“I didn’t…for a thief. But for a friend, I can always find some extra money.”

 She extended her hand to John, waiting for him to hand over the gun. She was calm and confident. Henry watched it all happening as if in slow motion. He loved his wife with all of his heart, but it was this sort of thing that had always driven him crazy, her undying faith in the goodness of her fellow man. All he wanted to do was rush this punk and beat him to within an inch of his miserable life and if this all had happened twenty years ago he already would have. Instead he prayed under his breath that God would deliver them from her naiveté. This wasn’t Les Miserable. 

John reached across the table and swept up the twenties and stuffed them in his jacket pocket, still holding firmly to the gun. Martha held her breath and hoped that nobody could hear her heart beating. Then he rose from the table, looked at them both and slowly placed the gun in Martha’s hand.

‘Thanks for the meal,” John finally spoke. “I feel much better.”

“I’m glad you liked it.” Martha suddenly felt exhausted.

“I better be going now.”

“Where will you go?”

“I’ve got a place, an apartment. It’s ok.”

“Well, if you ever need anything, I guess you know where we live.”

Henry began to seethe. Was this punk about to get away with it?

The three of them walked down a short hallway into the living room. John crushing bits of glass under his feet as he made his way to the front door. He looked down at the glass as if noticing it for the first time.

“I’m really sorry about the lamp. Was it very old?”

“Been in the family for three generations,” Henry thundered. “It was an antique, an irreplaceable original.” 

Martha looked across the room at John and smiled. “Just like you, John.”

Henry waited for a minute, then said, “I couldn’t possibly take less than three hundred dollars for it.”

John opened the door. He reached into his pocket and placed the crumpled wad of twenties on the Ben Franklin desk, then disappeared into the night, shutting the door gently behind him.

The Window Shades of Death

 

Well, at least Lucy doesn't look any worse for the wear. Here she is, paws crossed, completely at peace with herself, guiltless and guileless. Meanwhile, I am contemplating a Sunday morning trip to Patient First.

Yesterday, I awoke to a strange yellow ball on the horizon. The further it rose in the sky, the warmer it became. A quick Google search revealed that this was, in fact, the sun. I resisted the urge to find a calf and butcher it at the top of the nearest mountain. Instead, I thought it might be fun to take Lucy to my office while I paid some bills, a little morning outing with my loyal dog at my side.

We rode over to the office without incedent. Upon arrival at the empty parking lot I walk up to the front door with my keys and briefcase in my right hand and the handle of Lucy's leash in my left. 

She is a bit wary at this point since she's only been here a couple of times, but so far, so good. Then it 

gets tricky. The welcome mat at the front door is still wet from the recent snow so I don't want to set my leather briefcase on it while I unlock the door. Instead, I jam it between my knees. I then unlock the door and swing it open. As I do so, I hear the timed chirping of our alarm system which gives you thirty seconds to enter, and punch in a password. Failure to do so will set off an ear-piercing sound and launch a call to the police. After throwing the door open, I stuck out my backside to prop it open so Lucy could enter, while simultaneously reaching for my briefcase. That's when the fun started.

The front door to our our office is adorned with wooden shades, large, clingy, wooden shades which make a loud clapping noise when you brush up against them. When these shades collided with my rear end, the loud clapping sound sent Lucy into a terrified panic. Instead of entering the building, she bolted for the parking lot...practically ripping the leash handle from my hand, and jerking my left arm back at an odd and very abrupt angle. So, there I was, the door propped open, my briefcase dropped on the wet mat, trying desperately to coax Lucy into the office, all the while, the countdown of death chirping inside! Trying to calm down a lunatic dog while coaxing her to enter a building through a door with wooden shades emitting scary sounds is hard enough. Try doing it when right at point of entry the intruder alarm goes off!! Lucy spent the entire time pacing nervously in my office, shaking like a leaf. In retrospect, not my best idea. 

About an hour later, I headed over to AmFam for a workout. Once there I noticed that my left shoulder had started to hurt... A LOT. Instead of lifting weights, I opted for an hour session on the treadmill, all the while, my surgically repaired shoulder barking it's resistance. Now, 24 hours later, after a fitful night's sleep, it is killing me. I'm afraid I may have ripped something apart in there. Not good.

So, I will go over to see my maniacle Indian doctor at Patient First, get it x-rayed and hope for the best. Dog ownership isn't for sissies.

Slippery Slopes

The list of Golden Retreiver Rules I put on Facebook yesterday is one of the coolest things I've run across in quite some time. It's so funny precisely because it is so true. When Lucy arrived we too had all sorts of noble plans. This time it was going to be different. THIS golden wasn't going to take over not only our house, but our lives too. Five months later she strides around here like she owns the place...because she does!

The gist of this list of rules is the infamous "slippery slope" argument. This is the line of reasoning, usually employed by politicians when losing an argument, whereby it is contended that if a relatively benign and insignificant thing A is allowed to pass, it will slowly but surely lead to catastrophic plague B. We heard it most recently in the Net Neutrality debate. Now that the camel's nose of government regulation is under the tent, surely censorship of content and rate hikes will follow. We also heard it with regards to the gay marriage debate. Allow gay people to marry one another and before long people will be rushing down the aisle to marry their parakeets.

However, despite the overuse of the device, slippery slopes do in fact exist. No one can seriously argue that there isn't a ton more vulgarity on television than there used to be. Today in prime time, there is more profanity, graphic violence, and nudity than there was in R rated movies from forty years ago. So, it was a slippery slope from the censors allowing the sound of a toilet flushing on All in the Family in the 70's to Keeping Up with the Kardashians. Some will argue that this is a good thing. But just like the famous frog and the pot of boiling water, the American people would have melted down the phone lines if an episode of Family Guy had been aired in 1970. But now, we don't bat an eye.

My point is that it is true that every society evolves, and in doing so we constantly test the limits of things. Sometimes little compromises, small, seemingly minor decisions do lead to unintended consequences. We can argue about what leads to what, but we can't argue that actions taken today will never have unforeseen consequences tomorrow. There's a phrase for it....the slippery slope.

Will Net Neutrality lead to excessive government meddling? I hope not. Will Fred marrying Fido be commonplace in ten years? I think not. But this I do know. There isn't a person alive today who was born before 1960 who ever would have believed that a President of the United States could survive getting caught having oral sex in the Oval Office with an intern. But he did. Imagine how long Harry Truman would have lasted under the same circumstances? 

Slippery slope indeed.

Dueling Weatherpersons

Oh boy. Here we are on the cusp of another winter storm, which can only mean one thing...the revenge of the weather nerds is upon us. 

That's right, the Internet has been buzzing with NAM's, EURO's and GFS's for days now. With each new run of these computer models, meteorologists great and small burst forth with their latest predictions. Barely comprehensible maps appear with lots of colors and squiggly lines offering visual "explanation" for why we can absolutely, positively count on 2-8 inches of snow. Each of these forecasts comes with the requisite weasel words which allow the meteorologist with enough ass-cover to allow for plausible deniability if we end up getting nothing but rain. But it's all great fun, and as far as I can tell, the professionals have about the same record of accuracy as the growing legion of homegrown, do-it-yourself weather forecasters...like my friend and former youth pastor Jeremy Welborn. Weather forecasting seems to be the hobby of choice for the kind of people who might have put together model airplanes or collected stamps fifty years ago. Apparently, anyone with a laptop and an Internet connection can take up this new hobby. The best part of meteorology is the fact that, just like baseball, if you're successful just thirty percent of the time, you're in the Hall of Fame.

This particular storm must be something special because it seems that each of our three local TV guys has a different forecast. Our infamous, and obnoxiously arrogant Internet weather expert,who prefers the exotic "DT" changes his forecast about every thirty minutes and produces more incomprehensible maps than anyone. He also provides some level of entertainment by constantly berating his television competitors for being "idiots and morons." Whenever the TV guys wind up being right, DT lowers the cone of silence over his operation before finally explaining that he was actually right all along but we were too stupid to understand his superior, if nuanced, models.

 So, depending on who I chose to listen to, I'm prepared to endure each of the following; a day of cold rain followed by a bit of sleet, a wintry mix( an ass-covering formulation if ever there was one) which may or may not switch over to all snow anywhere between 11 am and 4 pm, or a brief interlude of snow that could drop anywhere from a trace to ten inches of the white stuff, in an area that may include all of the eastern seaboard, or may be confined to an area the size of New Kent County.

I prefer the old days of George Carlin's imagination and his famous "hippy-dippy weatherman"...

"The temperature outside is 52 degrees at the airport...which is stupid since nobody lives at the airport. Tonight's forecast...DARK, followed by widely scattered light in the morning. Tomorrow's weather will be dominated by a large Canadian low.....which is not to be confused with a Mexican high!!"

 

The Stone Brewing Boondoggle

One of my all time favorite Millenials posted an article on Facebook the other day concerning a City Hall fight brought on by the Stone Brewing riverfront property deal. Because he is a Millenial, I assumed he did so to protest the worthlessness of petty politicians standing in the way of progress. I assumed that like most Millenials, he thought that nothing could possibly be cooler than having yet another micro-brewer in town. When I asked him his actual opinions on the issue, I discovered the truth in the old admonition that assuming often makes asses out of you and me. My favorite Millenial was very much against the notion that local governments should get involved in picking winners and losers in business. He sent me to a Wall Street Journal article which essentially made the following point.

Imagine that you are an aspiring entrepreneur in Richmond 25 years ago who decides to refurbish a dilapidated old warehouse building downtown and turn it into a restaurant. You do so at great expense and considerable risk, since no one is sure whether an upscale restaurant will survive in such a parking challenged location. Despite considerable headwinds, your dream becomes a thriving reality. Twenty five years on, your enterprise is a profitable business which pays lots of taxes to the city treasury while employing 140 people. You are a vibrant, responsible corporate citizen who contributes much to the city.

Then one day, you discover that your city council has entered into an agreement with a California company to build not only a brewery but also a giant restaurant who will be in direct competition with you. The deal hammered out offers them not only massive tax relief, but also includes building said restaurant with public money, out of the taxes that your twenty five year old enterprise has faithfully paid. Not only that, your shiny new competitor is given a sweetheart twenty five year lease. The best part is that if this new enterprise fails, your future tax payments will be required to bail the city out of the deal. 

The owner of the Tobacco Company Resturant might reasonably ask why his city council is getting in the upscale restaurant business. He might also wonder where all of this tax relief and free construction money was twenty five years ago when he was building HIS building. The fact that my favorite Millenial understands the innate unfairness of such an arrangement renews my confidence in his generation. Maybe it will be the Millenials who will apply some hard-headed rationalism to government boondoggles like the Stone Brewing deal and ask the question, is this really what the people's representatives should be doing?

It's Home Improvement Time!!

March. I feel better just typing that. If it’s March, then there’s hope. In February, you’re screwed from beginning to end. It’s all winter, all the time. With March, there’s the hint of spring, the suggestion of warmth, the promise of a thaw.

For us this means doing something about the landscaping in our yard. When you spend the last seven years of your life putting your children through private, out of state colleges, there isn’t much money left over for home improvement projects. So when hurricane Isabelle came through and laid waste to the shrubbery several years ago, I was forced to tear the rest of it out and place “new landscaping” on the  “things to do when we’re no longer poor” list. Our post-modern minimalist look has worn thin on Pam who insists on nothing less than a full-blown landscaping make-over. This means venturing into our back yard, or as it has come to be known…the swamp that time forgot.

To that end, I began contacting landscaping contractors in the area a while back and finally settled on one who was young, credentialed, and didn’t reek of fertilizer. He came over and inspected the grounds, jotting notes into his tablet computer as we walked. When he sent us his proposal a week later, it came complete with drawings, a written description, and a five figure price tag. On the bright side, the cost was less than one semester’s tuition at Belmont, so I’ve got that going for me. Everything must be placed in perspective in life. After all, it’s only money, then you die.

So, I’m already over the cost. I’ve moved on to visualizing myself back there grilling steaks on my new stone patio, watching Lucy running across the new turf grass, frolicking amongst the shrub-lined fence, all splashed in sunshine thanks to the removal of several light blocking trees. Lucy will be over her digging fetish since she will no longer be a puppy (…that’s my story and I’m sticking to it). It will be like Eden before the fall. Well, except we will be fully clothed…for the most part.

Once the landscaping project is finished, I’m told that there will be painting projects and interior design schemes to launch. Before this year is done, I will be recalling the years of writing obscene tuition checks as the good old days.

Success or Failure?

“I think I fear success more than failure,” he said absently, sitting at a conference table with his business partner.

“What?” his business partner asked, looking up from a pile of bills spread out in front of him. “What’s so scary about success?”

“Success can change a person, totally change their life.”

“That’s right, Einstein. Success can transform a starving, hopeless and disgusting business failure into a rich, well-fed entrepreneur practically overnight. Man, you beat everything…worrying about impending success while everyone else, including me is busy worrying about bankruptcy.”

“No, I’m serious. Have you ever thought about what you would do if you won the lottery, say 20 million or so?”

“The first thing I would do is buy you out so I wouldn’t have to have these idiotic conversations.”

“I mean after you paid your house off, cleared up the business debt, then maybe bought a vacation home somewhere, couple of new cars, new golf clubs and all, you would still have millions left over.”

“Yeah, I can definitely see how that would suck.”

“Then the trouble would start. Everyone you ever knew back in high school and college, all of your distant relatives would start hitting you up for money. If you turned them down they would end up hating you for it. Then, the do-gooders would come calling…the Red Cross, March of Dimes, the preacher, they would all come out of the woodwork and unless you gave them money, they would end up hating you too.”

“And then you would take comfort in that new car smell as you drive to your vacation home with your new golf clubs in the trunk. It’s like the circle of life. All of your old friends from the poor old days would get replaced with shiny new ones.”

“You know what the worst part about too much money, too fast?”

“Oh, I don’t know…if you spend it less than an hour after you get it you get cramps?”

“The worst part is that everything would be finished. You would be done. No more reason to care about things, nothing more to worry about, nothing to get you out of bed in the morning.”

“Dude, you are so weird.”

“Listen, right now the business is doing ok but we still struggle month to month, right?”

“Yes. Which is something that I’m counting on your 20 million dollar lottery windfall to fix.”

“No, don’t you see? We’re just like everyone else! We have common cause with our fellow man. We’re all in the same boat, we’re all struggling to make a go of it. If I win 20 million, I’m out of the club and I can never be like everyone else ever again.”

“That club you’re talking about? It’s called the sucker’s club and yes, 20 million gets you kicked out. But then you get kicked up into the millionaires club, which has way better food. That’s the American Dream my friend…the American Dream.”

“I guess so…”

“That’s right partner…the American Dream. So, get your upwardly mobile ass up and get me a Dr. Pepper out of the fridge while I figure out a way to balance our checkbook.”

He walked into the kitchen and brought a cold can back to the conference room. It made a sharp metallic sound as he sat it in the glass table top. He went to the window and stared down at the air conditioner unit with its big fan blades turning slowly. After a few minutes he walked back to his office.

“Maybe we should buy a lottery ticket,” he said as he disappeared down the hall.

Net Neutrality, My Son, and Me

I have a very smart son. He and I discuss things political on occasion and often we disagree. We recently had a long back and forth about the “net neutrality” issue. With yesterday’s vote, his side of the argument has prevailed, so I will have to take his word for it that this is a very good thing.

Like I said, he is very bright (he takes after his mother), and also very opinionated and argumentative (he takes after me). He paints the net neutrality business as narrow corporate interests vs. the greater public good and the interests of the little guy. He accuses NN’s opponents of appealing to the public’s distrust of government with overblown rhetoric about higher taxes and a government takeover of future content. The decision came down on a strict party line vote, which should come as a surprise to no one. Is there any other kind of vote anymore that isn’t straight party line, where Republicans are in the back pocket of business and Democrats always favoring anything that empowers the regulative state?

Anyway, now that the deal is done, I will have to take my son’s word for it that everything is going to be alright, that the heavy hand of government bureaucrats aren’t going to screw up the most vibrant, creative industry in the world. I’ll have to banish visions of DMV incompetence, Postal Service inefficiency, and IRS complexity from my mind. I will have to move on from my fear that this whole NN thing is nothing more than a government money grab.

My son knows much more about the internet and technology in general than I do, so perhaps I should give his views on this subject the benefit of the doubt. However, there is a very good reason why NN’s opponents appealed to the American distrust of government. There is an awful lot to distrust. When he complains that the current system leaves too many people at the mercy of too few giant monopolistic enterprises, I counter with the observation that I would rather be at the mercy of giant companies who are at least ultimately accountable to their share-holders, than to be at the mercy of some future Department of the Internet monolith who will be accountable to absolutely no one.

Five or ten years from now, thanks to this very internet miracle, my son’s views and my fears will be a matter of public record. We will both be able to look back on this blog and decide who was right and who was wrong. Somebody will owe somebody else a beer.

 

I sincerely hope I’m the one buying.

Trash Talk Time

As a graduate of and fan of Richmond Spiders athletics, I have had to swallow hard over the past few years watching the ascendency of VCU basketball and their talented coach Shaka Smart. My Facebook feed has been bombarded with the ubiquitous, “havoc!!!” refrain. I have had to sit back and listen to VCU fan brag about their team, even watch them go to the final four. It has been a miserable few years.

They are still a terrific team and Shaka Smart is still talented. But finally, I have been given reason to do what I do best…talk smack. Last night my Spiders completed a season sweep of the Rams in thrilling fashion with a double overtime victory. And while VCU may end up winning the Atlantic 10, we won the city, baby!

So, this morning I get to the my empty office, and after clearing a path from the parking lot to the front door, I had some time on my hands…never a good thing when flush with the thrill of victory. My buddy and business partner, Doug Greenwood has become a huge band-wagon jumping Ram fan over the past few years, a season ticket holding carpet bagger of sorts. I have had to endure an endless stream of Ram-bragging from him for quite a while now. Well…I just couldn’t help myself…

The Oscar's Show

Ok, here's how I do the Oscar's thing. I walk through the den from time to time while the red carpet show is on and ask Pam how it's going. She gives me the highlights. Then I come downstairs on my way to the fridge for a snack later and sometimes stop for a few minutes to watch an acceptance speech. Then, the next morning I read all about it on the Internet, watching selected clips of highlights if I find myself interested.

I'm not anti-Hollywood. I enjoy good movies, always have. This year, Pam and I saw four of the best picture nominees and will probably catch a couple more of them soon. But a team of black ops interrogators from Guantanamo Bay couldn't force me to watch the Academy Awards show. Three and a half hours of self-congratulatory claptrap and left wing advocacy is as close to hell as Earth gets.

However, watching the highlights, I did learn a few things...

1. Lady Gaga can actually sing. Who knew? 

2. To judge from their responses to Patricia Arquette's speech, J-Lo and Merrill Streep are apparently vastly underpaid.

3. Neil Patrick Harris has been spending some time at the gym, and isn't at all concerned with preserving his dignity.

4. In order for a movie to win an award at the Oscars, it's essential that nobody has actually bought a ticket to see it.

5. An essential part of every acceptance speech is the obligatory pitch for a cause, to include, but not be limited to...equal pay for women, immigration, the environment, racial injustice, and gay rights.

But what I really learned from this year's festivities is what I already knew. When presented with films about such weighty matters as, A. The war in Iraq and America's deadliest warrior, B. The brave Enigma code breaker, C. A Martin Luther King biopic, and D. The story of famed physicist and thinker Stephen Hawking...the Academy gives the award to a movie about...Hollywood.

They just can't help themselves.

Does Obama Love America?

Rudy Giuliani, former mayor of New York City, made headlines recently by questioning whether or not President Obama loves America. The mayor's question has hung in the air like three day old fish, stinking up our political discourse from the salons of Manhattan to the dinner parties in Georgetown. I'm sure the Sunday shows will talk about little else. What to think...

It is generally bad form to cast about impugning the patriotic commitments of politicians. For one thing, patriotism is so difficult to define. Love of country is hard to quantify. For instance, I certainly love America, but I don't love everything about it. I hate the political dysfunction that has produced 18 trillion dollars in debt. I hate the career political class from both parties who have, House-of-Cards-style, made a mockery of the democratic process. So my love is selective. I'm generally suspicious of those who claim to love their country "right or wrong," in much the same way as I am suspicious of a parent who loves their kids so much that it renders them blind to their faults. There is such a thing as loving something too much, after all.

But, generally speaking, my default emotion towards my country is something close to love. In the President's case, as with most Progressives, it seems more complicated. He is a product of a political philosophy which views America, from its founding, as a deeply flawed place. Progressives have always viewed America's successes with suspicion. The Declaration of Independance? Just a document designed to preserve white privilege. The Constitution? Simply a straight jacket designed to encumber the power and benevolence of the central government. The industrial Revolution? Ill-gotten gains accrued on the backs of slave labor. In the Progressive view of history, America isn't a shining city on a hill or even a beacon for freedom for the oppressed, but rather a racist, misogynistic, greedy collection of rubes and hicks who need to be controlled by the enlightened from each coast. America is something which needs to be constantly and continually radically transformed from something base to something better, and the only people capable of this redemption all happen to be...Progressive.

So, when the President tells us to get off of our moral high horse over ISIS because of Jim Crow laws from fifty years ago, it feeds into the suspicion that he is much more comfortable criticizing our sins than he is criticizing the sins of our enemies. He is the only President in my lifetime who's rhetoric always seems to soar highest when he is taking us to task for our national sins.

Still, I have no doubt that the President loves America. I am equally confident that President Obama knew that George Bush also loved America in 2008 when he accused him of being "unpatriotic" for piling up 4 trillion dollars onto the national debt. It was a Presidential campaign and people get riled up and say things that they wish they could take back. Mayor Giuliani was wrong for making such an accusation about a sitting President.

While I love America for what it is and has been, a force for good in the world, an intrinsic love...the President loves America for what it has the potential to become if it adopts his policies. Perhaps that is a different kind of love, but it is love nonetheless. America's past and present sins do nothing to alter my love of country, primarily because I know that every nation in the history of mankind has closets filled with skeletons. But simple love of country does not blind me to criticism of it or a desire to fix what ails her. In this way, I suppose, the President and I agree.

Dinner and a Movie Review

We don't call them date-nights anymore. But last night was one. It started with dinner at Firebirds with my two sisters and their husbands. We would have been easy to find...the loud table of six arguing about politics and bragging about our kids, ironically placed adjacent to a table of deaf people. We stayed entirely too long, the poor waitress stopping by every five minutes refilling the sweet tea, her eyes practically screaming, "How can we miss you if you never leave?" It was great fun. 

The topics of conversation were varied and included such classics as the deplorably incoherent state of American foreign policy, the trials and tribulations of directing children's choirs, the adorableness of my sister's new grandchild, our unanimous conclusion that my daughter hit the jackpot with the selection of her husband, my son's love life, how horrible this past week must have been for our brother in Maryland having to deliver mail in 10 degree weather, and how great it is that Christina's gynecologist is running for the State Senate. Bon apetite!

When we finally got back home, Pam and I settled down to watch a movie that had been on my "must see" list ever since its release...The Judge. Holy cow, what a movie. Any film which features the great Robert Duvall and the sensational Robert Downey Jr. would have to be good, but The Judge was great. Watching these two heavyweights on screen felt like watching a greatest hits compilation. The story was rich, the characters believable, and the performances nothing short of brilliant. Duvall is getting old and may not be with us too much longer. But when he passes, the title of greatest living American actor will pass easily and smoothly to Downey Jr. This was the kind of film that made you believe that it didn't actually have a script, it was just two geniuses making it up as they went along, going with the power of the emotional moment, and luckily for us there were a million of them. Everything about The Judge is utterly believable with the possible exception of one overly personal exchange between Downey the lawyer, and Duvall, his father/defendant on the witness stand. Other than that brief departure, the picture was nearly perfect for my taste. Do yourself a favor and rent The Judge.

So now it's Saturday and we wait for the snow and whatever else might be in store for us on this perfectly awful February day. Only twenty eight more days until spring.

I Hate The Middle East

Somebody's needs to say it, might as well be me. I really, truly hate the Middle East. The entire region is like an enormous infected boil on the backside of civilization. It's a dusty, dirty, violent cess pool of dysfunction. The place has been giving the world a headache for my entire lifetime, and centuries before I ever came along. It's like a thousand year old Hatfield v. McCoy feud only instead of horses and muzzleloader rifles, they have camels and nuclear weapons. Throw in religious extremists, ritual beheadings, wailling walls, temple mounts and beat up Toyota pick up trucks and you've got the Geo-political version of a hit reality television blockbuster...Survivor Tel Aviv.

Yes, I know about the cultural and historical significance of the place...cradle of civilization and all. And yes, I'm aware that Israel is there, the birthplace of our Lord. I'm reminded of this salient point roughly 50 times a month at my church, where it seems they are rounding up volunteers to go tour the Holy Land every week. We are shown slides of barren hillsides, each indistinguishable from the next..."and this is the Mount of Olives," intones the speaker, "an indescribably moving experience!" I'll take his word for it since the only way you're getting me on a tour bus full of Christians touring the countryside of Israel in 2015 is at room temperature.

Every day of my life there has been some sort of "Middle East Peace Initiative" going on, usually with the United States hip deep in the middle of the thing. And every day of my life, there has been no peace of any kind in the Middle East. This despite the heroic and tireless efforts of two generations of would be peacemakers. Several of them have won Nobels, but still no peace. In the past, what happened in this vast wasteland was of huge strategic importance to us since we desperately needed the region's oil. Now, not so much, (thank you, fracking!). 

Now we have ISIS, the latest and most convincing argument against Evolution. This group of anonymous barbarians has brought back Middle Ages style savagery and combined it with 21st century technological innovation. This unholy alliance has resulted in a series of slickly produced snuff videos depicting the gruesome deaths of a parade of alleged "enemies of Islam." Watching them is to be reminded that while all men may be created equal, they don't stay equal for long.

Our President seems uniquely ill-equipped to be a wartime executive. His heart doesn't seem to be in the effort to confront ISIS. I watched him give his speech yesterday at yet another conference at the White House decrying something called "violent extremism." He tried his best, but to hear him talk you could be persuaded that ISIS would go away if only they had better job opportunities. It was all very strange, the kind of speech you would expect him to give at the Urban League or something. 

Part of me is glad that he is so reticent. Part of me thinks that the Middle East deserves what it gets. Despite the best efforts of generations of diplomats, if they insist on killing each other with box cutters, then have at it. That may sound cold and uncaring, and perhaps on some level it is. But at some point the people of the Middle East will have to become responsible for the dysfunction of the Middle East. 

The sooner, the better.

Snow Memories

Snow. The mere suggestion of it in a weather forecast used to produce within me giggling excitement. Snow meant the possibility of a day or two being commuted off of my school sentence. Then later when I became a father it meant a day off of work that I could spend building a snowman with my kids.  Now it's just frozen precipitation that piles up on the sidewalk and my driveway. There are no kids to bundle up. There's just me trudging out in the mess with a shovel, and the horrible idea that maybe Lucy would love a chance to play outside without the leash.

I was at least half right. She indeed loved playing outside without the leash. 

The problem started the second I began removing the snow from these steps. The loud scraping noise of shovel on bricks, made worse by the amplifying qualities of 8 inches of snow sent her into a wild fleeing panic! Lucy soon discovered that she very much enjoys running free in the neighborhood with me in pursuit. 

I'm sorry. I so much more prefer this.

I guess the problem with snow is that it reminds me of some of the best memories of the past. Listening to Alden Aaroe reading the school closing lists on WRVA, "...Accomack, Albemarle, Alleghany, Amelia..." in that fabulous baritone voice of his along with a couple of pitches for the WRVA shoe fund. Bundling up my kids and spending a morning making a snowman and sliding down the hill in our front yard was about as much fun as fathering gets. Watching them cling to their cups of hot cocoa afterwards is a picture that I'll never forget.

 Snow is very much like Christmas. With children, it's magical. Without children, it's an overrated intrusion into the comfortable routine of life. With a lunatic dog, it's a little of both.

Our Weekend Trip

Our Columbia weekend is now at an end, and with a few notable exceptions, Lucy was fabulous. This was our first real car trip with her and we had no idea of what to expect. With her track record of neurosis we were prepared for the worst, fears of non-stop whining and projectile vomiting dancing in our heads,(we took Pam's car). Instead, she sat bolt upright in her seat for the first hour of the trip staring out the window, shaking like a leaf, but making no complaint. About the time we crossed the North Carolina line she finally laid down. Then, just outside of Roanoke Rapids, we stopped at the Halifax County Visitors Center to take her to the coolest place ever...a dog run! This was a large fenced in yard, one for small dogs and one for large dogs, where you just turn your travel weary dogs loose and let them run and rip in an open field. Lucy met two other dogs and had the time of her life

chasing tennis balls for fifteen minutes. When we got back in the car, she immediately laid down and slept all the way into the parking lot of Jon and Kaitlin's apartment! Thank you, Halifax County.

I had never seen the apartment before, except through pictures. It was so much larger than I was expecting. They have done an amazing job decorating and furnishing the place. It looks like they have lived there for years, so cozy and welcoming. Watching the two of them acting as host and hostess made me quite proud. I think after 27 years, I can stop worrying about my daughter!

Now, about those notable exceptions. Lucy wasn't nearly as impressed with the apartment as Pam and I were. WAYYYYY too many pillows for her taste! So high was her nervous-o-meter, in 48 hours she only managed to eat one full meal. The one thing we brought with us that we thought would reassure her...her bed...she wanted nothing to do with. Instead, for the first time in her life, she insisted upon sleeping in the bed with us. On the bright side, whenever we left her alone in the apartment she made no messes and tore up nothing, a great relief.

Her big event was the trip to Jon's employer, Congaree National Park. It was very cold, but sunny and there was a 2.5 mile hike along a boardwalk pathway deep into the great swamp. Besides the fact that Lucy insisted upon greeting  every pedestrian we encountered with her famous high five maneuver, Lucy had a blast, not once attempting to launch herself into the muddy depths below. There were two unfortunate incidents, both involving senior citizens. First, Lucy encountered her first wheelchair person, a kind and friendly elderly man who wanted to get to know this lovable dog, only to be treated to Lucy's first and only low growl and bark of the day. Embarrassing. Then a bit later, I let out
the leash a bit too much, allowing Lucy to catch up to an older and very unsteady man ahead of us. Of course, Lucy introduced herself with a cheerful jump and before I could reach her, had wrapped the leash around the old guys legs. Only divine intervention prevented the man from a face-plant and broken hip.

The trip home went even better. Instead of it taking her an hour to settle down, she was asleep in fifteen minutes. All things considered, the trip was a raging success. There will be many more in the future.

Am I a Writer or Just Nuts?

There are so many times when I wish I would have paid better attention in college. Especially that creative writing class I took my sophomore year. Back then I tried really hard to listen and apply myself, I really did. But I would start every class determined to make it through to the end fully engaged, only to find myself staring out the window 15 minutes in wondering why it is that a curve ball is so hard to hit, or why we call black light "black" when in fact it's purple. Anyway...where was I? Oh yeah, creative writing class. If I would have paid closer attention, maybe I would have learned something useful about the writing process. That way, I would know whether or not the way I write is normal or totally whacked. For any of you out there who are writers, please feel free to enlighten me.

I wrote a novel two years ago called "A Life of Dreams." It is currently hanging out in my Dropbox account waiting for me to do something with it, and the wonderful and talented Denise Roy is probably wondering what the heck I'm doing letting it sit there, but that's another story. That story started out with nothing more than an idea of what it might be like to be a gambling savant. I sat down one night at my laptop and started typing, having no earthly idea what the story would be about. Eight months later it was finished. It was as if it wrote itself. All I had to do was make myself available to the keyboard of my computer and my fingers would be taken over by this mysterious force. Well, now I'm writing a new novel, but this one is being written entirely in my head. I have yet to type a word. It started with a single sentence that popped into my head one day when I was on the treadmill at the gym. So far there are three characters, a bizarre yet coherent plot and some fine conflict...all floating around in the vast empty spaces of my head. Every time I think about sitting down and committing the thing to paper, it all gets convoluted and starts to fall apart.

So, what I would really like to know is what is the proper procedure for writing?  Is there more than
one way to do it, or is there a plan to follow that makes it easier? Secondarily, am I an idiot? If you are a writer, or a Psychiatrist I would appreciate any advice you could provide.

Thank you.

Lucy...My Psychotic, Bigot-Dog.

It seems that every day we discover some new wrinkle in our dog's legendary neurosis. You all know of her skittishness, particularly her fear of the randomly raised pillow. Well last night, this...

After dinner, Lucy was snuggled between Pam and I on the sofa acting an awful lot like a normal, well-adjusted pet. We were watching the second episode of " Better Call Saul" and when I say "we" I do mean "we." Lucy loves television. Suddenly there was a scene in Saul's cramped office where he starts sliding his desk across the floor so he can open the sleep sofa. Lucy perked up and began feverishly sniffing the air. Pam and I glanced at each other. Lucy then launched herself off the sofa and ran over to the television for a closer look. About that time, Saul lifted the first of the pillows from the couch. Lucy ran from the room, horrified to discover that not only do her owners lift pillows into the air with no warning, but the little people in the shiny flat screen do too!

Later, after the pillow crisis had passed, she returned to watch some more. About the time she was calmed down and relaxed on the sofa, there appeared on the screen a tight shot of two black actors having some sort of intense conversation. Immediately Lucy beat a hasty retreat, this time with a low soft growl, making her the second consecutive Golden Retreiver we have owned who has a problem with African-Americans. Great. Introducing her to the citizens of Columbia, South Carolina should be a real hoot!

Pray for us.

2016 Presidential Candidates. The early view....

It's February of 2015 and you know what THAT means...the hot stove league for the 2016 presidential election is upon us. Yes, only in America does it take two years to run for an office that allows the winner to serve only four years. Of course, there won't be an actual primary with real votes being cast for a year or so, but crucial work is being done by all the serious candidates as we speak. That serious work being the hiring of campaign strategists and the solicitation of truck loads of cash. It's an unseemly business but somebody's gotta do it. And before you start with how money is corrupting the process, let me point out that if we wind up spending 6 billion in the 2016 election, that will be roughly equivalent to what we spend on lawncare every year, so give it a rest.

The Republican field is huge and not very diverse. Since the party has finally given Sarah Palin the bums rush, there aren't any women. However, there are two minorities that I know of, Ben Carson and Bobby Jindal. The rest are white guys, some of whom are VERY white. Then there's Donald Trump who is an alien, so at least the field is "universally" diverse. At this early stage of the proceedings, I have no informed opinion on the candidates, but since when has having an informed opinion on anything prevented me from offering one? I have limited these opinions to one word modifiers due to time constraints:

1. Jeb Bush...genetics
2. Bobby Jindal...catholic
3. Mike Huckabee...hick
4. Scott Walker...accomplished
5. Chris Christie...fat
6. Ben Carson...doctor
7. Lindsey Graham...please God, No! ( sorry, that's three words)
8. Rick Perry...glasses
9. Ted Cruz...volcanic
10. Rand Paul...long shot
11. Marco Rubio...young

As far as the Democrats go, they are determined to cement themselves as the party of women by currently offering three female candidates, Hillary Clinton, Elizabeth Warren, and Joe Biden. At some point I'm sure that a Democratic man will be cojoled into throwing his hat into the ring. Perhaps John Kerry or Al Franken.

It's going to be a long 21 months...