My Father's Day Lesson

Father's Day is over and I'm glad. I must admit that I started the day feeling a bit sorry for myself. I was missing Dad and my kids. Church wasn't any help. It was one of those horribly awkward services where instead of a sermon, you're asked to get into small clusters of half a dozen of your fellow congregants and pray about various things. I suppose it's designed to promote unity or some such thing, but for me it's just awkward and annoying. Prayer isn't something I like to do, on command, with strangers. So, that was the low point of my day.

Then we headed out to my in-laws for a Father's Day lasagna lunch. There was key lime pie for dessert. Things were looking up. 

Pam had to head back to church soon after lunch for the beginning of VBS, so I would be alone for most of the rest of the day, not something I was looking forward to on such a melancholy day. I popped three Advil, turned the heating pad on "high" and laid down in my trusty recliner for a nap.

When I awoke, there were two messages on my phone, one from each of my kids issuing an invitation to join them for a "FaceTime" chat. First up was Patrick. He looked good, sounded good and happy. I watched him and his dog Oliver do some pretty cool tricks. His room looked about as clean as straight as I have ever seen a room that belonged to him. It appears that dog ownership has forced him to become a better housekeeper, since whatever you leave on the floor becomes potential dog food. We had a nice talk. I started to feel better. Next up was Kaitlin and Jon. There they were sitting on their sofa with little Jackson next to them chewing on some dog toy looking squeezably soft. They too looked happy. We talked about our upcoming family vacation in Hatteras. By the time this call was finished, I felt a lot better. I had no reason to feel sorry for myself. I needed to snap out of it. How could I complain? My Dad lived to be 89, and was loved and adored by everyone who knew him. I have been blessed with two kids who are smart as whips and busy building their lives, and who love their Father enough to Face Time him on Father's Day. Stop your whining, Dunnevant.

So, around 6 am I settled in front of my television to watch the U.S. Open. Four and a half hours later I watched Dustin Johnson three putt the tournament away, handing the second major of the year to young Jordan Spieth. It was heartbreaking. I have nothing against Spieth, in fact I love the kid. I just always hate to see any athlete fail so spectacularly. Johnson could have won the Open if he sank the first putt, would have guaranteed himself a spot in an 18 hole playoff against Spieth, which he probably would have won, by simply brushing in the second four foot putt. Sadly, he missed them both and in a matter of seconds went from the thrill of victory to the agony of humiliating defeat. Brutal.

That was my Father's Day. Started out poorly. I had to endure a bout of brooding discontent. But then my wonderful kids, along with their beautiful dogs, picked me up. Next year will be better.

A Joke Test

I saw a joke on the Internet the other day that I thought was funny. There was a picture of a man face down on the aisle of a grocery store with the caption: Man down..aisle six! The joke proceeded to explain how he got there...

A man and a woman were grocery shopping together when the man reaches for a couple of six packs of beer and loads them into the cart. The woman says, "What do you think you're doing?" The man replies, "It's my favorite brand and they are on sale, two six packs for only 8 bucks." The woman quickly puts the beer back on the shelf. "No way I'm letting you waste money on that nasty stuff!" The man looks disappointed but makes no reply. A little later they are on the health and beauty aisle when he sees her place a jar of face cream in the cart. " What do you think YOU'RE doing," he asks. The woman says, " This is my brand of face cream and its on sale for 20 bucks. This stuff makes me beautiful." The man quickly places the face cream back on the shelf and says, "Two six packs of beer makes you beautiful too and we can save 12 bucks!"

Initially I thought that this was a pretty funny joke. But the more I think about it the more I realize how terribly out of step this sort of joke is in today's culture. The above paragraph is packed to the gills with loaded trigger words, micro-aggressions, and misogynistic stereotyping, not to mention how blithely it treats the very serious problem of alcoholism, and domestic violence. Here we have a classic example of a joke that manages to reinforce a virtual laundry list of destructive pathologies for the purpose of cheap laughs. Are we supposed to actual find humor in a man that must consume 144 ounces of beer before he can find a woman attractive? Are we supposed to laugh at the prospect of a woman who resorts to violent assault as a response to mere rudeness? Once again a joke portrays a woman as a moral scold and a man as a crude and thoughtless ape. Instead of laughing, we should be outraged at these gender-based stereotypes.

Ok...of the two previous paragraphs, which one is funnier?

I am now a TRANSTAXUAL.

Someone once said that life is but a series of teachable moments. If that is true then for the last couple of weeks, school has been in session. I've leaned all sorts of things, thanks to Caitlyn Jenner and Rachel Dolezal.

From Ms. Jenner I've learned that gender isn't about biology as much as it's simply a social construct. The roles that society has assigned to men, women, boys and girls are arbitrary and full of patriarchal biases. The sexual hardware that you are born with can no more define who you are sexually as being born Caucasian can any longer define who you are racially...enter Ms. Dolezal. She self-identified as black despite the fact that her parents were both very white. What matters for Dolezal was how she felt, not what she, in point of fact, was. Powerful and impressive new words and phrases have crept into my consciousness. I now know what gender fluidity means. I now understand that truth is no longer transcendent. Truth has now become a personal possession, as in "my truth", much like a handbag or a golf club. When they wear out, we can simply get new ones.

My discovery of these new realities has caused me no shortage of anxiety. I'm now considered an older man, white, privileged and something other than middle class, so the air is thick with condemnation for my kind among the new cultural elite in America. But there is no reason that it has to be this way. A person doesn't cease to learn, grow and evolve just because he happens to be white, relatively well off and male. I intend to make the best of this new world. I'm going to embrace the new possibilities that have presented themselves to me courtesy of this new personal truth fluidity thing. If what matters in life isn't objective reality but how I feel, then I say...what the hell?

I today declare myself a TRANS-TAXUAL man. In my heart, at the core of  my very being, I truly feel like I have paid enough taxes already. When I add up all of the taxes I have paid over the last twenty years or so of my business life, it is staggering. From federal payroll taxes to both halves of FICA, to Virginia state taxes, down to personal property taxes, sales taxes, gas taxes, and all of the taxes hiding within my eight page Verizon bill, I'm done with them. Besides, I identify much more with people who don't pay any taxes. For years I have denied who I really am as a taxpayer. I used to just go along to get along like everyone else. But then I started being punished by the tax system,(talk about your social constructs!!), for my success, losing one deduction here, another over there and before you know it I was paying an obscene share of my income to the government. But now with the advent of taxpayer fluidity, its a brand new world. My personal truth is that I've paid enough, so to be true to myself, which is now the ultimate truth, I'm just not going to pay anymore. 

Now I realize that there will be those out there who will object to my new truth declaration. I will be accused of having ulterior motives, of being a tax-cheat, of dodging my civic responsibilities. Well, to quote that great philosopher Taylor Swift, " haters gonna hate hate hate hate hate." It takes great courage to go public with this announcement, and I will take comfort from the support of my real friends and family as I make the transition from tax-payer to free-loader.

Five Thoughts

Here are a few random thoughts which happen to be ricocheting back and forth inside the vast empty spaces of my brain:

1. Lebron James is the best basketball player on the planet, a fact that is clear enough to me, an uninterested, non-fan of the game. It is even more clear to the millions of basketball aficionados out there. But, the fact that he went to the trouble of saying it the other night is just one of the many reasons why he will never be beloved. Americans generally don't like athletes who say such things about themselves. Yes, Muhammed Ali was the greatest of all time, but at the time he was telling the world, he was despised by most people. We much prefer humility in our athletes, especially the great ones. But I suppose it's hard to be humble when you're as great as Lebron. Still, other greats have managed it...Walter Peyton, Hank Aaron, Willie Mays, Cal Ripken all managed to go an entire career without any "taking my talents to South Beach, I'm the best in the world" nonsense. 

2. It occurred to me the other day that in the entire time that Jesus was on this Earth he never once instructed us to point out the sins of others. That was his job. He did however constantly emplore us to love our neighbor. I say this because I read something a few days ago about the often heard phrase...love the sinner, hate the sin, which sounds kind of right but isn't exactly biblical, not to mention extremely hard to do. I'm pretty sure that we are supposed to hate our own sin. Making a big production about other people's sin is called judging, and is generally frowned upon by our Lord and Savior. Besides, I have enough sin in my own life to keep me plenty busy, I'll let God deal with what the guy down the street is up to. Of course, prophets, preachers and priests have a different gig that allows them to talk about sin in general and condemn it from the rafters. But the rest of us should mind our own business, I think.

3. With Father's Day coming up, my kids won't be here with me...again. Although that truly stinks, it's not the end of the world. They are busy building their lives, and I don't begrudge them that. Being a Father is the single greatest accomplishment of my life. What Pam and I brought into this world trumps everything else we will ever do. Fatherhood is the greatest privilege afforded to a man. 

4. With nearly 40% of the season gone, Bryce Harper's on base percentage sits at .480. Wait...what?

5. Donald Trump is running for President. Last night I watched his announcement speech on YouTube. Holy crap, what a circus. Roughly 40% of the stuff he said was 100% true...China is kicking our ass, the folks flooding into this country across our southern borders aren't scientists and philosophers, the Iraq war was a huge mistake. But to hear a casino-building ego-maniacal, self-promoting huckster like Trump declaring himself a candidate for the office once occupied by Thomas Jefferson disturbs some basic law of political physics, doesn't it? Maybe it's just me.

Ok, that's all I've got today. Check back tomorrow and I'll try to do better.

A Fury of Memories

This week has been lurking in the shadows for a while now. I've seen it on the calendar. I've known it was coming, and I've been dreading it. Tomorrow is the first anniversary of my dad's death, followed ironically by Father's Day this Sunday. 

Truth be told, this past week was no bargain either. I have been living under a black cloud of sorts ever since my visit to SunTrust bank to close out my parent's checking account. The melancholy that has settled over me, combined with a very painful neck and an expiring air conditioner and furnace replacement bill has made for a bad week indeed. Yes, I know...poor, poor, pitiful me. There's nothing worse than reading a whiny blog, especially when it proceeds from someone who has been as formidably blessed as I have. 

Still, I miss him terribly. And this week I will find it difficult to say anything new on the subject. I will republish pieces I wrote a year ago when it was fresh, the one I wrote at 2am the morning after he died, the euology I gave at his funeral, and a story I wrote about about what it was like to be the 13 year old son of Emmett Dunnevant. 

This week I'll run the risk of boring you. Some of you might find yourselves annoyed by it all, and honestly, I wouldn't blame you if you did. I made the ridiculous statement in Dad's eulogy that I was "done with grief." In hindsight, that may have been the single most ignorant thing to ever come out of my mouth. I may have felt Iike I was done with grief, I know I hoped I was, but the truth is that grief wasn't done with me. Most of the time it leaves me alone. Weeks pass when I am free of it. But then I stumble upon a memory, and it storms back to life. 

My grief isn't about regret, there is no unfinished business, no words that should have been spoken. It's simply about sadness and loss, the finality of death. The problem is that he is forever gone, permanently removed from this realm. While my faith promises eternal life, it doesn't promise to bring my Dad back in time for dinner tonight. It doesn't promise to let me take him to a ballgame again. It doesn't allow me to tell him about the amazing year that Kaitlin had as a second year teacher in Columbia, South Carolina. It doesn't allow me to tell him about Patrick's adorable girlfriend. There is a vast, permanent chasm between him and me. I am learning how to live with it, and most of the time I manage very well. But not this week. The calendar has unleashed a fury of memories. 

Enduring My Biennial Beat Down

Well, at least it's over. I have endured the biennial beat down that is the Dunnevant Family Yardsale, that self-inflicted celebration of masochism masquerading as a family tradition. The 2015 edition featured 95 degree heat and stifling humidity. One might assume that such oppressive heat would have the effect of thinning the crowds. One would be wrong.

They came. In relentless, pulsing, sweating tides, they came. There they were at 7am as we were removing the giant green tarp from the great pile of knickknackery. By 9am their numbers could legitimately be categorized as teaming. At noon they were still there, picking through what remained despite the sight of a dozen Dunnevants packing up boxes and folding up tables. It was like some kid had kicked the top off an anthill in Mechanicsville and suddenly the ground was crawling with bargain hunters. And boy, were there ever some bargains.

My neck cooperated fully with events by barking at me all day long. It was so considerate of my two bulging disks to bark excessively loud every time I got out of the sunshine. No no, that would not do. If I wanted to get through this day it would have to be outside in the sun, the Saharan heat providing some degree of comfort. So, my job for the day would be to roam the crowd of shoppers goading them into buying stuff they didn't need or want. My technique combined false advertising claims with guilt shaming...

"Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to draw your attention to this table of men's and boy's apparel, by pointing out that several of these shirts were worn by Elvis himself!"

Hapless Customer: How much will you take for those three lawn mowers?

Me: Make me an offer.

Hapless Customer: Do they work?

Me: Absolutely not!

Hapless Customer: (appears crestfallen)

Me: Look Pal, you have any grandsons? You look like you have grandsons. Just look at those oversized wheels on those babies. You could take those and make that boy a go-cart that would make him the envy of the neighborhhood! You're part of the Greatest Generation, am I right? You guys are famous for tinkering with crap! Why, I bet you could break down one of those engines and have that baby purring like a kitten in no time!

Hapless Customer: Well, er....I

Me: Sure you can! Tell you what, for YOU...listen, give me twenty bucks and you can have all three of them, and I'll even help you load 'em in your truck!

                                                               .....later.....

Elderly female customer: Excuse me sir, but does this DVD player work?

Me: Does it work?! I have to say Ma'am it disturbs me greatly that you would accuse me of offering defective merchandise for sale. See that note attached that says, 'still works great'? Well, aside from the sketchy grammar, I can assure you that truer words were never spoken.

Elderly female customer: Yeah, well let's plug it in and see.

Me: Ahh yes, we have a Ronald Reagan customer on aisle 5!! Trust...but verify!

When all of the entrepreneurial dust had settled, this gaudy celebration of horse-trading had netted us over $900. 

God Bless America.

The Perils of Yard Sale Preparation

Last night Pam was going through the contents of a box she had retrieved from the attic, looking for items to sell at the upcoming Dunnevant Family Yard Sale. Inside she found a book entitled, "Deck the Hall, Family Memories & Activities." It was one of those Norman Rockwellian keepsake books into which you wrote down a record of special things you do at Christmas. Unfortunately, it was quickly overtaken by the blunt instrument of technology so notes from only three Christmas' past were registered...1991, 1993, and 1994, 1992 apparently being the Christmas that time forgot. What follows are a few sentences that caught our eye.

1993. Kaitlin was 6, Patrick 4. Here was our schedule:

Christmas Eve 4:00 pm Exchange gifts at Al & Cindy's

                       5:00 pm Dinner at Granny Til's

                       9:00 pm Christmas Eve service at Grove

Christmas Day 5:30 am Kaitlin wakes up.

                        6:00 am Opened presents with the kids

                        8:00 am Breakfast at home featuring eggs, banana bread,Apple cranberry casserole

                       11:30 am Drive out to Mom's ( the White's )

                        1:00 pm Lunch with present opening to follow

                        5:00 pm Drive to the Dunnevants in Chester for present opening and snack supper.

                                      All 18 family members spent the night and went to Enon Baptist church the 

                                      next morning, since it was Christmas Sunday.

We managed this with a four year old and a six year old. I don't remember any meltdowns. Perhaps there were some, but we were so exhausted those memories got permanently erased from our addled brains. Then there was this:

"Snow the Thursday before Christmas. Just a dusting, but I took the kids caroling through the neighborhood...Paula and Ron expecting a baby...Sean's first Christmas (had a fever)...Sharon separated from Tom...Kaitlin saw Santa and his sleigh in the sky on Christmas Eve...She was worried about whether she'd been good enough for Santa to come...Patrick wanted every toy he saw advertised."

At this point Pam was sitting in the hall at the top of the stairs crying her eyes out.

Stupid yard sale!