Photographs and a Birthday

One of the great and eternal privileges of parenthood is the authority it bestows upon us to embarrass our children. We are greatly assisted in this endeavor by the existence of old photographs. You parents out there know what I mean...not this new crop of digitized, perfectly framed, edited, posed and photoshopped things that people call photos today. No, I’m talking about the old 35m click and hope photos from the old days. You remember, right? One of the kids would have a birthday party and you would take an entire roll of shots, drop them off at the Kodak booth, wait a week to get them back, only to discover that half of them featured junior picking his nose.

I bring this up for two reasons. First, Pam has been tasked with gathering pictures of our son from his youth for use in a rehearsal dinner slideshow at his upcoming wedding. Secondly, today is Patrick’s birthday. I have spent a large part of this morning combing through several Creative Memories picture albums that my wife lovingly and creatively assembled back in the day. To do such a thing is risky business. Part of you is delighted by the memories and overcome by the realization of just how wonderful has been your life. But another part of you becomes plagued by longing and nostalgia for a time which is gone forever. Photo albums will do that.

But, here are a few of my favorites where my son is concerned...

It’s hard to believe that he was ever this small. 

This was from one of the Dunnevant Beach vacations. Some nights, after the kids had gotten their baths and put on their t-shirt jammies, we would take them down to the beach and turn them loose, making them promise not to get dirty. If ever there was a better feeling than watching them run on the beach, I can’t imagine what it was.

Actually, maybe it was this...a cup of hot chocolate while watching the sun set on Webb Lake in Maine.

This was one of Patrick’s Halloween costumes, probably hand made by his grandmother. He was Tigger this particular year...bouncy, trouncy, flouncy, pouncy, fun, fun, fun, fun, fun...

He is a fully grown man and I am very proud of him. But, for me, a part of him will always be the little boy in these grainy photographs.

Upon Further Review...

Earlier this afternoon, I had what can only be described as a surreal encounter during a routine commute from my house to my office. As is my custom, I had gone home for lunch, and was in the middle of my short drive back to the office in that dazed stupor into which we fall when driving familiar routes. My mind was a thousand miles from the section of Three Chopt Road just after you pass Pocahontas Middle School, heading east, when suddenly it occurred to me that there was a small backup in my lane. I tapped on the brakes and snapped out of my reverie long enough to ascertain the bizarre fact that this particular backup was being caused by the presence of a naked man standing in the middle of the road. 

Now, it’s not every day when you find yourself in this sort of situation. Looking back on the events of 1:25-1:30 this afternoon with the benefit of hindsight, perhaps I should have responded differently. Here’s how it went down...

So, I look up and see a very large, heavy set black man standing au’natural in the middle of Three Chopt Road and the first thought that pops into my head is...Is his house on fire? I know, that’s a weird thought, but I’m thinking that maybe he was in the middle of taking a shower and smelled smoke, then saw the flames and immediately ran out of the house to escape. Then I think, For someone who’s house is on fire, he sure is calm! No, this guy didn’t have a care in the world. He had a calm expression on his face, and seemed totally unaware of his nakedness, betraying not one iota of self consciousness. 

My fellow commuters slowed down cautiously as they approached him, not sure if he would suddenly bolt in front of their moving vehicles. This seemed a prudent response, since I believe it fair to question the mental stability of anyone standing buck naked in the middle of a busy street. By the time my car was pulling even with the guy, he suddenly began a leisurely stroll across three lanes of traffic, heading blissfully towards West Broad Village where perhaps they go in for this sort of thing. And just like that, I was on my way, trying to grasp what it was that I just saw, and battling mightily to erase the image of a 300 pound naked man from my memory.

When I got to my office, I reported this strange tale to my enraptured colleagues. Then I added a post on Facebook:

You can add...”I just saw a large, completely naked black man slow walking across Three Chopt Road”...to the list of things I never thought I would say.

Now, upon further review, perhaps I should have had a different response. My wife demanded to know why I didn’t call the police, since there was a giant naked man a mere two hundred yards from a Middle School. Maybe, if I hadn’t been so taken aback by the spectacle of the thing, it would have occurred to me to pull over and see if this poor man needed assistance, not to mention a decent pair of pants. 

Ok, for one thing, white people have had a bad few weeks lately when it comes to calling the police on black people. The last thing in this world I need right now is to get involved in anything that opens me up to accusations of racism...You only called the police because he was black!!! But, the more I think about this strange afternoon, the dumber that explanation sounds. Of the four descriptive adjectives I used in my Facebook post to describe the subject, the only one which adds nothing of interest to the narrative was black. I’m pretty sure that a naked white man would have been equally bizarre. A naked woman might have made it even crazier. 

Looking back, I do wonder about the guy. I hope he’s ok. He’s probably some poor man with mental problems who is off his meds. I saw nothing on the local news about him, so maybe he wandered back home and didn’t get hurt. I hope so, at least.

So, the moral of the story is that people sometimes don’t do their best thinking when confronted with public nudity...the bottom line, as it were.

Hats Off To The Park Service

Regular readers of this space are well aware of my negative opinion where government spending is concerned, specifically, that much of it is either tragically stupid or eaten through with malfeasance. So when someone like me stumbles upon an example of government spending which is at once wise and beneficial, fairness dictates that I give credit where it is due.

The last couple of days found Pam and me celebrating our anniversary at a delightful Inn just outside of Lexington, Virginia called House Mountain. We had discovered this place 12 years ago when it had just opened, and this time, we hardly recognized the place. The years have been good to this family owned luxury destination. 

So, when I was researching things to do while we were here I noticed that Natural Bridge was only thirty minutes away. It is a profound embarrassment for me to have to admit that despite being a Virginian by birth and a lifelong resident of the Commonwealth, I have never visited the place about which Thomas Jefferson said... “Natural bridge, the most sublime of Nature’s works ... so beautiful an arch, so elevated, so light, and springing as it were up to heaven, the rapture of the spectator is really indescribable!” Although once surveyed by a young George Washington and later bought by Thomas Jefferson, the site is currently a State Park, efficiently administered and impeccably maintained by the State of Virginia. A labyrinth of hiking trails ribbon through the park, each meticulously groomed to accommodate everyone from toddlers to octogenarians. There’s a living history exhibit of a Monocan Indian village, manned by ancestors of that tribe. The visitor’s center and all other structures of the park are beautiful, white columned structures in the Federal style. The staff are friendly and helpful, the facilities, everything from the bathrooms to the gift shop are first rate. For one twenty dollar ticket, I got access to the park and a tour of the caverns, a half a mile up the road. The Natural Bridge caverns, while not as stunning or famous as the caverns up the road at Luray, were an amazing site to see, especially since our tour guide was a delightfully smart and hilarious young woman who combined meticulous knowledge of her subject with a stream of one liners that had us all laughing out loud.

Most things in this world are done better in the private sector. This is an opinion forged from a lifetime of bitter experience. But, as we made our way through this gorgeous property, I couldn’t help thinking what an incredible job the park service has done here, and how horrible it would be if the rights to this natural wonder had fallen into the hands of, say...Amazon or Google. I spent several hours here and nobody tried to sell me anything. I was left alone to marvel at the beauty and majesty of creation on artfully constructed trails. Every so often along the way, signposts were there to provide explanation or background. This place belongs to all Virginians, and the park system sees to it that it stays that way. There will be no development here, no future hotels or casinos, no time shares or other ghastly commercial projects. Thank God in Heaven.

I may not always approve of the things that my taxes finance. But, when it comes to places like this...I’m happy to pay and very proud of the results. 

Actually, Division of Labor IS Romantic!

Over the years people have often asked me to explain my successful marriage to them. What’s the secret to staying with someone happily for so long, they will ask. I’ve never been good at supplying an answer, partly because I don’t want to jinx the thing, but mostly because it’s not just one thing. There is no silver bullet, and if there were, I would have misplaced it along with my car keys years ago! The other thing is, I’m not even sure I completely understand why Pam and I have gotten along so well for these 34 years. Maybe it’s all just dumb, blind luck. But, I suppose if I had to come up with a working theory, I would have to say that the same thing that makes a prosperous economy work is exactly what makes us work...the equitable and efficient division of labor. I know what you’re thinking...how romantic!! Hold on, hear me out...

If you wished to construct a number 2 Pencil, as has been famously illustrated, you would need several laborers all doing specialized tasks. To ask one single person to construct a pencil would be next to impossible. In a marriage there are two laborers, (except during childbirth when there is only one person doing any laboring). I believe that in order to have a happy marriage, each couple has to discover who is good at what and divide the labor accordingly. In the early years this is very much a trial and error proposition, but after awhile individual strengths and weaknesses become more clear. After 34 years, for example, I would never make the mistake of asking Pam to muck about under the house to change the crawl space lightbulb. She, on the other hand, knows better than to ask me to plan an English Tea bridal shower for our future daughter-in-law. That’s just crazy talk. 

So, what follows is a break down of how the jobs are split up around here. Now, lest anyone get the wrong impression, this list of job assignments, while very reliable, is not fool-proof. Just because I’m supposed to be the one who takes out the trash doesn’t mean that I don’t sometimes forget. But, most of the time what follows is accurate. If it isn’t, I’m sure that Pam will vigorously object. If there is a dispute, the tie always goes to the wife...

My Jobs

In 34 years, Pam has never once mowed the lawn. Essentially, everything that happens outside the house involving living things is my domain. I mulch, cut the grass, trim the hedges, get up the leaves, de-poopify the yard when needed...which is all the time, organize and execute the wholesale murder of squirrels, and clean up after storms.

I plan vacations. I’m in charge of working out the details of all of our Maine trips, and also planning getaway weekends for just the two of us. It’s not that Pam wouldn’t be entirely capable of doing this, I just prefer to do it myself because I think it’s fun. Also, I think it’s my job to take the lead in planning adventures.

Generally speaking, I do most of the vacuuming. This isn’t an absolute, sometimes I catch her doing it, but I’m better at it and actually kinda enjoy vacuuming for some odd reason.

I clean up the dishes and load up the dishwasher after dinner. Again, this isn’t absolute either, but probably 90% of the time, I do it. True, often Pam will come behind me and rearrange dishes I have placed into the dishwasher incorrectly, but basically, I clean up the kitchen after dinner. 

I empty the dishwasher first thing every morning while waiting for my coffee to brew.

I clean the bathrooms. Sometimes, when all that is needed is a touch up, she will do it, but most of the time when a full elbow-grease fueled effort is required, I clean the bathrooms. 

I take care of all the car maintenance. I’m no car guy, but my wife wouldn’t know an alternator from a gas cap, so I’m in charge of seeing to it that the cars are properly inspected, the oil gets changed, they are full of gas, and are clean inside and out.

I make 95% of the money that gets made. The first five years of our marriage, Pam was a full time teacher in the Henrico County Schools and all of our benefits were provided by her employer. But once Patrick was born she became a full time, unpaid mother of two, leaving all economic support up to me. 

I pay all the bills.

Pam’s Jobs

Literally, everything else.

She plans the menus, buys the groceries and cooks all of our meals, with the exception of Wednesday night dinner when she may as well have cooked it herself, after laying out step by step instructions for me to follow...her cooking for dummies tutorials are epic!

She is responsible for all the interior decorating that gets done around here.

She makes herself available to both of our grown children at all hours for whatever thing they happen to need, whenever the heck they happen to need it.

She has done literally every single load of laundry that has ever been done in our home for 34 years. It is actually quite embarrassing for me to admit that I am a 60 year old human being who has never done his own laundry...never even once. Although, I should add that I do iron my own clothes.

Anything that needs meticulous planning and cunning persistence falls to Pam. Whether it be keeping up with doctor’s appointments, overseeing home improvement projects or planning family celebrations and dinners, without Pam’s eye for detail, this household would be adrift. She sweats all the details, especially the ones I’m not even aware of.

Pam does 90% of the Christmas shopping/planning. Ditto, birthdays, etc.

Ok, so there you have it. Keep in mind that this is just one theory of what makes for a good marriage. Obviously, there’s a lot more to it, like knowing when to keep your mouth shut, and when you do speak, using kind words. But, the division of labor is a big deal. If all or even most of the work falls on only one person, nothing good happens. 

34 Years

Watching the Royal Wedding with my wife. It’s nice enough. Sunny day. Pretty people. Thirty four years ago on this day, Pam and I got married. It was not royal. There were some pretty people, and it was also a sunny day. Of course, we didn’t have a gospel choir in the back of the church, or celebrities lining the aisles. Our getaway car wasn’t exactly a spotlessly buffed Ascot Landous carriage...more like a three year old 1981 VW Scirocco. But, there wasn’t a single gaudy hat in the entire crowd. 

Still, the single best decision I have ever made, marrying this woman.

Thank God For Spell Check

Hardly a day goes by when I’m not made aware of my limitations as a writer. I enjoy writing about as much as anything in this world. I do a lot of it, not only on this rather prolific blog, but also the occasional story that pops into my head. But no matter what it is that I’m writing, I bump up against my shortcomings.

In terms of this blog, it’s my poor punctuation and grammar skills. What punctuation and grammar problems, you ask? Well, the reason you don’t notice that many is because my wife corrects all of them for me. It usually goes like this...

Pam: On this morning’s blog...don’t use a comma here, a semi colon works better. And, this particular phrase sounds clunky. Oh...and this participle is dangling.

Me: (after corrections are made)...How’s this?

Pam: Better.

The problem goes back to high school and my abysmal academic record. Whenever it was time for my English teacher to cover grammar, I would zone out. My body might have been in class, but my mind was a million miles away, God knows where. The only subjects that could hold my attention in school were history and literature. Everything else was a blur. Pam thinks that grammar was particularly difficult for me because at my core I rebelled against the very concept... I hate rules and having to follow them. Whatever the reason, I obviously didn’t learn anything. 

When it comes to writing stories, my problems are more complicated. An idea for a story will pop into my head out of nowhere. I will sit down and start typing, almost continuously for an hour or two, sentences tumbling out fully formed, organizing themselves into paragraphs right before my eyes. This will go on for days and takes very little effort or organization on my part. It just happens. Before I know it, there are 10,000 words and five or six chapters in the document, a precise, discernible and consistent plot containing a half dozen characters. Then, I think..where did that come from?? But then, suddenly, everything stops. Whatever river of imagination that produced this universe of characters and plots dries up, and they sit there flat on the page, waiting for me to tell them what to do. It’s like the literary version of suspended animation. Days go by, then weeks...nothing. Sometimes I will re-read the thing from the beginning hoping to find the spark. Nothing. Then, I’ll be in the middle of cutting the grass or a set of sit-ups at the gym when the flash of an idea will come...and it all starts up again. This ridiculous writing style has produced one complete novel, two half baked ones and a trove of short stories along with a couple dozen aborted attempts. It is also the reason I don’t write for a living. 

So, I’ll publish this blog and wait for Pam to alert me to some grammatical infraction or another, and thank my lucky stars for spell check.

Complaining About The Weather?

It is 6am in the city of my birth and the humidity sits at 98%. My handy WWBT weather app informs me that for the next three days I can expect a 90% chance of thunder storms with locally heavy downpours. The first sunshine emoji I see in the ten day forecast is next Wednesday, and even that one is half covered with emoji clouds. It would be quite easy to fall into despair at such a prediction. The prospect of unrelenting rain and thick humidity isn’t the sort of thing that puts a bounce in your step. However, upon further reflection...things could be a lot worse.

Suppose the forecast for the next ten days called for blistering sunshine and highs in the upper 90’s? How about if the temperatures were forecasted to be in the upper 50’s, a record breaking cold snap for the month of May? We could be mired in a ten day tornado watch, or bracing for the earliest hurricane to ever threaten landfall on the Mid-Atlantic States.

The thing about weather is that it always is pissing somebody off. As much as I hate the current forecast, people with gardens love it. As much as I hate upper 90’s, there’s some heat worshipper out there who is thrilled to death. 

The cool thing about Virginia though...we get it all. Every kind of forecast you can imagine eventually becomes operational. Blistering heat? We got that. Stifling humidity? Check. Sub-zero freezing cold? We’ll have a few of those this winter. You want snow? Wait for January and February. Want delightful cool temperatures and fall colors? Yep. Want a few weeks of verdant green, soft breezes and pastel colored sunsets? That would be April. 

You people out in San Diego have year round delightfulness and all, but after a while don’t you just get tired of the monotonous sunny skies? You guys in the Arizona desert, does fall even happen to you? And my poor Maine brothers and sisters, what must it be like to endure six months of winter, then three months of Garden of Eden perfection separated by three months of...mud?

So, no...I will not be complaining about my weather forecast. This is Virginia, the land of free range weather, and the blessing of endless variety. That’s worth celebrating if you ask me.