I Win

I get to spend the next five days in this fabulous place...

...with this beautiful woman...

The place is Wild Dunes in Isle of Palms, South Carolina. Neither of us have ever been there before. If the website can be believed, we will have an amazing four nights. The occasion is our 35th wedding anniversary...a month late. Lucy will stay here, accompanied by Becca, the dog whisperer, and the cost of the trip will be paid for with Capital One points. 

I win.

Gail

It was twenty two years ago when I took the call. Everyone had gone to lunch and I was the only one available to answer the phone. Her husband had passed away and he had a policy with Life of Virginia and could somebody help her with the claim? I took down her information and set a time to have her come in, only she didn’t want to drive all the way to Richmond. She lived in Hopewell. Could I come to her? 

Thus began my over two decade relationship with an elderly woman named...Gail. That she would become not only a great client but a dear friend was one of the most unlikely outcomes imaginable, for Gail was and is the most unique person I have ever met. When I pulled up in the circular driveway of her house she greeted me at the door wearing an outlandish pink and green pair of velvet pants and a silk blouse, with an unfiltered cigarette hanging out of her mouth, I remember thinking...Holy Crap. What is this I have gotten myself into? She was tiny, a wisp of a 64 year old woman, with a warm grin on her face. She thanked me for driving all the way out to Hopewell, a place she described as...a place with no hope where ain’t nobody doing well, except me!! Then, I heard that laugh for the first time, high pitched and unrestrained. I walked inside very gingerly.

Her house was beautiful on the outside, all elegant lines with a finely trimmed yard. Inside, the place was a hot mess. It wasn’t dirty, but there was stuff everywhere. Gail was a hoarder. I kept a sharp eye out for cats, but thankfully the only animal was a small Pekingese who appeared from beneath the rubble and was frantically barking at the tall, nervous man in the dark suit. Gail barked out a raspy command..Sweetie!! Shut the hell up!!!! “Sweetie” was never heard from again.

When we finally found a place to sit around an antique table piled high with what appeared to be every piece of junk mail she had received over the past ten years, she slapped her dead husband’s policy down in front of me. I suppose you expected me to be dressed in black, since my husband died. Well maybe I should be, but I look like a God***** old woman in black. Besides, Ed loved these pants.

As I processed the paperwork, she told me her life story. With her husband’s death, she was now completely alone. She had no surviving family, neither did he. They had no children. There was literally no family left, no uncles or aunts, no distant cousins. What she did have was tons of friends and the ugliest Pekingese in the entire world. She grew up as an Army brat, lived all over the world. Her husband was a lawyer. She was once a great singer and dancer and had the photographs to prove it. I looked at the young girl in the pictures. She was a beauty. The more we talked, the less uncomfortable I felt. The stories she told were fascinating. What a life she had lived. In the couple of hours I spent with her that first day I discovered a complex woman with an astounding back story. I wasn’t quite sure how much of it was true, but if she was making it up, well...she was one heck of a storyteller. Her sentences were lively and flowed naturally, as if they had been written in advance, and carefully crafted. All of it was sprinkled with the most hilariously colorful profanity I have ever heard from another human being. Must have been the Army background.

She ended up investing the proceeds of her husband’s insurance policy with me. In the months and years that followed, she entrusted more and more of her money with me. In all of our 22 year business relationship, she has never made the trip north to my office. I have always made the drive to Hopewell, probably over 50 times by now. Over the years we have talked about everything. She wanted to know all about Pam and the kids, was fascinated with my parent’s story. She was astonished to discover that I was a Christian. She had a million questions, including this one...Ok, Mister Christian...what’s your favorite verse in the Bible? I answered with Deuteronomy 8:17-18...You may say to yourself, my power and the strength of my hands have produced this wealth for me, but remember the Lord your God who gives you the power to produce wealth... Tears came to her eyes. Then she dismissed me with a colorful phrase. The next time I saw her, she met me at the door with a beautiful, professionally framed, hand stitched rendition of...Deuteronomy 8:17-18. 

Last week I received a call from the lawyer who has her Power of Attorney informing me that she had been placed in a nursing home after being found unresponsive in her home by a friend. Yesterday I went to see her. She lay there in a crumpled pile of covers, face twisted upwards, mouth ajar, her vibrant personality obscured by the ravages of time. I held her hand and looked closely into her face, and called to her. She opened her eyes and mumbled something I couldn’t understand. Her friend interpreted...She said Dunnevant. She knows its you. Then she drifted back off to sleep, or whatever state she was in before, something that looked and felt more painful and disturbing than...sleep. The doctors say she wont be going home again. She might not make it much longer, or she may hang on for months.

I’ve been around in my business long enough to know the rules of life. Clients get old and die. All the money eventually passes to others, in Gail’s case to seven environmental advocacy groups. It’s all part of the job. But every client is not like Gail. I will miss her friendship, her wit and wisdom, and yes...the side-splitting profanity. 

About ten years ago she asked me out of the blue...If I were going to read just one book in this Bible of yours, what should it be? I thought for a moment and answered...If I were you, I would read the Gospel of John. She nodded and said...Well, Doug...you ain’t me, but I will read the Gospel of John, just for you. Six months later we met again for a review. In the middle of my presentation to her, she slammed her hand down on the table and said, By the way...I just finished up the Gospel of John and I’ve got to admit...Jesus was a bad-ass!! I busted up laughing and we ended up talking for over an hour about her thoughts on the subject. For what its worth, I’m not sure I’ve ever met anyone who understood who Jesus was and what his message was more beautifully than my strange, and profane friend.

It takes all kinds of people to make a world...

How Would You Like to be Remembered?

Thirty six years ago I entered the workforce as an agent for a company which no longer exists called, Life of Virginia. My first day on the job I was introduced to the guy who I would share a tiny 10x10 office with for the next six months. I quickly gave him the nickname...Hexhead...and we got along great. A mutual friend from those old days sent me a note this morning informing me of his passing. Hexhead is dead. This news has transported me back in time to what life was like thirty six years ago. Its been part fond nostalgia and part nightmare.

Some things from those days are nearly impossible to believe. In 1983, I shared that tiny, cramped office with a guy who chain-smoked Marlboros. Hexhead made no apologies, never asked if I minded if he smoked, nor would I ever have expected him to. If I walked down the hall, about every other office had at least one smoker. Every single day, I went home smelling like cigarette smoke. But of all of my worries and concerns back then, the fact that my office-mate smoked was 36th on the list. I try to imagine what I would do today if someone came in my office and lit up a Marlboro!! In one generation smoking inside public buildings has gone from being ubiquitous to unimaginable. Amazing.

Hexhead was a good dude, if a bit rough around the edges. He had a loud, infectious laugh, and a great sense of humor. There was also no chance in a thousand hells that he would make it in the insurance business. He marched to the beat of a very different drummer, one who had only a passing knowledge of the beat. There is one clear memory I have of the man and it’s a doozy...

One Friday, our sales manager invited several of us for a day on the Chesapeake Bay on his beautiful sailboat. Girlfriends and wives were invited, so Pam...then my girlfriend...came along. It was a gorgeous day and as the boat cut it’s way briskly through the water while we sipped our adult beverages...all was well with the world. Then Hexhead got up and moved from the stern of the boat to it’s bow for a better view. Unlike the rest of us who were wearing swim suits so we could dive in if it got hot, Hexhead was sporting cutoff jeans. When he sat down in front of the rest of us at the front of the boat we all instantly realized that he was not wearing underwear.

There he was, oblivious...his full glory prominently displayed for all to see. We laughed. We cried. We had the mental image permanently burned into our brain for all of eternity...so much so that when my friend sent me the news of his passing...it was the very first memory that..er, um...reared it’s head.

I read the obituary. It was exactly the sort of obituary I would expect his family to write. He loved life, was full of fun and whimsy, loved by everyone. Yes, yes and yes. RIP, Hexhead.

Squirrels and the Existence of Evil

 There are two universal constants in my life, which at this particular moment are front and center. These two constants are completely unrelated, and writing about them both in the same blog post may seem odd to the reader, but this is my blog and therefore I owe you no explanation.

The first universal constant is the existence of evil in the world, the latest manifestation of which has been the Virginia Beach shooting and Mr. DeWayne Craddock. By all accounts, Craddock was an unremarkably normal man. He had no criminal record, was well educated, a civil engineer stable enough to hold a steady, responsible job for over 15 years, and came from a good family. But something inside him snapped and inexplicably turned him into a man capable of killing 12 of his co-workers in cold blood. It is a human trait to seek explanations, to assign blame and find a culprit. It is part of our need to discover meaning in life. We all construct belief systems that serve as a template for understanding the world around us. But...what if there is no explanation other than the existence of evil in the world? Some will dismiss the existence of evil in this case by saying that Craddock was obviously mentally ill with some undetected and untreated psychosis, which if properly diagnosed could have been treated and this violence could have been avoided. Perhaps that is true. But, mental illness or not, the act of killing 12 colleagues, in and of itself, is an unspeakable evil that cannot be explained away simply by giving it a name and classifying it as a disease. We prefer our mass murderers to look and act the part. We prefer that they are political extremists. We feel better when we discover that they came from an abusive family or were drug addicted or unrepentant racists. But when they turn out to be the DeWayne Craddocks of the world, what then? If someone like him...like us...is capable of this, what do we do then?

The second universal truth has to do with this photograph which I took this morning at 6:38 AM....

There I was, drinking my coffee and checking out last night’s boxscores, when I glanced up and saw a squirrel sitting up on his haunches, with a lovely rose blossom in his bony little mitts chowing down like a fat kid on a box of doughnuts. There was absolutely nothing I could do. If I bolted out there with my pellet gun, he would be long gone by the time I could get a shot off. If I raised a window and stealthily tried to shoot him from inside my house, his little squirrel ears would hear the slightest squeak from the window and flee. So I just sat there watching this pathetic and worthless creature laying waste to Pam’s beautiful roses. It is my sincere conviction that squirrels were placed into this world for the sole purpose of my eternal exasperation. It is clearly God’s way of introducing a daily dose of humility into my life...Yes, Doug...there are some things in this world that you cannot fix, problems which you cannot solve. Chill out.

Evil and squirrels...but I repeat myself.

Best Dog Culdesac in the Neighborhood

These past couple of days have been glorious. Yesterday when I walked out onto my deck at 6 AM I wrote that Maine had come to Short Pump. This morning it was exactly ten degrees cooler, which turned me into a liar since actually...today is much more like a July morning in Maine than yesterday was! Be that as it may, it is a wonderful thing to be visited by such perfect weather. We have taken full advantage. Last night Pam whipped up an Instant Pot meal extraordinaire called Mongolian Beef something or other. We ate it with our good friend, Al Fresca...

And yes...my wife is still wearing her apron, in my opinion, one of the sexiest garments ever fashioned by human hands.

Lucy loves it when we eat outside. She spends her time alternating between full sniffing interrogations of all quadrants of her yard to bouts of rolling around in the grass on her back, tongue flopped out of her mouth, not a care in the world. As soon as she senses that we are done eating, she brings me her frisbee and insists on a session of catch and keep-away. After three or four throws and three or four demonstrations of Lucy showing off her athletic grace, she is done and back to back scratches in the grass.

We are able to enjoy our back yard this year because we employed the services of an outfit called...The Mosquito Authority. For a tidy sum of cash, I contracted with this service which promised to rid my yard of mosquitos...guaranteed. I was skeptical, but desperate. Before these guys came along, our deck was the mosquito capital of Short Pump, a bloodsucking feeding ground. But now, after a couple of months under their protection, there hasn’t been a mosquito sighting, much less a bite. It’s like a miracle. Of course, if six months from now, one of us begins to grow a new appendage, one of us sprouts a sixth toe, or one arm suddenly gets longer than the other...we’ll know why!

The other day I was out on the deck doing my early evening squirrel reconnaissance when I happened to look over into my neighbor’s back yard and noticed their new puppy standing at their back gate, giving me the once over. This lovable beast is...Boss...their aptly named mastiff puppy who is, without putting too fine a point on it, HUGE, and getting bigger by the minute. Anyway, there he was, ginormous paws gripping the fence, ponderous head cocked to one side, beckoning me to come over for a scratch. What was I to do? Of course, I had to agree. Luckily, I have great neighbors who don’t mind me letting myself into their backyard to play with their dog (at least I HOPE not). Anyway, by the time Boss is full grown he’s going to be bigger than me, so I have a vested interest in getting on his good side. When I returned to the house, Lucy was on me like white on rice...as manic as one of those bomb-sniffing dogs from the Department of Homeland Security. She demanded to know where I had been and who I had been with. She could scarcely hide her disappointment when she discovered that I had been with...Boss. All Lucy knows about Boss is that he was this adorable new puppy next door one day, then she turned her back for a minute and the next thing she knew he was this towering beast slobbering all over her beautifully clean coat!

Our culdesac now officially has the best dog population in the entire neighborhood...

Lucy the Golden

Van the Pug

Boss the Mastiff

Pippen the Golden Doddle

Maverick the Lab

Kane the German Shepard 

...and Buddy the whatever

Why I Hate Running

I hate running. I have always hated running. Even when I was much younger and much faster. Hated it then, hate it now. Nevertheless, there I was this morning out on the sidewalks of Short Pump around 8 am, doing the very thing that I hate. Why?

There are many reasons. First of all, in life there are many things we do which we hate doing. I hate shaving every morning...but I kinda have to. I am in a profession which frowns upon waltzing into an appointment with a client in a t-shirt, sporting a three day growth. So, despite the great annoyance, I shave. I don’t particularly enjoy going in for a colonoscopy every five years, but I do it because...well, cancer. Running is part of my exercise routine. You can spend but so much time on an elliptical, or a stairclimber. At some point you have to mix running into the mix for cardio if for no other reason than to break up the monotony. But, after doing this off and on for the past twenty years, you would think that at some point you would come to some sort of accommodation with running. At some point maybe you would warm up to it, grudgingly admire its benefits. Nope. Still hate it.

But, I am nothing if not stubborn and disciplined, so I trudge on. I even set little goals for myself...try to beat previous times and previous distance limits...that sort of thing.

So, this morning, I sat out to try and run the 5K distance...3.1 miles in under 26 minutes. Why? I have no idea...other than stubbornness. I haven’t been able to in quite a while, for another thing, and its been ticking me off. So, off I went...

I always hate the first mile. That’s when I start arguing with myself...What are you doing, Dunnevant? You hate running. Why are you out here? You’re getting older and slower by the minute. Keep this up and before long, kids on tricycles are gonna start passing you! Somewhere on Broad Street, my MapMyFitness app shared the embarrassing news that I had completed one mile in 8 minutes and 59 seconds. Pathetic. At the time I was approaching the Chuy’s in West Broad Village. I wondered if they were open at this hour. Maybe I could stop in for a Dos Equis!!

The only thing worse than the first mile of a 5K run is the second. By this time, I’m on the back side of the lake in the Village and starting to sweat profusely because for some stupid reason I have picked up the pace. There’s that stubbornness thing again. It’s during the second mile when your hips start feeling unpleasant. Adding insult to injury is the fact that you are not even halfway done. Part of you wants to bag it, slow down and walk back to the house. But another part...the vain and stubborn part won’t allow this perfectly reasonable decision. You plow on, faster and faster.

The third mile completely blows, even worse than the first two miles put together. At the 2.5 mile post you glance at your app and see that you’ve got a shot at breaking 26 minutes. The only problem is that your hips, hamstrings and knees seem to have gotten together and plotted a coup. At the corner of Three Chopt and the John Rolfe Parkway, there’s only .18 miles to go and you find yourself in an all-out sprint up the slight incline, legs burning like five alarm chili, heart pounding in the chest, and sweating like a the barnyard turkey on Thanksgiving. As you reach the finish line you glance at the timer.....26:00. For the love of all that is Holy...are you freaking kidding me?? After all of that, I’m ONE SECOND SHORT.

This is how running works. Despite your very best efforts, despite all the discipline and stubbornness in the world, not to mention the anger one has to generate to get faster each mile...I still fall short.

On the positive side, those 673 calories I burned means I can have a cookie or two at church this morning.

Perceptive readers will have noticed that my times went way up for the remainder of my run. That’s because I stopped running...the only wise decision I made all morning. I simply walked back to the house, tired and frustrated at being so close and yet so far. But, the thing is...I’ll do it again. I’ll be out there somewhere in Short Pump arguing with myself for the first mile, bargaining with myself the second, and flailing around like a maniac down the homestretch. I’m just glad Pam doesn’t run with me. She would be mortified at my behavior. Why do you have to do everything so, so...hard??!! She has asked me this question at least a thousand times in our 35 years of marriage. 

I have no satisfactory answer.

Virginia Beach

My beloved Commonwealth of Virginia is once again in the news. And once again, it’s not because we are for lovers.

At this hour, 13 souls have perished in Virginia Beach, victims of a disgruntled long time city-government employee of the Public Utilities department. He had been fired the day before and apparently came back on Friday to exact his revenge. While at this point we don’t even know the shooter’s name or background, it boggles the mind to imagine what on earth he possibly could have done to get fired from a government job. He must be a piece of work.

No doubt most of the conversation in the days to follow this horrific event will center around gun-control or the lack of it. What always comes to my mind when something like this happens is...What ever happened to conflict resolution skills? Sure, losing a job you’ve had for twenty plus years is no day at the beach, but who decides that the proper response is to march down to the office the next day and start slaughtering everyone in the building? What mind set is at play here, and why do so many Americans chose it?

Some will say it’s all the fault of guns...if they weren’t so easy to obtain, these kinds of crimes wouldn’t happen nearly as frequently. I can agree with this position only up to a point. Before the gun comes into the picture, the decision to commit mass murder comes first. Why? By what reasoning does someone conclude that killing 13 people is even a possibility? 

Some will suggest that pervasive violence on television is to blame. Others will claim that violent shoot-em-up video games have brought us to this place. Still others will shoe-horn their pet philosophy into the debate...It’s Capitalism, man! No, it’s racism and misogyny!!

All I know is, something has gone off the rails when human beings normal enough to hold a job for twenty years start mowing their former co-workers down in cold blood. For me, the shooter’s race, sexual orientation, or political views...or the race, sexual orientation or political views of his victims is irrelevant. What I care about is...what combination of factors is leading more and more people to come to this sort of unspeakable end? We better devote ourselves to finding out...and soon.