In Praise of the Suburbs

It’s almost impossible to watch anything on television without hearing someone slamming the suburbs and those who choose to live in them. It’s like death and taxes in Hollywood that the suburbs are where people go to die. It is always painted as a monument to a boring, cookie-cutter existence. The only real, authentic place to live is in the heart of the city. If you don’t hear sirens every night, you have sold out. Ok. I don’t begrudge anyone for choosing a downtown life. Go for it. But let me offer a different take on the particular suburb where I live, Wythe Trace.

Pam and I have lived here for the past 24 years. When we moved in the place was still being built, our street was still gravel. We are the only people ever to live in our house. Over the years we have had neighbors come and go. As they have done so they have gotten…younger and much more diverse. Our neighborhood is like the United Nations. We have found that there is an advantage to staying put in one place. The younger this neighborhood gets the younger we feel. We are surrounded by couples in their 30’s and early 40’s, all with several children. This means when I turn the corner on my way home from work I have to drive slowly because there are always a bunch of kids playing in the street. It is wonderful. 

Here’s something that happened earlier this week that convinced me that Pam and I have made the right decision by sticking around. I was walking down my driveway to get the mail when one of my young neighbors drives by, slows down for a second to chat. She is the mother of an adorable little girl and a brand new baby boy. Making small talk, I mentioned that I had just come from the back yard where I had prepared the grill to cook some burgers only to discover that my propane tank was empty. She immediately offered to loan me their’s since it was full, she practically insisted. I told her to not bother, we could always cook them on the stove inside…it was no big deal. We wrapped up our friendly chat and I was on my way. Five minutes later she rings our doorbell carrying her propane tank—which she had carried from two doors down! I couldn’t believe it. Sure enough, I hooked it up and cooked our burgers. The next day I let myself into their back yard and put the tank on their deck.

In our little culdesac in suburbia—that vast conformist wasteland—there are a dozen kids ages infant to 16. Along with all those kids there are bikes, skateboards, scooters, lemonade stands, frisbees, basketballs, trampolines, eight slobbering dogs, and lots of shrieking arguments and high pitched laughter, all the while their frantic parents are trying desperately to keep up. In other words, its exactly what our life used to be like. It is so nice to watch them without any of the pressure of actually having to do it anymore. Let me tell you city-living elitist out there, these parents are killing it.

So, here’s one unapologetic vote for the suburbs.

Thoughts About Dogs

Got my Booster shot last night at 9 o’clock. It is now 7 in the morning and I am feeling zero physical side effects, and as far as I can tell my mind has not yet been compromised. I have heard no voices up there telling me to give up my autonomy and vote Democrat. But…it’s early.

However, I was treated to an amazing cartoon from Gary Larson…

Anyone who has ever had and loved a dog will immediate understand this all too well. It’s one of the things we love about them, right? They are oblivious to the troubles of this world, even—and especially—our troubles. It’s not that they don’t care. In fact, their capacity for empathy seems limitless. Its just that no matter what is going on around us, they know a couple of things for sure…that they love us and want us to forget about all that and give them a scratch. Lucy has this thing where she will come upstairs and find me in my recliner, then plop her front paws on my lap and demand that I drop whatever it was that I was doing and talk with her about my day. She sits there just a few inches from my nose with that goofy look on her face while I give her scratches. And…I tell her about my day. She totally understands every single word I say and is unimpressed with my travails. To emphasize this fact she invariably lets out a long and mournful yawn at point blank range as if to say…Seriously? That’s all you got? Then she gives my nose a lick and for a couple of moments she lays her head on my chest and rests, all while her two back paws are on the floor. It can’t be terribly comfortable, but it serves to remind me that all is well. Then, as unceremoniously as she arrived, she hops down, turns around three times in a circle then curls up in a ball on the floor beside my recliner and falls fast asleep.

Most dog lovers I know could tell a similar story. We get them for 10-15 years if we are lucky and they cram more unconditional love and loyalty into their time with us than all the humans we know combined. But, God doesn’t let us have them for too long…because he wants them back.

A Significant Milestone

Do anything in this life long enough and milestones will be reached, a significant anniversary or numerical marker. For The Tempest today is such an occasion, this being its 2,500th post. It took 10 years and 10 months to get here. For those keeping score, that means that I have churned out 19 of these things every month for almost eleven years. That seems like an awful lot to me, too much, almost embarrassing. How could one person possibly have that much to say? Even more confounding to me is the question…why do you people keep reading?

This milestone carries a bit of pressure. What should be the topic of someone’s 2,500th blog post? Today is Election Day. Should I write about politics? Tonight is game six of the World Series. Should I write about baseball? Donald Trump’s PAC just announced that they are giving away iconic Christmas wrapping paper for a minimum contribution of $35…

I mean, that one would practically write itself. 

When the pressure is on, I usually default to the familiar. So, for number 2,500, I’m going with this:

There was an old man who lived beside a great forest. As he grew older and older, he started losing his hair, until one day, on his deathbed, he was completely bald. That day, he called all of his children together for a meeting…

He said, “Look at my hair. It used to be so magnificent, but it’s completely gone now. My hair can’t be saved. But look outside at that beautiful forest. It’s such a lovely forest with so many trees, but sooner or later they’ll all be cut down to make way for more and more people and this great forest will look as bald as my head.”

“What I want you all to do”, the old man continued, “Is every time someone cuts down a tree or a tree dies, plant a new one in my memory. Tell your descendants to do the same. It shall be our family’s duty to keep this forest beautiful forever.”

So they did.

Each time the forest lost a tree, the children replanted one, and so did their children and their children’s children, and their children after them. And for centuries, the forest remained as lush and beautiful as it once was, all because of one man…

…and his re-seeding heirline.

My Week at the Gaylord Hotel

It was a long week in Nashville, a universe away from normal. Living for four days in a place like the Gaylord Hotel is like taking a master class in cognitive dissonance…and the perfect place to be if your goal is to walk a minimum of 10,000 steps a day. Consider:

1. The Gaylord Hotel is too big. The massive layout is 2.1 MILLION square feet. It is nearly impossible to get from one place to another without a 10 minute walk. That’s perfectly fine but quite difficult for anyone over 75 years old or anyone carrying any unnecessary weight. 

2. If such a thing is possible, the Gaylord is too beautiful. The architecture, the gardens, the meandering paths winding along side the disturbingly real fake river are breathtaking to the point of distraction.

3. How much anything costs and how much anything is worth is of course two completely separate things. Many factors are at play from manufacturing costs to demand, level of scarcity, plus what the market for any good is able to bear. But when I needed lip balm and found a tiny sleeve of Blistex at a hotel shop then heard the lady say, “That will be $6.94…” I felt victimized. 

4. When you are attending a conference with 2,700 other attendees, you get to see the faces of people who do the same thing you do for a living at every turn for 96 hours and you hope and pray that you look and act different than many of them.

5. On the other hand, in delightful contrast, you realize just how special are the people from your own office. The people you work with are everything you knew them to be—smart, conscientious, thoughtful, and fun.

6. For everything there is a season, the old prophet says. Well, for me, roaming around from one honky-tonk to another on Broadway in downtown Nashville’s season has long past. A little of that activity goes a very long way. I mean…yeah, some of the bands were great, and the vibe and the history is interesting. But walking shoulder to shoulder with drunk strangers unable to communicate without screaming just isn’t a lot of fun—if you too are not drunk. Making the experience even more disconcerting were the presence of what must have been at least three dozen…

7. Homeless. This was not my first visit to Broadway, having done this a couple other times years ago with Patrick and Sarah. Back then there were a fair number of homeless people, but this time they lined the streets. They were everywhere, at the entrance to every bar, every restaurant. And this time a new wrinkle—almost all of them had a dog curled up forlornly at their feet. The homeless were almost all seated and few even held signs, most simply had a coffee can on the sidewalk in front of them gazing up at the throngs of revelers, hoping for a handout. It was as if they were saying…If you can’t have pity on me, do it for my puppy. Now, I know that the city of Nashville has probably a dozen programs to assist people in this condition. I also know that some of these folks are professional panhandlers and that I would be shocked at how much they haul in from gullible rubes like me. For this reason, I have always chosen not to encourage grifters. However, seeing them always cuts me on the inside. The juxtaposition of the partying masses with end of the road desperation is jolting. I watched one particular guy for probably an entire minute in front of some club and in all that time he never blinked his eyes, just sat there, emotionless, carelessly scratching his sleeping dog’s head. It’s the one clear image I have of Broadway…that one homeless guy, either a manipulative panhandler or a man at the end of his rope, closer to death than redemption.

There were plenty of bright moments on my trip. Best of all I got to see these guys…

Photo  Credit, the beautiful and talented Sarah Dunnevant

Patrick and I got to go to dinner and attend the Grand Old Opry on somebody else’s dime and we had a great night doing so.

I also had company on the drive back and forth, a very old friend of mine and the new kid, a former offensive lineman for the Hampden-Sydney Tigers who assured me for weeks that it would be an “Epic road trip!!”. An hour in to the trip down, THIS happened:

In the kid’s defense, he was able to rally, and despite having the bladder of a teenage girl, he eventually proved to be an excellent wing man. His taste in music was impressive in one so young and inexperienced, so much so that I have come to suspect that he is actually a 60 year old man trapped in a 26 year old’s body. But, then again, that 26 year old body has a 16 year old brain…so the boy is a work in progress.

So, the week is over and I am safely back home, reunited with Pam and Lucy, eager for the kiddos coming around tonight with their costumes. 

Finally, a few pictures of the Gaylord:

The view from my room.

All week, workers were decorating for Christmas. This was the first ornament I saw them put in place.

Soon, they were everywhere.

Root Canal Without Anesthetic

I would like to personally thank the Atlanta Braves for sparing the country the ghastly horror of having to endure a World Series between the Houston Cheaters and the Tinseltown Celebrities. We all would have found ourselves on the horns of an existential dilemma, ie…which of those two despicable franchises to support? Now, thanks to the Braves bullpen, we all have been saved. I will be cheering mightily for the Atlanta Braves, something I did regularly years ago when my hometown played host to their Triple AAA team, the Richmond Braves. Once the R-Braves left town and Washington DC got a team for the first time in forever, I began supporting the Nationals as my National League team. So this temporary allegiance to the A-Braves brings back a few fond memories.

If the Astros prevail I will be severely disappointed, clinging as I do to that ancient incantation…cheaters never prosper. However, there is one thing about the Astros that I don’t hate…their manager, Dusty Baker. The single silver lining of an Astros World Series victory would be that Dusty will have his manager’s championship to go along with the one he won as a player with the Dodgers in 1982, and as a consequence end up in the Hall of Fame. My connection with Dusty Baker goes back five decades, back when he was a blade thin outfielder with speed and power playing for the Richmond Braves, on his way to a distinguished big league career. I watched him play a couple of games at old Parker Field, probably in 1970 or ‘71, on a team that also included two other future big league stars…Ralph Garr and Darrell Evans. Now, fifty years later, he’s still hip deep in the game of baseball, managing a team within four wins of the title. 

But other than that, nothing good would come from an Astros victory. Go Braves!!

On another topic… I leave on Tuesday headed down to Nashville to attend a business conference for four days at the Gaylord Hotel. This particular affair is an annual event that I normally boycott for a variety of reasons, chief among them being the preponderance of meetings. There are far too many to count, one hour long gauntlet of dull monotones after another for four days. But, my industry loves this sort of thing, and a surprising number of guys like me wouldn't ever miss the chance to attend. Guys who do what I do for a living are all really in to networking and cocktail parties and making small talk with a thousand strangers. I’m perfectly capable of doing all those things. In fact, I’m pretty good at all three. But, after 38 years, I’m kinda done with schmoozing. Basically, I’d rather have a root canal without anesthetic. My rule has been, I attend these things once every five years. Its all my disposition can safely handle. The fact that the meeting is being held in Nashville made the decision easier, since it means I can visit with Patrick and Sarah while I’m there. 

I will drive instead of fly. That way, I have my car with me and can bolt anytime I want, the conference equivalent of sitting on the aisle seat at church. However, as a consequence of driving, I have been roped in to taking two passengers from my office along for the ride. One is a guy who has been in the business a year longer than I have, has the money to fly but is too cheap. The other guy is brand new in the business, just a kid really, who is super amped for what he refers to as our ROAD TRIP, BABY!! All I an say is the kid better have a strong bladder or he’s gonna rue the day he hitched a ride with me!

So, for everyone out there who considers me a friend…pray for me this week. I’m gonna need it.

Creativity Engine is on the Fritz

Writing is funny. Sometimes for me it is literally the easiest thing in the world. Half the time I feel like I could write a story on demand, out of thin air. But every once in a while it becomes hard, nearly impossible. Back in August of 2020, six months in to COVID, I started writing a story. At the time I wasn’t sure what it was going to be, a short story or novel. All I had was the basic premise and the broad outline of a protagonist. With a lot of lockdown/quarantine time on my hands, I started writing. I blazed through the first dozen chapters rather quickly. The story had exploded into something far more complex. It would be a novel.

Then around Christmas of 2020, I took a break and sat it aside for a couple months. The new year was starting and I was busy, but the characters were never very far from my mind, always dancing around in my head trying to get me to come and play. Finally at the beginning of this summer I took up the story again. One chapter after another poured forth from wherever it is that they come from. Every time I sat down to write the words came with uninterrupted speed and clarity. By August the thing had 24 chapters and 50,000 words. 

Then, one day everything stopped. The gears of the creativity engine had seized up and no matter how determined I was to write, nothing came….nothing.

So, there it sits, frozen, leaden, atrophied. I read random chapters occasionally trying to find the spark. Nothing. I still love the story and care a lot about the characters, but for the last two months, I got nothing.

This sort of thing never happens to me. The other three novels I’ve written were mostly uninterrupted 6-8 month journeys where I only took a few weeks off to tend to more pressing matters—like earning a living. This thing is different. I’ve hit a wall so formidable that I’m afraid I might never break through. Maybe this is where the story just runs out of steam and dies. Just because its never happened to me before doesn’t mean it never does happen. An unfinished story…I’m sure there are a million of them out there.

Fourteen months ago, this is how it started with this one paragraph introduction…

Daniel Sebastian Fitzgerald’s life had been an unqualified success right up to the day he took a drink from an unopened bottle of water he found while jogging in a park less than a mile from his house. At least that was the initial conclusion which most of the family had settled upon after every other explanation for his implosion had failed to withstand logical scrutiny. So bizarre were the circumstances surrounding his metamorphosis that a family of educated people had been reduced to believing an unproven and unprovable theory involving a random bottle of water that had never been found or tested for toxins that might have explained how an otherwise circumspect 56 year old man could have so suddenly and spectacularly gone off the rails. The Fitzgerald family, being as unaccustomed to and unprepared for scandal as any tribe in North America had not handled the drama well. Accusations began to fly within the family, blaming everyone from his wife of 30 years, to his impossible to please father, to his meddling mother, all the way down to his disrespectful children. But, the writer has gotten ahead of himself. The reader by now is naturally wondering about the nature of Daniel Sebastian Fitzgerald’s metamorphosis, and not nearly as concerned with the infighting of his extended family. I will attempt to tell the tale honestly without bias or judgement, for in the day and age in which we live, this story needs to be told.

Can’t Miss the Wedding

Yesterday was the last day we could RSVP for the upcoming wedding of the daughter of dear friends of ours. Pam asks, “So, what do we tell them?” She didn’t really need to ask since both of us knew that the answer was going to be…Yes, of course we will be going to the wedding. The only question was whether we would fly or drive, the venue being 650 miles away. Turns out that once you account for the cost of two flights, a two day car rental and the hassles associated with airports and connections etc. its just not worth it. So another road trip is in the works for us.

Here’s the deal…the older I get, the fewer things I want to miss. There comes a time when it occurs to you that some things are just too important. You just don’t want to miss the assembly. You can’t miss the concert, the play, the ballgame…the wedding. When my kids were little there was something every week it seemed like. But you just couldn’t miss one. You never wanted your kids to look out in the audience or the stands and not see you. Now, I’m counting the days until I have concerts and ballgames for my grandkids to attend. Until then, when a girl you have known, loved and worried about for the better part of 15 years gets married…well, its time for a road trip!

Life is short. Time is fleeting. Don’t miss the weddings.