Mary Wakefield Buxton

• Part 1

Part Two

Because of that nasty worm called “Worry” that can take over one’s brain in a heartbeat and keep on squirming, we opted for a no-stress trip to New York on the train the day before the ship was slated for departure. Thus, the recent spurt of airline flight cancellations across the nation would not upset our travel plans. There was nothing to worry about. I could relax and stop the worm.

We next had to think about our Cocker, “Dandy,” who would be cared for by our daughter, Liz, while we were gone. We packed luggage behind closed doors and tiptoed out to the car to load up in the night so as not to upset Dandy. He mopes and refuses to eat the moment he sees a suitcase. Dogs rule and we humans must follow the rules.

Liz drove us to the train at the Staples Mill Road Amtrak Station in Henrico County, just north of Richmond. As we pulled into the station she suggested we pick up chicken sandwiches from McDonald’s so we would have something to eat on our six-hour trip to New York. It was a good thing we followed her advice, because snack food on the train would not have made much of a lunch.

The train arrived and departed on time and we began our easy roll north to New York City. The train was clean, windows sparkled, seats comfortable, passengers quiet and luggage piled high in the front of the car. It was a calm and pleasant trip.

When we arrived at Penn Station in Manhattan all peace ceased. Our car exploded into action as everyone scurried to get their luggage and depart. We had six pieces, whoops, now we only had five, and we realized we must have left one suitcase at the train station near Richmond. Oh well, not to worry. We could file a claim when we got to the hotel.

Fortunately, a cheerful red cap oozing in a New Jersey accent that took me back to a “Welcome Back, Kotter” soundtrack gathered our luggage and walked us to our hotel just a block away, The New Yorker, Wyndham.

As we passed Madison Square Garden we encountered every nationality in the world, some dressed in native garb. The noise was deafening — emergency vehicle sirens screeched nonstop and halted in front of every red light as drivers from all sorts of vehicles pressed an angry hand on their horns. The scene struck me as a layer of Dante’s “Inferno.” Take me back to Urbanna!

The hotel was a welcome respite and we collapsed on our beds. We had made it. All we had to do now was Uber over to the ship in Brooklyn at noon the next day for departure on the trip of a lifetime. Travel stress was behind us.

That evening we went out for New York pizza. We discovered one couldn’t have wine or beer with pizza so we had to go to a bar first and have a drink and then go to the pizza place. All the doors to the bars and restaurants were wide open to the street on a warm July night in the city and the noise was horrendous.

We slept well that evening and had breakfast at the hotel before arranging for Uber to take us to the pier where the Queen Mary ship was docked. When we pulled up to her berth and I first laid eyes on the Queen I stared up at her massive size in astonishment. I had been on cruise ships before but this ship was monstrous. Her black hull laid side to side would be longer than the Empire State Building. I had never seen a ship like this. She truly is the Queen of the seas.

Meanwhile text messages from the airlines were coming in warning us of delays on our original flight to NYC. Grateful we had come by train a day early, we checked in to the ship, found our cabin on the 10th deck which was decked in flowers, Godiva chocolates and an ice bucket filled with a 60th wedding anniversary bottle of champagne, reported to our life-saving station, and went to the English Pub for a celebratory glass of wine and a platter of fish and chips.

All my worry over canceled flights to NYC was over. We were on the iconic ship of our dreams soon to depart New York Harbor and start the trip of a lifetime.
As we watched the ship depart New York harbor as the sun was lowering in the sky, we saw the Statue of Liberty beckoning farewell — just as it had once welcomed my great-grandfather standing with his wife and 12-year-old son, my grandfather, in 1872 as they were arriving in New York City on the “China.” I imagined how they had felt after leaving their mother country, England, to set out to the new land of opportunity and freedom and a life pursuing dreams.

As I reflected on such thoughts, the Queen made her way out of the harbor ringed with pleasure boats, ferries, and barges pulled by tugs. Then the Queen let out a long farewell blast from her original horn from the first Queen Mary built in 1934.

I shivered in excitement. A sailboat heading right for our bow lost courage and jibed at the last minute. The good Queen never budged an inch. Later a patrol boat picked up our harbor pilot leaving us to the great Atlantic Ocean. We were off and away in the night.

• Part 3

© 2023

Part One

I am writing “The Trip of a Lifetime,” a rather ironic title that necessitates the phrase “so-called,” because the trip I have just endured to celebrate my 60th wedding anniversary almost killed me from exhaustion, stress, time changes, sea sickness, travel delays, unplanned troubles and horrifying expenses that just kept building up even after “full payment” was made.

Full payment. What a laugh. They must mean the shirt off your back to tip the last baggage helper before you reach home to collapse? On our celebration, (which was every bit as exhausting as our 60-year marriage,) I apparently complained so much during the trip to my son, Wake, that he texted back … “Mother, next time you plan a cruise just book a cabin on the Titanic and cut down on your misery.”

But so be it. It was settled. Cruise it was to be. One can’t celebrate 60 years of marriage with a trip to Saluda for a cheeseburger. One must do something special. A 60th wedding anniversary is a once in a lifetime milestone, not to be taken lightly.

The plan was to fly to NYC and board the Queen Mary, the world’s only true ocean liner, docked at pier 12 in Brooklyn and cruise across the north Atlantic to Southampton and then move on for a stay in London before flying home.

Travel is stressful for me and as I have grown older the stress is worse. But I didn’t want to tell my husband I would rather stay home. He has always wanted to visit Winston Churchill’s home in Kent, “Chartwell,” and who was I to say no to him after 60 years of marriage? Besides, he assured me he would take care of all the details and all I would have to do is relax and enjoy the trip.

I should have known better but a cruise sounded so blissful and I imagined…what John Masefield called “Sea Fever…” the majestic ship slicing through the white foam, the spray in my hair, a return to my forefather’s homeland, a return to the blessed land that was home for 1,000 years for a descendant of the Anglo-Saxon family known as Wakefield. (God knows where we came from before our millennium in England, perhaps up from Africa where all humanity originated, we are all connected to “Lucy,” and across the Med, up through the Iberian Peninsula, through what eventually became France and finally over the channel into the wilds of England?)

Yes, the romantic side of me was already hooked, indeed, I already felt tears sparking in my eyes, a la Thomas Hardy and his “Return of the Native,” as I thought of my forefathers and their great travails through all the invasions of England…. the Vikings, Romans, Normans, and the loss of property and freedom my people had suffered over the centuries and my pride today that we were survivors, as all of us alive today should be proud, that we had inherited genes of such strong ancestors.

I was concerned, however, perhaps the first little squiggle of worry crossed my brow, when I heard once we had booked the trip we could not make any changes without the “slight penalty” of $1,200. That did not seem slight to me.

And sure enough. No sooner had we paid for the trip and it had been cast in stone did transportation tsar, Pete Buttigieg, announce there were problems in flights scheduling the week of our departure. “So beware,” he warned. And that was when the stress began.

The problem was the ship left the dock at exactly 5 p.m. on Friday and the last moment one can check in was at 4 p.m. and our flight from Richmond was supposed to arrive in NYC at 1 p.m. with an hour needed to get to Brooklyn and I began to have nightmares that our flight would either be canceled or delayed and that we would miss our ship’s departure.

Several calls alarmed me further when I found out if you miss your ship, that was too bad, but if I was concerned I could accept the $1,200 slight penalty and rebook a flight the day before if I so desired and spend the night at a New York City Hotel and be assured I would be at the ship on time.

Meanwhile, as the days approached for our departure, hundreds of flights were being cancelled and there was no guarantee any flight would fly on schedule. I soon became what one might call a “nervous wreck.”

Finally, I could stand the stress no more and we booked two tickets on the train to Penn Station to arrive the day before the ship’s departure. It was only an extra several hundred dollars for the train tickets and another thousand for the hotel, meals in New York, transfers to hotel and ship, and tips to travel a day early.

This was my first realization that a traveler today is nothing but a piece of meat that anybody can take a big bite of as he or she passes by. By the time we returned from our trip of a lifetime I wondered. Would I look less like a lady and more like a chicken stripped to the bone?

• Part 2

©2023

URBANNA — ‘Gracious sakes!” My grandmother would have exclaimed to hear of a marriage that lasted 60 years. That was probably because in those days people didn’t live as long as they do now, thus length of marriages were shorter.

Yet, in today’s world a 60-year wedding anniversary is still rare. Not because of dying earlier but because of rising divorce rates.

I feel a bit of a dinosaur. But I am filled with wonder. How in the world did Chip and I make 60 years of marriage?

Where did all those years go? The time went so fast. Falling in love, the “North-South wedding,”  honeymooning while settling issues on politics and religion, Navy, San Diego, converting a beach shack into a respectable home, baby, Vietnam War, Yokosuka, Japan, converting a rice paddy house into a respectable home, law school, starting a business, another baby, children in school, sports, carpooling, teaching, writing books, getting children into college, through college, grad school, getting them jobs, paying bills, seeing them married, five grandbabies, surviving their divorces, remarriages, and finally — saving for retirement.

Whew! I feel like I’ve been through 10 wars. Yet I wish I had stopped more every now and then and enjoyed the moment a bit more. Why didn’t I?  Maybe I was too busy solving daily problems to appreciate life.

Credit for our long marriage depended on two things: my husband’s tolerance for life with a writer and my tolerance for life with a lawyer.

We shared a firm belief that the grass is never greener on the other side of the fence. It’s easier to deal with old problems than new.

And who wants to break in a new husband? (Which might be just as difficult as breaking in a new wife.)

Laughing a lot at unplanned circumstances helped too.

I can still see us now, so young, standing at the altar of the First Congregational Church in 1963, saying “I do” to Rev. English and promising to love and cherish each other until death do us part.

We soon discovered we were exact opposites. I was in high school when I first met him (he was at Denison University) and I remember we were driving along one day in his green MG when he suddenly drove off the road. “Damned if I will even drive on a highway dedicated to a Yankee!” he said.

What? What? I looked at the sign which had so aggravated him which read “the General William Tecumseh Sherman Highway.” I was stunned!

Later we had a hot debate over the “Whar” Between the States,” as he called it, in his funny Virginia accent. He actually recited for me “Lee’s Farewell Address” to the troops at Appomattox.

Well, the Virginian was in Ohio territory now so I shot back with Lincoln’s “Gettysburg Address” to set him straight. In those days students in northern schools memorized that address because we were raised to revere Abraham Lincoln for saving the union.

So, I let him have it with those inspiring and beautiful words that best describes what America is all about.

There are two lessons to this story: Memorize the Gettysburg Address so you will be prepared to recite it if needed and #2. never debate a Virginian because you might risk falling for him.

So, what will two opposites do to celebrate our 60th? The “debate” continues. One of us doesn’t care to travel and one of us loves to travel.

True to his course, the lawyer discouraged making any “big plans” in case one of us should, you know, drop dead before departure. It’s the nature of lawyers to plan for the grim.

Yet he likes to travel. He pulled out travel brochures and a world atlas. No foreign place is too far for him, no adventure too rugged — raft trip down the Colorado River, hike on the Appalachian Trail, climbing Mount Kilimanjaro, safari in the wilds of Africa, scuba diving off the Great Barrier Reef off Australia, kayaking the Amazon, landing on a glacier in a helicopter — nothing is beyond what he would like to do.

As my longtime readers know, I’m not the traveling sort. Give me a good book, classical music 24/7 and dear old Dandy asleep at my feet and I’m wherever I want to be, in my brain, not in my body, the best kind of traveling. There is no place like home.

Dear God, please, at the end of every day let me find my own bed, my trusty jar of Vicks on the bedside table, my lovely pillow, blankets and dear little slippers by the bed. That’s all I want in life for there’s nothing worse than a night in a strange bed.

So, I’m taking some time off to settle the issue of how to celebrate the big milestone. As the good general said, “I shall return” and I will too. Have a great summer!

© 2023.

URBANNA — What a mess. The polarization of this nation is tragic and the frustration is real with about half the nation in its perception that federal agencies are helping to elect Democrats to the White House. This perception, whether true or not, is tearing the nation apart.

It cannot continue. The problem has become even more apparent with the arrest of past president Donald Trump over his possession of classified material in his home in Palm Beach, Fla.

But the charges go further than mere possession, he is charged with multiple counts of espionage. If proven, such charges could send the past president to prison for many decades.

Not only does President Joe Biden’s justice department want to send a past president to prison — it wants to eliminate Trump as an opponent in the next election. If this sounds a bit like the action of a thug government knocking out political opponents in a Banana Republic… well, don’t blame me for the suggestion.

I am not a Trump fan. I dislike his bully personality but I like some of his policies — for example, I agree that we have to have control on the numbers of immigrants coming into the U.S. over the southern border and I think fencing is a good idea. I reference Robert Frost’s great poem, “Mending Walls” and his belief that “good fences make good neighbors.”

I became aware of the government bias against Trump while reading the Durham report and can understand why some people, in particular federal employees, dislike Trump.

Trump earned the animosity with his own mouth, which he doesn’t seem to be able to control. I have heard him numerously refer to Washington, D.C., as “the swamp,” and promise he would “drain the swamp” if elected. Easy to see why bureaucrats aren’t wild about Trump.

But, whether we like someone or not should never be related to justice. I fear he is not being given fair treatment by those very people that he has so antagonized.

The elephant in the room regarding Trump’s arrest, of course, is the others who have had classified materials and were not raided or arrested for possessing them.

I recall Sandy Berger, national security advisor (of all things!) under President Bill Clinton who reportedly stole material from the National Archives. He was charged $10,000 for his crime but a judge boosted the fine to $50,000.

Hillary Clinton was suspected of having classified information on both her cell phone and a special server in her home. When questioned, thousands of her messages went missing. It was even odder when some of this classified material appeared on Anthony Weiner’s laptop, who at the time was married to Hillary’s assistant. While she was secretary of state she was also collecting great sums of money, (it was rumored to be millions) from foreign nations as contributions to the Clinton Foundation.

President Clinton was found to have classified material after his presidency later discovered in his sock drawer.

U.S. Rep. James Comer, R-Ky., who led a House Oversight and Accountability Committee investigation, announced in a news release that a judge decided that presidents could possess classified materials and declassify it at any time, but were the only people in government that had this right.

President Biden has been found with classified material, boxes stored in his garage and at other sites. The disturbing part of this latest discovery is some of the classified material was reported to have been obtained while he was senator and again while he was vice president.

Rep. Comer has also reported in a news release discovering millions of dollars in payments going to certain Biden family members through various LLCs from foreign nations. The committee is concerned these payments were related to special favors received from Biden.
With these recent circumstances one can understand why so many are wondering why  Trump has been the only politician indicted?

A better way to handle this controversy rather than to have singled out Trump and cast a blind eye to others is to treat possession of classified material as a group and not as an individual.

The FBI’s investigation should ask these questions: Who had it, how was it obtained, why was it taken, where was it stored, what was the reason for possessing it and did the person receive any special favors, use the material for blackmail or bribery or receive monetary benefits for himself or members of his family? That would deliver the full picture.

Trump has said he took material that he thought he had the right to have and planned to go through the material to keep personal memorabilia and return the rest to the national archives. That sounds understandable.

Biden’s use of his justice department that has already been shown to be hostile to Trump to indict him and remove him from the coming election is most alarming. We don’t do that in this country. Our elections are decided by voters at the polls, not by judges and juries in a courtroom and on ideas rather than indictments.

What applies to Trump should apply to Democrats. End political bias in our federal agencies and allow voters the right to nominate and vote for the candidates of their choice.

© 2023

URBANNA — I know of a sweet lady who “just bought a house.” By this I mean she wrote the contract in April 2022 and it closed this month.

Buying one’s own home and throwing away rental keys for good is the American dream come true. This is because a home is a man’s castle and there’s no place like home.

Yet, buying a house isn’t as easy as it might sound. (Just ask a Realtor!) It can be a bit of a struggle but in her case it was a whale of a struggle. The closing was supposed to be June 2022 but a health department check found the house needed a new septic system. It turns out septic systems are very expensive and don’t get installed overnight. The new system was not ready for June’s closing so the owners agreed to let her move in that September and pay rent until closing.

What a great day for this sweet lady! The furniture that had been in storage for some time arrived, of course, on the hottest day of the year. It’s either blazing hot or pouring rain on moving day, and she was soon as cozy and happy as a snail in its shell.

In a fit of the usual initial homeowner’s joy, or at least an about to become a homeowner’s joy, (there is a big difference between these two terms) she painted the interior rooms, hung paintings and bought the furniture needed to fit in exactly the right places in all the rooms.

Meanwhile, the clock was ticking and due to the shaky economy, the bank loan interest rates were going up, up, up. Such a situation is worrisome to someone about to take on a mortgage.

Then it started to rain. Then it started to rain hard. Soon the sweet lady discovered the roof was leaking and she had to put out pots to gather the water dripping into the house.

It turned out the house needed a new roof so the contractors came and dismantled the solar system on the roof and put on a new roof.

By then she was noticing a few problems with electrical outlets so she paid for a special inspection to get an estimate to fix any problems. The shocking news, not an intended pun, was rewiring would cost more than $12,000. But worse, she was told there was no electricity at all in her upstairs guest bedroom and bath.

Closing was delayed once again, interest rates went up, and the sweet lady normally happy and upbeat at all times was starting to experience an occasional frown across her face every now and then.

As 2022 went off to join the past and 2023 arrived, the sweet lady decided to forget the lack of upstairs wiring. The guests could sleep on a sofa in the sun porch and she would just go ahead and close. That was when she saw what appeared to be a termite in her sun porch.

The hysteria that such a tiny insect could trigger might be hard to imagine. Fortunately, the insect was determined to be a mere beetle and life returned to normal once again. Perhaps not normal as we would think but normal for someone who has been waiting to close on her house for over a year after she wrote her contract.

A new horror came about as if some power above was sending down one trouble after another on the sweet lady like bolts of lightning. Perhaps as a source of entertainment. She walked outside one morning and found her backyard grass in bubbles. Bubbles? Where in the world would bubbles come from?

It turned out the washing machine in the basement had never been attached to the new septic system. By now the sweet lady’s frown had been replaced by a very deep and profound scowl that crossed her forehead like the slash of a knife.

But, not to worry, the door is opened for all those who knock, even if it takes a little more time than expected. The happy day came this month when everything was settled and closing would finally take place.

But at the last moment it was discovered a final permit (because of the bubble in the backyard episode) from the health department was needed but the person who had to sign it was out of town for the week. Finally, the gentleman returned, signed the permit and closing took place last week.

Lessons learned which I would call “Buying a House 101” are the following:

• Do not move into a house until you own it.
• Make sure your inspector gives you a complete inspection.
• Find out ahead of time just how much money you will need to make repairs and either agree you will pay the expenses or subtract the expenses from your offer.
• Make sure you have the best Realtor in the area taking care of you right up to the last minute.

Then, the best part. Enjoy your dream come true!

(Note: This experience did not take place in Middlesex County.)

© 2023

Part 1

URBANNA — How do I explain the emptiness? The deep void that Father’s death had bequeathed me. Perhaps this will help explain it…

“But look, the morn in russet mantle clad, walks o’er the dew of yon high eastward hill!” How many times did Father greet me in the morning with his favorite quote from Shakespeare? I cannot count the times.

Or this from Browning: “… and whoever wakes in England, sees some morning unaware, but the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf, round the elm tree bole are tiny leaf, while the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough … in England now!”

Who can say why we miss a loved one? Who can put to words that something special we pine for that has now vanished forever? So, my heart ached for that special person who quoted from the great poets by heart as Father once did, that now left me feeling absent of heart.

Depression is a terrible thing. Pulitzer Prize winning author, William Styron, a cousin by marriage, suffered depression for many years. He told me once at a speaking event in Richmond that the “Black Dog” had come for a visit.

I was confused and at first thought he might have meant he had a new lab dog. Then I realized he meant that he was depressed. He later described his bout with depression as “darkness visible” which became a title for one of his books.

He used a perfect choice of words. After the lights in my life had turned off over grief from my father’s death in 2001, it seems as if I were living in a world of darkness. About a year later, when the lights magically had turned back on, it finally had hit me. I had been depressed. It was only then that I understood I had been living in a state of darkness visible.

That is the spooky nature of depression. One might not even know he is depressed, as somehow with suffering one simply hunkers down to the newly arrived darkness. It’s almost as if the sufferer falsely believes in some black region of the brain that he deserves to live one’s life in the dark zone simply because of the loss of a loved one.

But now the sun had come out again and my grief over my father’s death the previous year was behind me, I thought my troubles were over. All because of a new friendship struck up with a medical doctor who had moved to Middlesex County and become a close friend.

The irony is that the doctor did replace my father. We read poetry, looked through art books and marveled at the world’s great paintings, and discussed history, religion and politics. The same discussions I had enjoyed with my father all my life had returned to me.

It seemed a rare gift had been given to me.

But even more important to me was we wrote together. I had never had a writing partner, someone to share my ideas with, someone to brainstorm with, rather I had spent my life writing alone.

But there was a damaging component to our friendship. I became dependent on him for the constant inspiration that Father had once provided me. Somewhere deep in my consciousness I knew this was not a good thing. A creative person cannot rely on others for inspiration, but finally learn how to inspire oneself.

The doctor was much older than I and so the inevitable happened. He was diagnosed with a terminal illness and given less than a few months to live. I was stunned. Was I then to experience the suffering of not one death of a father, but two?

My dear husband and I were on a cruise to Russia when what I so dreaded came about. That night as our ship plowed through the stormy seas of November, and I sat reading Chekhov, I heard a pounding on my stateroom door. The sound was jolting, frightening, and, alarmed, I instantly thought of Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Raven.”

Unable to move, as if dreading some terrible event, I sat frozen as Chip opened the door to the message. My friend had died. Someone had called the ship with the devastating news.

Bad news travels fast. I looked at my watch. It had reached me on the North Sea off the coast of St. Petersburg just five hours after his death.

I walked out to the verandah and stared out at the stormy night and rolling seas watching the white foam caught in floodlights off the deck of our ship. How would I now, as Father had always said, “carry on, Mays?”

But, oddly, the initial depression from the loss of Father did not return. It was as if my friend had helped me over the really rough times, and in so doing, had strengthened me for the inevitable future.

And, standing by the railing that separated me from sure oblivion, I heard again Father’s voice reciting the bard … words that would always be with me …“this precious stone set in the silver sea, which serves it in the office of a wall, or as a moat defensive to a house, against the envy of less happier lands, this blessed plot, this earth, this realm…this England.”

And I knew I could carry on. (Conclusion)

© 2023

Part 2

URBANNA — Death is the big one. No wonder that most religions promise future life. Mankind must have hope.

I was 59 when Father died in 2001. He was more than a father, he was a soulmate, the light of my life.

After the funeral, I did a lot of staring at the Rappahannock River. Somehow, I didn’t imagine he would ever leave me and when he did, at age 91, I thought my life was over.

I wrote memories of Father and the agony of departure. The emptiness. The darkness. The sound of that closed door in the back room of my brain, desperate cries at the end begging him not to leave me. The last thought every night and the first glimmer of consciousness in the morning … Father is gone …

How cruel is death and how we suffer. Yet, it’s amazing how resilient humans are — we are strong, far stronger than we realize, and capable of surviving the shocks, losses and tragedies.

But somehow, oddly, I never thought I would have to suffer death of a loved one. The same way, I suppose, a child can never imagine his own demise.

Mother had noticed when I was young that I had a hard time recovering from upsets in life. I suppose that was the reason that would one day cause me to seek comfort in pen and paper or the clean sweep of a computer screen.

Mother would say, “We are like a rubber ball, dear, we bounce along through the ups and downs in life.” But I saw myself made not of rubber as Mother imagined, but of lead, and quite incapable of bouncing along. In my mind’s eye I saw me hitting the floor with a thud.

The world turned black for me. I was but a zombie hunched over my computer and writing like a fool. I guess I knew I may have been vulnerable at the time, but perhaps I didn’t realize the extent of vulnerability.

One day there was a knock at my door. I left the comfort of my computer and opened the door to see an elderly man standing there. He was short and round, like a gnome, a leprechaun, or an elf just escaped from the pages of Mother Goose. He wore old-fashioned horn-rimmed glasses with thick lens and he peered at me with a pair of determined blazing blue eyes, as blue as the river on a sunny day. It seemed to me I had stepped on the stage of a Shakespearean play and one of his apparitions had entered the scene. His eyes pierced my brain like a laser gun.

He introduced himself as a doctor who was moving to the area. He had been reading my columns and books for years and was aware that my father had died in the past year.

“I am here to replace your father,” he said.

Stunned, I may have blinked or swayed on my feet from the shock or even stared at him in utter disbelief. I can’t remember. But what lunacy! No one could replace my father!

Yet, oddly, he might have been a raving lunatic, yet I let him into my “Pineapple Palace” (the fictional name of my home on Kent Street) and seated him on Aunt Lydie’s velveteen sofa in the front room.

One of the goldens, “Lord,” the big male, jumped up on him placing his two giant paws on his chest and went head on head with the stranger. As if Lord wanted him to know who was boss, their faces inches apart, as Lord did his inspection. The doctor never flinched. Very few people could have calmly withstood such an encounter.

The doctor continued for some time about who he was and the life he led. Was he some sort of crackpot, I wondered. A charlatan? A womanizer? A maniac? Did he mean me harm? Was I insane to have let a perfect stranger into my home?

Yet, I could soon tell by his gentle demeanor, impeccable manner, perfect grammar, refined speech and extensive vocabulary that he was a well-educated, intelligent gentleman. He was, he said, also a writer, artist and historian, as was my father, and as he spoke in the afternoon sun that cast golden rays into the room, I think this was the first moment of my falling under his spell.

Thus began a seven-year friendship with daily email exchange and frequent visits. Indeed, he was a writer and in college he had even won the annual Atlantic magazine writing award although because of his busy medical practice he had never developed his gift.

He began sending me his stories and soon we were writing stories together, reading poetry and sharing ideas. Deeply intellectual, conservative and Catholic, we enjoyed a constant stream of stimulating debate of religious and political issues.

Then the miracle. I remember standing alone one morning at the kitchen sink and suddenly realizing someone in the room was humming. But who could be humming? Then the next shock. Someone had turned on the lights. The silent darkness of the past year was gone.

(To be continued.)

© 2023

URBANNA — Bet you don’t know what life’s dreadful Ds are. I do because 60 years ago I said “I do” to a lawyer. Since then, I have been hearing all about the Ds and how a “prudent (a lawyer’s favorite word) client” plans his life carefully so as not to suffer more than necessary over the dreadful Ds.

I share such prudent information with you (and I won’t send you a bill) so you can also beware of the dreadful D’s:

• Death
• Diet
• Disease
• Disability
• Diabetes
• Dementia
• Divorce
• Debt
• Depression

(On top of the lawyer’s list of the dreadful Ds, I would also add Diet, Drudgery and Dishes. Perhaps readers could add more words to the list.)

Now, there is nothing we can do to escape Death (and taxes). But the lawyer assures me a prudent person can plan now for the inevitable and take some of the sting out of it. I’ve already written about creating a death file and assembling all the papers one needs if such an occurrence should happen. So, let’s skip that dreadful D and move on to the others.

Disease is next. Here is where the lawyer turns dietician as he will recommend starting out at a young age living a healthy lifestyle. Not much fun because it means no drugs, alcohol, tobacco, unsafe sex, sugar, high fat foods, body piercings and perhaps some other activities that might be fun. But the sooner one “regulates” (another favorite word from a lawyer) one’s lifestyle and follows the rules of good health, the better to combat disease.
Did you know, for example, that most health issues come from what we voluntarily put in our own bodies? So now we know the real enemy we are dealing with in this discussion of the dreadful D’s … us.

Then Diet, possibly the worst of the dreadful D’s, especially if you’re hungry, is another dreadful D and Exercise (which is a dreadful E) but diet and exercise are musts to fend off Disease like Diabetes and obesity so that means one must cultivate WP (Will Power.)

The other pointer from the lawyer is to sign up for a long-term health plan as soon as possible in case of future Dementia or Disability that requires 24/7 assistance.

Another dreadful D is Divorce which happens to many of us. Not only can Divorce ruin one’s health, but it can also cost a fortune. Going to a lawyer for any reason these days can trigger horrendous bills. My advice is to stay far away from the lawyers. However, sometimes this is quite impossible (and if you ever need a good lawyer, thank goodness they are there.)

The only way not to receive horrendous legal bills is to go to law school yourself or marry a lawyer. But keep in mind there is no free lunch. One pays one way or another. But as far as I know lawyers do not bill their spouses for their ongoing prudent advice. (Although it is possible I may start receiving bills from my free lawyer from this point on.)

How do you avoid divorce, I foolishly asked my free lawyer. “By staying married,” he responded. Only in rare circumstances does he recommend divorce, and only with a severe problem that cannot be solved by counseling.

Which then leads to another tedious lecture.One must make a prudent choice for a lifelong partner in marriage.

Which is laugh out loud funny. I well remember falling in love with a man 60 years ago that was opposite of me in most every way and I well know after love strikes its mighty arrow into one’s heart, forget about making “a prudent choice for a lifelong partner in marriage.”

Then Debt. More unpleasantness. Develop a budget, save a percentage of earnings for emergency or retirement and pay bills at once. One must not use one’s credit card unless in an emergency as the interest rates are high. Also, too much debt could lead to bankruptcy.

Lastly, all the prudent advice on lifestyles and choices leads to the last dreadful D. Depression. If you weren’t depressed before reading about the dreadful Ds, then you surely are by now.

So, spouses must suffer the professions of their other half. Spouses of doctors must fear germs, dentists must obsessively brush and floss. Spouses of English teachers must live with correct pronouns and worry they might accidentally use a double negative or end a sentence in a preposition.

Worst off of all are the spouses of writers. They end up as characters in columns and books and nothing much can be done about it. Except Divorce which would only lead to Debt, Disease and Depression.

Which would not at all be prudent.

© 2023

URBANNA — The special thing about grandchildren is their activities trigger many memories from our past. It’s fun to compare life years ago when we lived it to what our grandchildren are experiencing today.

Nothing may be more important to the development of children than teenage summer jobs. They teach work ethics at a young age and begin lessons on how to survive in a world without parents.

Last week my 15-year-old grandson told me he had a summer job. “It’s with a deli near the College of William and Mary, Grandmother!” He said, excitement oozing out of every word.

He has worked cutting grass, raking leaves, housecleaning his dad’s office, (the worst job of all!) and helped teach tennis at a summer camp. But this is a hard-working job at a busy restaurant with a salary of $13 an hour, including shared tips.

Which got me thinking about my first real job experience as a waitress at a popular restaurant in my hometown in Vermilion, Ohio.

I was only 14 years old but since my 16-year-old sister, Alice, was working there, I had to work there too. I was too young to work without a license and I begged mother to drive me to Sandusky to get a work permit. She finally agreed probably because a summer with a teenager sulking in the house with nothing to do was more than Mother cared to experience.

It was tough work and my wages were less than a dollar an hour in 1954 but I was ecstatic with my first real job. I loved every minute of being at work, which meant I could also keep up with my friends rather than sit around at home with nothing much to do.

The restaurant was always busy. The worst time was after regattas when all the sailors would come in as hungry as one might expect of men who had sailed star boats all day on Lake Erie.

I took orders and handed them in to the cook, who was the owner’s wife. The owner stayed in the back room doing dirty dishes we would load up on trays and take back to him. There was always a bottle of whiskey nearby, which I finally realized was related to his bad humor. If piles of dirty dishes didn’t trigger a bad mood, whiskey would.

The most embarrassing thing I ever did was deliver a plate full of hot french fries into the lap of a gentleman. The happiest memory was the president of the factory union would come in every morning for a cup of coffee and sit at the counter and debate union demands with me. I would stand up for the company saying business had to earn profits if it wanted to survive.

Mike was a second-generation Irish American with fierce blue eyes and the Wakefields had immigrated from England in 1872. Since Father was the first generation born in America, I was also second generation and therefore raised with plenty of the “mother country” advice (which made things especially sparky.)

I adored Mike. (He always left me a dime tip.) Even when I saw Father have to cross the picket line and I saw the emotion in his face and the faces of the men that worked at the factory and I saw that we were one family and that men should never be divided.

The summer of ’54 I learned a lot about life and how to get along in the public arena, take orders, use the cash register, make change, answer phones, clean and set tables, mop floors, and to stick with a job even when I had a bad day. We all had to work together to make our restaurant the best in town. I learned how tough it was for the owner in the kitchen washing dishes all day long to make enough profit to stay in business.

All was not perfect. The whiskey humor taught me about demon alcohol. One night I told Mother I couldn’t stand his bad temper anymore. She told me I could quit and stay home and enjoy the rest of the summer.

But not Father. “We are not quitters, Mays,” he said and reminded me again the English don’t give up. “And we stay cheerful, Mays, no matter what.” Mustn’t grumble and the stiff upper lip philosophy and all that goes with it. Oh, the English.

I didn’t quit. I learned that in the summer of my 14th year the unfortunate reality of life is there is no perfect job or ideal condition in the world. But one had to function well anyway, keep moving forward through life and … stay cheerful. No matter what.

Exactly what I hope my grandson will learn this summer. We don’t quit, we work hard, do a good job, stay cheerful and we never lose sight of our goals. Not a bad prescription for life.

© 2023

URBANNA — My readers know that I’m not crazy about politicians. But when husband, Chip, asked me to go with him to hear U.S. Rep. Rob Wittman, R-1st Dist. last month at a dinner sponsored by the Middlesex County Republican Committee, I agreed. Wittman is an honest, hardworking and dedicated conservative with a smile and personality that reminds me of the kid brother I never had. I like him — even if he is a politician. And he serves well those who hold dear traditional values.

John Hooper, chairman of Middlesex GOP Committee, introduced the congressman with the news that he had just been promoted to the position of vice chairman of the House Armed Forces Committee.

Wittman spoke on just two concerns facing Congress today — raising the debt ceiling and the state of the nation’s defense program. Both subjects triggered rapt attention from the audience.

On the budget, he told us that our continued spending levels are unsustainable and unless we get back on a path of fiscal sanity, the nation will eventually go bankrupt.

The COVID-19 spending was what caused the zigzag off our normal budget. The congressman said we spent $6 trillion on combatting the crisis but now that COVID-19 has passed we must return to 2022 spending levels.

Since Republicans are often said by the opposing party to want to cut Social Security and Medicare benefits, he assured the group the GOP will not touch these programs for seniors.

However, he reminded the audience that one day both political parties will have to come together to find ways to make these programs fiscally sound if we want them to continue.

That day will come when both parties stop blaming each other and using the issue to scare voters and start working together to save the programs. (That time will no doubt come with a blue moon!)

Wittman wants to reduce spending in government without touching senior benefits or defense budgets, by making reforms — for example, return to work requirements to those who receive government benefits which would be beneficial not only to boost tax revenues that more workers would generate for government but also fill the many vacant positions as a result of pre-COVID-19 employees that did not return to work.

“If we don’t find ways to reduce government spending soon, our interest payment each year will be higher than our entire military budget,” he warned.

Wittman reminded the audience the House and Senate each come up with a budget and then work together for compromise to present to the president for final approval. When all parties work together, we can end up with a workable plan. (If only the parties would work together!)

On the issue of national defense, we heard how grave the situation is with China today as they have achieved astounding growth since 1999, mainly because American businesses have moved to China which built up their economy.

“China is our challenge of our lifetime” he said warning us they are coming at us from many directions, especially with their threat to have the yuan replace the dollar as the international monetary unit. “If this happens you will find your dollars are worth much less,” he warned and someone in the audience shouted out, “Our dollars are already worth much less!”

Then the China alliances to Russia, Iran and other nations remind many seniors of the dangerous axis powers that attacked us in World War II. Wittman said France and now even Canada have told China they would not become involved to defend Taiwan, which Xe has announced he is taking back by 2027.

It appears the U.S. could be standing alone in defense of Taiwan and Wittman warns that every “war game” he has participated in with the U.S. defending Taiwan against China, we lose. Even more frightening, in such a conflict we are out of long-range missiles within just three days!

Wittman also warned we must become independent and mine our own minerals as well as restart manufacturing our own medicines and stop relying on China.

Wittman read a shocking statement that Xe once made, “Anyone that tries to stop China, we will take their heads and bloody the rocks.” Wittman said we had better take the warning seriously or … learn how to speak Mandarin.

“We have a long way to go and a short time to get there,” he said, as China has more weapons that travel farther and are more lethal than ours in an era when the number of our Navy ships is shrinking each year.

After such grim news, Wittman ended his talk with a reminder of why millions of people are trying to get into our country and not trying to get into China … Unalienable rights in our Constitution that protect us each from an overbearing government. We are the land where the individual still can dream, still pursue his own idea of happiness and still — write a column such as this.

I was happy to see Middlesex Supervisor Reggie Williams and his personable wife, Lorraine, Supervisor Lud Kimbrough, Middlesex Sheriff David Bushey and Del. Keith Hodges, R-Urbanna, in the crowd. My last thought as I was leaving was that Democrats, Republicans and Independents had better come together if we hope to survive the perils ahead.

© 202