Bill Pike

Tension in Henrico: “redistricting”

April 16, 2025 Bill PikeLeave a comment

If one were to survey students, parents, teachers, school boards, and board of supervisors about their least favorite word in public education, “redistricting” would win.

Redistricting, the realigning of school attendance zones to balance overcrowding in large school systems, is quite simply a skunk. It stinks.

I haven’t forgotten redistricting from my fifteen month appointment to the Henrico County School Board. That was in the fall of 2018. Fast forward seven years, and redistricting still riles up the public.

To work through this odorous environment, a school board usually hires a consultant. The consultant reviews data, maps, and solicits feedback. From this, the consultant will develop multiple options for the school board to consider.

Public meetings are held. I remember attending those emotionally charged sessions. I also responded to phone calls, emails, and met individually with concerned parents.

The bottom line is no parent wants the comfort zone of their current school assignment disrupted for their student. The parental mentality is not for the good of the cause. The thinking is solely—move someone else’s child, disrupt their family, but not mine.

In 2018, the redistricting focus was similar to what the school system experiences today. Based upon the disagreeable joint meeting of both boards on March 20, the concern is still about overcrowded schools in the west with a smidgen in the east.

My school board term ended in December of 2019. Redistricting continued to shadow the board. Then in 2020, COVID-19 arrived. Redistricting became a flatten skunk in the board’s rearview mirrors.

Here we are five years later, and the skunk has returned to the table. In reading the frustrating comments from members of the Board of Supervisors, redistricting hasn’t lost its emotional pungency.

Accusatory hot air, body language, and asserting that money isn’t the issue doesn’t exactly create an atmosphere conducive for collaboration. Board of Supervisors member, Misty Roundtree, from the Three Chopt District, encouraged “out of the box” thinking to solve the issue.

Yes, if there is a new approach for solving overcrowding in schools other than redistricting, we need to learn about it.

Maybe what we need is a shift in tectonic plates that would merge the county into one whole plot instead of an east and west linked together by a slender northern corridor.

Despite in some instances, Herculean efforts, the disparity between schools in the eastern and western halves are a constant undertow. That current is relentlessly pulling at our communities and leaders.

While Henrico County isn’t perfect, the county is blessed to have visionary leadership and an economic stability that is respected beyond Virginia.

I suspect that the heart of redistricting and discrepancies between the schools in the east and west can be improved by asking tough questions and providing support, not just financial support.

Students, parents, and teachers who are in the trenches of the county’s schools need leaders to understand what it takes to survive everyday.

These survivor questions roil through every school in the county:

How do you support the teacher who despite reaching out has never had a meeting with the parent of a student who is a behavioral challenge everyday in the classroom?

How do you support the gifted student whose home is an unstable motel room?

How do you support the single parent who is raising three students while stringing together multiple jobs?

How will human resources find qualified teachers to teach in our schools where no one wants to teach?

How do we transform those schools where no one wants to teach into schools where everyone wants to teach?

How do we better equip classroom teachers to be more effective in working with a constantly changing student population?

How do we support parents to become better at being parents?

Additionally, I believe one of the most difficult challenges facing our public schools is the continuing erosion of families. That instability lies at the heart of what ails our schools.

Listen carefully, I’m not saying we don’t have effective single parents. I worked with many.

I’m suggesting Henrico leaders review the data to learn how our schools are impacted by families who are struggling to survive.

How frequently are classroom environments disrupted by students who can’t cope in the classroom because of a dysfunctional family?

Correspondingly, how much of redistricting is shaped by an on-going energy burn about the discrepancies between the east and the west?

How might that wasteful whining be repurposed by truly understanding and working to solve what it takes for a struggling Henrico public school family to survive in our county?

No matter the struggles faced by our families, either directly or indirectly, these stresses impact that skunk—redistricting.

We must solve this redistricting.

1901 Map Image of Henrico County, Virginia
(Courtesy of Library of Congress, Geography and Map Division)

Remember 42

April 12, 2025 Bill Pike2 Comments

                                                                             OPINION

LETTERS TO THE EDITOR

Remember 42

Regarding Kevin B. Blackstone’s April 7 Sports column, “Dodgers’ visit to White House goes against Robinson’s legacy”:

As reported in the Washington Post, the Los Angeles Dodgers accepted an invitation to visit the White House to recognize their 2024 World Series championship.

To me, the Dodgers’ management accepting this invitation is a disrespectful slap to Jackie Robinson, the first African American player to sign with and play in the major leagues, with the Brooklyn Dodgers.

How could the Dodgers, the team who made this courageous decision and commitment to bring Robinson into the major leagues, take such a backward step?

In his book “October 1964,” David Halberstam’s shared a story from Robinson’s time playing for the Kansas City Monarchs, a successful team in the Negro Leagues:

“There was a place in Muskogee, Oklahoma, where they had always gassed up, but where the owner never let them use the rest rooms. Robinson had not known that, so when the bus pulled in, ready to fill up its twin fifty-gallon tanks, he got out to go to the men’s room. “Where you going, boy?” the owner said, and Robinson answered that he was going to the men’s room. “No, you’re not,” the owner said. Robinson never hesitated. “Take the hose out of the tank!” he said immediately, and that was no idle threat, for one hundred gallons of gas was a big sale, a fair percentage of the amount of money the man might make on a given day. The man looked at Robinson and saw the anger and the strength on his face. He was not the first, and certainly not the last, white man to see that conviction, and he immediately backed down. “You boys can use the rest rooms,” he said. “Just don’t stay there too long.”

How can the Dodgers’ management be so blind by comparison?

Has fear of retribution from a vengeful president caused the Dodgers’ management to ignore the significance of the legacy of its 1947 signing of Robinson? Where is the “anger and strength” of the team’s integrity to turn down this shameful invitation?

According to Forbes, the Dodgers are valued at $6.8 billion.

Are the Dodgers more loyal to the preservation of those billions than to Robinson’s groundbreaking achievement?

Unfortunately, the answer seems to be yes.

Bill Pike, Richmond

Note from the author: Friends, I was honored to have my letter to the editor published in the Washington Post today, Saturday, April 12, 2025.

The Last Cast

April 6, 2025 Bill Pike3 Comments

On the afternoon of Sunday, March 23, I arrived in Summerfield.

Our son-in-law, Doug, was traveling for business. This meant that our daughter, Lauren, needed some extra hands in managing the school and extracurricular schedules of our two elementary age grandchildren.

Lauren, a detailed planner like my wife, the Commander Supreme, had everything organized.

Over the winter, some of the landscaped beds in their yard had undergone a few changes. What were once young cooperative shrubs and trees had become overgrown and unruly.

In key areas in the back and front yards, these shrubs and trees had been taken down. This included stumps being ground.

One of my assignments was to get these beds back in shape.

On Monday morning, with the kids safely in their elementary school, the Commander and I started our yard chores. The Commander was working on the first invasion of spring weeds, and I tackled one of the beds where trees had been removed.

It was overcast and cool. During this work, a gentle rain shower came down.

By mid-morning, I had that first bed back in shape. Weeds were gone, stump mulch was blended and leveled into the soil, and my worn, but trusty spade shovel had carved out a fine edge to the bed.

The Commander made progress with her weeding too.

We took a break for lunch.

Interestingly, the Commander’s long time friend, Leslie Brinker, and her husband, Dave, were over in Oak Ridge. They were in town from Peoria, Illinois. Leslie and Dave were fulfilling the same duties that we were for one of their sons and his family. We had a good lunch and visit comparing notes about our chores.

Before we knew it, the school bus was dropping off Caroline and Hudson. Our attention turned to errands, shopping, and a stop for ice cream.

The remainder of the afternoon passed quickly. Soon, Lauren was home. Dinner was prepared, and we looked ahead to Tuesday afternoon.

For Caroline, the Commander Supreme would be driving her to dance class. Hudson and I would be trying out his new fishing rod at the neighborhood lake.

The fishing rod had been a gift from us at Christmas. It was a simple push button reel with a small tackle box. The tackle box contained an assortment of small hooks, line weights, and lightweight floats (bobbers, fish indicators). With this simple set up, Hudson would learn if he had any interest in fishing becoming a hobby.

With better weather on Tuesday, the Commander and I continue our assignments in the yard. Progress was steady.

Seemed like the bus arrived earlier this afternoon, but one thing was for sure—Hudson was full of energy for the fishing expedition.

He scurried around and found the tackle box. He wanted to make sure that I had a few worms, and I did.

We met on the back deck, and with Hudson’s help, I started to prep the rod.

A hook was selected. I tied it on. We added one on line weight pellet. Next, we positioned the bobber at a sufficient distance from the hook.

Before we started our walk to the lake, we talked about the hook and some basic consideration for safety before casting the line into the lake. And, we talked about how fishing is basically unpredictable—we might catch a fish or we might not.

With that, we made sure we had a couple of worms, and we started our walk to the lake. We took the short path through the backyard woods and into a neighbor’s yard. At this house, there was a chance that one of Hudson’s school friends might join us, but that didn’t happen.

As we approached the lake, we walked down the hill. We chose a spot on the west side of the lake. This gave us a full view of the surrounding shoreline and plenty of room for casting on either side of a bed of rock. The bed of rock was in place to slow rainwater as it rolled down the sloped hill from the yard behind us.

Hudson held the rod as I baited the hook.

For a few minutes, I acclimated myself to the mechanics of the push button rod. A made of couple of pitiful casts, and when I finally improved, I started to work with Hudson.

From the beginning, I was a horrible teacher. I totally forgot that Hudson is left-handed. I was trying to have him cast with his right arm.

That didn’t work. Once I realized my idiocy, Hudson quickly picked up the mechanics and the timing of the release of the line.

With each cast, the angle and distance into the lake improved.

Hudson was a good listener. We talked about how to position his feet when he cast the line. The slice of his cast to the left went away when his first step went straight.

Anxious for a bite, he checked his bait quite a bit. We talked about the condition of the lake. Near the shoreline even with leaf debris, the water was clear. That clearness looked to be present beyond the shoreline too.

We were not paying attention to time, but at some point, Hudson let me know he was just about ready to head back to the house.

Almost at the same moment, we both said “ok, let’s get one more good cast.”

And that’s what happened. Hudson’s last cast was his best. The line lightly splashed just short of the middle of the lake.

In a blink, I did a double take. The bobber had disappeared. It was underwater.

I took a couple of quick steps toward Hudson. I tugged on the line, and said, “ I think you have a fish on.”

Our energy zoomed.

I helped him to coordinate his reeling of the line. The fish took off on him. The bobber zigged and zagged for a few feet.

But Hudson started to gain control of the line and the fish. There were a few more zig zags as Hudson worked the fish closer to the shoreline.

Finally, in the shallows, we could see the fish. Just as Hudson brought him to the edge of the shoreline, the fish came off the hook.

The fish landed flat on its side in very little water. I was able to step down and pick up the fish with my gloved hand.

Now the trick was to get my phone out of my pocket for a photo. The photography gods must have been looking out for me.

With some luck, I was able to snap a photo of the fish with Hudson in the background, I took three quick ones. Then, I returned the fish to the lake.

Stunned for a few breathless seconds, the fish quickly acclimated to the water and swam off.

I don’t know who was more excited—the fish who returned to the lake, Hudson, or me. I couldn’t believe that on his last cast he hooked a nice fish.

I kept saying over and over again, “I can’t believe you caught a fish.” He smiled and nodded in agreement.

We secured the rod, picked up the tackle box, and started the walk to the house.

Our excitement was with us every step of the way.

Of course, I texted photos of this memorable moment to the family. Those photos created another round of enthusiastic responses for Hudson.

With more daylight around, I returned to the yard work.
My old brain would not let go of Hudson’s fish story. It kept replaying in my mind.

How lucky I was to be a part of Hudson’s story.

And the more, I thought, I was reminded of the kind hearts that helped me appreciate casting a fishing line—my father, Betsy’s dad, Betsy’s brother, and Betsy’s brother-in-law, Art.

And, I pondered more, how many youngsters in this world will never have the pleasure of casting a fishing line and catching a fish?

And there is another piece to this story— the earthworms and the fish.

Thanks to the earthworms for your sacrifice.

As for the fish, what the locals call a “crappie,” thanks for being a good sport.

Your decision to take the bait gave an old geezer and his grandson a reason to never lose hope on the last cast.

Hey God, are you anxious? If you’re not, I am.

April 2, 2025 Bill PikeLeave a comment

Early in my life, I remember my parents started their day reading the daily devotional from the Upper Room at the breakfast table.

I’m not quite sure when or how, but I start my day with the Upper Room devotional too.

As an early riser, nothing else goes on in my life until I read the devotional and the recommended scripture.

Next, I pray, a prayer that I’m sure God and his angels are thankful when this detailed, prolonged plea concludes with—thanks for listening to my prayers.

On Saturday, March 29, the main scripture in the Upper Room was Philippians 4:6: “Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.”

If you have been a loyal reader of Might Be Baloney, perhaps you have figured out that I’m a certified worrier at the local, state, national, and international levels. Worry might as well be a name for me.

Worriers are also anxious. As an imperfect Christian and American, at this stage of my life, I have never been so anxious and worried about our country, the United States of America.

I wonder if God and Jesus, and their angels are anxious and worried about America?

My reason for asking is grounded in my honesty. While I always pray for America, since January 20, I’ve been praying more for our country.

Despite my anxious and extra prayers for America, the dismantling of our country continues. Almost everyday, a new executive order is signed and issued. With that single signature, many American lives are forever altered. Quite often those changes are not for the good.

I wonder if my daily prayers are doing any good? If my prayers are having an impact, then why is our president and his staff continuing to make all of these hurtful changes?

In the movie, The Shawshank Redemption, actor Morgan Freeman, portrays inmate, Ellis Boyd “Red” Redding. Mr. Redding is serving a life sentence. The film sequences ten year intervals where Mr. Redding appears before the parole board.

At years, twenty and thirty, Mr. Redding gives the answers that he thinks the parole board wants to hear. He feels confident that his answers will result in earning his release from prison. Unfortunately, Mr. Redding’s parole requests are denied.

In his fortieth year, Mr. Redding appears before the parole board. This time his attitude isn’t hopeful or optimistic. A bitterness hovers over him, a bitterness that conveys I don’t care anymore, go ahead, and deny my parole again.

Yet, in this hearing, there is a difference.

In Mr. Redding’s previous hearings his answers to the questions come across as scripted. Being sorry for his horrible crime seems distant, an after thought.

With this hearing, Mr. Redding’s bitterness reveals what his heart is feeling.

Mr. Redding addresses the chair of the parole board with these two questions: “What do you really want to know? Am I sorry for what I did?”

The chair of the parole board asks Mr. Redding: “Well, are you?”

Here is Mr. Redding’s response: “There’s not a day goes by I don’t feel regret. Not because I’m in here, or because you think I should. I look back on the way I was then, a young, stupid kid who committed that terrible crime.

I wanna talk to him. I wanna try to talk some sense to him — tell him the way things are. But I can’t. That kid’s long gone and this old man is all that’s left. I gotta live with that.”

Screenwriter Frank Darabont’s words delivered by Mr. Redding make me think about America. I want to take that second paragraph and direct these lines to our country— “I wanna talk to America, I wanna try to talk some sense to America—tell America the way things are. But, I can’t.”

And the reason I can’t is because America’s self-talk is singularly focused on—dismantling. There is no trying to talk sense to America because our common sense has disappeared. As for the way things are, our leaders are one dimensional—this is the way things are going to be.

Where is our hard earned democracy in the decisions that are being made?

Where are our voices?

Where are the voices of our politicians in Washington?

Are they silenced by fear?

Anyone with an ounce of common sense knows that our budget deficits needed correction.

Making those corrections would not be easy. However, making those corrections wisely and with an ounce of human compassion was possible.

Unfortunately, wisdom and compassion are absent from the leaders who are making these decision.

The absence of wisdom and compassion in these cuts makes me anxious.

My friend, Anne Burch, recently sent me a link to an interview with former Duke University basketball coach, Mike Krzyzewski(Coach K). The interview was conducted by Duke University professor and author, Kate Bowler.

Early in the interview, Professor Bowler, provides Coach Krzyzewski with a small white board. The assignment is for both of them to write down a word about the pending interview. Coach K wrote on the board “hopeful.”

As I reflect about Coach K’s answer, I’m sorry to tell you this, but I’m not very “hopeful” about America’s current status.

Perhaps, you are thinking, Bill, I’m not surprised in your lack of feeling hopeful about America. You often come across as a whiny pessimist.

While I respect your honest observation, hope is something that I will always hold in my old heart.

And to tell you the truth, I think that is the problem in Washington.

The leaders in Washington who are making these decisions have no heart.

They have no concept of working for the common good of all Americans.

If God is the least bit anxious about America, his concern is about our hearts.

Our hearts have lost their way.

Maybe this quote from Aleksandr Solzhentltsyn is worth pondering: “The line separating good and evil passes not through states, not between classes, nor between political parties either—but through every human heart.”

As far as I can tell with the no hearts in Washington that line has disappeared. With no conscience, evil dominates this empty-headed thinking.

Seems to me this thoughtless Washington thinking is more aligned with Proverbs 17:24: “A man of understanding sets his face toward wisdom, but the eyes of a fool are on the ends of the earth.”

I see no understanding or wisdom in these hurtful decisions. Their eyes are set on revengeful, selfish personal gains.

Yes, I’m anxious for America.

But more anxious about the silence of our hearts.

Maybe, I’m just as vacuous as our Washington leaders.

Every morning, one of my prayers to God is that our president and vice-president find their hearts.

Light from our eat-in kitchen cast out into the predawn of our backyard. (Photo By Bill Pike)

“You can resume normal activities.”

March 28, 2025 Bill Pike4 Comments

I wasn’t looking forward to Monday, February 17, 2025. I knew what was coming.

For the next 48 hours, I was to be flat on my back. The only exceptions—restroom and meals.

I knew this drill because in December of 2023, I had surgery on my left eye to address Fuchs Dystrophy and cataracts.

To put it simply, Fuchs Dystrophy is when a person’s cornea begins to misbehave. My eye doctor had been tracking this behavior for a few years. After an exam, the comment was always the same—“you’re not ready yet.”

When you’re ready, the surgeon makes arrangements to secure a healthy cornea from a donation bank, and then the surgeon works his magic.

This morning, the plan was the same, but the focus would be my right eye.

I had completed the pre-surgery prep. A laser is used to zap a small entry point into my right eye. This is followed by a regimen of eye drops to prep the eye for the surgery.

The Commander Supreme and I had an uneventful drive to the surgery center. We parked and walked into the large waiting room.

The room was packed. I’m certain this facility is a cash cow.

Since, I had already signed my life away, the check-in process wasn’t very cumbersome. On a monitor, we could see my name, and track its positioning with the other patients. It wasn’t too long before a nurse came into the lobby, and called my name.

She gave a few instructions to the Commander, and then I was on my way.

The nurse and I chatted to the staging area. She asked many questions to ensure that I had followed the required protocols.

I had one last shot at bladder relief before stretching out on the gurney. A preheated blanket greeted my feet, and the magic touch of the nurse properly positioned my old sack of bones. My right eye was marked to alleviate whacking out the wrong part of my body.

My vitals were cooperating, and soon the knockout doctor appeared. Again more questions, and a short while later I was out.

When I awoke, I slowly noticed I had a dull throbbing pain in my left eye. It seemed like forever before anyone stopped again to check on me. I let them know about the eye pain, and they were perplexed.

I continued to wait. The longer I waited the more anxious I became. I didn’t remember waiting this long the last time.

Another check on me, I asked how much longer? I guess I was like a kid on a long road trip with his family—are we there yet?

Soon, the knockout doctor returned. Something was removed from the left side of my face, and the pain around my left eye immediately disappeared. He asked me if I was ready for some more sleepy juice, and I said yes.

I couldn’t feel anything, but I do recall the doctor working on my right eye.

I don’t remember the ride, but the gurney was wheeled back to the spot where I started. And it wasn’t long before my left eye could see the Commander Supreme.

At some point, we learned that the surgery went well. The patch over my eye could be removed for the drops, and we had a chart for recording the dispensing of the drops.

My post-surgery appointment on Tuesday morning would reveal more.

I was alert now, alert enough to know I needed a pit stop. I was transitioned to a wheelchair and wheeled to the restroom.

Back in the wheel chair, a nice nurse pushed me out to the departure circle. The Commander was waiting for us.

With the seat reclined, I entered the car, connected the seatbelt, and we headed for home.

I’m a very lucky person. My back rarely causes me any stress, but my back doesn’t like being flat for 48 hours.

The last time I had this surgery, my back was the challenge, and unfortunately, this time, my back again chose to bother me.

No matter how pillows were used in support of my legs and feet, my back tightened and cramped. I had permission to take Ibuprofen and Extra Strength Tylenol. They dulled the pain, but the aching never totally disappeared.

That first night, I’m certain Alexa was just as happy as I when morning arrived. I kept making requests, and Alexa kept playing the music.

A bit after eight, we started the drive to the doctor’s office. It is a different passenger experience being reclined in a moving car.

With my eye still covered with its patch, we made our way into the waiting area. I was a bit uneasy.

When I was called back, the first nurse to assess me learned quickly that I had barely any vision in my right eye. I don’t remember this from the previous surgery, but this time the absence of vision was alarming to me.

My eye picked up light, but that was all. It was like there was a film covering my eye.

She didn’t seemed too concern.

Next the doctor came in. He took a look through the fancy machine, and he liked what he saw. The four sutures were in place, and the inserted bubble in my eye was still helping to hold the needed pressure.

The doctor showed the Commander how to monitor the bubble. If everything worked properly, the bubble gradually disappears.

We didn’t pepper him with too many questions, and before leaving we set up the appointment to have the sutures removed in a week.

During the remainder of Tuesday, somehow, my back and I tolerated each other. Waiting for dawn the second night seemed longer. Once again, Alexa honored my music requests.

On Wednesday, I continued to go for flat time. I didn’t want anything to go wrong with the surgery. Late on Wednesday afternoon, I took a shower. There is nothing like a shower for a weary soul.

By late Saturday afternoon, Betsy had good news—the bubble was gone.

On Thursday, February 27, I drove myself to the appointment. When the nurse started checking my right eye vision, she was pleased. This morning, I could read letters to her from large to very small.

When the doctor came in, he was pleased with what he saw too. Some drops were applied to numb the right eye, and now he was ready to remove the four sutures.

Once the sutures were out, I was given some different instructions for the eyedrops, and then I heard the best news from the doctor: “Your post-operative progress is ahead of schedule, you can resume normal activities.”

I was elated.

I thanked him and the nurse, and I made an appointment to come back in a month. I hope my progress continues.

This whole process amazes me.

According to the National Library of Medicine, the first corneal transplant dates back to 1905. An Austrian, Dr. Eduard Zim, used his ophthalmologist skills to perform that surgery in what is now known as the Czech Republic.

Since that surgery, countless doctors have been involved in improving and refining the process. I can’t begin to imagine figuring out the need for a tissue bank, the special tools needed to suture inside an eye, developing the eye drops, and how to use a laser to form an opening for the surgery to take place.

Why can we figure out this complicated surgical procedure, but we can’t figure out how to bring a lasting peace to every corner of the world? What is wrong with us? What have we to fear from a lasting peace?

In this process, I’m thankful for the care provided to me by the Commander Supreme, the meals from neighbors and friends, and heartfelt prayers.

And in both surgeries, I’m appreciative of the skills from the doctors, nurses, and support staffs.

But more importantly, I’m deeply appreciative of the family who made the decision to donated the cornea to the tissue bank.

How can I be so lucky and others are not?

I wonder how the good Lord might answer that question?

Eye drops and eye shield. (Photo Bill Pike)

Author’s post surgery note: Today, March 27, I had my one month appointment with the eye surgeon. Everything looks good, and he has released me. Again, I’m so thankful.

Letter: America, what kind of people are we?

March 20, 2025 Bill PikeLeave a comment

The recent dismantling in Washington and the ensuing turmoil have been brewing for decades.

Failing to acknowledge our shortcomings, Americans quickly blame political parties and their leaders. Rarely, do we blame ourselves.

For example, presidential election data from the University of Florida Election Lab finds that in 2024 nearly 90 million eligible voters did not vote. At such a pivotal time in America, that is unconscionable.

Additionally, a newly elected president at the stroke of a pen can overturn decisions championed by the previous president.

I don’t understand why leaders take pride in these selfish, vengeful reversals.

In the Pledge of Allegiance to our flag, we purport these beliefs: “one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.” Those beliefs are eroding.

Recent data on religion in America from the Pew Research Center shows we are no longer “one nation under God.”

On a daily basis, our division is rarely absent. Even houses of worship experience disunity.

As for liberty and justice for all, “all” keeps losing ground.

In the famous “They call me Mr. Tibbs” scene from the movie “In The Heat Of The Night,” two piercing questions are asked: “My God what kind of people are you? What kind of place is this?”

Those questions roil through my heart everyday.

Part of me wonders if America is experiencing its own internal D-Day.

Will we implode because our hearts have been misguided and overtaken by disrespect, fear, greed, hate, incivility, revenge and selfishness?

H.L. Mencken wrote: “The men the American people admire most extravagantly are the most daring liars; the men they detest most violently are those who try to tell the truth.”

America, what kind of people are we, what kind of place is this?

Bill Pike.

Henrico.

Author’s note: This letter was published in the Thursday, March 20 on-line edition of the Richmond Times-Dispatch. The letter started as an 800 word op-ed piece. The editors declined the op-ed, but wondered if I could cut 500 words and make it into a 300 word letter. Somehow, I trimmed 500 words. If by chance the letter resonates with you, please share it. Thanks for your reading time be safe, Bill Pike

Marathon Key Day Eleven: Charter fishing trip with Captain Chuck

March 20, 2025 Bill Pike5 Comments

Thursday, January 30, 2025

Our goal was to leave the condo by 6:30 a.m. That would give us time to make it to the marina by 7.

We made sure we had with us the required items. Our self-checking found us to be ready.

The only hiccup we had was the news out of Washington, D. C.

Overnight, a military helicopter collided with a commercial jet liner that was in its final approach into Reagan National. Sadly, there were no survivors.

At the marina, we parked. The row of boats we saw on Wednesday afternoon were still silent. But one boat, Size Matters, is where I located Captain Chuck. He was busily preparing the boat for our trip.

Captain Chuck asked us to give him a few minutes before we boarded.

We didn’t wait long before he welcomed us aboard. The first duty was spraying down our shoes with water. Keep the deck clean.

Once this ritual was completed, we introduced ourselves. Captain Chuck gave us a quick orientation about the boat. That included where we were heading toward and what we might expect.

The chatter continued as we learned about Captain Chuck, and we shared a bit about ourselves.

We had what my Richmond friend, Jack Berry, calls a “chamber of commerce day”—perfectly pretty.

Soon, Captain Chuck had the boat emerging from its berth at the dock. We were quietly heading out of this inlet and into a broader one.

During this trip to the Keys, we had been overly focused on sunsets. This morning, we would be properly positioned to see the sun rise, and rise it did.

Sun rising Marathon Key (Photo Bill Pike)

At some point, we cleared the no wake zones, and Captain Chuck opened up the engines. Within seconds, we were scooting atop the calm surface. I wondered what the sea life below the surface thought about this roaring wakeup call.

We had one important stop to make before heading beyond the mainland—“the bait guy.”

Anchored in a small harbor, we slowly approach his location. There are two, maybe more bait wells that capture a variety of live minnows. Charter captains arrive each morning asking for their favorite live bait.

If the bait guy can meet the captain’s request, he takes his dip net, goes into the bait well, scoops out the minnows, and transfers them into the captain’s boat well.

Cash is exchanged, the bait guy wishes the captain luck, and his attention turns to the next charter captain.

Captain Chuck makes his request. The bait is handed off to him in the dip net. He stows the bait, and the bait guy hopes we have a good morning. Next Captain Chuck positions the boat to make our run out to the Gulf of Mexico.

We cross under a bridge that handles traffic on the Over Seas highway. From Miami to Key West, I’ve read there are 42 bridges.

One of the 42 bridges in the Keys (Photo Bill Pike)

Heading out to the Gulf we are able to see multiple beautiful homes on either side of the water. Within minutes, we are out in the open Gulf.

Based upon his experience, Captain Chuck knows when we arrive in good area for catching fish. He throttles back the engines, the forward motion of the boat slows. Captain Chuck begins aligning the boat over one of his favorite spots. At the precise moment, he drops the anchor.

Then, he explains the technique to use. Next, he is baiting the hooks, and preparing to hand the rods over to us.

Dan surveying the scene (Photo Bill Pike)

On the back of the boat, attached to the exterior surface, and placed just below the waterline is a rectangular shaped cage. Designed for easy access this cage holds, a “chum block.”

A chum block is a block of frozen fish pieces. As it slowly melts, fish are attracted to this ‘gourmet’ fare.

With our rods properly baited, Captain Chuck turns us loose.

I honestly don’t remember who hooked the first fish. There was a flurry of activity with each of us having our lines becoming taut. It seems as soon as Captain Chuck had removed the fish from the hook, measured its size, placed the fish in the cooler, and re-baited the hook, we had another fish on the line.

Then just as soon as this chaos started, it stopped.

Captain Chuck in the middle (Photo Bill Pike)

We pulled in the lines, and Captain Chuck repositioned the boat.

Again, Captain Chuck worked to prep our lines, and soon, we were catching fish again.

Our main catch was the Mangrove Snapper. We did manage to catch two different type of mackerel, and a couple of times the fish we caught were below the size limit, or the fish were not suitable for eating.

Captain Chuck was like an ichthyologist professor in a college lab identifying fish. No matter the fish on the end of line, Captain Chuck knew the fish on a first name basis.

Additionally, he knew if a fish posed any danger. One fish I caught, he quickly told me not to touch it. Captain Chuck told me an encounter with the fish’s fins would ruin my day.

The action slowed in this spot, and Captain Chuck pulled the anchor. He motored us quickly and skillfully to the site of an old houseboat wreck.

Once we arrived, Captain Chuck set the anchor, and baited our lines. He also coached us about how to work the wreck.

Turns out this was Dan’s lucky day. Over the wreck, Dan hooked a good size black grouper.

Dan’s grouper (Photo courtesy Butch Sherrill)

Unfortunately, grouper season starts in May. So, this pretty fish was gently put back into the Gulf of Mexico by Captain Chuck. We made a few more casts, but no nibbles.

We had a good morning. Our limit had been caught. Added to that excitement, Captain Chuck shared a wide range of stories from his experiences on the water.

With the anchor up, we started back toward Marathon Key. We made one quick stop at a bait trap that Captain Chuck maintains. With interest, we watched him pull up the trap, and carefully harvest the bait for his next charter.

The ride back to the inlet was just as pretty as the ride out to the Gulf of Mexico. Out on the water, we could see waterfront homes that might go undetected on a leisurely drive through a neighborhood.

Once the boat was snug in its berth, Captain Chuck gathered the fish from the cooler. He displayed them for photos, and then Captain Chuck put his filet knife to good use.

As we watched him work his magic, another boat owner appeared. This guy was a talker.

We heard about his experiences as a commercial pilot, and his tales as a dedicated fisherman. He talked with Captain Chuck about an upcoming fishing trip. I sensed we were listening with a grain of salt.

The brown pelicans had been keeping an expectant eye on Captain Chuck. I’m sure the pellies were having the same internal, self-talk— ‘I hope this Captain will share some of those non-filet scraps with us.’

The pellies were lucky. Captain Chuck made sure all the scraps hit the water. There was quite a pelican scrum in jockeying for those pieces.

Soon, the filets were ready. Captain Chuck iced them down, and we paid him for the trip and the memories.

We wished him luck with the remaining snowbird months and the upcoming grouper season. Captain Chuck told us when the grouper season is completed, he heads to Alaska to Captain fishing trips in that stunning environment.

On the drive back to Tranquility Bay, we chatted about this chapter of our trip.

Once inside the condo, we proudly showed our bosses the bag of filets caught from our morning of grueling work out in a harsh and hostile environment. These are smart ladies. They didn’t buy any of that fish baloney.

Butch took the lead in figuring out how many filets he would prepare for our dinner that night.

With the remaining filets, we opted to give them to Tranquility Bay’s support staff. I walked the bag over to the office, explained our intent, and the filets were graciously accepted.

Nothing like fresh fish for dinner. Butch seasoned and cooked the filets to perfection. The side dishes were a hit too.

Before dinner, I started my sad prep for Friday. On Friday, we would be working our way back to the Miami airport. There we would board our flights to return us to our homes and the reality of more winter.

If you have been reading this blog for the last ten days, you know I’m at best a mediocre fisherman.

Do I want to catch fish? Yes.

But, I have concluded, it is more about the opportunity to be outside in an environment that is different from home.

An environment where the solitude of the morning will overtake me in its beauty, a beauty that is different with the breaking of each new dawn.

That beauty can be seen in the shades of color as the morning rises up out of an eastern sky.

Its about the timing of the right moment to see a line of pelicans as they gracefully skim inches above the crest of a wave.

And it is appreciating stillness as a shorebird in the shallows silently stalks for minnows.

And, it is the wonder of the backlog of stories that give me the opportunity to daydream like a child staring off into the sparkling soul of seawater.

Maybe, it isn’t about the fish that are never caught.

Maybe, it is about appreciating the beauty of a weary and worn world that still has its heartbeat. A heartbeat that needs us to see it, hear it, feel it, protect it, and love it.

Oh how this world needs to be loved.

Hey God, are you a Democrat or a Republican?

March 17, 2025 Bill Pike2 Comments

Hey God, I hope you are having a good day in the blue yonder.

As an all knowing religious leader, maybe your angel advisors have tried to keep from you that America is in turmoil.

While Americans might not want to admit it, I suspect that you know America has been heading toward upheaval for decades.

Quick to blame our political parties and their leaders for our shortcomings, rarely do we point the finger of blame back at ourselves.

Every four years, we have a presidential election.

Those elections have become flip flop events.

A newly elected Democratic president might change things championed by the preceding Republican president.

It works the other way too.

This flip flop leadership is disturbing. The common good of the people is jeopardized.

I don’t understand why our leaders take pride in these disruptive revengeful reversals.

Your son, Jesus, was quite the teacher. He was adept in using parables to teach and reteach us that we must love our neighbors.

At this moment in my life, I have a failing grade in loving my neighbors.

I don’t understand how my Republican friends can support our current president.

Those same Republican friends wonder why I’m unsupportive of their president.

So, God, I’m wondering are you a Democrat or a Republican?

Who do you support in this turmoil?

Before you answer, ponder this.

In our Pledge of Allegiance to America’s flag we purport the following beliefs: “one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”

Right now, I don’t sense those words are true to our souls.

If your angels reported the latest data on religion in America from the Pew Research Center, you know we are more likely to be “religiously unaffiliated” than “one nation under God.”

You also know, we are a divided country.

And as for liberty and justice for all, ‘all’ keeps losing ground.

I repeatedly ask myself— where is the middle?

Where are those commonalities for working together?

God, I’m sure you remember Barbara Bush, maybe you see her everyday up there.

I wonder does Mrs. Bush ever bring up her wise quote: “I hate the fact that people think ‘compromise’ is a dirty word.”

When she hovers near you, does Mrs. Bush ever say: “Hey God, could you remind America about my quote?”

Regrettably, we put more energy into undermining each other instead of finding the means to work together.

I’m no theologian, but I’m curious about how these words from the Bible apply to our judgment: “The Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.”

What do you see in our hearts now?

Do you see hearts that have been misguided and overtaken by disrespect, fear, greed, hate, incivility, revenge, and selfishness?

With all the chaos in the world, I doubt if you have much quiet time for reading.

But, you might want to read—When The Sea Came Alive An Oral History Of D-Day by Garrett M. Graff. Your name appears in the book quite a bit.

In the Epilogue, I read this quote from Private Maynard Marquis: “It’s too bad we have to have wars, but I think we always will. People never change. Only the weapons change.”

Private Marquis was correct. We are stubbornly resistant to change.

As far as warfare weapons, the internet has become a psychological one.

I’m sorry God, but I owe you an apology. It is unfair of me to ask if you are a Democrat or Republican.

Everyday, people ask you heartbreaking questions—why is my grandchild battling cancer, why is my son an opioid addict, why did another Veteran die from death by suicide, why did we lose our daughter in a senseless school shooting?

Respectfully, with regard to questions, your plate is full.

However, Americans must be asking insightful, probing questions of ourselves.

In the famous “They call me Mr. Tibbs” scene from the movie In The Heat Of The Night, two piercing questions are asked: “My God what kind of people are you? What kind of place is this?”

God as you look down upon America, are those two questions roiling through your heart like they are mine?

Part of me wonders is America facing its own internal D-Day?

Will our longstanding stubborn neglect related to national debt, safety, mental health, housing, and the erosion of our families implode us?

H.L. Mencken once wrote: “The men the American people admire most extravagantly are the most daring liars; the men they detest most violently are those who try to tell the truth.”

America, what kind of people are we, what kind of place is this?

Americans, this is urgent. Our hearts must answer.

Marathon Key Day Ten: lazy

March 15, 2025 Bill PikeLeave a comment

Wednesday, January 29, 2025

With my out of state fishing license expired, I didn’t go fishing this morning. My chances of being caught by a game warden from the state of Florida were probably slim. But why should I add to the glee of the fish? In my seven days of casting, I’m sure the fish were proud of shutting me out.

Actually, I’m fine with the shutout.

I’m 1,052 driving miles away from Richmond, Virginia. It’s January. It’s winter. It’s cold.

Out the back door of the condo at Tranquility Bay, I can walk less than a hundred steps, and in a blink, I’m casting a line into an isolated bight of the shoreline fed by clear water from the Gulf of Mexico. Those early morning scenes will stay with me forever, and they will push me through the remaining winter when I get back home.

So, I opted to go for a run. When I departed the condo, the temperature was 63 degrees. Back home in Richmond, the thermometer was 33 degrees.

This morning I was running north on the left side facing traffic along the Overseas Highway. I hoped to run to Sombrero Beach.

Lots of traffic on both sides of the highway this morning.

I was clipping along well. I came to the cross walk for a right turn to head toward Sombrero Beach.

With one push of a button, I was able to stop traffic on both sides of the highway. I ran across staying within the lines of the crosswalk.

Safely on the the other side, I was getting ready to cross a side entrance that feeds into the Publix parking lot. A driver in a rush was approaching this crosswalk. I sensed the driver was not going to stop, so I stopped.

When the driver realized I had stopped, she stopped. With a touch of aggravation, I motioned for her to keep moving.

I’m reminded of Rodney Dangerfield—I tell you pedestrians get no respect. I don’t know if this is because drivers don’t know that pedestrians have the right away, or if drivers selfishly don’t care, and they keep moving.

Anyway, I noticed something nice the further my old body moved me away from the highway— it became quiet.

The roar of the wheels on the always burdened asphalt disappeared. I could hear birds chirping and singing. This was a very pleasant contrast to the hustle on the Overseas Highway.

As I moved along Sombrero Beach Road, I gradually came to a well designed public education complex for the middle and high schools in Marathon Keys.

These two campuses were about to come alive with the school day beginning.

At that point, my old body told my brain, we’re not taking Baloney Bill to Sombrero Beach this morning. With that internal memo, I ran just past the school complex. I turned around and headed back toward Tranquility Bay. When I arrived at the condo, I stopped my watch. It read 56:24.

Wednesday was to be a quiet day for us. No sightseeing, just an easy pace.

Later that morning Betsy, Butch, and I walked to the 1.5 mile spot on the Seven Mile Bridge. Lots of people were in motion in both directions. The water no matter where we looked was pretty.

I wish I had brought my binoculars with me to the bridge. Off the right side, we could seen a large sand bar. In the shallows of that bar was a boat with a fisherman on it. I wanted the binoculars to see how he was doing.

For lunch today, we opted to check out Tranquility Bay’s Tiki Bar. This pretty day was perfect for lunch under an umbrella. I enjoyed a delicious Caribbean Salad.

Laziness ruled the afternoon. But at some point, Butch, Dan, and I decided to locate the marina where we would be meeting Captain Chuck for our fishing charter on Thursday morning.

Once off the Overseas Highway, it took us a few minutes to locate the side street where the marina was located.

Eventually, we found this finger like inlet of water. Tucked under a protected roofline that resemble a long shed was a row of silent boats.

Inside of me was a shiver of excitement. I was like a little kid anticipating Thursday morning and our half day fishing charter. Hopefully, the knowledge and skills of Captain Chuck would bring us better luck than I had fishing in the surf.

Before we knew it, we were heading out for dinner.

Tonight, we opted for the Island Fish Company. This sprawling water front restaurant was busy. We waited a bit to be seated, but the restaurant was a good choice.

After dinner, we played another challenging round of charades from the creative mind of Marian. She has a way of pushing our brain cells to be imaginative and inventive.

When charades had worn us down, we had some final chatter about the fishing charter, and there was also the dreaded yapping—preparing to fly back home on Friday.

Sweet fishing dreams.

Day nine Marathon Key: Tom Thumb, Sombrero Beach, smart fish, Sunset Grille

March 11, 2025 Bill Pike2 Comments

Let’s get the predictable part of my early morning routine in Marathon Key out of the way.

Yes, I fished out front.

Yes, my incompetent skills as a fisherman continue to make headlines in The Fish Daily Times News: Local fish continue to elude angler from Virginia.

Seemed as if we had a slow start to Tuesday morning. Maybe, our Monday spent in Key West required some sleeping in today.

Ever since the drive from the Miami airport, I’ve been curious about a convenience store that we kept seeing. The store like 7-11 is named Tom Thumb.

Directly across from the entrance of Tranquility Bay sat a Tom Thumb. This morning, I made a decision that I was going to cross the always busy Overseas Highway and check out the store.

No one offered to tag along with me, so I made the short walk to the highway. Interestingly, as I was just getting ready to study the traffic, a guest from Tranquility Bay was returning from Tom Thumb. He knew what I was getting ready to do, and he said good luck.

If you’ve ever watched the movie Bowfinger, starring Steve Martin and Eddie Murphy, you might remember that harrowing scene where Eddie Murphy’s character crosses a Los Angeles Freeway on foot. I wasn’t crossing a freeway, but the volume of traffic on the Overseas Highway meant I needed to be very alert.

I safely made the crossing each way.

Simply, Tom Thumb is a convenience store. It has similarities and differences in their set up like any convenience store you have entered.

As a curious tourist, I felt obligated to make a purchase. For our wives, chocolate is always a winner, so I picked out an assortment of chocolate candies.

On the day, I stopped at the bait shop and bought shrimp for fishing, I asked the clerk about a good spot to fish. He recommended Sombrero Beach. In our travels on the Overseas Highway, we had seen the signage for the beach.

This morning, Betsy, Butch, Dan, and I made the drive to Sombrero Beach. We loaded up the car with our beach stuff, and Dan brought his snorkeling gear.

We simply followed the signage, and made the turn on to Sombrero Beach Road. I think we were pleasantly surprised when we arrived at the beach.

According to the Parks and Recreation website for Marathon Key, in 2001, the city renovated this beach front. It now features full handicap access, picnic pavilions, restrooms, showers, a volleyball court, and even a fishing pier.

Additionally, from April through October, this beach positioned on the Atlantic Ocean is a nesting site for Loggerhead Turtles. The city carefully monitors turtle nesting activities, and residents can be trained to become a turtle surveyor.

As soon as we parked, unloaded, and walked on to the beach, we were impressed. It is a gem. While not a large parcel of beach front, the white sand, the views, and the shades of color in the water caught our attention.

We found a place to drop our belongings, and we started our recon walk. I know I’m being repetitive, but this is a special place. The city has done a nice job in maintaining everything associated with the beach.

I enjoyed walking the area. I was intrigued by the exposed limestone bedrock in a couple of places. Apparently, the coral reefs off of Sombrero Beach make for gentle waves rolling into the shoreline.

My three pals were braver than I was about checking out the water. Dan put on his snorkeling gear and did some exploring. I sensed he enjoyed the exercise, but I don’t think he came across any sea life.

After an enjoyable visit, we gathered our belongings and made the drive back to Tranquility Bay.

Once there, I rechecked my fishing license. I thought it expired on January 29, but it actually expired today.

So, my goal for the afternoon was to return to Sombrero Beach to fish. In my walk around this morning, it looked to be an ideal location for an unlucky fisherman like myself to possibly find some luck.

After nibbling on something for lunch, I got organized. I had both fishing rods, a glove, scissor forceps, hat, and sunglasses. Exposed parts of my old carcass were covered in sunscreen, and I had my license in a plastic pouch in my shirt pocket.

Dan and Judy drove me over to Sombrero. Dan helped me to get settled on a ledge of exposed limestone. Then I realized I had left the shrimp bait back at the condo. Kind friends that they are, Dan and Judy drove back to the condo to retrieve it.

There was a younger guy to my left trying his luck. Several yards to my right was the public fishing pier.

I was going to cast into Sister Creek. It was fed by the ocean. The water was pretty and clear.

I made sure to manage my footing. If I stumbled, I knew the exposed limestone would be waiting to injure me.

Pretty limestone formation (Photo Bill Pike)

My casts were long and true with the lure. I wanted to make sure that I didn’t get hung up on any limestone rocks in the shallows.

I varied the direction of my casts each time. I kept an eye on the young man to my left. It didn’t appear that he was having any luck.

Dan returned with the bait. He had a work call coming in so he hustled back to the car.

As I was reeling in a cast, a fish hit the lure hard. That bite surprised me, and I could not react quick enough to set the hook. The distressed fish wiggled off the line.

That one hit gave me the first hope I’d had all week. I kept casting. I was getting good distance on each cast.

Once again, I had another strong hit on the lure. The fish, maybe the same one was swifter than my tardy reaction time. I missed setting the hook again.

A bit peeved at myself, I opted to switch rods and try the shrimp bait. The casts with the bait might have been shorter, but I knew the baited line had landed properly on the bottom.

I let the bait sit for several minutes. Then, I’d reel in to make sure the bait was still on the hook.

A few times, I could feel a slight twitch on the line. Felt like a small fish or a crab nibbling at the bait. But, I could never get a fish to fully take the bait.

Just shy of 4 p.m. I was ready to call it quits. I gently tossed the unused shrimp into the water. Dan helped me to collect my gear.

I had fun fishing in a pretty place. And part of my self-talk told me that I should have fished at at Sombrero Beach more. I think I would have caught a fish.

Back at the condo, we were getting ready to have dinner at the Sunset Grille and Raw Bar. The restaurant sits at the base of the Seven Mile Bridge.

We left in time to wrangle a water side table. That way, we would enjoy a good view of the sunset.

Pals (Photo taken by the waitress on someone’s phone)

We had a delightful waitress, and the sunset did not disappoint us.

The sun settling in for the night (Photo Bill Pike)

Once we were back at Tranquility Bay, Marian had another round of charades planned out for us. After maxing out our creative brain cells, Dan had the movie, You Hurt My Feelings, ready for us to watch.

We had another busy day in Marathon Key.

The highlight for me was Sombrero Beach.

I’m thankful for the leadership in Marathon Key who believed that Sombrero Beach had potential. Clearly, their plan has made the beach a good place to visit for their residents and tourists.

And though my Richmond friend, Rohn Price, will be disappointed that a couple of fish eluded me at Sombrero Beach, my old brain will never forget the priceless beauty of casting from that shoreline.

I hope Sombrero Beach will continue to provide opportunities for people to enjoy its beauty.

And I also hope the leaders in Marathon Key will always maintain and upgrade as needed this very nice beach.

And I’ll throw one more out there. I hope we, the users of Sombrero Beach will cherish and care for this little bit of paradise for a long, long time.