might be baloney

Day One: San Francisco

May 22, 2025 Bill Pike2 Comments

In the summer of 1980, I made my first trip to California. For the Commander Supreme and me that was a before kids trip.

A highlight of that trip was a drive up the coast from Los Angeles to San Francisco. My sister-in-law, Abby, was our tour guide.

Three years ago, we were all set to fly to San Francisco to attend the wedding of the Commander Supreme’s niece, Ashley. The day before we were scheduled to fly, thinking she had a sinus infection, the Commander tested positive for COVID-19.

Obviously, we canceled the trip, but the Commander was able to hang on to the flight for the future.

So on Wednesday, May 7, 2025, we boarded a Breeze Airways Airbus A-220 in Richmond and flew direct to San Francisco.

By 6:00 a.m. we were in the car and driving toward the Richmond airport.

Other than a van driver from the extended stay parking lot who didn’t know the details of his job, we had no challenges getting into the terminal.

We cleared all of the screening hurdles. Our walk to the gate was leisurely. Knowing that we would be sitting for a long time, I walked a lot in the terminal.

Eventually, the plane arrived from Charleston.

The boarding process went quickly.

The A220 seating configuration is three seats and two seats. The Commander booked us a two seat reservation with extra leg room. This arrangement was a nice surprise from the normal sardine box.

Even though, we boarded quickly, we sat too long on the tarmac before heading to the runway.

The captain of the plane told us to expect a few bumps as we settled in for the cross country flight.

Breeze is a no frills airline. No monitors on the back of the seats for watching movies. I had to hope I could download their wireless access correctly.

For now, I focused on the landscape out my window for a distraction. I love how the topography of America changes as we fly west. The hills, east coast mountains, the flat plains, the snow covered Rockies, wide sections of deserts, more hills, and finally the coastal plain heading into San Francisco.

Snow topped mountains flying west. (Photo Bill Pike)

Early in the flight, I nodded off for some nano naps. Read from Richmond editor and writer, Tom Allen’s second book—“Roll With It: encountering grace, grins, gridlock, and God in everyday life.” After a few chapters of Tom’s book, I switched over to Tristan Gooley’s The Secret World Of Weather: How to Read Signs in Every Cloud, Breeze, Hill, Street, Plant, Animal, and Dewdrop (Natural Navigation).

At some point, I opened up my laptop computer and started to write. For a long stretch, this was a good distraction.

The bumps, the turbulence on the flight were minimal.

Gradually, the plane slowed. We were notified that our descent into San Francisco had started.

I made sure everything was securely in my backpack. Then, I was glued to my window tracking the landscape changes.

The plane made a graceful landing. We departed the plane easily. The next hurdle was finding our way in the pretty San Francisco airport.

With adequate signage guiding us, we exited the terminal to a line of taxis. We were assigned to the first taxi in line. The driver helped us with our luggage, the Commander gave him the hotel’s address, off we went.

Our driver was very good. He skillfully maneuvered us through traffic, patiently answered questions, and never appeared rattled by wacky moves from other drivers.

He even explained Waymo to us. Waymo is the driverless Google car.

Our frequently spotted Waymo (Photo Bill Pike)

At the Alton Hotel, the driver dropped us in the perfect spot, helped with our bags, and we wished him the best.

The Commander’s detailed planning made for a seamless checkin and a surprise room upgrade.

We settled quickly into our and room, and promptly left heading to the In and Out Burger a block away from the hotel.

Until Saturday morning The Alton would be our home. Located in the Fisherman’s Wharf area of the city, the hotel still had a new construction feel to it.

We arrived just in time at In and Out. By minutes, we beat the daily lunch hour surge. The In and Out chain is a West Coast staple. If you’ve never had one of their burgers, don’t turn it down.

As soon as we finished our burgers, we hit the pavement.

One thing you quickly learn about San Francisco is the terrain. Maybe the reason Tony Bennett “left his heart in San Francisco” is that it died walking up one of its hills.

The contrast from the relative flatness at Fisherman’s Wharf to the extreme steepness of the hills on either end of Lombard Street is significant.

Our first stop was the Coit Tower. The tower sits on the top of Telegraph Hill.

The walk up to the tower is a heart thumper. But the vistas from the park at the top, and the views at the tip of the tower are worth it.

Coit Tower was built from 1932-33. It has 234 steps to the top. The tower is also graced with fresco murals.

From Coit Tower, we walked back toward Lombard Street. To get to the other end of Lombard Street requires another steep decent and climb.

This side of Lombard Street is known as the “Crookedest Street In The World.” It is interesting to watch cars handle the sharp turns along the well maintained lawns and gardens.

A car heading down Lombard (Photo Bill Pike)

We shifted our walk into the North Beach neighborhood. Here a mix of houses and business caught our attention. Pretty cathedrals against a blue sky backdrop were hard to miss.

Even on the first day of vacation, I could not resist going into Cole Hardware. Founded in the 1920s, the store and its contents are very appealing. Maybe this motto explains the sustained success of the store: “There are no strangers here, just friends we haven’t met.” The store even has a cooler of pies from The Pie Company based out of Ripon, California.

Next, we worked our way to the famous City Lights Bookstore. Founded in 1953 by poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Peter D. Martin, this is one of those special independent bookstores that has managed to beat the odds. If you love books, you must stop.

Then, we took a brief walk on the fringes of Chinatown. Lots of shop owner energy was present among the diverse merchandise with customers haggling for the best price. ‘

As we started our walk back to the hotel, Italian food shops tempted us with their aromas and displays, but we kept moving.

At the hotel, we collapsed, but made sure we were up and heading toward the free happy hour in the lobby at five. A nice glass of wine for the Commander and a California Blonde Ale from the Eel River Brewing Company for me helped to bring our busy day to a close.

For dinner, we made the short walk from the hotel to Cioppinos, an Italian restaurant. The food and the service were good.

After our filling dinner, we were really ready to collapse. The Commander’s “fit bit” had us over eight miles with most of those steps recorded during our afternoon trek.

At the end of the day, I’m remembering the architecture as our taxi driver drove us further into the city. No part of a plot of land is wasted. Homes and businesses are stacked up on every hillside throughout the city.

We saw lots of pretty gardens and shrubs along the way. Blooms of all shapes, sizes, and colors added to the charm and character of the neighborhoods.

At the end of our first day, I’m thankful for my Commander Supreme. If the remainder of the trip is as good as the first afternoon, then we’re going to be remembering this trek for a long, long time.

A tour of Alcatraz awaits us on Thursday.

Ants, Car Creatures, Compressors, Peeps, Termites

May 11, 2025 Bill Pike2 Comments

I think some days that God is out to get me.

During Holy Week at our church, for some unknown reason, termites decided to erupt out of the wooden baseboard in the Forest Avenue foyer of the Sanctuary.

Our head building caretaker had been spiffing up the old black and white tile floor when he noticed my new best friends.

Sure enough, the termites had staged quite an invasion. They were curiously crawling around and inspecting these unfamiliar surfaces.

Maybe they were communicating to themselves, “Hey, where did the soft wood go, how did we end up here, we’re usually crunching wood in the dark, where did this light come from, who is this old guy holding a spay bottle?

Down on my knees, I probed deeper. Sometimes when we probe deeper into the outer layers more challenges are revealed. As I gently pried off the first piece of stained wood, I quickly saw that the next piece of trim work had been decimated by the termites.

No telling how long they had been silently chomping on the wood.

With a touch of agitation, I grabbed the spray bottle of Windex with ammonia in it. I started spraying. A long time ago, an exterminator told me that Windex with ammonia can temporarily help in eliminating creatures that show up at the wrong time.

I made the call to the company who has our termite contract. One of their technicians would stop by early on Thursday morning.

Not long after that encounter, a church member told me she forgot to tell me that ants had been sighted by one of the windows in the nursery on Sunday.

Sure enough, the ants were all over the window ledge and the HVAC register.

Once again, the ants met Windex.

Maybe in their defense, the ants were responding to the disruption they had experienced during our summer of 2024 building renovation project. That extensive project had peeled back all layers in one section of our building. I’m sure we intruded into the ants’ space.

Perhaps, the ants were seeking revenge. My guess is they were on a secret mission. The ants were working their way to the office of our Kids Director, Jen Williams, and her stash of Peeps. The ants were planning to disrupt Easter.

Again, I made a call to our pest control company, and our reliable technician was scheduled to visit the ants on Friday.

In the interim, I spent time cleaning up the ant massacre. I’d learn from past encounters its about eliminating access. I found no evidence of intrusion from the outside, so I concentrated on caulking up any openings and seams around the window trim and the HVAC unit.

Early on Thursday morning, I met the termite technician. He confirmed that the visitors were termites, not flying ants. For a few minutes, he share his options for treating the damaged area. For sure, he would treat the visible wood, but he also wanted to get inside the plaster wall above the trim work.

With this, we agreed on him drilling three small holes into the plaster. This gave access for treating the inside of the wall area. In turn, I agreed to patch the three holes.

Later on Thursday afternoon, I was able to get the damaged baseboard presentable for Easter.

Over in the nursery, the caulk work from Wednesday afternoon worked. No ants were scurrying around the window or the HVAC unit.

Easter Sunday was a pretty, warm day in Richmond. We had made the switch over to the summer season with the HVAC systems in the older sections of the building. Initially, these chillers with their compressors, pumps, and air handlers fired up properly.

While that initial start up had gone well on Thursday afternoon, that wasn’t the case on Sunday morning. The chiller for the Trinity Hall wing of the building was a bad bunny. The chiller despite prompting would not fire up.

Luckily, no one croaked from heat stroke in that section of the building on Sunday. However, the news wasn’t good when the unit was checked out by our HVAC service company the following week. One of the compressors for that chiller decided—“I’m done, I’m not working another Richmond summer, find another compressor to battle that heat and humidity.”

Now, our Trustees are reviewing a quote for replacing the uncooperative compressor. The cost is not pretty.

On Friday, May 2, the call came on my cell phone at 9:28 a.m.

Our youngest daughter, Elizabeth, had started her drive to Richmond from Raleigh. She was coming to attend a dance recital for two of our granddaughters on Saturday afternoon.

But this call wasn’t about how much napping I would do during the recital. No there was a sense of urgency. I could hear concern in Elizabeth’s voice.

She explained there was a noise coming from the dashboard of her car. The noise reminded her of the type of the scratching sounds that an agitated squirrel or mouse make when they are trapped inside the wall of a house.

Elizabeth was convinced that some crazed furry creature was going to explode through the dashboard or floorboard of the car as she sped up the interstate.

When I finally was able to settle her down, we walked through a series of unscientific tests. No creature exploded out from under the hood, nor from the dashboard.

At the gas station where Elizabeth had pulled over, a nice man noticed the raised hood. Clearly, he saw this young lady going through a sequence of unusual maneuvers while holding a cell phone. Possibly, he thought she was about to lose one or all of her marbles by the actions he saw.

He decide to investigate. With me listening in on the phone, he asked if she needed help?

Calmly, Elizabeth told him about the noise and what she was attempting to do.

Upon hearing her concerns, this kind stranger suggested that leaf debris might be in her ventilation system. He talked about the “squirrel cage” for this system and how debris can become trapped and blown around.

For now, that explanation made sense.

Elizabeth thanked him for his willingness to help. She continued her drive toward Richmond.

Later on Friday afternoon, we had a father-daughter bonding session.

First, we removed all tree debris from the windshield wiper area of the car and under the hood too.

Then, per the advice of the helpful stranger, we went inside the glove box of the car to remove the air filter for the car’s HVAC system. Yes, the filter for the HVAC system is located behind the glove box.

Despite watching helpful Youtube videos on how to access the filter, this work was not profanity free.

But inside the filter and the surrounding area, we did find leaf debris particles that could have been the noisy culprit.

During this endeavor, I did as all fathers are supposed to do. I put my hand into the cylinder for the vent, and I let out a scream. A scream that conveyed a furry creature had my hand.

Of course, this tactic worked. Elizabeth’s was initially quite startled, but not impressed with her immature father.

Elizabeth led the way in getting the filter and glove box back into the proper positions. Remarkably, we didn’t break anything.

Usually, situations with ants, termites, compressors, and car creatures can be remedied. However, that is not always the case for human beings.

Right now, despite fighting with all of their strength, and the best efforts of oncologists, someone within this hour is going to lose their battle with cancer.

Today, a darkness so deep and desperate will push a person to die by suicide.

With the end of another school year in sight, a single parent with three elementary age children wonders how they will survive the summer. Her concerns are based on the gutting of funding from leaders in Washington who have no clue about the reality of real American life.

Easter is over.

For me, Easter, despite its resurrection ending, is a difficult story.

Life is a difficult story too. Disruptive challenges are always, always part of that difficulty.

But with Easter, I always come back to Thomas. That’s right Thomas.

I identify with Thomas because he is honest. Like me he doubts. He doubted that Jesus had appeared before the disciples after his death.

Thomas wanted proof.

He wanted to see the wounds Jesus had suffered during his crucifixion.

How do we confront our doubts during life’s challenging moments?

Maybe, the key is to always hold on to hope.

Even when we doubt, and our faith is fading, we must not let go of hope.

And here’s why— Romans Chapter Five verses three and four: “because we know that suffering produces perseverance; 4 perseverance, character; and character, hope.”

Remember in the post Easter story, someone you encounter needs your perseverance, your character, and your hope.

Doesn’t matter if this person is confronting ants, compressors, car critters, termites, or the true reality of real life— someone needs hope.

On those bad days in an old church building when I’m convinced that God is out to get me, maybe he’s simply reminding me, “Hey knucklehead, someone you encounter today needs to hear that hope from Romans. Don’t let them down.”

Peeps saved from the ants. (Photo Bill Pike)

Marathon Key Day 12: Goodbye

May 5, 2025 Bill PikeLeave a comment

On Friday, January 31, 2025 at 5:51 a.m. the temperature was 72 degrees. Humidity was 82%. Wind was out of the southeast at 10 miles per hour. Visibility in Marathon Key, Florida was 10 miles.

Of course, the last day of your trip, when you’re packed up, and ready to fly back home is always the prettiest.

Our last morning in Marathon Key (Photo Bill Pike)

With a late afternoon flight out of Miami to take us back to our Middle Atlantic homes and more winter, I opted to take one more run. I knew it would be months before I could take a run wearing shorts and t-shirt.

Most of the packing took place on Thursday afternoon. I had a few details to finish up, but there was time for the run.

I ran toward the Seven Mile Bridge, a bridge that none of us will forget. That bridge takes travelers further south to the next set of Keys, but more importantly, the bridge gives visitors multiple opportunities to see the water and the land from a variety angles.

The Overseas Highway on my left was already awake. Traffic moved in all directions. I don’t think this highway has many quiet moments.

Restaurants were in the final stage of prep for customers who needed a jolt of coffee or breakfast.

As I made my way out to the bridge, I encountered a few other early risers. Some were walking, biking, or puttering along in their running shoes.

The views from the bridge were just as expected— pretty.

Yet in nature’s appealing charms, I had a bit of sadness—my next run in Richmond would not have these views. And that’s ok. That’s what memories and photos do for you.

They allow you to hold on to the past. If I’m still vertical in ten years, I could look back at a photo and say, “ah the magnificent Seven Mile Bridge, that was a fun run out to the bridge and back.”

When I returned to the condo at Tranquility Bay, my pals were in a subdued motion. They knew we were heading home.

Seems that by ten we had cleared the checkout hurdles.

Next, all that luggage and our creaky bodies were crammed back into the SUV.

At some point on Thursday evening, I whined. I realized that we hadn’t visited any of the local craft beer breweries.

But my patient and accommodating pals, said not to worry. We could make a stop in Islamorada at the Florida Keys Brewing Company, and we did.

This colorfully bright brewery sits on the Old Highway that runs parallel to the Overseas Highway. But the brewery’s property also intersects with the Morada Way Arts and Cultural District. This is an eclectic mix of local shops and galleries.

At the brewery, Dan, Butch, and I ordered a flight of beers. We found a table out in the beer garden and sampled the well made beers from The Florida Keys Brewing Company.

Soon our wives joined us from their exploring of the Morada Way shops, and then we scrunching ourselves back into the SUV.

We opted to have lunch at the High Tide. This was restaurant in Key Largo where our adventure started on January 20.

A good lunch time crowd was in place, but the staff squeezed us into the same table for six where we sat during our first visit. Again, the accommodating staff, and the homemade meals hit the spot.

Back in the car, we continued our trek north. The scenic landscapes of the Keys gradually disappeared. Miami and its sprawl were soon upon us. Dan and Butch continued to drive and navigate us toward the airport.

Like the pilot that he is, Dan navigated us into the chaos of the twists and turns of airport traffic. He nudged us into a good spot to unload. We pried ourselves and the luggage out.

This time, we opted to work with a sky cap who managed getting our luggage tagged and on its way to our airlines.

Now, our attention shifted to navigating the terminal. We wove our way through the wide hallways. Other tourists like us were doing the same thing. Gradually, we arrived at our departure sites.

Fortunately for us, goodbyes with this group of friends is really never goodbye. For the remainder of the afternoon and late into the evening, we would track our returns to Maryland, North Carolina, and Virginia.

Somewhere in that tracking, I marvel at these friendships. Friendships that date back to the fall of 1971 at an unlikely starting point Greensboro College.

The Callows and Sherrills had earlier departure times.

It was almost midnight when our plane landed in Richmond. Raindrops covered my window as I looked out at the lights reflecting on the rain slick runway leading to the terminal.

Landed in a rainy Richmond (Photo Bill Pike)

Grabbing our luggage, locating the shuttle to our parking space, and driving home were ahead of us.

At many points during our two weeks in the Keys, I had multiple self-talk reminders: “My gosh are you lucky. Lucky to be able to take a trip like this with a wife who still tolerates your imperfections, and friends from college who also still endure your imperfections.”

Earlier in the afternoon as we maneuvered through the Miami airport, I saw the words: “Peace and Love” displayed on a large wall.

Words for pondering and action Miami Airport (Photo Bill Pike)

I wonder how many people pass by those words everyday?

Sadly, no matter how hard people around the world attempt to embrace “peace and love,” we are unable to fully commit ourselves to make this a reality.

I hope someday we will wise up and let “peace and love” lead our hearts for the good of all.

Kindness in Summerfield

May 1, 2025 Bill PikeLeave a comment

During the last week of March, my wife and I had the privilege to be in Summerfield for a few days. Our son-in-law was traveling for work. Our daughter needed an extra set of hands in helping out with the grandkids.

From the day we arrived until our departure, we were busy. No matter if it was chauffeuring to an activity or completing a chore, it seemed like the checklists never ended.

Late on Tuesday afternoon, I was finishing some yard work. Our daughter had reminded me that the trash and recycling bins needed to be out early on Wednesday morning.

I looked next door and noted that the elderly neighbor already had her bins out. As I looked closer, I saw on top of each bin, she had placed a sports energy drink. Those drinks were for the drivers of the collection trucks.

On Wednesday morning each driver made the stop and collected his drink. After the bins had been emptied, the drivers also responded as good neighbors. Each wheeled the respective bins back into a designated spot in the driveway.

In a divided America, where the dismantling of our country makes headlines everyday, I found hope in the kindness from the neighbor and the two drivers. No matter how weary the Washington decisions might make us feel, it is good to know that our hearts are still capable of being compassionate in assisting each other.

Kindness in Summerfield (Photo Bill Pike)

They served America: Hill, Feinstein, McWilliams, and Love

April 28, 2025 Bill Pike4 Comments

At first glance Hill, Feinstein, McWilliams, and Love sounds like a group of lawyers, accountants, or doctors. But, they aren’t.

No, these people impacted America. In their own unique way, they gave us their hearts. Recently and sadly, their time on earth ran out.

Clint Hill was a Secret Service agent. At the age of 31, Mr. Hill was the agent who jumped on to the back of the presidential limousine when President Kennedy was assassinated on November 22, 1963. When this occurred, I was in the fifth grade at Hillcrest Elementary School in Burlington, North Carolina. Our teacher, Mrs. Cline, was in tears.

I never knew the guilt that Agent Hill carried with him after this murder. For years, he blamed himself for not being able to react in time to save the President. Though some believe he saved the President’s wife as she attempted to help her fallen husband.

That turmoil in Dallas shadowed Agent Hill as he continued to serve three more presidents. He attempted to wash that torment away with alcohol. In 1975, Agent Hill retired from the Secret Service, and a doctor warned him, “if he didn’t stop this self-destructive behavior, he would die.”(The Week)

In the 1980s, he was able to give up alcohol.

Surprisingly, Agent Hill in 1990 made a return trip to Dallas. He visited the site of that horrible November afternoon. Perhaps, the passing of time, or the wisdom of a different angle “convinced him that he couldn’t have done anything to prevent the tragic outcome.” (The Week)

In 2024, Agent Hill was asked by an interviewer how he wanted to be remembered. He replied, “Two words, I tried.” (The Week)

John Feinstein was a gifted writer. He found success in writing about sports. Mr. Feinstein was a sports reporter for the Washington Post and the author of over forty books. Additionally, his skills as a writer allowed him to write sports novels geared for a younger audience.

In my random collection of books, I have four written by Mr. Feinstein: Forever’s Team, A Season On The Brink, A March To Madness, and A Civil War.

His gifts went beyond the printed word as he was a commentator for college basketball and football games, an adjunct professor at Duke, his alma mater, and this year, a writer-in-residence at Longwood University in Virginia.

Some might view Mr. Feinstein as a nuisance. Yet, at the heart of his work was a drive and determination to find and capture the truth in the people and topics he covered.

I think this quote from a NPR report about Mr. Feinstein captures his passion.

Barry Svrluga, a Washington Post columnist who said he took Feinstein’s sports journalism course as a senior at Duke, recalled the experience Thursday:

“He got whoever he could to talk to the class — Gary Williams on a game day when Maryland was in town, Billy Packer, Bud Collins. Bob Woodward called in,” Svrluga said. “And you could just tell that part of his reporting prowess — how he got into locker rooms and front offices and onto the range and in clubhouses at PGA Tour events — is because he could really develop relationships, and people just liked to talk to him. Part of that had to be because he didn’t pander. You knew exactly where he stood. And that gained respect.”

My takeaway from this remembrance is “he could really develop relationships.” No matter where we walk in our lives building relationships is critical.

Unlike Mr. Hill, Mr. Feinstein, and Miss Love, I had the privilege of knowing Jody McWilliams. He was a member of our church. And if there was one person in this world who had a clear understanding for the importance of building relationships, it was Jody McWilliams.

Mr. McWilliams understood the importance of commitment in those relationships. His commitment, his loyalty impacted his wife, their children, and their families. Those qualities applied to his service to the United States Army, the United Methodist Church, and as the Executive Director of the William Byrd Community House in the Oregon Hill neighborhood of Richmond, Virginia.

Jody McWilliams (Photo Courtesy of the McWilliams family)

For thirty three years, he served in that role, and he once told the Richmond Times-Dispatch: “We are in business to serve the working poor, people who fall through the cracks. We serve people from birth until death, from the womb to the tomb.” During his tenure, close to 4,000 people used the services available from the William Byrd Community House on an annual basis.

With three master’s degrees, Mr. McWilliams also taught at the collegiate level. There he instructed and mentored future social workers. He gave them some very wise advice as they started their careers: “Be open to learn from those you serve.”

Until I read her obituary in the April 4, 2025 edition of The Week, I knew very little about Mia Love.

Mia Love was the daughter of Haitian immigrants. In 2014, Miss Love became the first black Republican elected to serve in Congress from the state of Utah.

Mia Love (Photo courtesy of United States Congress)

In The Week’s summary of her life, several items caught my attention. She was opposed to the 2016 election of Donald Trump as President of America.

At a Republican caucus meeting, she pushed back against a member of the caucus who made unflattering remarks about Haiti. Miss Love said, “If you don’t see me as an equal, you can remove me from this conference, and if we don’t see everyone as equal under God we have a bigger problem.”

In 2022, she learned that brain cancer was raging inside of her. That cancer ended her political career.

Before her death, Miss Love wrote: “I believe the American experiment is not a setting sun, but a rising sun. We must fight to keep the America we know.”

Unless you have been able to block out the turmoil and chaos coming out of Washington, “the America we know” is under attack. Piece by piece, it is being dismantled.

This disgraceful dismantling is impacting a wide range of people in America.

As Americans, we must work to counter this dismantling. We must regain Clint Hill’s courage, reclaim our voices to question like John Feinstein, recapture the unshakeable endurance of Jody McWilliams, and recommit to fight for America like Mia Love.

And in that fight for America, we need leaders in our country to embrace Mr. McWilliams’ logic: “Be open to learn from those you serve.”

While Hill, Feinstein, McWilliams, and Love might not have been a group of lawyers, doctors, or accountants, it is clear they were a group of human beings who possessed hearts that cared and who were willing “to learn” from the people they served.

At this very moment, we can’t “pander.”

We have to do more than “try.”

We must exhaust every ounce of our strength to build the “relationships” needed to save the imperfect soul of the America that “we know.”

My friend rejection: Florida Keys, Miami, Greensboro, Charlotte, Washington, New York

April 23, 2025 Bill PikeLeave a comment

Let’s get the truthful apology out early. To my wife and family, I know I spend too much time at my laptop writing.

Whether I’m good or lousy at writing, I couldn’t tell you. At this point in my old life, the writing is more about spouting out what is in my old heart.

And that spouting is grounded in this fact, I’ll be 72 in June. I don’t have much time left to put you into nap mode with my words.

If a person writes with the goal to be published, then that person must know that rejection is part of the territory.

I try to learn from rejection.

I once took the aggravation from a rejected submission and used that frustration to create another piece that was accepted for publication.
That made me feel better.

So for this post, I’m releasing some recent rejections.

I’ll provide a footnote giving background as to why I wrote each piece.

If you choose to continue your reading, ponder this. My whining about words being rejected is nothing compared to the rejection people experience in their day to day living.

What’s remaining of my old brain can still recall those moments when I hurt people by rejecting them. If those moments are still within me, they must still be within the person I rejected. That’s not good.

In the Hulu series Only Murders In The Building, the three main characters know rejection in their lives and careers.
Their rejection experiences also equal loneliness, a quiet killer in our chaotic world.

Moving forward in what is rapidly becoming an inconsiderate world, I need to be more aware of the rejection and loneliness that are around me everyday.

My heart needs to care more.

I need be more attentive to the green wristband I wear that simply states: “Be Kind.”

Kindness can counter rejection.

That wrist band means nothing if I don’t live it.

Letter To The Editor

From January 20 – January 31, my wife and I, and two couples from our college days had the pleasure of visiting the Florida Keys. Marathon was our base.

Let’s start with the confession. Since we arrived from Maryland, North Carolina, and Virginia, I think we were responsible for the unseasonably cool, cloudy, and windy weather that annoyed the Keys for a few days.

We adapted, and fortunately, no frozen iguanas fell from a tree and clunked our noggins.

In truth, I wanted to thank the people of the Keys for their hospitality. From Key Largo to Key West, we dined, snorkeled, fished, biked, walked, jogged, and learned. No matter where we visited, the people who greeted and assisted us were patient, considerate, and knowledgeable.

I don’t think any of us were prepared for the volume of traffic that the Overseas Highway handles. This main route never rests. Vehicles of every size and shape keep moving even in the dicey sections where the throughway narrows.

In that traffic mix are school buses. As a retired public schools educator, I want to compliment the Monroe County school bus drivers. While we were in Marathon, I marveled at the skills of these drivers.

School bus drivers are required to multi-task. They monitor their priceless cargo while managing the challenges of heavy traffic and the often deficient judgment of clueless drivers.

If we have the privilege of visiting the Keys again, we’ll work not to bring winter air with us. I think the iguanas would be appreciative.

Keep up the good work.

Bill Pike
Richmond, Virginia

Submitted to the Florida Keys Weekly Newspapers 2/5/25. Two ideas, thanks for the hospitality, and many thanks to the bus drivers in this school system. They need a pat on the back.

Letter To The Editor

On Friday, January 31, 2025, I was in the Miami International Airport. I was headed home to Richmond, Virginia. My last visit to Miami was in 1978.

Over those 47 years, Miami, Florida, and America have experienced the ups and downs of change.

Knowing I had a long wait for my flight, I wanted to purchase the Friday edition of the Miami Herald.

When I entered an airport variety store, I was pleasantly surprised to find your paper in stock. In a flying trip last May, neither the Richmond nor Atlanta newspapers were available for sale in their airports.

After paying for my copy, I was shocked by the paper’s appearance. It was thin, lightweight, and totaled 24 pages.

The paper reminded me of how a friend looked after experiencing the trauma of cancer surgery and post-operative treatments.

I imagine the painful gutting of your personnel to save pennies was similar to what our journalist experienced in Richmond and hundreds of other newspapers across America.

If I return to Miami, I hope I will be able to buy a Herald.

Those 24 Pulitzers mean something.

Miami, Florida, and America need your paper.

Don’t die.

Submitted to the Miami Herald on Sunday, February 2, 2025. Long after I am dead, I truly believe that someone will figure out that one of the reasons newspapers died in America was grounded in the inability to report about their internal struggles to their subscribers. To date no newspaper has an accepted a letter to the editor or an op-ed submission from me that pushes the newspaper to report their struggles.

Letter To The Editor

The men’s Atlantic Coast Conference(ACC) Basketball Tournament opens in Charlotte on March 11. I assume that ACC commissioner Jim Phillips and his employees have adjusted to moving the conference office from Greensboro to Charlotte. But, with relocations and college basketball, one should never make assumptions.

For example, how can it be possible that the Southeastern Conference (SEC), a conference known for its college football accomplishments, has more of its basketball teams ranked in the Top 25 than the ACC?

Maybe, this is an embarrassing single year anomaly. Commissioner Phillips and conference leaders can only hope this is true.

While this SEC dominance is concerning, what I find more alarming is an article from the January/February edition of the Carolina Alumni Review.

The UNC athletic department “faces a $17 million shortfall this year.” Additionally, Board of Trustees member Jennifer Lloyd stated in May 2024 “that the athletics department is projected to have a $100 million cumulative deficit in the coming years.”

If UNC is running at a deficit, how many of the athletic departments for the other seventeen ACC schools are in similar situations?

I wonder if the flawed geographic configuration of the ACC, the economic challenges of Name, Image, and Likeness, the relentless pursuit of power, and unrealistic athletic goals will doom this once treasured conference?

I hope not.

I hope a conference leader, who has courage and wisdom, will stand up and state— this isn’t working, we need to fix it— now.

Submitted to the Greensboro News and Record 3/6/25
I care too much about the legacy of the Atlantic Coast Conference. In my opinion, one of the best college athletic conferences in America has been destroyed. Greensboro News and Record allows 250 words.

Letter To The Editor

The men’s Atlantic Coast Conference(ACC) Basketball Tournament opens in Charlotte on March 11.

For Commissioner Phillips and his employees, I hope the tournament goes well.

Clearly, they have more to worry about than the tournament.

For example, how is it possible that the Southeastern Conference, a conference known for its college football, has more of its basketball teams ranked in the Top 25 than the ACC?

Perhaps, this is an embarrassing single year anomaly.

Yet, more concerning is an article in Jan/Feb edition of the Carolina Alumni Review that states: “the UNC athletic department faces a $17 million dollar shortfall this year.”

Do the other seventeen ACC schools face a similar deficit?

I wonder will the flawed geography of the ACC, the burden of paying players, and unrealistic athletic pursuits implode the conference?

I hope not.

I hope conference leaders find their backbones.

This template isn’t sustainable.

Submitted to the Charlotte Observer 3/6/25 Taking the frame from the Greensboro letter and sending it to the Charlotte paper. Word count is important to editors, every newspaper is different. If you don’t meet the word count, your letter will not be published. Charlotte News and Observer allows 150 words.

Letter To The Editor

I’m not surprised by this Washington Post headline from March 14: Virginia’s top school leader, Lisa Coons, abruptly resigns.

Hiring Coons was a mistake by Virginia Governor Glenn Youngkin. Perhaps, the Governor believed that Coons would bring change to Virginia’s Department of Education while also embracing his education agenda.

This is the second botched education hire by the Governor. The former Superintendent of Public Instruction, Jillian Balow, also resigned. Neither Balow or Coons were able to deliver recommended changes to public schools related to new history standards.

Communications Director, Rob Damschen, announced that Deputy Superintendent of Education, Emily Anne Gullickson, will be the interim State Superintendent of Public Instruction. Interestingly, Gullickson came to Virginia from Arizona. In 2014, she founded A For Arizona.

Maybe the Governor needs a refresher course in American geography and human resources. Coons, Balow, and Gullickson hailed from Tennessee, Wyoming, and Arizona. Where were candidates from Virginia in those searches?

Having spent thirty plus years working in the public schools of Virginia, I know that our state has many gifted and qualified superintendent candidates. Perhaps, none of these leaders merited consideration by Governor Youngkin because they can’t embrace his agenda.

When it comes to public education, it is discouraging and disappointing that politics obstructs the capacity to do what is right for students, parents, and teachers. Frequent bickering over divisive political allegiances, fails to provide the support that students, parents, and teachers need in their schools everyday.

As I read the headlines about Virginia’s declining student performance on state and national tests, rarely do educational leaders and politicians take a deeper dive into why those results continue to plummet.

We must have vast amounts of data about students, their schools and communities. Shouldn’t we be using this data to improve our schools? Are we afraid of revealing the truth about decades of generational neglect related to substandard housing, deficient mental/physical health care, safety, family erosion, and disheartened morale in communities and schools. Housing, health care, safety, family stability, and morale all impact school instruction and performance.

As a former collegiate athlete, Governor Youngkin, knows the difference between talking the game and playing the game.

At this point, he must play the game.

That means hiring a State Superintendent of Public Instruction who is from Virginia.

Nothing else is acceptable for students, parents, and teachers.

Submitted to the Washington Post in March 2025. Surprisingly, the Post has raised their word count for letters to 400. Poking at the Virginia governor for not finding talent within our state.

Letter To The Editor

For over thirty years, I had the privilege of teaching in the public schools of Virginia. Those first four years, I was a Title VII remedial reading teacher. Each year, my position was dependent upon funding from Congress. Luckily, the federal funding continued. This allowed struggling students to grasp an essential life skill—reading.

On March 20, with his signature President Trump dismantled the Department of Education. It will be interesting to learn how many students will be devastated by the President’s negligent decision.

Could the Department of Education be more effective and efficient? Maybe.

Is there a better way to make needed changes? Yes.

In 1964, the St. Louis Cardinals defeated the New York Yankees in the World Series.

After the final game, reporters asked Cardinals, manager Johnny Keane, why he remained with starting pitcher, Bob Gibson, to finish the game?

Mr. Keane responded, “I had a commitment to his heart.”

Demolishing the Department of Education was easy for this President. Mr. Trump has no commitment to any American heart other than his own selfish, uncaring one.

Submitted to the NY Times 3/24/25 New York Times allows 150 to 200 words. This letter took a poke at the dismantling of the Department of Education.

Graphic design courtesy of ELP at Independent Lab Productions

Easter with Warren Zevon and Jesus

April 20, 2025 Bill Pike2 Comments

Warren Zevon was a gifted songwriter, singer, and musician.

You might recall two of his songs “Excitable Boy” and “Werewolves of London.” Each garnered attention, and yes, “Werewolves of London” has become a Halloween standard.

Through his songs, Mr. Zevon was a storyteller. His characters were from all walks of life. His lyrics captured all human emotions. At times, his words were not for the faint of heart.

I chuckle when I hear these lines from “Excitable Boy”:
“Well, he went down to dinner in his Sunday best. Excitable boy, they all said. And he rubbed the pot roast all over his chest. Excitable boy, they all said. Well, he’s just an excitable boy.”

And I chuckle more with “Werewolves of London”:
“He’s the hairy-handed gent who ran amuck in Kent.
Lately, he’s been overheard in Mayfair. You better stay away from him, he’ll rip your lungs out Jim. But hey, I’d like to meet his tailor.”

But the chuckling stops with “Carmelita”:

“ I hear Mariachi static on my radio. And the tubes they glow in the dark. And I’m there with her in Ensenada, and I’m here in Echo Park. Carmelita hold me tighter. I think I’m sinking down. And I’m all strung out on heroin, on the outskirts of town.”

Singer Linda Ronstadt respected Mr. Zevon’s song “Hasten Down The Wind” so much that she recorded it and used the song as the title to one of her albums.

The song will pinch your heart and moisten your eyes:
“She tells him she thinks she needs to be free. He tells her he doesn’t understand. She takes his hand. She tells him nothing’s working out the way they planned. She’s so many women, he can’t find the one who was his friend. So he’s hanging on to half her heart. He can’t have the restless part. So he tells her to hasten down the wind.”

Even in 1978, America had challenges with lawyers, guns, and money. This song of the same title notes how risk and luck don’t always complement each other:
“I was gambling in Havana. I took a little risk. Send lawyers, guns and money, Dad, get me out of this. I’m the innocent bystander. Somehow, I got stuck, between the rock and the hard place, and I’m down on my luck.”

At times, maybe in each of us, we have a desire to be left alone, isolated from the world. In “Splendid Isolation” Mr. Zevon wrote:
“I want to live alone in the desert. I want to be like Georgia O’Keefe. I want to live on the Upper East Side, and never go down in the street. Splendid Isolation, I don’t need no one.”

Clearly, those characters envisioned in Mr. Zevon’s lyrics are thousands of miles and years away from the people Jesus encountered during his life.

Yet, I sense there might be some similarities.

How might the Demoniac compare to the “Excitable Boy” or the “Werewolves of London”?

Does the son in “Lawyers, Guns, and Money” have any connection to the Prodigal Son? Each son is looking to be saved and ultimately forgiven by their fathers.

What does the Leper have in common with the man addicted to heroin in “Carmelita”? Each is impacted by the circumstances of their health. Each needs an intervention. In their situations, both men are seen as outcasts.

In “Hasten Down The Wind” might that have been a conversation between Mary and Joseph as they tried to sort out the complications of God’s unexpected intrusion? Or, maybe this matches with the woman at the well, whose relationships with men haven’t been successful.

And for “Splendid Isolation” how many times in Jesus’ ministry did he truly need time to be alone? Did he reach his limit with the masses of followers and individuals who needed just a touch of his clothing to change the circumstances of their lives? In those moments, perhaps Jesus felt like embracing Mr. Zevon’s words: “I don’t need no one.”

By now, you must be thinking poor Bill. He has really gone off the deep end this time— comparing Warren Zevon’s characters to the people that Jesus encountered during his lifetime.

Well, maybe I have.

But, the bottom line is that both Jesus and Mr. Zevon were remarkable storytellers. More importantly, these characters, these people, no matter when or where they lived provide us an opportunity to learn from their challenges in life.

And to tell you the truth, at the age of 71, I’m not sure I’m any closer to truly understanding the challenges in the Easter story.

Maybe that’s because the world has become more complicated.

Or has the redundancy of the Easter story diminished my curiosity?

Could it be that I’m a shallow Christian, reluctant to dig deeper to break the predictability of Easter?

Maybe, I’m part of Romans 5 verse 6: “You see, at just the right time, when we were still powerless, Christ died for the ungodly.”

Yes, Jesus knows my old sack of bones. He has a file on my ungodly ways.

And, despite my “ungodly” confession, I still hold on to the hope that Easter offers. For me, that hope is tied to love.

On September 7, 2003, Warren Zevon lost his battle with inoperable lung cancer. Diagnosed in 2002, Mr. Zevon spent those miserable declining months recording his final album.

The last song on the album is titled “Keep Me In Your Heart.” Simply, this is Mr. Zevon’s way of saying goodbye to his family and friends.

Always insightful with his lyrics, here is the opening of the song:
“Shadows are falling and I’m running out of breath, keep me in your heart for awhile.
If I leave you it doesn’t mean I love you any less, keep me in your heart for awhile.
When you get up in the morning and you see that crazy sun, keep me in your heart for awhile.
There’s a train leaving nightly called when all is said and done, keep me in your heart for awhile.”

Despite the ups and downs that Mr. Zevon experienced in living his life, I think in the end his song “Keep Me In Your Heart” was his way of acknowledging the importance and value of love.

With Easter, isn’t that what our take away should be?

Isn’t that what Jesus needs from us?

That we keep him in our hearts.

That we share his love with the people we encounter everyday.

Isn’t that what Jesus did when he encountered people?

No matter their status or circumstances, he loved, he kept them in his heart.

“When all is said and done,” is that too much to ask of my heart?

Easter 2024, the cross starting to fill with flowers. (Photo Bill Pike at Trinity UMC)

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.