Day Four Marathon Key Thursday, January 23, 2025: Islamorada

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If you’ve been following this blog, you know how it will start. Yes, Bill was again up early. Apparently, sleeping-in isn’t in his body’s metabolism.

Another gray, cloudy, windy, unseasonably cool day was awake and waiting for me.

Gray, overcast, cool, breezy morning (Photo Bill Pike)

This morning, I took the short trek to the boardwalk and cove to fish. A different lure dangled from the end of the line.

Overnight, the stubborn winds had pushed lots of seaweed into the cove. Occasionally, the hook on the lure would pick up pieces of this grass.

On a daily basis, the ground crew works to remove the seaweed that washes up on the shoreline. We’ve noted in exploring Marathon Key that when the seaweed clusters up in tight quarters, it can create an unpleasant stench.

If there are any fish hanging around in this cove, they are opting to ignore my efforts to attract one, and that’s ok. When my fishing is unsuccessful, I turn my attention to the surroundings from where I’m casting. Even gray mornings are pretty on this coastline.

After several more minutes no nibbles, I head back to the condo.

Now, I’m going to change into my running clothes and go for a run along U. S. 1 heading toward Seven Mile Bridge.

When I’m out of town, and I go for a run, I try to remember to write down the address for where we are staying. I put that scrap of paper with me on the run. If something were to go wrong with my health, at least the responders would know where to find my family and friends, and dump my old body.

Luckily this morning, my run was uneventful. I ran to the 0.5 mile marker on the Old Seven Mile Bridge. Originally, this bridge was a part of the railroad that Henry Flagler built.

Today, the modern Seven Mile Bridge runs parallel to the old bridge. The old bridge goes for two miles. The bridge is ideal for bikers, runners, and walkers. It views are spectacular in any direction with sunset being its prime.

Overseas Highway on the left, laned pedestrian bridge opposite (Photo Bill Pike)

At the end of the two miles is Pigeon Key. At the beginning of the bridge there is a very nice connector that runs under the new Seven Mile Bridge to the Castaway restaurant.

Additionally there is a paved trail that runs parallel to U. S. 1. On the Gulf of Mexico side, this trail is a good access point for fishermen. Its small park appearance also has some picnic tables.

After my run, I have a light breakfast, shower, and get ready for our ride to Islamorada.

Dan won’t make this trip, as he has some work calls that could not be rescheduled.

According to various sources, Islamorada consists of five keys. Distance wise in the Keys, the village lies between Miami and Key West. Its name in Spanish translates to “purple island.”

For many years, former major league baseball star, Ted Williams, made his home in Islamorada. He loved the area for its fishing.

The Morada Way Arts and Cultural District is a nice shopping area in Islamorada.

Our first stop on this jaunt is the Green Turtle Inn Restaurant.

If you are in Islamorada, I would not turn down a meal at the Green Turtle Inn. I can only speak for our lunch time experience, but I would go back for The Bacon Wrapped Love Sandwich and a side of collards.

This is a meatloaf sandwich on a Brioche bun with Applewood smoked bacon, a meatloaf glaze, topped off with lettuce, tomato, and a slab of red onion.

On the menu, the restaurant notes this sandwich is a favorite of celebrity chef, Guy Fieri. After eating this sandwich, I understand his sentiment.

The collards were just as good. Tender, full of flavor, and cooked in a pot liquor that had me going for every last drop in my bowl.

And I also enjoyed from the Florida Keys Brewing Company their German styled Kolsch beer named Iguana Bait.

My college roommate, Butch, who has wonderful culinary skills, and a much more sophisticated palate, ordered the same meal and loved ever bite.

The ladies at our table enjoyed their lunch choices as well. Before we left, we ordered a whole Key Lime pie to go.

Back in the car, we drove to our next destination, Theater of the Sea.

A family owned and run business since 1946, Theater of the Sea offers a variety of demonstrations and learning opportunities featuring sea life, reptiles, and mammals. Sea lions, sea turtles, dolphins, sharks, stingrays, alligators, and parrots are among the entertainers.

Don’t relax around this lethargic looking gator (Photo Betsy Pike)

On the nicely landscaped tropical grounds, guests move to assorted locations in the park. In each space, a captive audience appreciates the trainers as they direct the stars of each show through their scripted routines. Even on this partly sunny, cool, windy afternoon, the trainers were friendly, knowledgeable, and patient.

Most impressive were the dolphins. Gentle, yet quick and powerful, the dolphins and their very agile trainer put on quite a show.

Back in the car, we made a stop at the Publix in Islamorada. Then, we drove back to Tranquility Bay.

For dinner that night, we had an assortment of light snacks, and the Key Lime Pie from the Green Turtle Inn.


The pie was delicious. We noticed the crust was different from the usual Key Lime pie crust.

After our trip, I followed up with the kind folks at the Green Turtle Inn about the crust. I learned the crust is a combination of crushed macadamia nuts and Rice Krispies cereal. Jenn who responded to my question pointed out that crust is gluten free.

Thursday showed us that our “creative flexibility” could nudge us to have fun on an imperfect day of weather.

Without question, we had a good day.

Day Three Marathon Key Wednesday, January 22, 2025: flexibility

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I was up early on Wednesday morning.

Downstairs at the dining room table, my usual routine took place.

I skim the Bible verse of the day from Bible Gateway. My prayer script/prayer lists traveled with me as did the Upper Room.

I honestly don’t know if my prayers make a difference. Some days, I ask myself—why do you keep this regimen?

My answer is my old heart. Its softness will not let me cease this daily ritual.

Besides someone must keep poking at God before this rotten old world wears us out. I hope, and yes, I pray we wake up.

Slowly, the house wakes. Butch and Dan are early risers, but not as early as me.

That quietness in the early morning is like my comfort zone. I cherish those minutes.

This morning, the landscape is gray at Tranquility Bay on Marathon Key, Florida.

Much cooler air is in place. Gray clouds block the sun. Blustery winds ripple through the palm trees.

Dressed in shorts and layers above my waist, I make sure I have everything I need to make the short stroll to the sandy path that leads to a boardwalk.

At the edge of the boardwalk is a small cove. The cove is fed by a restless channel with water from the Gulf of Mexico.


This conduit is not wide and probably not very deep. Yet, I’m hoping the rip it creates might send fish into the cove

In prepping to leave Richmond, I thought I had packed three small fishing rods in my new carrying case. In the hectic atmosphere of packing, I brought three reels, but with my moony mind I only packed two rods.

This morning, the lure I was casting worked well. Sometimes, the wind caught the lure and carried it further into the cove. Fortunately, my casts were accurate, and the lure skimmed across the water.

On a point across the channel, I noticed what appeared to be a night heron. This bird had been keeping a watchful eye on me.

Can you spot the heron? (Photo Bill Pike)

The heron’s posture reminded me of commuters standing on the subzero shoulders of a Chicago street corner. The bird’s hunched stance aligned it with the uncomfortable commuters on this unseasonably cool Florida morning.

Overhead, pelicans glided with the stiff wind, and a couple of seagulls teased my lure by diving down for a closer look.

While I enjoyed my hopeful casting, no fish was foolish enough to chase the lure on this chilly morning.

As I walked back to the condo, I hoped Butch would fix a pot of his rib sticking oatmeal. He did, and the winter intrusion I felt while fishing was melted by the hearty oatmeal.

While eating breakfast, we noted some activity out on the lawn. Turns out a photo shoot was taking place on the grounds today. Models were wearing summer clothing to promote a fashion line. It was interesting to note all of the preparation taking place behind the camera to capture just the right photo.

After breakfast, Butch and Marian took the short walk to a store on our side of U.S. 1 named Mr. Beans Books and Beans. It is a bookstore and coffee shop. They browsed around and asked the owner about local restaurant recommendations. He told them about Burdines.

As lunch time approached, we piled in the car and made the short drive to Burdines. In this industrial looking section of Marathon, we found a place to park.

At the top of the stairs, we entered Burdines to find a nice, but open to the elements restaurant. The breeze whipping into the seating area was too cool for our aging bodies who were looking for warm Florida weather, so we departed.

Back in the car, in the same neighborhood, we found another tucked away restaurant, Castaway Water Front Restaurant and Sushi Bar. The good news was the main sitting area was inside, protected from the unfriendly chilly wind and gray clouds.

We hustled in where we were greeted by a friendly staff. With our lunches ordered, we admired the cluttered, but interesting interior. Additionally, we learned that on warm days manatees show up in the waters just off the dock of Castaway.

After lunch, we did a bit more exploring, and then we drove back to Tranquil Harbor.

The rest of the afternoon was quiet. Yet some comparative chatter did surface about the three restaurants where we had eaten. Our comments noted what worked and didn’t work in each unique setting.

Gradually, the afternoon slipped away. Before we knew it, we needed to figure out dinner. Once again the winter like feel in Marathon pushed us to order pizza. An order was placed at Driftwood Pizza.

Though it took Butch and me a second call to our braintrust to verify the location, we were not disappointed in the pizzas.

Toward the end of dinner, we were given in depth insights about the need for airplanes to be de-iced in harsh winter weather. Our resident private pilot, Dan, knew the technology and science behind how important it is to keep airplane wings ice free. The ingenuity of how engineers design these safety systems varies in each airplane, but getting this snapshot was fascinating.

Since we are all older, health is another topic that surfaces into our conversations. Again, we learn from each other’s experiences in coping with the ups and downs of aging.

Before drifting off into sleep, we reviewed the weather forecast. Not until Saturday would the sun fully return, so we worked on a plan for the next two days.

Unwilling to let the weather hinder us, we made alternative suggestions to counter the weathers gods for Thursday and Friday.

In our over fifty years of friendship, I’ve developed an appreciation for how we ponder and respond to the inconveniences of life. I’m reminded of Dan’s important aviation wisdom for emergency situations—aviate, navigate, and communicate.

Figuring out a plan for Thursday and Friday, required us to aviate—keep flying the plane, or in this case keep the focus on our trip—keep it moving.

For the pilot, navigate means know your location. The same applies to us in planning. We need to know the options that will be available for us in the Florida Keys.

And with communicate, the pilot talks with the people who are monitoring his flying. Knowing our local options for tourists helps us to communicate what will best meet our needs and get us moving in this non-typical Florida weather.

Of course, in this planning for two days of sightseeing, it helps to be flexible.

I like this quote from former Xerox CEO, Anne M. Mulcahy: “Even under the most difficult circumstances you can have creative flexibility.”

Granted our inclement Florida Keys weather wasn’t a trip ender, but this nuisance did require us to assert our “creative flexibility” and we did.

Day Two Marathon Key: exploring

Bill Pike1 Comment

Day Two Marathon Key Tuesday, January 21, 2025

Well, after our day of travel, we slept. Some longer than others, but we slept.

My internal alarm clock had me up by 4:30, but I did sleep.

It was a quiet start.

Before breakfast, Butch and I explored the grounds of Tranquility Bay. We came upon an egret in the high grass who was possibly stalking for breakfast too.

Egret in the tall grass (Photo Bill Pike)

After breakfast, we piled into the car.

We drove toward Seven Mile Bridge.

We quickly discovered that the bridge is seven miles long. Once you are on the bridge, there is no getting off until you reach the other side. I think when we reached Veteran’s Beach, we were able to turn around and head back to Marathon.

Back on Marathon Key, we were curious to check out Sandals. This was a store that we had seen constantly along U.S. 1 on our drive into Marathon.

Turns out that Sandals is a beach store. It is not unlike the Wings stores that we find on every other corner in various beach towns along the mid-Atlantic coast.

After Sandals, we made a grocery store stop at Winn-Dixie, a chain that I remember from growing up in North Carolina. They were a Florida based chain. With all of the changes and challenges in the grocery store landscape, I was surprised to see that they continues to live.

Lunch time was approaching. We decided on the Sunset Grill. This open air restaurant sits at the foot of the Seven Mile Bridge. The restaurant is properly named as it is the ideal location to watch a sunset.

I ordered conch chowder and a blackened fish sandwich. It was interesting to note the differences in the conch chowder from my similar order on Monday at High Tide in Key Largo. This version was much sweeter and featured less vegetables in the mix.

After lunch, we were in pursuit of shrimp for dinner and bait for fishing. We found both.

The clerk at the bait shop directed us to a water front seafood market where we purchased three pounds of fresh caught shrimp for our dinner. Bubba and Forrest would have been pleased.

For the remainder of the afternoon, we took advantage of the sunshine and comfortable temperatures.

At the heated, saltwater pool, Dan tried out the snorkeling gear that he brought with him. He was prepping for swims in the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic Ocean to view sea life.

Dan in the pool (Photo Bill Pike)

At guest services in the lobby, we picked up golf balls and putters to test our green reading ability and patience on the synthetic putting greens in the open space in front of our unit. Additionally, we reserved three bicycles for a ride back down to the Seven Mile Bridge.

After the putting practice and bike rides, I put together the fishing rods and set them up to use on Wednesday morning. My non-resident fishing license issued by the state of Florida was only good for seven days, so I wanted to try my luck and not waste my pennies.

As we pushed toward dinner with our shrimp, a few of us ambled toward the water in search of a sunset.

Toward the end of day two (Photo Bill Pike)

Thanks to gray clouds, the sinking sun was obscured, but I did capture our brides who are the braintrust for this trip.

The brains of our outfit (Photo Bill Pike)

Prepared by Butch and Marian, our shrimp dinner was delicious, and it was topped off by a Florida favorite—Key Lime Pie.

Our post-dinner entertainment was organized by Marian. We participated in an assortment of games that made us think a bit, but that also generated humorous commentary.

Soon sleep was calling, and we talked about our thoughts for Wednesday.

Turns out that cold air we left back home was going to find its way into the Florida Keys.

Whatever disappointment the gray clouds, sparse sun, and stiff winds would bring, I needed to remember it was much colder back in Richmond.

But beyond the weather, I’m also reminded to be thankful for this opportunity to get away.

And I must always keep in front of me this fact—some people from the day they are born until they make the leap to heaven never have the opportunity to get away.

And maybe there is no better way to ponder this by referencing a song written by John Lennon.

On his 1980 album, Double Fantasy, Lennon’s song, “Beautiful Boy(Darling Boy)” is about his son, Sean.

In the song, Lennon used this quote from Allen Saunders: “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.”

Amen.

Corporate brewers must learn that loyalty matters

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WISCONSIN STATE JOURNAL


Opinion/letters


LETTER TO THE EDITOR


I’ve never been to Chippewa Falls, but I have an appreciation for the beers brewed by Leinenkugel brewers. For me in Virginia, that appreciation never would have occurred without distribution of Leinenkugel beers initially by Miller, and more recently by Molson Coors.

Truthfully, I’m not surprised by the dumping of Leinenkugel’s original brewery by Molson Coors. Big breweries are focused on two goals — surviving and earning a profit.


When big brewers figured out that the craft-beer explosion was chipping into their sales, the big guys responded by purchasing successful craft breweries.


Not all of these acquisitions were successful.


Leinenkugel loyalists might find interest in learning the story of San Francisco’s iconic Anchor Steam Brewery. A few years after being purchased by the huge Japanese brewer, Sapporo, Anchor Steam historic brewery was closed.


Unfortunately, I don’t believe this will be the end of brewery closings in America. Investors, no matter if they are vested in a craft or behemoth brewery, desire to make a profit. For Leinenkugel, I hope there is a solution.


But what I really hope is that Molson Coors executives have learned a valuable lesson from the brewery in Chippewa Falls — loyalty still matters.


Bill Pike, Richmond, Virginia


From the author: Friends, I’m honored that my letter to the editor about the closing of the Leinenkugel Brewery was published in the Sunday, January 26, 2025 edition of the Wisconsin State Journal.

Photo by Bill Pike

Richmond to Miami: “de-icing”

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Internally, all I could think about was getting to January 20, 2025 in good shape. That was the launch date for our trip.

After months of planning and fine tuning, our departure morning was finally here.

My body’s alarm clock woke me at 3 a.m.

By four the Commander Supreme was awake.

Prior to 4:30, the house’s thermostats had been properly set.

With the approaching bitter Arctic air, one bathroom sink faucet was left dripping.

Our iced over car was warming up.


Each piece of luggage was accounted for more than once. Phones, wallets, IDs, glasses, once last bladder stop, and we were departing.

The drive to the Richmond airport was quiet.

Up in Highland, Maryland and down in Greensboro, North Carolina similar logistics were in motion from our college friends the Callows and Sherrills.

If the travel gods properly collaborated, by late mid-morning, we would meet in the Miami airport.

At the extended stay parking lot, a nice young man with his warm van got us loaded up. Our reliable car would sit for two weeks. I pray it will start upon our return.

I was surprised at how many cars were dropping off groggy travelers for departing flights at this early hour.

We were flying American Airlines.

At the American kiosks and check-in counter, there were already lines. I hoped we survived the craziness of navigating this confusing maze.

Whine #1, whoever designed the kiosk area did not take into consideration edgy, sleep deprived travelers toting bulky luggage. No matter how we moved, we bumped or nudged other travelers.

Whine #2, the check-in counter was understaffed.

To counter the whining, I, Whining William, have stated at least 479,958 times: airlines should hire elementary school teachers to handle the logistics for checking-in, boarding, and unloading airline passengers.

We cleared security with our TSA Pre-check with no hitches.

At our gate, lines had formed for loading the plane.

When my ticket was scanned, the agent suggested that I ask a flight attendant to store my fishing rod case. She recommended a special storage compartment used by the flight crew.

That was a good tip. As we stepped on the plane, the flight attendant who greeted us graciously stored the case.

We found our seats, and we were granted a rarity in air travel—the middle seat was empty.

Soon, we were ready for departure.

Via the PA system the Captain greeted us. He described the Miami weather, our estimated flying time, and informed us about the amount of fuel we would burn as we flew south.

Our departure time was 6:15. We were on schedule.

Then the Captain came back on the PA. He informed us that because of the cold overnight temperatures the plane would need to be de-iced.

Starting the de-icing in Richmond (Photo Bill Pike)

Internally, I grumbled, but I understood the reasoning—safety.

By seven, we were zooming down the runway.

From my window seat, I could feel the pilot turn the plane east. With that turn we started winging our way toward Miami.

As we worked our way down the coastline, I was treated to pretty views of rivers flowing through coastal plains. The rising sun cast golden hues on the sleepy bays and sounds.

Coastal plain along the Atlantic Coast (Photo Bill Pike)

River water turned brackish at this point of entry, and soon the dominance of the ocean fed sound consumed any traces of the river.

Gradually, we stopped hugging the coastal plan. It disappeared.

The Atlantic Ocean was its replacement. At some point the ocean vanished. A blanket of clouds covered the ocean’s dark gray.

I think the pilots burned extra fuel trying to make up time in the air for our late departure out of Richmond.

This morning, I absolutely despised the descent into Miami. Part of that scorn comes from my aging impatience—land this big bird.

The plane’s engines kept plodding us through an impenetrable cloud layer that was the color of cold gray ashes.

The choppiness made for an uneven ride until we broke through the cloud cover.

We caught glimpses of Miami as the 737-09/21 revision drifted down to a rainy runway.

Finally, we were on the ground.

I am convinced that a slug can beat a commercial jet to the gate where the jet is to be parked for unloading. This morning, getting to that gate was slowed even more by an unattended fuel truck that was parked in our space.


The plane temporarily parked on the tarmac until the absentminded driver could be located.

That stall for the fuel truck set off an urgent rush of bladders to the plane’s restrooms. The chief flight attendant wasn’t happy with this chaos. I was one of the last minute dashers.

Several minutes passed, but finally, the plane inched to the gate. I could imagine the smirking slug helping to guide the plane to the jetway connection.

Whine #3, since the plane was late in arriving, many passengers needed to make connections. Instead of the crew apologizing profusely, why not ask the passengers who had no urgency to make a connection to remain seated so that those panicked passengers could depart.

My fishing rod case was waiting for me to grab as we made our way off the plane. Now, we started to navigate the Miami airport.

Our North Carolina friends had texted us that they had landed.

We followed the posted signage to the luggage area, and eventually we found the Sherrills. Our suitcases showed up. We organized and found a place to sit.

For a little over an hour, we chatted and waited for our Maryland pals to arrive. Eventually, the travel gods sent them to us.

With the Callows present, we started our journey to the car rental area.

Dragging luggage and following signs, we found our way to the monorail that would take us to the terminal for car rentals.

Luckily, Dan’s pre-planning for securing a vehicle worked.

With a few more steps, the towing of ourselves and the luggage came to a stop, we found the SUV.

The next several minutes was like a Marx Brothers’ movie.

We loaded, unloaded, and rearranged bags based upon size. Some bags were relocated into any open space in the seating area. After lots of squeezing and repositioning, the trunk door safely latched.

Our driver, Dan, and navigator, Butch, got their bearings and their devices isync, and we cautiously crept out of the parking lot.

It took us two attempts to exit the airport’s grounds, but we did.

We were headed south towards Key Largo. There we would stop for lunch.

As we drove and took in the ever changing landscape, we chatted, made our “are we there yet” comments, gave back seat driver advice to the driver and navigator, but most importantly we laughed.

Nearing Key Largo, there was a mad search to find a restaurant.

We settled upon High Tide.

In business for three years, its appearance was deceiving, but its food wasn’t.

Nourished, we piled back into the SUV.

The push to Marathon Key was a determined one as our driver and navigator smoothly adjusted to the whims of other drivers and US 1, the Overseas Highway.

Eventually, we edged into Marathon Key, found our destination, and were greeted at the check-in desk by the staff at Tranquility Bay.

At unit #60, we parked, pried out the passengers in the very back, and unloaded all that junk we had toted from Maryland, North Carolina, and Virginia.

For a few minutes, we organized ourselves inside. Next, we finalized a grocery list, and Judy, Butch, and I set out to find the Publix we had passed earlier.

After the run to the grocery store, everyone helped to unload the groceries. When the groceries were properly stored, our early wake up times caught up to us.

We were ready to collapse.

Before giving up to sleep, we chatted a bit more.

That chatter was focused on Tuesday.

Tuesday was to be our orientation day about our temporary home in Marathon Key, Florida, at Tranquility Bay in Unit 60.

We all knew that Friday, January 31 would be upon us in a blink. We didn’t want to waste a minute of being away from our homes.

A few weeks ago at Trinity UMC, I asked an exhausted church member how she was doing in providing care for her husband following his second surgery.

Quite honestly, she stated, “I need to get on plane.” Perhaps with a twinge of guilt, she quickly and lovingly retracted her statement. I understood her feeling.

I hope I never lose sight of how lucky I was this morning to get on a plane.

Gratefulness for that luck includes having a wife who tolerates me, the loyalty of these college friends and their wives who will barely endure my bad habits for two weeks, and the indispensable wit and wisdom of their cherished humor which always rejuvenates my needy and weary soul.

Also, included in that appreciation is the good Lord, who for lots of unknown reasons has continued to keep me vertical.

God’s nerves, ice melt, missing wake up calls

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I don’t know about where you live, but in Richmond, Virginia, winter has returned.

The last couple of years, winter was tame— not this year.

We’ve been hit by two lightweight snowstorms.

The first one started as snow. At some point during the night, the precipitation changed to sleet, and it ended with the dreaded freezing rain.

A few days later, the second storm hit. It was a light, fluffy snow. Maybe three inches covered the ground.

Cold temperatures have been a part of these storms. With night time lows in the teens and a couple of days where the thermometer barely went over the freezing mark.

We still have a fair amount of snow on the ground. Old timers called that hanging around snow—seed snow. Meaning it was hanging around for more snow to fall.

When he was growing up, our son, Andrew, a real lover of snow, despised these quick hitting Southern snowstorms. Andrew wanted to be in Buffalo or some other northern city where the snowstorms weren’t wimpy. He wanted accumulations in feet not puny inches.

Growing up in the heart of North Carolina, in the winter, I prayed for snow. Sometimes, that praying worked.

Today, I’m too old for snow.

My fear is making the wrong slippery snow step resulting in an ungraceful fall, and maybe a cracked noggin.

I also struggle with the weather forecasting.


Television stations seem to employee dozens of meteorologists who yak and yak and yak about the pending winter storm. I think all that mindless chatter is probably a conspiracy of some sort with grocery stores in cahoots with bread and milk suppliers.

Local forecasters are trying to stir up another tiny snow maker for the Richmond area this weekend. I’m more concerned about the Arctic air that will blast us after the moisture passes.

For the Richmond area, we have a couple of days where the high temperature will be 23 with a night time low of 7. Clearly, not weather for shorts and a t-shirt.

This afternoon, Thursday, January 16, I sensed that God might be getting nervous about this developing snowstorm. That nervousness pushed me to our neighborhood hardware store.
Once there, I purchased five fifty pound bags of ice melt for our church. You know God likes churches to be open on Sundays no matter the winter forecast.

In all honesty, I can’t let go of the predicted bitterly cold temperatures.

I can only imagine what that frigid blast might be like for a homeless person.

Maybe that homeless person hangs on to these words from Joshua Chapter 1 verse 9: “I hereby command you: Be strong and courageous; do not be frightened or dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.”

I question how that scripture applies to people ravaged by Hurricane Helene, the wildfires in Los Angeles, the war between Ukraine and Russia, and the cease fire between Israel and Palestine.

Sadly for Americans, that scripture must apply to our addiction for solving our individual conflicts with another person by senselessly shooting and murdering that person.

As God looks down upon us, I wonder how weary he is with all this turmoil. I’m curious if he follows the advice in the Bible where we are told not to worry?

I sense what worries God more than anything else is that we keep missing his wake up calls.

Myself included, we seem oblivious to the challenges we face and unwilling to make the needed sacrifices to solve our problems.

Why are we unwilling to confront gun violence?

Why do we have a housing crisis?

Why are people homeless?

Why can’t we build wiser to prevent potential destruction from hurricanes and wildfires?

Why can’t we prevent cancer from returning to a person who has beaten this scourge once?

Every week, our church collects food for three local food pantries—why do we do this?

Where has our moral compass gone?

After a national tragedy occurs, we briefly grieve and reflect. Fingers of blame are pointed. Politicians babble and promise changes. Within a few days, we are ready for normal to return, and we attempt to resume our lives.

In all honesty, normal never returns to the people impacted by any catastrophic tragedy. The hurt in their hearts never ever leaves.

And then at some point, the next speck of catastrophic neglect appears in our rearview mirror. We are blindsided, overtaken, and the whole vicious tragic cycle starts again.

I love the music created by the Asheville, North Carolina based Americana band the Steep Canyon Rangers. These musicians are thoughtful songwriters, masterful pickers, and singers with a gift for flawless harmonies. Do not turn down a chance to see the Rangers performing in concert.

In September of 2023, the band released the album Morning Shift. Four lines from that title song make me ponder my day to day living:

“When I wake up this morning to when I lay down tonight, I want to know that I’ve done something, I’ve done something right.”

I wonder how many days I have where I can confirm that “I’ve done something right?”

As he looks down upon us, does God think about his opportunities to do something right?

On those days when the world goes right for God, might he worry less about us— is he less nervous about our future?

Maybe that is a question for our hearts, and a reminder from James 1, verses 2-3: “Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance.”

In this mean old world, the trials of life never stop, not even for God.

And, I’m sorry, but there is no joy in the trials of life.

Yet, somehow, we must persevere.

It is through that perseverance, that we have the chance to do something right.

And God knows this weary, old world needs us to do something right.

I hope I can.

Nervous ice melt (Photo Bill Pike)

Rejected by the Washington Post

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In David Halberstam’s book Summer of ’49, he writes about the pennant race between the Boston Red Sox and the New York Yankees. But, he also captures, the importance of daily newspapers for baseball fans.

He writes: “After an early dinner, men and boys would hustle down to the nearest candy stands where every evening bundles of New York City newspapers were dropped. Those fans couldn’t wait to buy a copy of their favorite newspaper to read the recaps of the day’s games and to study the boxscores.”

As a youngster, 525 miles from New York City in Burlington, North Carolina, I awaited the delivery of our afternoon paper, The Daily Times News. On those hot summer days when the paper arrived, I quickly turned to the sports section and the box scores.

Those cherished days are gone. And if we aren’t careful, newspapers, one of the foundations of our communities might soon be gone.

In October 2021, my wife and I stopped receiving a hard copy of the Richmond Times-Dispatch in our home. Subscription cost kept rising. Without explanation devoted journalist at the Times-Dispatch kept disappearing, and the depth of reporting stories across the metro area diminished.

We now subscribe to an on-line version. I despise it. Newspapers and the newsprint they are printed on are meant to be held in the hands of readers.

That story of canceled subscriptions has played out across America. The impact of these cancellations can be found in sobering research from the Medill School of Journalism at Northwestern University.

Consider these findings: “The loss of local newspapers accelerated in 2023 to an average of 2.5 per week, leaving more than 200 counties as “news deserts” and meaning that more than half of all U.S. counties now have limited access to reliable local news and information.”

At this point in America, we need more than ever newspapers to give Americans full access “to reliable local news and information.” Sustaining our country and shaping its future depends on newspapers.

I have no journalism expertise. Yet, I believe newspapers have failed to adequately report their decline.

Don’t readers of newspapers deserve the same type of transparent reporting about the day to day challenges that publishers and editors face in keeping newspapers afloat?

Based upon a December 9 report by National Public Radio(NPR) the answer is no.

According to NPR, acting Post Executive Editor Matt Murray blocked publication of a story about the paper’s Managing Editor, Matea Gold’s departure. Gold is leaving the Post to take a similar role at the New York Times. Murray stated that “the paper should not cover itself.”

By opting not to “cover itself” Editor Murray is missing an opportunity. Part of me senses that the survival of the Washington Post and newspapers in America depends upon a newspaper’s ability to cover and tell its story.

Failure to “cover itself” is a sharp contrast to the commitment that post reporters and editors have made in reporting critical stories about the ups and downs of America. The Pulitzer Prizes earned by the Post didn’t come from timid leadership. Those Pulitzers were grounded in courage.

It takes courage to be a journalist. Early in his political career, Jimmy Carter learned this.

Mr. Carter was running to become a state senator in Georgia. He had uncovered voter fraud in Quitman County. Despite his findings, Georgia democrats and local press were unwilling to investigate this story.

Undaunted, Mr. Carter reached out to John Pennington, a reporter, with the Atlanta Journal. Pennington agreed to look into Mr. Carter’s claims. It was Pennington’s courageous, in-depth, fact driven reporting that exposed this corruption and help Mr. Carter to be elected.

Subscribers to the Washington Post and any other newspaper in America deserve the same courageous, in-depth, fact driven reporting in doing the difficult work of “covering itself.”

The Policies and Standards for the operation of the Washington Post covers many topics that are at the heart of journalistic integrity.

In the Opinion section, I read clearly about the paper’s “solemn and complete” commitment to keep news columns separate from the editorial pages.

However, I was curious about the following statements: “This separation is intended to serve the reader, who is entitled to the facts in the news columns and to opinions on the editorial and “op-ed” pages. But nothing in this separation of functions is intended to eliminate from the news columns honest, in-depth reporting, or analysis or commentary when plainly labeled.”

If the Post’s readers are entitled to honest, in-depth reporting, then why did the paper fail to run the story about Matea Gold’s departure?

The publisher and editors of the Post must understand that if “democracy dies in darkness” so can a newspaper.

Author’s note: I submitted this op-ed piece to the Washington Post on Saturday, January 4, 2025. I knew the piece would not be accepted. I know nothing about journalism and the daily operation of newspapers. But I believe newspapers in America have failed to adequately report the unraveling of their internal challenges. To me that is disgraceful to subscribers and readers of newspapers. We need transparent reporting of America’s continuing story more than ever. That transparency must include newspapers “covering themselves” not cowering to their owners.

Heartbreakingly disgusted whining: dog poop, college athletics, more murders

Bill Pike7 Comments

Isolated in the back parking lot of our church is a dumpster. This dumpster is clearly marked for recycling materials.

Despite our attempt to be good neighbors, the dumpster was periodically contaminated by people who loaded it with items that can’t be recycled. As a result, we had to add padlocks on both sliding doors.

I don’t understand how a person can misunderstand the purpose of this dumpster.

Late on the afternoon of Friday, January 3, I walked across the parking lot with some cardboard to recycle.

When I unlocked a padlock on one of the sliding doors, I noted on the floor of the dumpster a small, tied off plastic bag. It was loaded with dog poop.

Disgusted, I asked myself how could a person do this?

Growing up in Burlington, North Carolina, I will always cherish playing baseball, basketball, and football with neighbors, friends, and cousins.

An empty field behind two houses became our “field of dreams” where we played baseball.

Out front, two lawns merged together nicely to form our football field.

And of course, whether dirt, concrete, or an asphalt court even on the coldest of winter days, we played basketball.

That love of sports made it easy to follow the basketball and football teams from the Atlantic Coast Conference(ACC).


Four of the founding schools, the University of North Carolina, N. C. State, Wake Forest, and Duke were in close proximity to Burlington.

I read newspaper accounts, listened to radio broadcasts, or watched on television games with the ACC teams.

Founded in 1953, the original conference has been destroyed by an expansion that completely disregarded geography, but was entirely grounded in a full court press for money.

That fixation on money has trickled down into the athletes too.

Now Name, Image, and Likeness—NIL allows college athletes to profit not only from their skills, but by marketing and promoting themselves.

Additionally, a transfer portal allows athletes to freely shop their skills. Loyalty to the school that originally wooed the gifted athlete is no longer a consideration.

Just before Christmas, several media outlets reported that Duke University’s athletic department will be paying Darian Mensah, a redshirt, transfer quarterback from Tulane University eight million dollars to play at Duke for two years.

I guess a degree from Tulane or Duke means nothing when stacked against eight millions dollars.

I wonder what Duke University employees who work behind the scenes for the football program think about this eight million dollar deal.

And I also wonder if those program sustaining employees ever see any extra pennies in their paychecks from the payout when the football team plays in a post season bowl game?

While we’re talking about paying millions for a college football quarterback to play for a couple of years, a school might opt to spend several million dollars to build a team in hopes of winning a national championship.

Again, media outlets have reported that the current edition of the Ohio State University Buckeyes football team came from twenty million dollars raised by “the school’s collectives.”

With these millions floating around in the pursuit of gifted players and national championships, I find it interesting that at these two prestigious universities, both schools have food pantries for their students who are food insecure.

Back on December 28, 2024, the football teams from East Carolina University and N.C. State University played each other in the Go Bowling Military Bowl.

An exciting hard played game was marred by a brawl as the last seconds of the fourth quarter were ticking away.

Players involved in this fray were out of control. It took too much effort and time for the coaching staffs and game officials to get the players on both teams under control.

One of the referees was injured as he tried to help settle down the players from both teams.

Watching this melee on television, I was disappointed by the lack of self-control from individual players, and their disrespect for the coaching staffs and officials who tried to quell the disorder.

In this madness, sportsmanship was dead. I kept hoping that the referee would stop the game, and send both teams to their locker rooms.

When order was finally restored, a few players from both team were ejected. The final seconds of the game were completed. Then the teams were directed toward their respective locker rooms.

I’m heartbreakingly disgusted with bagged dog poop in a recycling dumpster, money driving collegiate athletic conferences and their student athletes, and a college football bowl game marred by players in a brawl.

Disgusted as I might be, I should not be surprised. We’ve been losing our minds for a long, long, long time.

Yes, what’s left of my old brain shows that I’m losing my mind too, but losing my mind is grounded in worry.

December of 2024 brought us more to worry about than bagged dog poop and athletic madness.

The CEO of United Health Care was brazenly murdered in New York City.

At the Abundant Life Christian School in Madison Wisconsin two students were murdered by one of their classmates.

And just as the New Year started more innocent people were murdered by a traitorous driver who plowed his vehicle into the streets of New Orleans, Louisiana.

Yes, we continue to break hearts, we continue to be disgusted, and we continue to be paralyzed to solve our madness.

At this point, you must be thinking, Bill, with these blog posts, all you do is whine, whine, whine, whine. Is your whining ever going to stop?

Fair question, and I don’t disagree with your assessment.

Maybe my whining is grounded in these questions for myself from Isaiah Chapter 1 verse 17: “when am I going to become better at helping to cease evil, when am I going to become better at doing good, when am I going to become better at seeking justice, and when am I going to become better at rescuing the oppressed?”

Perhaps, the answer can be found in Fritz Knapp’s book— The Book of Sports Virtues.


In one chapter, Knapp writes about Branch Rickey. Early in the 1940s, Branch Rickey was the general manager for the Brooklyn Dodgers baseball team. Mr. Rickey helped to break the color barrier in major league baseball when he signed Jackie Robinson to be the first African American player to play major league baseball.

Mr. Rickey’s motto was “Education Never Stops.”

If I want to stop my heartbreakingly disgusted whining, then I must not let my education stop.

That learning is the only chance I have to become better at working toward ceasing evil, doing more good, seeking justice, and rescuing the oppressed.

In the time I have left in this wobbling old world, I will be heartbreakingly disgusted with myself if I don’t use my learning and my voice to keep poking at those challenges.

How about you?

Maybe your answer can be found in these words from Stephen Hawking: “Quiet people have the loudest minds.”

Thanks for putting up with me, love, Bill

Bagged dog poop inside recycling dumpster (Photo Bill Pike)

Nowhere is safe from violence

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In James H. Cone’s book, ”The Cross And The Lynching Tree,” he quotes Martin Luther King Jr. and a comment he made after the assassination of John F. Kennedy. King told his wife: ”This is what is going to happen to me also. I keep telling you this is such a sick society.”

King was correct – we are a sick society. The tragedy that occurred in New Orleans on New Year’s Eve is one more heartbreaking confirmation of our sickness.


From ”sea to shining sea,” no American is immune from encountering life-threatening violence.

It matters not where one ventures schools, houses of worship, stores, entertainment venues, the potential for being in harm’s way is a reality.


In 2012, former U.S. Defense Secretary Robert Gates told an audience in Richmond: ”The United States faces threats from extremists and unstable regimes around the world, but it’s the nation’s own political incivility that poses the gravest risk.”


Twelve years later, that incivility hasn’t been bridled.


Our inability to solve the vicious generational erosion of our society’s human infrastructure is unacceptable.


How many of our perpetrators and their acts of violence stem from our failure to provide strong mental health programs? Are their horrific actions caused by our inability to assist dysfunctional and unstable families?


Perhaps the answer to those questions can be found in the script to the movie, ”A Few Good Men.” During a heated courtroom exchange, a witness shouts at the prosecutor: ”You can’t handle the truth!”


As Americans, is that our problem? We can’t handle the truth of our inability to solve our propensity for incivility and violence?


Maybe the sickness of this horrendous act would have been prevented if the Ten Commandments had been posted on every street corner in New Orleans.


BILL PIKE
Richmond, Virginia


Author’s note: I was honored on Monday, January 6, 2025 to have my letter to the editor published in the New Orleans newspaper, the Times-Picayune. My letter was one of several printed in the paper related to the recent tragedy in the city. Bill Pike

Post Christmas 2024: Welcome to the family Tom and Linda

Bill Pike2 Comments

It was after midnight when I arrived back at our home on Christmas Eve.

The last worship service had started at 11 p.m.

No cleaning up the sanctuary this evening, I’ll carve out time for that on Thursday.

For now, it was turning out lights, securing doors, turning down thermostats, and alarming the building.

A bit after ten on the morning of Thursday, December 26, I made the short walk to Trinity.

The building was quiet. This was a holiday for our staff.

We had a small wedding scheduled for Friday afternoon.

I needed to touch up the Sanctuary from our four Christmas Eve worship services. That included making sure the restrooms were in good shape too.

Around one o’clock, with the tidying up completed, I started my walk back home.

I crossed over the creek on Stuart Hall Road. Safely crossed the quiet Baldwin Road. Worked my way up the steep Stuart Hall Road hill, and at the top merged into Sweetbriar Road.

As my feet turned me into our driveway, I noticed a red envelope on our front porch. I walked over, picked it up, and entered the house via the side entrance.

The infamous envelope (Photo Bill Pike)

In the eat in kitchen, family members were finishing up lunch. I handed the envelope to my wife, the Commander Supreme, to open.

The envelope was addressed to Betsy and Bill Pike. No address, and no return address.

Inside was a nice Hallmark Christmas card with this message on the cover: “Love is an amazing thing, if you pass it on, there’s no stopping it.”

The Hallmark wisdom (Photo Bill Pike)

On the inside the Hallmark message was: “Sending love to you. At Christmas and always.”

Additionally, there was a handwritten note: “Bill and Betsy, Merry Christmas!! We heard all the children will be in town after Christmas, that is wonderful. We hope to see you soon. Treat the Grandkids!” Tom and Linda

The heartfelt note (Photo Bill Pike)

The ability to treat the grandkids would come from the one hundred dollar bill that was also inside the card.

The Commander and I were stunned and dumbfounded. We knew some Toms and Lindas, but our brains could not figure out a couple in our circle of friends named Tom and Linda.

For several minutes, we racked our brains,

The Commander insisted that we had no one in our address book listed as Tom and Linda.

Her insistence was that the card must have come from someone at church. Someone that knew me, but maybe who also knew the Commander on the periphery.

I scanned through the church directory. I found Toms, but no Lindas, or I found Lindas, but no Toms.

Our two daughters, Lauren and Elizabeth, chimed in with possible suggestions, but we had no match for Tom and Linda.

The Commander suggested Richmond writer, Tom Allen, as the possible delivery man, but his wife isn’t a Linda.

Again, the Commander reiterated that Tom and Linda must be from Trinity. She thought of a Linda from Trinity that we both knew. But, I reminded the Commander that Linda passed away a few years ago.

Even our two grandchildren, Caroline and Hudson, chuckled at the back and forth banter.

In silence, our son-in-law, Doug, watched the unproductive search for Tom and Linda. Elizabeth’s friend Jackson was a quiet observer too.

Like a bulldog with a bone locked in his jaws, the Commander was convinced that Tom and Linda had a Trinity connection. She encouraged me to reach out to my fellow staff member and family friend, Judy Oguich, to see if she could identify Tom and Linda.

With my search of the Trinity directory complete, I was walking out of the kitchen to return the directory to its resting place. That’s when our youngest daughter, Elizabeth, shouted out: “Christmas prank.”

The Commander and I had been duped. Even our grandchildren, Caroline and Hudson, knew this was a prank.

Shocked by this elaborate deception, we did the only thing we could do— shook our heads in disbelief and laughed.

For the next few minutes, the clever schemers revealed that the idea had come from an internet prank.

The names Tom and Linda were the parents of a friend where Lauren and her family live in Summerfield, North Carolina.

Elizabeth at some point on Thursday morning had purchased the card.

Her friend Jackson addressed the envelope and scribbled the note inside. He also provided the one hundred dollar bill. Jackson was concerned about his loaned investment. He was assured that the one hundred dollar bill would be returned to him once the scam had been completed, and it was.

Deep inside, Elizabeth knew that I would see the envelope on the front porch. She also knew my instincts— that I would pick it up, bring it inside, and hand it off to the Commander Supreme which is exactly what transpired.

I’m still trying to figure out how Caroline and Hudson played their roles so well. Like everyone else in the room no one gave a hint that a prank was at play.

In retrospect, we should have suspected something. Unnoticed by the Commander and me was our daughter, Lauren, who was inconspicuous in using her iPhone to film her floundering parents.

When I was a high school English teacher, I loved introducing students to American writer and humorist, James Thurber. His quote about humor has stayed with me: “Humor is emotional chaos remembered in tranquility.”

For about fifteen minutes there was a baffling mental chaos taking place between the Commander and me. That chaos was stirred by some timely prodding from Elizabeth and Lauren.

Yet, since Thursday, in a couple of quiet, tranquil moments, I have found myself chuckling as I relive the pranked script.

For the rest of our lives, Tom and Linda have become a part of our family.

Their legacy has already been appearing— I wonder if Tom and Linda will stop by this afternoon, or maybe will see Tom and Linda at the Jefferson on Friday.

Not wanting to lose the euphoria of having pranked her parents, on Friday afternoon during our annual visit to the Jefferson Hotel, Elizabeth snookered her unsuspecting brother, Andrew, into the prank. Initially, Andrew bit, but not as fully as his clueless parents.

The best part of Tom and Linda’s fifteen minutes of fame is they made us laugh.

In a mentally healthy way, my hope for you, me, we, us is that gentle humor and laughter will find an entry point into your life. Good Lord knows, we all need to laugh to take the sting out of a tough day.

Perhaps like me, since Sunday, you have been taking in the news coverage of the passing of Jimmy Carter.

While we were watching the evening news, a reporter was revisiting Mr. Carter’s devotion to his church and God.

In this segment Mr. Carter was asked about God and his ability to answer prayers.

Here is what Mr. Carter said: “God always answers prayers. Sometimes it’s yes. Sometimes the answer is no. Sometimes it’s you gotta be kidding.”

Mr. Carter’s answer was perfect, especially, “you gotta be kidding.” That last line made me laugh.

Tom and Linda made us laugh.

Maybe the irony of them becoming a part of our family is linked back to the words on the cover of the Hallmark card: “Love is an amazing thing, if you pass it on, there’s no stopping it.”

There is no kidding about the power of love. I’ve been fortunate to have been surrounded by love my entire life.

Jimmy Carter knew the power of love.

He humbly lived it his whole life.

I hope in 2025, my old heart can be better at embracing the power of love and passing it on.

I think Tom and Linda would like that, and so would Mr. Carter.

Thanks to all you readers of Might Be Baloney, love you all, be safe, Bill Pike