In the Eaton Hall mechanical room, there are two boilers. A hot water heater. A couple of air handlers. All kinds of electrical panels—some dead, some living.
There are pumps, pipes, conduits where phone and communication lines merge and disperse.
We even have a tunnel.
A crawl space that connects the Eaton Hall mechanical room to a small mechanical room in the basement of the Preschool.
Maybe, the youth should forget about selling pumpkins in the Fall. Consideration should be given to transitioning to a haunted bowels of the basement tour at Trinity during Halloween.
Who knows Chip and Flip could make cameo appearances as the sump pump mudmumblers or the boiler buzzards with a guaranteed admission discount slashed from $39.95 to $19.95.
Mechanical rooms in this old church building make me weary.
Financial disaster, in the form of a piece of equipment failing is always lurking in a mechanical room. Its the law of the darkness— where deep inside a pump a worn coupler shreds, fails. The pump squawks and shrieks in its mechanized death until the power is cut.
For months, we’ve been carefully monitoring two sump pumps in a well deep in the concrete floor. These pumps perform a critical function—they remove intruding ground water.
On Tuesday, a skilled technician who is familiar with cantankerous sump pumps came back to install a new switch for a supposedly faulty one.
In preparing for this installation, the technician discovered a loose screw. This screw was impacting the proper operation of that pump.
The technician simply tightened down the screw. Following this reconnection, he adjusted a float mechanism, and turned back on the electricity. In a matter of seconds, the pump was engaged and working properly.
When the technician reported his findings, I was relieved to hear this good news, and yet, I wondered why can’t the complications of daily living be so simple?
How different this world might be if it simply came down to finding and tightening a loose screw.
James Taylor is a gifted songwriter, singer, and musician.
He is also a survivor.
At some point in his career, Mr. Taylor had to tighten the screws of his lifestyle in order to make it to another day.
In the third stanza of his song “Fire and Rain,” Mr. Taylor wrote: “Won’t you look down upon me, Jesus? You’ve got to help me make a stand. You’ve just got to see me through another day. My body’s aching and my time is at hand, And I won’t make it any other way.”
In this chaotic world, at this very moment, there is a human being who is hoping that Jesus is looking down upon them. That person no matter his/her circumstances needs help in making a stand.
What does it take to be seen through another day when no other options seem possible?
What are the chances that the right person with the right screwdriver will arrive and tighten down the loose screw for the person in need?
Might that screw tightener be you, me, we, us?
The other day, I stumbled upon this line of scripture: “Let me alone, for my days are a breath.”
Those words came from Job chapter 7 verse 16.
“For my days are a breath” reminds me of how quick time moves.
For that person who needs a screw tightened his/her time “is at hand.”
How will I respond if it is up to me to help that person to “make a stand?”
During the course of a year at our home, we receive alumni magazines from five colleges and universities.
I skim through these magazines. Quite often, I will find one or more articles that interests me, and I read those articles.
In the Fall 2025, Virginia Tech Magazine, an advertisement, a story about feeding Virginia Tech athletes, and a news release about a $229 million investment in student athletics caught my attention.
The advertisement and two articles made me think about a December 18, 2025 report from NPR. The reporter for NPR cited research from a national nonprofit, Swipe Out Hunger, who estimates that 2 in 5 college students face food insecurity.
Considering this information, I wrote a letter to the editor of the Virginia Tech Magazine.
At this point, I haven’t heard back from the editor of the magazine. But, I did hear receive an email from an administrator at Virginia Tech.
You can draw your own conclusions about my letter.
However, I think this is a solvable problem as Virginia Tech has an endowment of $1.95 billion dollars (June 30, 2024)
Letter
Tuesday, January 6, 2026
vtmag@vt.edu
I am not a graduate of Virginia Tech.
My connection to your outstanding university comes from our oldest daughter, a graduate of the Class of 2005.
I always enjoy skimming and reading the Virginia Tech Magazine.
In the Fall 2025 edition, Virginia Tech President, Tim Sands, starts his message with an interesting question—“Do you remember your first day on campus?”
Based upon a full page advertisement on page eight for The Market, I wonder how many current Virginia Tech students remember their first day on campus when they realized they were not going to be able to eat because of their financial situation.
The advertisement for The Market reveals “impact points” for the 2024-25 academic year. Ponder these points: over 69,000 pounds of food distributed, experienced a 375% increase in visits from students, 829 students received free meals, and $130,520 in funds were raised for keeping the pantry stocked. Additionally, there is a plea to make a gift to keep the shelves stocked.
In contrast to this plea to support The Market, on page seventeen is an article titled Fuel For Victory. This article is about feeding Virginia Tech’s “600 plus student-athletes across 22 sports.” Author Carter Brown states—“behind every athlete stands a dietitian equipped with a fueling strategy to help them feel and perform their best.”
I wonder if there is a dietitian behind the 829 students who received free meals from The Market?
And to carry this disparity further, on page forty-nine is the announcement that Virginia Tech has approved a $229 million investment in athletics. This funding is allocated “to position the university to compete with top Atlantic Coast Conference programs.” I wonder how many of those millions will be spent luring and paying upper tier athletes to play for Virginia Tech in hope that an elusive national championship be won?
Look, I know how important athletics are to college campuses. But along the way money has become the brain trust, not practical thinking.
In the January 2026 edition of the Kiplinger Personal Finance Magazine, I read with interest an interview with Julie Garcia. Miss Garcia is the Founder of Jewels Helping Hands in Spokane, Washington. This nonprofit offers a variety of services to the homeless in their community.
When asked about the hopes for the future of Jewels Helping Hands, Miss Garcia stated: “We hope that we’re out of a job at some point because we no longer have to fill these gaps in the community.”
As a leading public research university, might President Sands direct Virginia Tech toward solving the food challenges of its students so that The Market is no longer needed? How much of that $229 million could be redirected toward leveling the food playing field for all Virginia Tech students, not just student athletes?
Virginia Tech might not ever be able to invest enough in athletics to win a national championship.
But, how amazing would it be, if a cure for a type of cancer came from a Virginia Tech student who no longer had to worry about food insecurity.
President Sands, Virginia Tech has the ingenuity and the financial resources to solve this challenge.
A long time ago when I was a public school student in Burlington, North Carolina, I prayed for snow. Now as a rapidly aging, grumpy, geezer, snow has lost my affection. That endearment to snow has been shifted to our four school age grandchildren.
Even with my 31 years of work in public education, I watched faculty and staff members do their chants, dances, and prayers for a snow day. There is something about a snow day that is good for morale and a weary teacher’s mental health.
The challenge with snow is that it disrupts our regular routines. For parents with school age children that means being able to adjust those routines so that the daily needs of the children are met. Not every family has the built-in luxury of having grandparents who can pinch-hit when a snowstorm upsets those routines.
For school superintendents closing school due to inclement weather is never an easy decision. No matter the choice made by the superintendent that decision is always under the scrutiny of the public.
Thus far in the Richmond area, two storms have disrupted the routine for local school systems. It is easy to second guess those decisions.
For example, I wonder if the mild winter storm that closed schools in the Richmond area on December 5 could have merited a delayed opening?
With the December 8 storm, the snowflakes really didn’t start to accumulate on road surfaces until late morning. Could schools have opened and then closed early in the afternoon?
I know superintendents and their staffs do not take weather related closings of school lightly. In making that decision they carefully review the forecast, consult with local police and road departments about street conditions, and depend upon personnel in pupil transportation to make real time assessments.
Despite every effort to carefully make the right decision, a superintendent can’t please everyone.
I experienced this when I served as an assistant principal at Hermitage High School. Several days after a significant winter storm schools reopened.
With that reopening, a phone call came in from an upset mother. While driving to school that morning, her son had been involved in an accident. She was angry at the school system for reopening. Nothing I said calmed the mother’s fury.
Honestly, at the heart of closing a school system for winter weather, you will find an attorney. Attorneys are thinking about safety from multiple angles. They ask lots of questions all related to reducing the potential for liability:
Can school system maintenance personnel properly clear parking lots and sidewalks?
Can bus drivers safely maneuver their buses through less traveled neighborhood streets?
Can faculty and staffs, student drivers, and parents who are responsible for transporting their children arrive at school safely?
No one associated with the school system wants any injuries from slippery sidewalks, fender benders in high school parking lots, or a school bus accident.
Perhaps, the greatest pressure is on school bus drivers. Driving a school bus under normal conditions is challenging enough. Mix in frozen winter precipitation with impatient civilian drivers who believe they are invincible with their all wheel drive vehicles, and the potential for accidents rises.
Recently, another phenomena has occurred in the decision to close schools related to winter weather. More frequently, superintendents are closing schools before the first snowflake has fallen.
I suppose this early announcement helps families to better implement their alternative plans for a snow day. However, I can only imagine what a superintendent will endure if that forecast fails to materialize.
As difficult as it is to close schools, making the decision to reopen can be challenging too. Depending how much instructional time has been missed, superintendents must also figure out how to recoup the missed time.
Perhaps, these questions are worth reviewing:
Do superintendents know of alternatives beyond the traditional make up days or extending the hours of the school day for regaining instructional time?
Might developing a year round school calendar reduce winter weather interruptions?
Could attorneys find a year round school calendar more compatible for reducing potential liability?
Do superintendents solicit post-winter storm feedback from students, parents, teachers, bus drivers, and maintenance personnel as a means for helping to shape future weather closing decisions?
And of course, there is always the insights of our friends and neighbors from other parts of America who rarely close their schools for winter weather. What might Southern superintendents learn from these “no fear of snow” superintendents?
As we waddle our way through the remainder of winter, maybe the weather gods will be kind to us with no more snow days. While that might disappoint students, superintendents will sleep better.
Note from the author: This rejected Op-Ed piece was sent to the Richmond Times-Dispatch in response to December 2025 school system closures from wintry weather. Bill Pike Richmond, Virginia
School bus with snow along its roof line (Photo Bill Pike)
I’ve got the Monday morning key fob blues, that old key fob has made me weary right down to the soles of my shoes. Like a vengeful woman on Sunday night, that key fob battery has made my revengeful Monday morning a sorrowful plight.
On the morning of Monday, December 1, I had a plan.
Step one—drop off a letter that had been incorrectly delivered to our home to a US Postal service mailbox at a neighborhood shopping center.
Step two— open up Trinity United Methodist Church.
Step three—return home and work out on my old exercise bike.
Just before 6:30, I started my plan.
I drove to the shopping center.
I did not park in a parking space. I looped my car around parallel to the building with the car pointing in the direction I needed to go to exit the parking lot.
Turned off the car, walked a few steps to the postal box, and dropped in the letter.
Walked the few steps back to my car and attempted to start the car.
The car would not start.
A message flashed on the panel in front of me: Key ID incorrect.
No matter what I tried. The car would not start. The message remained the same—Key ID incorrect.
How in the world could the Key ID be incorrect? I wondered if the key fob had been overtaken by some outer space alien who wanted to disrupt my Monday.
A young man from a local construction company pulled in a parking space in front of the 7-11. I politely interrupted his entry and asked if he had any ideas?
He didn’t, but we had a good conversation about his company who had replaced the steeple at our church a few years ago.
With that I started a walk home. I was worried that my improper parking might get the car towed before I could get home and return with the backup key fob.
The Mobil service station was open. I stopped in and asked Jeff, the attendant, if he had any ideas. He suspected the key fob’s battery, but was perplexed by the message. I thanked him and returned to my walk back home.
At the corner of Rock Creek Road and Forest Avenue, the young man from the construction company pulled over and offered me a ride to my house. I gladly accepted. Turns out two of his four children attend Trinity’s preschool.
I thanked him profusely, and rushed in the house to get the second key fob.
With that key, I started my walk back to the shopping center.
I decided to stop at Trinity on the way back to open up the building.
Once that was done, I started a slow, sprint back to my car.
It was cold and my fingers were frozen. When I arrived at the car, those frigid fingers had a hard time working the second fob.
Unfortunately, the key fob gods were not in my favor on this Monday. The second fob greeted me with the same message— key ID incorrect.
Good thing I didn’t have a hammer.
I noted that my friend, James, was working in the 7-11. James also works part-time at the Mobil station. I walked in and explained to James my Monday morning key fob blues.
James walked outside and tested the fobs for opening the car’s doors. Neither fob responded—both fob batteries were dead.
As James walked back into the 7-11, Jeff from the Mobil station pulled up in his truck. Jeff had done an internet check. He discovered that by holding the fob directly against the ignition button that the car should start.
I got back in the car. My still icy fingers struggled to make the proper connection.
I tried a couple of times with no luck.
With Jeff’s insistence, he suggested that I align the fob again, and for whatever quirky reason—the car started.
Again, I thanked Jeff for his diligence.
Back home, I explained to my Commander Supreme what had transpired. She couldn’t believe it. I felt drained.
But, my Monday morning key fob blues were not as draining as this headline: 4 dead and 10 wounded in shooting at banquet hall in Stockton, California.
Among the dead were three children ages 8, 9, and 14. This event was a birthday celebration for a child.
Regrettably, this event only reconfirms what we already know about America—the trigger puller had no respect for his/her life, nor the respect for the lives of the people attending the birthday party.
San Joaquin County, Sheriff Patrick Withrow, made this statement: “I am confident in our team and with the work that we have done so far that we will find these animals that did this and bring them justice, but we still need the public’s help.”
“Animals”
Is this what America has sadly become?
I’ve got the Monday morning Stockton, California birthday party blues, with broken hearts that never heal as senseless shootings continue no matter the venue in a disrespectful America with a dying red, white, and blue.
In his rapid fire delivery of jokes, he always found a way to work in what became his identifying line—“I don’t get no respect.”
For lots of reasons, that’s how I’ve come to feel about Thanksgiving.
Over the last several years, it appears to me that our respect for Thanksgiving is eroding.
Retailers know this.
For example, the National Retail Federation expects Christmas sales in 2025 to “exceed a trillion dollars.”
Forecasters predicted that Halloween sales for 2025 would be in the range of twelve billion.
Thanksgiving is projected to be in the four to five billion range.
Growing up in North Carolina, Thanksgiving was always a drive on U.S. 70 to my grandmother’s home in Greensboro.
Sometimes, there was a stop on this twenty minute drive at Mt. Pleasant United Methodist Church for a morning Thanksgiving service.
The spread of home cooked food for our lunch time gathering was amazing. As an overweight kid, I was in heaven.
And yes, I like pumpkin pie. However, my favorite Thanksgiving dessert was persimmon pudding. I think my Aunt Evelyn always made sure we had persimmon pudding.
The other thing that I remember about those gatherings was being huddled in a small den with a television that projected a black and white picture of the Detroit Lions and Green Bay Packers playing their traditional Thanksgiving Day game. At the time, that was the only game broadcast or played.
Money has changed that. From Thursday through Sunday, football games at the collegiate and professional level are non-stop.
In November 1975, I spent my first Thanksgiving away from home. I was in Milton, Massachusetts, a pretty New England town just south of Boston.
I was with my future wife’s family. Two days later, that beautiful lady and I were married in West Hartford, Connecticut.
Lots has transpired in those fifty years.
And even though, Thanksgiving is squashed between the billions and trillions of Halloween and Christmas, it continues to survive.
We must never take the survival of Thanksgiving for granted.
The survival of Thanksgiving depends upon you, me, we, us.
We can’t let Thanksgiving die.
If Thanksgiving dies, so will we.
Maya Angelo said it better: “If we lose love and self-respect for each other, this is how we finally die.”
For Thanksgiving to continue to have a life, we must ensure that our children and grandchildren understand why it is so important to be thankful.
Being thankful can’t be taken for granted.
In the fall of my sophomore year at Greensboro College, biology professor, Dr. Kemper Callahan, put that into perspective for me.
This is what I have come to Dr. Callahan’s Thanksgiving Lecture. He simply told our class that we should never take Thanksgiving for granted. That included appreciating all of the people who make Thanksgiving happen. Dr. Callahan put a strong emphasis on farmers—no farmers, no Thanksgiving.
Successful Farming reported in July of 2025: “More farms nationwide filed for bankruptcy in the first three months of the year this year than across the entirety of 2024.”
What will the continuing struggles of our farmers mean for future Thanksgivings?
While I love the Thanksgiving food, Thanksgiving is also about family.
How lucky I have been to have been nurtured by a family every day of my life. That is a luxury not available to everyone.
As crazy as families can be, even an ounce of stability can make all the difference in a person’s life.
I see that generational stability in our Thanksgiving gatherings. Internally I ask—how different would my life have been without that stability?
I also ponder how much better America could be if that stability was present for all of our families. We might be surprised at how lives could improve by solving those generational cycles of instability.
In my work at Trinity United Methodist Church, I see hope for Thanksgiving. That hope comes through the art work of the children in the preschool.
(Photo by Bill Pike)
I love walking through the hallways in the days before Thanksgiving. I get to see the Thanksgiving artwork gracefully resting on the floor or gently hanging from a wall mounted hook. These masterpieces are in their curing stage with glue and paint drying before they are transported home.
(Photo by Bill Pike)
Who knows maybe these heartfelt creations will be cherished and preserved for future Thanksgiving celebrations.
Isn’t that part of what makes up respect—preserving what we value?
Rodney Dangerfield figured that out.
Mr. Dangerfield learned that his audiences anticipated and valued his famous line—“I don’t get no respect.”
I can hear him now.
Thanksgiving is coming. I gotta tell you, when I was a kid Thanksgiving got a lot of respect. Not now. Thanksgiving is like a panini sandwich flatten on a press by Halloween pumpkins and retailers overstuffing our Christmas stockings.
I hope you and your families have a good Thanksgiving.
And remember to endure, Thanksgiving needs our respect, our hope, and our thankful hearts.
Even though I know that the dew covering the windows on my car will soon become frost, October, I’m glad you’re back.
(Photo Bill Pike)
You are my favorite month.
I don’t want you to leave.
I know when you depart, November moves me one step closer to winter.
Mentally, I fight winter.
While I still respect winter, I’ve lost my constant school boy hope and prayer for snow.
At 72, my old brain doesn’t revere snow anymore. That wish for snow is for our grandchildren and school teachers.
So October, I’m going to cherish you.
The last few days the harvest moon has been like a spotlight in the predawn western sky. Its brightness teasing as it hovers by church steeples and plays hide and seek descending behind tree lines.
(Photo Bill Pike)
To my west, cold fronts hurtle their northwest winds over the Blue Ridge Mountains. Rushing east toward Richmond, these winds paint your sky with the clearest, bluest blue my eyes have ever seen. I want to daydream into that blue forever.
Although I dread my annual battle with your fallen leaves, I adore the palette of colors found in the bright sun against that blue sky backdrop.
Even though, my affection for today’s baseball is gone, October brings the world series. I remember sneaking my transistor radio and earplug into Miss Avery’s sixth grade class at Hillcrest Elementary School. She figured out that I was trying to listen to the world series. For some reason, she didn’t kill me.
And just to be fair, I can grumble about October too.
I whine about the retailers who thrust Christmas on us way too early. I couldn’t believe that even our neighborhood hardware store had a Christmas Sale display today.
(Photo Bill Pike)
And to continue the fairness, I will confess that I do not understand our increased fondness for Halloween. Yards throughout our neighborhood are transformed with all kinds of displays. I’m surprised someone hasn’t come up with a tacky Halloween tour like we have for tacky Christmas lights.
On a recent morning run, I turned off Horsepen Road and made a right on Devon. A few yards down the street two houses across from each other are decked out in Halloween gear. What caught my attention were the skeletons.
Each yard has an array of skeletons. Yet, my eyes were drawn to the high wire that stretches across the street from a tree in each yard. Skeletons in a variety of positions dangle from that high wire.
In particular, there is one skeleton that I really focused on. High above the yard, this skeleton is hanging by its fingertips. I wonder how many people I encounter on a daily basis who are hanging on by his or her fingertips?
(Photo Bill Pike)
I worry about those finger-tippers.
Unless we are completely oblivious, day to day living in this challenging world is tough.There is a tension that makes people more fragile, more vulnerable.
What really worries me about those finger-tippers is I might never know how close they are to letting go.
The constant barrage of discouraging news headlines makes me a pessimist at heart. I wonder when are we going to wake up? Perhaps that’s what keeps a bit of optimism—a bit of hope in my old heart. Hope that we will find our hearts again.
Maybe those finger-tippers can find some hope in October.
Maybe finding hope requires us to strip away the layers of hurt in our hearts like stripping layers of paint off on an old battered door.
(Photo Bill Pike)
Maybe that hope is in the October bloom of a camellia shrub.
(Photo Bill Pike)
Maybe that hope is the shiny red berries from a dogwood tree.
(Photo Bill Pike)
Maybe that hope is early morning sunlight coming through window shutters as it cast a pattern of light against a sanctuary wall.
(Photo Bill Pike)
Maybe that hope is you, me, we, us realizing that a finger-tipper is in close proximity.
Maybe that hope is you, me, we, us starting a conversation with the finger-tipper.
Bruce Springsteen said: “At the end of every hard day, people find some reason to believe.”
Maybe for finger-tippers, you, me, we, us, and October can become a reason to believe at the end of their hard day.
After all, 1 Thessalonians 4:18 states: “Therefore, encourage one another with these words.”
On the evening of Monday, September 1, 2025, my wife and I went with neighbors to the James Taylor concert at the Allianz Amphitheater At Riverfront. This new outdoor concert venue is on the banks of the James River.
A few days prior to the concert, our neighbors did a reconnaissance drive to check out parking options and the walking distance to the entrance.
Additionally, a day before the event, my wife received a courtesy email stating the concert was sold out. Arriving early was recommended.
The reconnaissance for the parking was smart. We parked in a lot within reasonable walking distance to the amphitheater. Additionally, the price for parking was acceptable.
It was a bit after six when we finished up at the parking lot and started our walk to the entrance. What we didn’t expect was the long, long line of people waiting to enter the amphitheater.
Richmond police officers did good work monitoring pedestrian and vehicle traffic at the intersection of Second and Byrd. That long, long line worked its way up a very steep hill along Byrd Street well past the Afton Chemical Corporation.
For a person with worn-out legs, challenges with their cardiovascular system, or wheelchair dependency getting up this hill was a challenge.
At some point the line started to move. The movement toward the entrance was slow, but steady. We cleared the security checkpoint, and the next challenge was finding a space on the lawn for us to sit.
We found a spot, but then we relocated. We relocated to the back of the lawn area. A fence runs the length of the lawn. We had two chairs reserved for seating. Our thinking was the fence would be like the back of a chair while sitting on blanket.
Again, the line to pickup our two chairs was long. We tolerated the wait time. Good news, the chairs were sturdy and comfortable.
When we relocated to the fence, the chair line was directly in front of us. Numerous people came to the chair line not realizing that a reservation had to be made to secure a chair. Just before the concert started, another problem surfaced. Apparently, the supply of chairs for people who had made a chair reservation was depleted.
As we settled into our spot, we learned that there are still some kindhearted souls in the world. A lady with two chairs stopped in front of our group. She offered us her chairs. Where her friends were seated on the lawn was too crowded for chairs, so she offered them to us.
Prior to the opening act, I spent thirty minutes exploring the amphitheater.
The stage is massive and it appears to be outfitted with all the latest bells and whistles for concert technology.
Seating options are varied with some unique locations, and the sight-lines seem good. This is despite at least three large light poles that can impact those sight-lines.
Large video monitors grace either sided of the stage. So, if your sight-lines are lousy, and the tall and lanky, James Taylor, looked tiny, the monitors capture all of the action on stage.
The space provided for food, beverage, and merchandise seemed to be adequate. This area was full of people, but despite some long lines people were able to move freely.
Can’t speak for the women, but there was no wait time for the mens’ restroom area. Urinals, sinks, and toilets were numerous.
No one from our group purchased any food or beverages. I’m not sure about food prices, but a variety of items were offered.
I had read about the grumbling over the pricing of alcoholic beverages, and I now understand the grumbling.
Interesting to me that pricing for all wine options was prominently posted. Wine pricing was expensive. A can of wine was $14.00. Wine by the bottle fell into three price ranges from $40.00 to one Cabernet Sauvignon topping out at $110.00.
As far as I could tell pricing for beer was not posted. It is my understanding that beers in 24 ounce cans cost from $16.50 to $23.00. I did see one beer sign advertising a Value Beer for $5.00.
(Photo Bill Pike)
When I inquired about the value beer was I shown a 12 ounce can of Busch Light. While I’m sure Busch Light has its fans, I don’t value it as a beer. Plus, a consumer can purchase a 30 can case of Busch Light in a local grocery store for $27.99. With that pricing, each can of beer in that case cost about 93 cents a can. Even for a value beer, that’s a significant mark up, but nothing like the mark up on the other beers.
The concert started on time with opening act Tiny Habits hitting the stage at 7:30. After their set, the roadies made some adjustments to the stage, and then we were treated to two solid hours of James Taylor and his very gifted band.
On September 15, 2024, my wife and I made our first trip to Wolf Trap National Park for the Performing Arts. We made this trip to see James Taylor.
Clearly, Wolf Trip has been presenting concerts much longer than the rookies at the Allianz Amphitheater. However, getting into Wolf Trap, working our way to the lawn, and picking up our reserved chairs was seamless.
Part of me wants to know if anyone involved with the development of the Allianz Amphitheater spent anytime picking the brains of the staff at Wolf Trap.
It is my hope that the management team will conduct a detailed review of this first season. That review should include receiving feedback from the people who attended the concerts, and all Allianz personnel.
The day after the concert, my wife did receive an email from Live Nation, a survey that opened with: “What did you(really) think of James Taylor? Share your review!”
That opening was followed with these question prompts: How was the event? Best ever? Room for improvement? Leave feedback on your recent concert or event, so Ticketmaster, a division of Live Nation Entertainment, can help enhance your next live experience.
I wonder how many people responded to the request for feedback? Additionally, I wonder how diligently the survey comments are discussed and studied by Live Nation and Ticketmaster?
From my perspective, here are some questions that management needs to ponder:
When a concert is sold out, how might the long line and wait time for getting into the amphitheater be reduced?
If I reserve a chair, how does management ensure that the chair will be available for me?
For consumers of alcoholic beverages, the pricing must be clearly posted for all options, and the pricing of these beverages must be restructured to be more sensible.
How might the seating in the lawn area be more balanced between blankets and chairs? Should the lawn area have a designated section only for chairs?
Hopefully, management will listen and improvements will be ready to be implemented by next summer.
At the age of 77, James Taylor enjoyed performing in this new venue. He was complimentary of the facility, the setting, and the crowd. His compliments also hinted that he would like to return next summer for another performance.
I’m 72, I anticipate returning to the Allianz Amphitheater At Riverfront for another concert. However, if I opt to return, I certainly hope that the management team will collectively work to make improvements. Improvements that will make the concert experience better for all who attend a performance in this amphitheater.
Failure to listen to feedback and institute reasonable changes based upon that constructive criticism could potentially hurt the success of the amphitheater.
At the end of this first season, I know everyone will be looking at the profit numbers. I won’t deny the importance of that data. But did concert attendees have a good experience also drives that revenue, and that can’t be overlooked.
And thinking of people, there is one more important part of our concert experience that also can’t be disregarded—the Allianz personnel. From my interactions with them, I found these employees to be patient, polite, and knowledgeable. In our impatient world those traits are important, especially in a public setting—nice work.
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.”
I wasn’t looking forward to Monday, February 17, 2025. I knew what was coming.
For the next 48 hours, I was to be flat on my back. The only exceptions—restroom and meals.
I knew this drill because in December of 2023, I had surgery on my left eye to address Fuchs Dystrophy and cataracts.
To put it simply, Fuchs Dystrophy is when a person’s cornea begins to misbehave. My eye doctor had been tracking this behavior for a few years. After an exam, the comment was always the same—“you’re not ready yet.”
When you’re ready, the surgeon makes arrangements to secure a healthy cornea from a donation bank, and then the surgeon works his magic.
This morning, the plan was the same, but the focus would be my right eye.
I had completed the pre-surgery prep. A laser is used to zap a small entry point into my right eye. This is followed by a regimen of eye drops to prep the eye for the surgery.
The Commander Supreme and I had an uneventful drive to the surgery center. We parked and walked into the large waiting room.
The room was packed. I’m certain this facility is a cash cow.
Since, I had already signed my life away, the check-in process wasn’t very cumbersome. On a monitor, we could see my name, and track its positioning with the other patients. It wasn’t too long before a nurse came into the lobby, and called my name.
She gave a few instructions to the Commander, and then I was on my way.
The nurse and I chatted to the staging area. She asked many questions to ensure that I had followed the required protocols.
I had one last shot at bladder relief before stretching out on the gurney. A preheated blanket greeted my feet, and the magic touch of the nurse properly positioned my old sack of bones. My right eye was marked to alleviate whacking out the wrong part of my body.
My vitals were cooperating, and soon the knockout doctor appeared. Again more questions, and a short while later I was out.
When I awoke, I slowly noticed I had a dull throbbing pain in my left eye. It seemed like forever before anyone stopped again to check on me. I let them know about the eye pain, and they were perplexed.
I continued to wait. The longer I waited the more anxious I became. I didn’t remember waiting this long the last time.
Another check on me, I asked how much longer? I guess I was like a kid on a long road trip with his family—are we there yet?
Soon, the knockout doctor returned. Something was removed from the left side of my face, and the pain around my left eye immediately disappeared. He asked me if I was ready for some more sleepy juice, and I said yes.
I couldn’t feel anything, but I do recall the doctor working on my right eye.
I don’t remember the ride, but the gurney was wheeled back to the spot where I started. And it wasn’t long before my left eye could see the Commander Supreme.
At some point, we learned that the surgery went well. The patch over my eye could be removed for the drops, and we had a chart for recording the dispensing of the drops.
My post-surgery appointment on Tuesday morning would reveal more.
I was alert now, alert enough to know I needed a pit stop. I was transitioned to a wheelchair and wheeled to the restroom.
Back in the wheel chair, a nice nurse pushed me out to the departure circle. The Commander was waiting for us.
With the seat reclined, I entered the car, connected the seatbelt, and we headed for home.
I’m a very lucky person. My back rarely causes me any stress, but my back doesn’t like being flat for 48 hours.
The last time I had this surgery, my back was the challenge, and unfortunately, this time, my back again chose to bother me.
No matter how pillows were used in support of my legs and feet, my back tightened and cramped. I had permission to take Ibuprofen and Extra Strength Tylenol. They dulled the pain, but the aching never totally disappeared.
That first night, I’m certain Alexa was just as happy as I when morning arrived. I kept making requests, and Alexa kept playing the music.
A bit after eight, we started the drive to the doctor’s office. It is a different passenger experience being reclined in a moving car.
With my eye still covered with its patch, we made our way into the waiting area. I was a bit uneasy.
When I was called back, the first nurse to assess me learned quickly that I had barely any vision in my right eye. I don’t remember this from the previous surgery, but this time the absence of vision was alarming to me.
My eye picked up light, but that was all. It was like there was a film covering my eye.
She didn’t seemed too concern.
Next the doctor came in. He took a look through the fancy machine, and he liked what he saw. The four sutures were in place, and the inserted bubble in my eye was still helping to hold the needed pressure.
The doctor showed the Commander how to monitor the bubble. If everything worked properly, the bubble gradually disappears.
We didn’t pepper him with too many questions, and before leaving we set up the appointment to have the sutures removed in a week.
During the remainder of Tuesday, somehow, my back and I tolerated each other. Waiting for dawn the second night seemed longer. Once again, Alexa honored my music requests.
On Wednesday, I continued to go for flat time. I didn’t want anything to go wrong with the surgery. Late on Wednesday afternoon, I took a shower. There is nothing like a shower for a weary soul.
By late Saturday afternoon, Betsy had good news—the bubble was gone.
On Thursday, February 27, I drove myself to the appointment. When the nurse started checking my right eye vision, she was pleased. This morning, I could read letters to her from large to very small.
When the doctor came in, he was pleased with what he saw too. Some drops were applied to numb the right eye, and now he was ready to remove the four sutures.
Once the sutures were out, I was given some different instructions for the eyedrops, and then I heard the best news from the doctor: “Your post-operative progress is ahead of schedule, you can resume normal activities.”
I was elated.
I thanked him and the nurse, and I made an appointment to come back in a month. I hope my progress continues.
This whole process amazes me.
According to the National Library of Medicine, the first corneal transplant dates back to 1905. An Austrian, Dr. Eduard Zim, used his ophthalmologist skills to perform that surgery in what is now known as the Czech Republic.
Since that surgery, countless doctors have been involved in improving and refining the process. I can’t begin to imagine figuring out the need for a tissue bank, the special tools needed to suture inside an eye, developing the eye drops, and how to use a laser to form an opening for the surgery to take place.
Why can we figure out this complicated surgical procedure, but we can’t figure out how to bring a lasting peace to every corner of the world? What is wrong with us? What have we to fear from a lasting peace?
In this process, I’m thankful for the care provided to me by the Commander Supreme, the meals from neighbors and friends, and heartfelt prayers.
And in both surgeries, I’m appreciative of the skills from the doctors, nurses, and support staffs.
But more importantly, I’m deeply appreciative of the family who made the decision to donated the cornea to the tissue bank.
How can I be so lucky and others are not?
I wonder how the good Lord might answer that question?
Eye drops and eye shield. (Photo Bill Pike)
Author’s post surgery note: Today, March 27, I had my one month appointment with the eye surgeon. Everything looks good, and he has released me. Again, I’m so thankful.
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.
might be baloney 