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.
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
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