life – might be baloney

Not Paris, Texas, nor London, Kentucky

September 29, 2026 Bill PikeLeave a comment

I am not a good traveler.

My wife, the Commander Supreme, can confirm this for you.

She knows that if it wasn’t for her, I couldn’t travel.

I’d never make it on to the plane.

This trip was not about Paris, Texas, or London, Kentucky.

No, this trip was about Paris, France, a cruise down the Seine River, Normandy, and London, England.

I recall the exact moment when this trip was pitched, discussed, and booked.

In October 2025, we were in Greensboro for our 50th college reunion. We were invited to breakfast at the home of my college roommate and his wife, Butch and Marian Sherrill. Our friends, Dan and Judy Callow were there too.

After breakfast, the ambush occurred. The trip was pitched. I thought wait a second, a few months ago we all returned from our trip to Alaska. Now, my pals are pitching another trip. Where is the economic recovery from that trip in your thinking?

Things started moving faster than a Frenchman swallowing a snail.

Next thing I knew, a call to Grand Circle was taking place.

Next thing I knew, we were signed up for this trip.

My wife and our cherished friends were all smiles—mission accomplished.
The morale of this story— be wary of a simple breakfast invitation with beloved friends.

From September 1 thru September 19, we were in constant motion. I find that you endure that constant movement because of your traveling partners.

In our case that meant the Callows and Sherrills. I don’t know how or why, but in our mental makeups, there is a tolerance, a patience, a give and take, humor, and wisdom that gets us through these journeys. Even in nerve plucking moments, our hearts guide.

For this trip, we worked with Grand Circle. The Callows and Sherrills have traveled multiple times with this company. This was our first trip with Grand Circle.

In my limited travel experiences with cruise lines, it all boils down to their personnel. Do they have the right people working behind the scenes, and do they have the right people in public? Fortunately for us on this trip, Grand Circle did.

For this trip, I selfishly had three goals—make it to Normandy and the D-Day beaches, the Churchill War Room, and the famous crosswalk where the cover for the Beatles’ album Abbey Road was photographed.

Thanks to my wife and our pals that mission was accomplished.

Trips like this don’t happen without brains better than mine doing lots of planning.

On Thursday, June 25, the Sherrills drove from Greensboro to Richmond. They spent the night with us. On Friday morning we drove to Maryland where the Callows live.

Outside of Frederick, Maryland, we had a delightful lunch and visit with the Callows son and his family.

After lunch, we drove to Highland where Dan and Judy reside. For the remainder of Friday and a good portion of Saturday, the Callow’s dining room became our “war room.”

Months ago, our reservations had been confirmed and secured with Grand Circle. This planning was figuring out our three days in Paris prior to boarding the ship, and our three nights in London after leaving the ship.

Previous traveling experiences, detailed lists, maps, computer apps, phone apps were all put to use to carve these days. I sat quietly and watched.

A final session on Sunday morning confirmed assignments and deadlines. These were not assignments for slackers. Success in Paris and London depended upon making reservations and purchasing tickets when necessary.

During July and August, phone calls, text messages, emails, and an occasional Zoom molded and shaped the itinerary. By August 30, we questioned how our packing was going, and on August 31, we were in motion.

The Callows had a direct flight into Paris from BWI in Baltimore.

As we all know the pricing of airline tickets can go from very reasonable to outrageous. To avoid the outrageous, it was cheaper by $1,500 dollars for Betsy and me to drive to Greensboro to fly to Philadelphia to Paris than attempting to do that via Richmond.

So on August 31, we drove to Summerfield where our oldest daughter, Lauren and her family live. We left our car in their driveway, and Lauren drove us to the Greensboro airport—a short drive.

Arriving at the Greensboro airport (Photo Lauren Reinking)

The Sherrills live in Greensboro. One of their sons-in-law dropped them off, and once we checked in and cleared security, we met in the American Airline terminal and waited.

I’m impatient in waiting to board a plane. I don’t sit. I walk the terminal. I figure I’m going to be sitting on a plane a long, long time, so, I keep moving until the call to board is announced.

Our flight to Philadelphia kept getting delayed. Eventually the travel gods cooperated. The plane arrived, we boarded the EMB145, the pilot gave us an update, and we were off.

Coming into Philadelphia, thunderstorms were brewing. This line of storms didn’t impact our landing, but a storm did erupt over the airport. Fortunately, this line of weather moved quickly. Its impact on our departure was minimal.

Approach into Philadelphia (Photo Bill Pike)

No matter what airlines try, boarding a plane is a nightmare. The massive 787 was built to carry lots of passengers and their junk, but boarding is still a pain.

The Captain told us to expect a delay in departing. To his surprise air traffic controllers gave him the green light to go sooner than anticipated. With that he gunned the engines, and we were barreling down the rain-slicked runway bound for Paris.

I wonder what Charles Lindbergh might think about this big sheet metal monster compared to his Spirit of St. Louis.

Soon, the lights of Philadelphia and the east coast of America were gone. Darkness consumed this big bird in its flight path across the Atlantic.

On long flights, I never look at my watch or track the plane’s path. To me that only makes the anguish of the flight longer.

If the plane’s technology is working, I watch movies to escape the slow moving hands of time.

On this flight, none of the new move releases interested me. I watched Stand By Me, the first Toy Story, and a documentary about Lorne Michaels, the creator of Saturday Night Live. I know at times I dozed off. That dozing kept the clock moving.

Thank the good Lord for tailwinds. Those winds helped the pilot and crew to bring us into our approach for landing at Charles De Gaulle Airport sooner.

Departing the plane is more madness.

Once off, we regroup, get our bearings, find a restroom, and start working our way toward customs, luggage, and finding our Grand Circle representative.

With some luck, everything works, and soon Grand Circle personnel have us loaded with our luggage into a van.

We have a good driver who finds his way to our hotel without too much heartburn.

Check-in at the Hotel Le Bellune is seamless.

It is here that we meet our key Grand Circle contact person, our guide, Matt.

For the next fourteen days, Matt will be our pivot point. From France, Matt speaks impeccable English. More importantly, he knows how to work with people, all kinds of people, even wacky American tourist like us.

Later in the afternoon, we have a welcome, a briefing, and then a tour led by Matt of the neighborhood surrounding the hotel.

At the briefing, we are given our Metro passes, a listening device nicknamed “whisperer” and an overview of the game plan until we board the ship on Saturday.

With the tour of the neighborhood, our first lesson is about the bicycle lanes that run parallel to the sidewalks. Look both ways, lots of Parisians ride bikes.

Matt gives helpful hints about interacting with shopkeepers and restaurant staff. We see the locations for a grocery store, pharmacy, and a bank. Matt knows the neighborhood so he quietly points out places not to enter.

After the tour, we opt to have dinner in the hotel. We finalize our departure time for day one of exploring Paris, and then we head to our rooms and collapse.

Merci!

When life goes sideways

September 21, 2026 Bill Pike2 Comments

Late on the afternoon of Friday, August 21, 2026, long time Trinity member, Ken Hart, showed up at church.

Ken arrived with his leaf blower. The crepe myrtles in the Bicentennial Garden drop their pretty pink blossoms on the brick paver sidewalk.

Those blossoms track into the building. This is especially true after a passing summer thunderstorm.

When I saw Ken on Sunday morning, I thanked him for his work.

I also told him that the sidewalk was covered again this morning with those pretty pink blossoms.

Somedays, sidewalks go sideways.

Early on that same Sunday morning, I used a couple of brooms to clear the sidewalk again. As I was sweeping those pink blossoms, I looked down into the pile where I saw a motionless butterfly.

I picked it up and placed it on the top of one of the brick columns. The butterfly was a monarch. Stunning in its color, its patterns were perfectly designed and sequenced, a flawless example of an angel on earth.

I felt bad for the butterfly. I thought back to all of the times Eric Carle’s “The Very Hungry Caterpillar” had been read to our children before bedtime.

Somedays, life goes sideways for butterflies.

Out on Patterson Avenue, Virginia Route 6, where Normandy Drive empties on to Patterson there is a water line leak. Water has been bubbling for over two weeks now.

That bubbling created a large pot hole. The pot hole was large enough to be a hindrance for drivers. Despite shutting that travel lane down, and using orange traffic cones and gravel as a band-aid repair, none of that has kept right front tires from slamming into the hole.

One morning, I watched a county school bus make a very awkward turn on to the open lane on Patterson. I don’t think the bus driver enjoyed making that turn.

Somedays, life goes sideways for water lines.

This week, thousands of miles from Richmond, Virginia, life went sideways in Nepal. I have never seen such immediate and catastrophic flood destruction. There was no blink. Didn’t matter if you were a human being or a man made structure, you were gone.

Somedays, life can unexpectedly go sideways.

A few weeks ago, life went sideways for our new senior pastor, and her husband, who is also a pastor. He was diagnosed with a very rare, but dangerous oral cancer. His second round of surgery was yesterday.

Cancer always makes life go sideways.

Somewhere in America there is a small business owner who is feverishly attempting to figure out how to make payroll for this week. The business owner understands loyalty and sacrifice. Deep inside, the owner wonders how much longer loyalty and sacrifice will last.

Making payroll makes life go sideways.

My sister and I always remember August 31, 1992 and September 1, 2002. Those were the days when we lost our parents.

Losing a loved one makes life go sideways.

Up in heaven, I wonder if life goes sideways for God and Jesus?

My guess is life goes sideways every day in heaven.

Twenty-four seven, there is no down time. There is always a crisis.

For people like me, who try to be good, who try to understand and apply the teachings in the Bible to my daily living, my belief in what I have held on to for all these years can go sideways too.

I want to know why life goes sideways?

Yes, this is a reoccuring whining theme for me.

But, the truth be told, this is a reoccuring, whining question for you too. You want to know why life goes sideways.

Quite honestly, God and Jesus are tired of me and my why.

And all my whys are grounded in the New Testament of the Bible—the miracles. Why was sight restored to someone? Why were demons cast out of a young man? Why were lepers cured? Why did a judge finally cave in and rule in favor of the woman who had consistently pestered him? Why, why, why, why, why?

Every August, I keep an eye on a gardenia shrub. The gardenia is located on the west side of our home. It is in a narrow border beside our trash cans and recycling container.

That gardenia blooms in the late spring. Sometimes in August, the gardenia surprises me with a few fragrant singular blooms.

This August, the gardenia didn’t disappoint me. I caught a whiff of its fragrance when taking out some recycling. I searched the shrub and found the single white bloom buried among waxy green leaves.

That gardenia always circles me back to my parents. They had prolific green thumbs. For this gardenia, its roots are linked back to my parent’s yard. It’s blooming in August always makes me think of our mother and father.

There have been years, when life had gone sideways for the gardenia. Challenging winters with coatings of ice and harsh northwest winds have on several occasions burned its green foliage.

Despite the bitter winter, the gardenia finds a way to persevere.

When life went sideways for our parents, I think their perseverance came from their faith.

Clearly, there is no stopping of life going sideways.

Perhaps when sideways arrives, I need to think more deeply about this quote from Helen Keller: “Although the world is full of suffering, it is full also of the overcoming of it.”

Instead of me constantly whining why about sideways, I need to commit to help those who are still here with the “overcoming it.”

It will be difficult for me to overcome my whining why.

But, I’m going to work on it.

How about you?

Even in July, the grit of winter is still around

July 19, 2026July 20, 2026 Bill PikeLeave a comment

The extreme heat warning was first issued for Richmond, Virginia on Thursday, July 2, 2026.

Two days later on Saturday, July 4, the extreme heat warning was still in place.

When I left for my run that Saturday morning, the temperature was 77 degrees, humidity 88%, dew point, 73 degrees, and wind out of the south at 3 mph. If you moved an inch in any direction on this miserably uncomfortable morning, you were guaranteed to perspire.

For the next 35:49, that’s all I did. When I finished my run, I was drenched. No part of my old sack of bones was dry.

Despite these conditions, I saw walkers, a couple of runners, and neighbors walking their dogs. One neighbor said to me that he was simply trying to beat the heat.

The only way to beat the heat on a day like this is to hope that you have an air conditioned home.

Despite the heat, I did enjoy my run.

Yes, I said I enjoyed my run.

It is always an enjoyable run if I spot a bluebird.

This morning near the end of the service road that runs parallel to Westham Parkway, a bluebird briefly zoomed in front of me. Just like the blue on a blue crab, there is nothing like the blue of a bluebird.

Bluebirds are so flitty. Rarely do these pretty birds stay in one spot. Any movement causes them to quickly exit.

Once I was back home, I was fortunate to see another favorite bird the gold finch. This was my first spotting of the summer. Two of these bright yellow birds were enjoying a breakfast of coneflower seeds.

Even though the harsh, bitter cold of our 2026 winter is gone. Winter in a very small way is still hanging around our neighborhood.

On this run, there is an unusual intersection. Brookside Road and Bryn Mawr Road empty out on to Westham Parkway. There are three stop signs, one for each road.

Where those roads intersect, I find the remnants of winter.

To try to help drivers gain traction on our ice covered roads, snowplow drivers sometimes spread a mixture of salt with tiny granules of gravel and sand. As winter melted away, those particles of gravel and sand with the help of wind, rain, and car tires have worked their way down Brookside and Bryn Mawr.

The grit of winter still hanging around (Photo Bill Pike)

Unless we have a succession of cloud bursting showers, I don’t think this left over grit from winter is going to be leaving the flat area of this intersection.

I admire the grittiness of these tiny particles of sand and gravel. They have endured a harsh winter, the energy of spring, and the stubborn heat and humidity of summer.

Who knows some day, they might be washed into Westham Creek and flow into Westhampton Lake on the campus of the University of Richmond.

From there it is conceivable to flow over the spillway by the student commons heading toward the Kanawha Canal, the James River, and the Atlantic Ocean. I can only begin to imagine such a journey.

But, it is also possible that most of the gritty particles will stay put. They will not be swept away by rainwater, blown by the wind, or dispersed by the friction from car tires.

Deep in what’s left of my old brain, I compare those grains of sand and gravel to people. People who stand at the intersection of their lives.

Maybe they are trying to figure out a new direction in life.

Maybe they are worn and frazzled by the daily struggles they encounter.

Maybe they are weary from being run over by the meanness of life, the struggle to find stability and success.

Maybe they are in a vicious generational cycle full of instability and constant failures.

Maybe, they are in need of hope, grace, and mercy.

Maybe, they just need someone to reach out to them.

Someone to listen without judging.

Someone to acknowledge that despite the burdens they are carrying, these people at the intersection of life do matter, and the struggles in their lives matter.

To them hope, grace, and mercy might be just as flitty and unattainable as a streaking bluebird or gold finch.

1 Thessalonians Chapter 5 verse 11 offers these simple words of wisdom: “Therefore encourage one another and build up each other.”

At church, this past Sunday, I spent a few minutes talking with one of our older members. When I asked him how he was doing, the dedicated husband and father talked about his wife.

For many years, his wife has been impacted by the devastation of Alzheimer’s disease. Recently, her conditions took a turn for the worse.

This change necessitated a different living arrangement. His wife needed more around the clock care. He told me how much he missed having his wife with him.

In these difficult circumstances, I attempted to follow the guidance from 1 Thessalonians Chapter 5 verse 11, but I’m certain my words were way off the mark. His sadness is breaking his heart.

If you are looking for a good piece of fiction to read, I recommend The Correspondent by Virginia Evans.

The book focuses on Sybil Van Antwerp. Sybil was an accomplished attorney who uses her letter writing to try and make sense of her life and the world around her.

In a letter she wrote to Larry McMurtry, the author of Lonesome Dove, she states: “and I suppose, back then, I was reading fiction in search of assurances that there was still a reason for hope.”

Clearly, I’m not the brightest grump in this old world, but at the challenging crossroads and troublesome intersections of life isn’t that what we are searching to find—just a tiny grain of hope?

In the miserable heat and humidity of another summer in the South, might the gritty remnants of a weary winter give us a bit of hope?

And I wonder what might give that much needed hope to those trapped in the crossroads and intersections of an unstable life?

I think the answer depends how much you, me, we, us can put into action these words: “encourage one another and build up each other.”

Last rites for a dying pump

June 16, 2026 Bill Pike2 Comments

The sound I could hear coming from the Trinity Hall Mechanical Room wasn’t a happy one.

For sure, circulating pumps make noise when they are working. But these sounds were beyond the normal whirring of a motor that was working properly.

I could hear metal vibrating and bearings that were thinking to themselves—“I’ve grown weary of this same predictable redundancy day after day, I’m ready to check out.”

Eventually, the I’m not happy sound was annoying staff members who could hear something, but they weren’t quite sure what that sound was.

Our associate pastor asked, “What is that sound?”

I responded, “A pump in need of its last rites.”

So, I asked our HVAC company to stop by to offer an assessment of the ailing pump.

Their assessment was bleak.

The pump needed to be placed in mechanical hospice.

This highly reliable and well-built pump had been circulating chilled water during the often brutal Richmond summers since July 1987. The pump kept people in the Trinity Hall wing of the building from melting on those unbearable summer days.

The estimated cost for the pump’s funeral was close to $13,800. The pump alone was nearly $8,000.

I protested the high cost of that funeral to the estimator. I asked him to sharpen his pencil. He obliged this request. The price reduced almost a thousand dollars.

There was no way that our current budget could afford the funeral cost for a new pump. The harsh winter had been rough on our HVAC systems and budget.

I pushed back.

I thought to myself.

I appreciate the almost forty years of loyalty from this pump.

In this fast-paced, every changing world, I sense that loyalty is becoming a scarce commodity.

I asked if the loyal pump could be rebuilt?

Our lead HVAC technician said that was a possibility.

So with a bit more investigation, we determined that we could shutdown the pump and still keep that section of the building cool.

Late on Thursday afternoon, I pulled down on the arm of the singular circuit for that pump. In a matter of seconds the pump was quiet.

On Friday morning, another technician stopped by to remove the pump. This was no easy task. The pump is bulky, heavy, and in a tight location. Eventually, the technician won.

The pump was transported to Roy’s Electric. For over seventy five years, Roy’s has developed a reliable reputation for assessing old pumps and determining if they are salvageable and able to be rebuilt. This $90.00 assessment will hopefully give us a positive answer to rebuild the pump.

If the pump can be rebuilt with new parts and quality hands on assembly, the cost to bring it back to life is $3,000.

My fingers are crossed that the pump can be rebuilt. Our church budget will appreciate the difference in price.

Keeping an eye on the daily workings of a church is not much different from keeping a daily eye on the workings of our own bodies. Just as mechanical rooms are complicated—so are our human bodies.

We never know when our bodies might opt to have a difficult conversation with us.

I’m sure God and Jesus hear difficult prayers everyday from people around the world.

These people are reaching out because a loved one might be nearing the end.

Clearly, human beings are a lot different from mechanical room HVAC pumps. A pump can be replaced, or maybe rebuilt.

That’s not always the case for human beings. Sometimes, doctors with lots of dignity, grace, and respect must tell families— I’m sorry, but we have no other options.

If I’m lucky before the end of June, I’ll turn seventy-three.

I think how fortunate I’ve been. I wonder how many more birthdays I might have in me?

Despite my efforts to take care of myself, I wonder when will my luck run out?

Today at church, I had a long conversation with a friend who had lost his wife to cancer. Despite this devastating loss, he found comfort in a recent research breakthrough for the type of cancer she battled. That breakthrough was a ray of hope for the future.

Isaiah 41:10 states: “Don’t be afraid, for I am with you. Don’t be discouraged, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you. I will hold you up with My victorious right hand.”

In her book, “The Wings of Hope: Survivor,” Lailah Gifty Akita wrote: “Hope is hanging on to the promises of God.”

Doesn’t matter if you’re dealing with a weary old HVAC pump, or the frailty of human life, sometimes, the only hope we have is “hanging on to the promises of God.”

Tightening A Loose Screw

February 25, 2026 Bill Pike4 Comments

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?”

Making a stand is a “breath.”

So is tightening a screw.

Virginia Tech you’re not alone

February 10, 2026 Bill PikeLeave a comment

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.

This is a risk worth taking.

Do it.

Bill Pike
Richmond, Virginia

More rejections from William Whiner Part II: snow days

December 30, 2025 Bill PikeLeave a comment

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)

Monday morning key fob blues

December 6, 2025 Bill PikeLeave a comment

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.

My troublesome friends (Photo Bill Pike)

Thanksgiving: “I don’t get no respect.”

November 27, 2025 Bill Pike2 Comments

Rodney Dangerfield was a gifted comedian.

His self-deprecating humor made me laugh.

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.

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.

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.

A Mrs. Schmidt production (Photo Bill Pike)

October finger-tippers

October 15, 2025 Bill PikeLeave a comment

Even though I know that the dew covering the windows on my car will soon become frost, October, I’m glad you’re back.

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.

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.

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?

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.

Maybe that hope is in the October bloom of a camellia shrub.

Maybe that hope is the shiny red berries from a dogwood tree.

Maybe that hope is early morning sunlight coming through window shutters as it cast a pattern of light against a sanctuary wall.

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.”