I got up a little later than usual today, around 6:30 AM. I didn’t sleep well last night, partly because a rotator cuff issues kept me awake. I completed a course of physical therapy with mild to moderate results. The next step is surgery, something that I can’t do at this time as I need to be available to help my wife; such surgery will leave me nearly non-functional for months. For now, I have to grin and bear it.
Despite my hazy state, I’m excited this morning. Why? Julie and I will head off to another sibling breakfast with the remainder of my family.
My family of origin consisted of 5 siblings. My sister Carol is fifteen years my senior, my brother Tom was twelve years my senior, my brother Dave was ten years my senior, and my sister Nancy is seven years my senior.
Tom passed away at age 33 from leukemia. I liked Tom, who was a great writer of humorous anecdotes. Just as I was reaching an age where we could have bonded, he became sick, and despite having the best care, he passed away. My brother Dave lived into his 70s but was plagued by the sequela from childhood polio and later PSP, a horrible neurological condition. I was not very close to Dave, which was unfortunate. As adults, I can’t say we had harsh words or some major point of conflict. I guess sometimes that is just the way it is.
So, how does all of this relate to sibling breakfasts? I am a person of relationships. As I have said in previous posts, I don’t need a lot of connections, but I heavily invest in those that I value; some of those important relationships are my siblings and surrogate siblings. I’ll be seeing them in two hours.
My biological siblings share my OCD tendencies. Both Nancy and Carol are very invested in the interest of the day. Currently, Nancy is locked into making fancy Bundt cakes, and Carol is focused on simplifying clutter. I talk to them almost every day and visit them when possible. I can wholly relate to their obsessiveness. I’m currently comparing the dynamic range of smaller camera sensors vs. larger ones. Completely unimportant for most, utterly fascinating for me- until I move on to my next obscure interest.
My surrogate siblings are my brother-in-law Mike and my sister-in-law Kathy. I have known both since my early teens and hold them close to my heart. Mike regularly sends me links to various articles that he believes will interest me, and Kathy often says kind words when I post something. Add my wife, Julie, to this crew, and the party is complete.
We have been getting together on roughly a monthly schedule for many years. We meet at a restaurant and “catch up.” In reality, we know what is happening in each other lives via phone calls, visits, and Facebook. However, we still cherish these face-to-face group times.
We are all getting older, and none of us wants to regret not trying to be together. I can’t tell you how fortunate I feel to have these people in my life. They are all inspirational to me. I value all of them, and I am certain that this feeling is reciprocated.
I write a lot about relationships in my posts because I understand that they are fundamental in pursuing life’s satisfaction. In this regard, the definer is quality, not quantity. The only investments I have had to make to have these wonderful people in my life are my time and consideration. They pick me up when I’m down, celebrate my achievements, and most importantly, value me just for who I am. I am so fortunate. Let the breakfast begin!
Our last breakfast encounter.A prior breakfast with the full complement of participants.
I didn’t want to have children, and why would I? There was absolutely no benefit to having kids. I was repeatedly told this, and so I believed it. I had been fed the message that children were long-term burdens and expensive troublemakers who caused their parents to argue. I’m presenting the sanitized version here, but you get the picture.
Those feelings did a 180 at age 30 with the birth of my first child. My heart filled with a love that I never felt before—a love without bounds, a pure love that wasn’t contingent. My marriage ended in divorce, and I became a weekend dad. However, my love and commitment to my daughter continued.
Others said that I was a kind person, but I never allowed myself to love someone unconditionally before then. I always protected my feelings, always held back, and always evaluated and re-evaluated the situation. With the birth of my daughter, I realized what I was missing. By loving someone unconditionally, I became aware of the true power of love and also became open to receiving that love. I have never regretted those changes. They have allowed me to become a whole person.
Eventually, I remarried, and when we decided to have children, there was no question that I was all in. However, Mother Nature had other plans. A year of seriously trying and months of fertility work followed before we conceived our daughter. Two years later, we had our second daughter (my third child), and our family seemed complete.
Mother Nature turned the tables on us again and surprised us with a third (my fourth) child, a boy. I didn’t realize what new concerns a boy would bring me.
You may remember from previous posts that I had a number of challenges growing up, which included a childhood where I wasn’t valued much by my dad. I also had significant central processing issues that went beyond dyslexia.
In school, teachers reached out to me and encouraged my academic abilities. This gave me the confidence to move forward and to come up with solutions to my brain’s shortcomings. I have a natural ease in learning, and complex topics are not difficult for me to master. I have been gifted with an above-average problem-solving ability. Combine these factors with a bit of teacher encouragement plus my refusal to allow others to define me, and you have a formula that allowed me to do well both academically and professionally.
However, I am still flawed, and those flaws are especially evident in one aspect of my life: my poor athletic abilities. I understand why this is the case; let me share that information with you.
I have little natural athletic ability. I grew over a foot in less than a year, which increased my clumsiness and poor coordination. Additionally, I’m blind in my left eye, so I have no depth perception. In the correct environment, I could have overcome these issues somewhat. Unlike the teachers who gave me academic confidence, I can’t remember any time when my father tossed a ball to me or positively encouraged me to improve. I was just criticized for my lack of sporty ability.
Regarding book learning and problem-solving, I had natural abilities that I could use to counter any criticism. However, when it came to sports, my only path to improvement was through encouragement followed by practice. Lacking encouragement, I didn’t practice.
I was acutely aware of my clumsiness. My point of comparison was the best athletes in my class, and it was clear that I fell far short of their abilities. I couldn’t throw a ball as far, and my lack of depth perception made it impossible for me to successfully catch anything smaller than a basketball. I had a fear that I threw a ball “like a girl” (forgive this misogyny; this was in the 1960s). I don’t know if that was the case, but I avoided sporty interactions as I already felt different from the crowd.
Let’s face it: a grade school kid obsessed with how the universe works is not normal. I was comfortable rewiring broken radios into new electronic devices in the 3rd grade. I built a successful chicken-hatching incubator out of lightbulbs and laundry baskets in 6th grade. None of my peers were doing that, certainly not on their own. I wanted to fit in with my classmates. I could do my projects in private, but one can only be so odd. I avoided sports, an area where everyone could see I was atypical.
Despite my fears, I don’t recall ever being the focus of ridicule from my classmates. I had friends, and people seemed to like me. I think my feelings were internally based as another one of my strengths, as well as one of my curses, is to overanalyze things. However, I was what I was (poor English, I know).
Now, at 48, I was about to have a son. Knowing that we were having a boy filled me with intense excitement and fear. Could I even raise a boy? Did I have the ability to do so? I couldn’t train myself and become an athlete overnight; I felt I needed to correct all the wrongs I experienced as a child by becoming a coach as much as a father. However, I couldn’t do that. I could never be a perfect “Leave it to Beaver” dad. Would I be a failure as a father to my son?
I came to realize that I didn’t have to be the perfect dad. Just like with raising my daughters, effort was more important than mastery. The most important things were to love my son unconditionally, accept him for who he was, and encourage him to be the best he could be.
I couldn’t teach him the best way to pitch a baseball, but I could invest in him in countless other ways. I could educate him in logic, expose him to the wonder of science and deduction, show him how to fix things around the house, emphasize creativity, teach him technology, give him basic life skills like cooking, build his self-esteem and confidence, and focus him on becoming kind and compassionate. These were the things that I could offer him. That was the best that I could do. That’s what I tried to do.
My son is not me; he is his own unique person. He has many of my characteristics, but he also has his own abilities. He has the confidence to pursue athletics and has enjoyed the camaraderie of team sports. He excels in science and will start graduate school studying evolutionary genetics this fall. He is creative and already plays the piano, trombone, and guitar. Now, he is learning the drums. Most importantly, he is a kind and compassionate person. I am incredibly proud of him.
Do you know what? My son loves and values me. He enjoys spending time with me. We share deep conversations. He helps me with projects. We cook meals together. We complement each other. All of this, even though I wasn’t a sporty dad.
I love the outdoors, especially hiking and camping. I have gone on a number of short camping trips exclusively with my son. I wanted to go on a longer one after he graduated college, but would he be interested in being seen with his old (and I mean old) dad? The answer was yes. We talked about the trip for months and spent time planning it together. We shopped for groceries and packed Violet the camper van. We were both excited about our upcoming adventure.
Our trip was an exercise in teamwork. We worked together to plan the day’s adventures and to keep Violet the camper van in ship shape. We cooked, explored, hiked, and talked together… and talked…and talked. Some evenings we watched movies. He picked movies that meant something to him, and I did the same. My little boy is no longer a little boy. He has his thoughts and dreams for the future. Some are similar to mine; others are different. That is the way it should be. However, it was clear how much we loved and respected each other. And it was clear how much we valued our time together. I don’t know what the future holds, but I am so glad I have the present.
If a new father were to ask me what they should do to be a good parent, I would tell them the following:
Don’t…
-Give your child everything without having them work for some things.
-Fix all of their problems.
-Teach them that they are better than everyone else.
-Excuse their lousy behavior.
-Try to force them into the life that you wanted for yourself.
-Try to control every aspect of who they are.
-Fight all of their battles for them.
Do…
-Love them unconditionally.
-Give them reasonable consequences when they screw up.
-Allow them to “skin their knees” while protecting them from significant falls.
-Let them know that they are valued just for who they are.
-Teach them what you know.
-Encourage them to be the best that they can be.
-Encourage them to be creative.
-Focus on compassion and kindness towards others.
-Be honest about your limitations.
-Admit when you are wrong.
-Respect their reasonable opinions.
-Accept that they need to be their own person.
-Encourage conversation, but avoid making monologues.
Oh, and did I say that you should love them unconditionally? I guess I did, but it is worth repeating it. Your kids know when you have their best interests in mind, even when they say the opposite. They will accept you for who you are, warts and all, if they understand that you are doing your best. When you are less than perfect, you allow them the same privilege. That is a good thing.
Mike
On this hike we discovered two waterfalls. We thought it would be funny to get matching shirts and then send a photo back home to the family.Once during every father/son camping trip we make cheap steaks on an open campfire. Somehow the method makes them delicious!Our last morning. Getting ready to pack up and head home.There are no free lunches. We both took turns cleaning Violet the camper van after the trip.
I must admit that I was excited. I was excited to see my cousins and my nephews and nieces. I was heading out for our annual reunion campout. Due to the health concerns of a family member, I have not camped very much this year, so I was delighted to accompany Violet the camper van on a road trip. We would be driving to a campground in Michigan—two states over, but a world apart from my ordered life in the Chicago suburbs.
I would travel alone as my kids had other obligations, and my wife wasn’t feeling well. I have gone on many solo camping adventures, so this was no big deal. I’m a planner, and I love to plan my camping trips. That planning is primarily a way for me to extend the adventure.
Since Violet, the camper van is fully equipped; my forethought mostly centers around the food I should bring. However, my planning desires often differ from what I will eat camping. I’ll cook meals if I have a camping accomplice, but if it is just me, I usually eat the most basic meals possible.
For breakfast, I brought a pound of bacon and a dozen eggs. However, my actual camping breakfasts were peanut butter on an apple one day and yogurt with granola on the other. The memory of the aroma of bacon and eggs drove me to buy those items, but the reality of frying stuff up and cleaning a greasy mess pushed me toward the no-cooking options. I did a little cooking for lunch and dinner to try out the new kitchen my friend Tom and I built this summer. But I even made those meals as simple as possible.
At the start of these events, my relatives hang out with their familiars. However, in short order, the ice is broken, then groups constantly form and reform. I only see my nephews and nieces on special events like holidays, and I see my cousins less than that. Spending time with them is a rare pleasure.
When I have such episodic contacts, I assess changes in both myself and the group, and I have noticed a clear positive trend as we have all aged.
I have never been a competitive person; I am more interested in improving myself. If I compete with anyone, it is me. However, I do remember times in my past when I was envious of others’ possessions or periods when I aspired to gain some material thing for the sole reason of image.
Early in my career, I was invited by a more senior doctor to spend the weekend at his summer home, which was located directly on Lake Michigan. He had a postmodern “cabin” that possessed its own private beach. Beautiful views, cool mid-century furniture, exposed brick walls, and a giant walk-in shower so large that it didn’t require a door or a curtain. Wow, I was impressed. This guy had class. A type of wealthy class unknown to me growing up blue-collar. Additionally, I recall having dinner at his River Forest home. I have been in mammoth houses, but this one was spectacular and looked like it was out of a 1940s movie. I had never had dinner at someone’s home, where a servant served me.
I have always driven typical cars. I’m not a gearhead. However, when I turned 50, I decided that I was going to buy a “doctor’s car.” My wife was somewhat shocked with this decision, but I felt I had to go with my desire. Soon, I owned a hunter-green Mercedes. Man, I thought everyone was looking at me the day I drove it out of the dealership’s lot. I was super cool…for that day. It didn’t take me long to realize that my Mercedes was just a box on wheels and that the only person impressed with my purchase was me. If you want to continually spend a lot of money on repairs, buy a Mercedes. Soon, I got tired of my status car and returned to my old roots. I traded in the Mercedes for a much more sensible Honda.
These material things have become less important to me as I have aged. I am no longer envious of the possessions of others; the only material things I seem to want are those that directly improve my life. That may be an upgrade to Violet the campervan or a new gadget I can study and learn about. I have as much enjoyment learning about a gadget as I do using it.
Initially, I felt that this change resulted from my years as a psychotherapist. I treated so many wealthy and successful people who were dissatisfied and unhappy. Most were on the road of acquisition. They bought bigger houses and fancier cars. They upped their quota of exotic trips, often going multiple times yearly. They increased their diners at exclusive restaurants. They indulged in all sorts of “self” experiences. These folks knew the art of subtly dropping their brags calmly and casually. Somehow, this one-upmanship was supposed to make them feel better, but it didn’t. The more they raced to buy and experience, the worse they felt. It was an excellent lesson for me; these folks appeared to have everything on the surface but little to nothing where it counted. Many had poor marriages and kids who couldn’t find time for them. They had stressful jobs and constantly had to keep up with the Joneses, even when they didn’t need to or want to.
However, I now question if my work experience caused this change in me, and the family reunion campout highlighted that awareness. Everyone at the campout seemed genuine and honest. Our focus was on connecting and sharing, not bragging. Although I witnessed this with everyone, it was especially evident with my cousins. From my observation, they seem to be doing well financially and enjoyed the benefits of having some extra cash in their pockets. However, they did things to enhance their retirement years, not to impress others. They had reached the same life conclusions that I had, but not by observing patients. Instead, it appeared that this was a natural process of healthy aging.
We had several honest conversations that focused on the good and the less-than-good in our lives. We discussed our adult kids, looking at their successes and challenges. We explored relationships in our lives, both good and those that could use some improvement. We were real people dealing with real life. Notably, there was no posturing, bragging, or subtle put-downs. Instead, we were present to celebrate each other and acknowledge the importance of staying connected.
I judge my interactions with others based on my “aftertaste.” How did I feel when I left the interaction? Did I feel happy or energized? Will I be excited to see that person again? Or did I feel exhausted and defeated? Did that person ask anything about me; was it all about them? Was the conversation a one-way brag fest or an equally horrible “feel sorry for me” experience? I want to spend time with people where we elevate each other. I like win/win scenarios.
As I age, I think it is great not to care if someone doesn’t like me. It is empowering to be grateful for all of the incredible blessings that I have received in my life. It is a gift not to want more and more. It is amazing to have people in my life who, by their very presence, make my life better.
I have been fortunate to have been connected to many quality people over the years: cousins, siblings, my family, truly wonderful friends. I will take those relationships anytime over a new Mercedes or a fancy lake house. It is relationships that make life worth living.
Violet the camper van was excited to go on a road trip.
Today is Tuesday, more precisely, the Tuesday after Mother’s Day. Mother’s Day can be considered a Hallmark holiday: to that, I say, so what? Sometimes, we need a reason to remind us to honor the important people in our lives. I believe such events do more than that; they bind us together, cause us to reflect, and allow us to step outside ourselves leaving our self-absorbed world. These times permit us to make someone else the center of our attention. In a world where we are taught the “me first” philosophy of life, a place where kindness is considered codependency, and an era where things instead of deeds measure worth, it is important to reflect on what matters. It is OK to be generous, kind, and considerate towards others. It is not pathological to think of the needs of others; it is healthy. There is a difference between loss of self and empathy. The first leads to unhappiness, while the second yields a feeling of connection and belonging.
Here in Kunaland, we foster compassion in our children in a variety of ways, one of which is celebrating the special days of others. The process is not a burden; it is a time of joining and working towards a common goal. Yes, we want the person of the day to feel special, but we all benefit from our collective actions. When done with a loving heart, serving others is fulfilling, and working together towards a common goal is pure joy.
We began these traditions when our kids were very young, and they are now fairly standardized.
Mother’s Day starts with breakfast in bed, and my wife’s requests are always the same: coffee, some sort of a fruit bowl, and a cinnamon treat. The latter item is most often a home-baked cinnamon roll, but at other times, it has been homemade cinnamon coffee cake or, this year, a Cinnaholic cinnamon roll from our local Cinnaholic store.
When the kids were very young, it was typical for me to buy precut fruit, but now, we have adult children capable of slicing and dicing. I never seem to be able to find a nice bed tray to carry up the breakfast. I know we have many, but they seem to hide in the cabinets when I go looking for them. Usually, I’ll use something else and modify it so it serves the purpose. This year, I found a large cookie platter.
Our prep buzzes with activity; some ice rolls, others cut fruit, and still others make coffee. My goal is to arrange the items so they are pleasing to the eye; some years, I’m more successful than others. When all is assembled we march up the stairs singing “Happy Mother’s Day To You,” borrowing the melody from the classic birthday tune. Julie always manages to look surprised even though we have been doing the same shtick for almost 30 years.
Some of us will cut fruit. It is less expensive and tastes better than precut too!I can never find the right tray. Here, I’m using a cookie platter. However, I try to arrange things so that they look appetizing and pleasant. Julie always manages to look surprised despite the fact that we have been doing this shtick for decades.
The next item on our agenda is brunch at my niece Karen’s home. Karen has a wonderful older home in an adjacent suburb and has been hosting a Mother’s Day brunch for as long as I can remember. This is despite that Karen, herself, is a mother of three. She insists on doing all of the cooking and baking. Somehow, she manages to fill her home to the brim with people. She had at least 50 guests this year. Karen is a fantastic cook, and eating at her home is better than going to a high-end restaurant for brunch. Karen and her husband Themi’s hosting is effortless. I honestly don’t know how they do it. Their hospitality sets the tone for the guests, who are happy and talkative. It is a wonderful afternoon.
Despite the small size of their house, my niece and her husband’s place seems to expand and accommodate no matter how may guest arrive.Here some of the guests are enjoying my niece’s fantastic cooking.Everyone is happy to catch up.
Back home, we usually have a few hours between the brunch and our next effort, making dinner for the celebrant. Julie is fond of a particular fish stew, but we don’t make it often as one of our kids dislikes fish, and another doesn’t like beans. However, they will allow exceptions on such special days.
This year I was lucky to find a French Silk pie, Julie’s favorite, at the baker’s. At 5 PM, we assembled to start dinner prep, with me directing. I am immensely proud of my kids, who all work together to get the job done. There is no bickering, or fighting, or prima donnas. There is just doing. We have been cooking together for a very long time, and over the years, our cooking time has become as enjoyable as our meal time. My kids are fun to be with.
We all work together to put the meal on the table.
With the meal completed and the table set, we call down the celebrant, and dinner is served. It is our tradition to go around the table and say something nice about our guest of honor, as it is another way to make them feel special. The celebrant’s job is to thank the cooks, and the event turns into one big love fest. When the kids were young, I would take them to the store so they could pick out gifts for Julie. That has long passed, and they now do that on their own. We are not into lavish gifts in Kunaland, something meaningful is more important. That may be a purchased item, something handmade, or even a service given.
Table is set, time to call down the celebrant!Julie loves this fish stew, but the kids object so we only make it on special occasions. Connecting together is better than any gift.
Some years end with games or a family movie, but this year ended with dessert and presents. It was a perfect day to honor a special person.
How wonderful to do something where everyone feels good. As a psychotherapist, I have witnessed the pendulum swings in society. I have witnessed the increasing move towards the “what about me?” society. A place where everyone feels that they are not getting enough and that their needs are more important than anyone else’s.
I’m all for people meeting their needs, but I’m afraid we have been sold a bill of goods. There is the trendy psychological edict of “self.” The concept is that everything must benefit the “self.” Like many trendy concepts, a reasonable idea has morphed into something that doesn’t approximate its original intention. It is possible to meet our individual needs while also caring for the needs of others. In fact, the latter is preferable, as all research points to the fact that individuals are happier when they are connected. Yes, I made an effort to give Julie a special day, but she will likely return that favor when Father’s Day approaches. When kindness becomes the norm, it is easy to do things for others, and it is easy for them to return that blessing.
In my psychiatric practice, I would treat parents who had their children ghost them. Admittedly, some individuals would not be candidates for Parent of the Year. However, many were decent, good people. It wasn’t uncommon to have a child cut all ties without ever giving the parent a reason why or giving them a chance to change. They would stop responding to their calls and text messages and no longer include them in their lives. At other times, they would send a “no contact” letter without any explanation or recourse. Such actions were devastating and frequently unnecessary.
Yes, there are toxic parents out there who constantly pit one kid against another, or are always eager to criticize and compare. However, many of these folks should be allowed the opportunity to change. If they are unable or unwilling, then it is reasonable for the adult child to do what is necessary to preserve their mental health. However, it is surprising how many kids eliminate their parents based on perceived emotional injuries instead of establishing a conversation with them or setting less absolute limits that allow for growth on both sides of the fence. How can you change a behavior if you don’t know what you need to change? I have known flawed parents, but they did everything in their power to give their kids a good life, only to be rejected for all time. I have also worked with many parents whose child’s spouse forces an “us vs. them” edict where spousal harmony requires the child to abandon their family in favor of the in-laws. You can never have too many people who care about you.
Oddly, some of the most toxic parents that I have encountered seem to be given a pass and their kids’ continue their solicitous behavior.
Significant modifications must sometimes be made in a parent/adult-child relationship. If the holidays are always traumatic, it is reasonable to find alternative activities outside the family sphere. If a parent can’t resist comparing or criticizing, the first step is to identify obnoxious behavior clearly, and to establish a hard “no,” informing the parent that such comments are unwelcome. A hurt or insulted parental response can be countered with a thick skin and an unemotional yet clear retort. For parents with other issues, the solution may be as simple as having shorter get-togethers in neutral spaces, like a restaurant. A clear but polite “no” can be employed for parents who are always demanding things. Lengthy explanations are not required. I firmly believe in setting limits with people in a kind but clear way.
It is more difficult when problems exist in the adult child or their spouse. However, the same rules apply, although it may be necessary to acknowledge other motives, such as a spouse’s desire to estrange the child’s parents. At times, it is most reasonable to accept the limitations of the relationship,and to fill the emotional gaps in other ways.
To reiterate. Building traditions can strengthen bonds. However, there are times when it is impossible to reconcile a relationship, and the only solution is to move on. Yet, at other times, some effort can yield a positive result. Remember, you can never have enough people who love you and who you love. When possible, always go with the win-win scenario.
Easter Saturday morning finds me in the kitchen making heaping quantities of cheesy chivy potatoes for our extended family Easter party. They have been an Easter tradition in our family for over 40 years. I was tasked with making them over 30 years ago and have done so ever since. The recipe is simple… make mashed potatoes and add cheese and chives. I usually spice them up with some hot sauce and garlic but don’t tell anyone, as those are my secret additions. The biggest issue with making this Midwestern food is the mess and pots. I have to pull out my 12-quart stock pot, my Kitchen Aid mixer, and many utensils, all of which get covered with a sticky potato goo.
This year, my daughter Grace and I also made some CPS (Chicago Public Schools) sugar cookies (see my last post), and Julie made her famous Heath Bar cookies for the party.
Over the years, Easter has been hosted by different family members: first my parents, then my sister Carol, then my sister Nancy, and now my sister-in-law Kathy. Easter is a communal affair where everyone brings a dish to the party. From sweet potatoes to Jello molds (we are in the Midwest, after all), to lamb cakes, it is quite the feast. A party filled with my siblings, nieces and nephews, and their kids is always a good time.
Our extended relatives drifted away many years prior. We were one of those ethnic families who celebrated every holiday, communion, and confirmation en masse. However, that changed in the early 1970s. More recently, my cousin, Ken, asked me what happened to cause this separation. Honestly, nothing happened. All I recall is that as our families grew in size via marriages and children, it became impractical to host everyone, and the all-inclusive parties of the past ended. However, this was not the case with all, as many of my cousins continued to celebrate events together.
My mother passed away in the 1970s, and my father in the early 1990s. At my dad’s funeral, my sister mentioned to my cousin Ken that it would be nice to have a family reunion picnic. That summer, my sister secured a permit for a park in her town, and the KRF (Kuna Family Reunion) was born. I remember my cousin Ken bringing all sorts of things to that first event, including melting popsicles for all! From the KFR came the Kuna Kampout, the Droby Fest Christmas Party (Droby is a traditional Slovak sausage), and other get-togethers. Ken became the organizer of most of these events.
Over time, Ken’s sister Kris and her husband Bob took over more and more of the responsibilities of these parties. How fortunate I am to have responsible and organized cousins. How grateful I am that they have kept these get-togethers alive.
This year my sister-in-law Kathy hosted our family Easter party on Easter Saturday. As a twist, she extended the invitation to our cousins, and many accepted. Yet, another connection to our extended family.
The party was a great success, with everyone bringing a dish to pass, more desserts than even a foodie like myself could sample, and a tremendous amount of goodwill and joyful spirits. We don’t talk about politics or other divisive topics. We share stories about our lives, kids, and grandkids. Many of us are now retired and have transitioned from complicated work lives to ones of simple pleasures.
This year’s party was punctuated by a new twist: a DJ with a Karaoke machine. Few have singing voices, but that didn’t stop us from going up to the mic and belting out a song or two. Our efforts were met with rousing applause from the audience. Clearly, sympathy applause, but we will take what we can get!
Easter symbolizes many things, but for me, it represents a rebirth. Thirty years ago, our family reconnected with our extended family. Our mighty clan was reborn, and we have been moving forward ever since.
My cousins are good, kind people, and catching up with their lives is always a pleasure. The same can be said of my siblings and their prodigy. Naturally, I’m pretty fond of my family too.
Kuna Klan, I sincerely want to tell everyone that I love you! Cousins, thank you for welcoming me back into your lives. Knowing you has made my life richer. I am so proud to be part of our group and pleased that you accepted me back into the fold.
Happy Easter, readers. Be reborn today.
Peace, Mike
A good time to catch up.Here I am trying to look Eastery. Doing our best to sing “Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey. The more singers that you have the better your sound.Even the little kids got into it.If you come from an Eastern European family you always talk about “the spread.” Here, two of my cousins are starting to assemble our Easter feast. Trust me, it was much larger than what you see. We all gathered in a circle to pray. My sister-in-law surprised me by asking me to say grace. Yikes! I did my best.My sister-in-law did a fantastic job putting together our party.Many brought dessert. It has been a tradition to take a photo of our kids on stairs every Easter. Well, our kids aren’t kids anymore!And now a photo of the “old folks.”
Grace asked me if I wanted to try it on the long drive from her Ohio college. It is about a 5-hour trip, so I said, “Sure.” She said that she had heard good things, but was as naive about it as I was.
Grace was referring to an old podcast called “Serial.” To be more specific, she was referencing the first season of that show, which was streamed in 2015. “Serial” hit the podcast world like a storm. It remains the most downloaded podcast ever produced. Naturally, we were years late to jump on the bandwagon. It is common for me to find a great show or program years after the rest of the world has extolled its virtues.
Season One of “Serial” chronicles the case against Adnan Syed. He was convicted of murdering his former girlfriend, Hae Min Lee. When the crime happened he was only 17 and an honor student at a tough Baltimore high school.
The podcast is skillfully narrated by Sarah Koenig, who spent thousands of hours researching the case. She has the gift of pulling you in one direction, then dragging you from that comfort zone. One moment you are convinced that Adnan is innocent, then you are not so sure, then you think he is guilty. This cycle repeats throughout the series. Clearly, Sarah is a master of the plot twist; her skill is more impressive as she is doing this sleight of hand with a real case that has a known outcome. I won’t spoil the story for you any further.
We listened to the first 5 episodes on our trip, the 5th one ending as we pulled into the driveway. Gracie said, “Dad, we can finish the series when we go on walks.” This sounded like a great idea. When Grace is home we often go on long walks together.
Like many things in the Kuna household, we scheduled walk times. Then, we would download a given episode on our iPhones, insert our earbuds, and head off on our hike. Inevitably, we would hit glitches and have to re-synchronize our listening along the way. We knew when we were off when one person was laughing or gasping, and the other walker had no idea why.
These have been a different kind of walks for me. The majority of the time, I’m a solo walker, but when I walk with someone, we converse. I wasn’t sure about sharing a walk while isolating in an earbud cacoon. In some ways, this seemed even too introverted for me. In reality, it is similar to watching a TV show with someone. You are connected with them but differently. We interact during our walks, and we talk about the show afterward. I would never want to give up regular walks, but I do enjoy the added pleasure of these enhanced hikes. It feels like you are going to the movies. You have to plan the event, and you must leave the house. When you return home you reprocess the experience.
Grace and I like to take different routes when we walk. One day we may go downtown, the next day, we may venture into the forest preserves, and on another trip, we may meander to my friend Tom’s home.
When we finished the series, Gracie asked me if I wanted to continue our walk and listens. “Sure,” I said. She picked another 2015 podcast, “Limetown.” We just started this fictional series, which is more akin to a radio show from the past rather than an investigative documentary. I love old radio shows that stretch my imagination, so I’m all in.
We are now accompanied by Will. He has decided to join our “Walk and Listen” experience. We listened to the first episode of “Limetownm” which chronicles the disappearance of over 300 scientists from a utopian communal village. During this inaugural walk, we traveled into the forest preserves, then through a couple of neighborhoods. Our altered path due to Will’s need to be back home for a ZOOM meeting of his research lab group.
I have been enjoying this new activity, and I mention it here to highlight the fact that there are new things that you can do during the pandemic. Sometimes you can creatively come up with a brilliant new idea, or (as in this case) you can do a little remodel on a tried and true one. COVID is creating barriers, but the only thing that is imprisoning us is ourselves.
Early in 2020, many felt that the pandemic would last for a few months. We now know that this was folly. I would urge each of you to expand your horizons in safe ways. “Walk and Listens” may not be your thing, but use our idea as a springboard for your own.
Peace
Mike
Going on “Walk and Listens” with Gracie has been a lot of fun.We like to take different routes on our walks, here we are meandering through a neighborhood.At other times we like to take the River Walk to downtown.Sometimes we walk in the opposite direction to the Forest Preserve.Will has elected to join us on our latest podcast adventure.
Christmas is approaching, but many of my family’s traditional get-togethers have been canceled. One of them is our cousin’s Christmas party called Droby Fest. For those who are uninformed, a Droby is a Slovak sausage made from various ground meats, rice, and potatoes. It is usually baked wrapped with bacon, and it was one of the classic dishes that my grandmother served on Christmas Eve.
As far as I know, Droby sausage can’t be bought; you make it. I have some less-than-fond childhood memories of turning a hand-cranked meat grinder for hours. Besides my past grinding torture, I love Droby and look forward to eating it every Christmas.
My cousin, Ken, took over the manufacturing of Droby for the Cousin Christmas party, which is a pot luck affair of salads, main dishes, and desserts. Droby Fest is one of several other cousin-wide get-togethers that were canceled in 2020. Others included the Kousin Kampout and the KFR (Kuna Family Reunion).
My cousin Kathy suggested that in place of Droby Fest we do a recipe exchange and ZOOM call. Somehow that morphed into my niece, Jeannine compiling all of the recipes into an on-line cookbook, which then became a family history/cookbook/photo album. As far as I know, Jeannine and my cousins Kathy and Kris have formed a committee to accomplish this monumental task.
I contributed a couple of recipes, but Jeannine also needed old photos. Unfortunately, most of my old pictures were on old computers… and we all know what happens to old computers. However, I remembered another option. Around 20 years ago I wanted to digitize old family photos, burn them on a CD, and give copies of that CD to my siblings. At that time, I also labeled names on the photos as I knew that pictures without identification would be useless to future generations.
All that I needed to do was to select the photos and email them to my niece. However, there were two problems.The first was finding the CD ROM that I burned 20 years ago. The second was finding a way to play a CD ROM since none of my current computers have a CD drive.
After some searching, I found the photo CD, and luckily Julie has a plug-and-play CD drive that she uses to watch old TV shows. I connected the drive to my MacBook, inserted the CD ROM, and held my breath. It loaded! However, there were no thumbnail images, so I had to manually click on every single file to view it. Since the process was a bit of a pain, I thought I would get some extra mileage for my efforts and post some of the photos here. Grab a cup of tea and come down my memory lane. These are common photos of a typical family, wholly unremarkable… and because of this, I find them charming. (but I may be biased)
Here are my grandparents on their wedding day. Both of them spoke only Slovak to me, and so my memories of them are limited. When my sister Carol introduced her Irish husband to them they were able to speak perfect English to him. I think their refusal to speak English to us kids was a pride thing… they were very proud of their culture.Here is a photo of my mother’s mother. I never met her as she was long deceased before I was born. Sadly, there are no photos of my maternal grandfather in existence. The Kuna’s first car! Quite a big deal. It looks like they are at the cemetery on Memorial Day. We would all go to the cemetery on that holiday and have a picnic. My mom would usually bring a big basket of friend chicken as well as a huge Tupperware of homemade potato salad. Naturally, she also brought desserts-usually cookies and cake squares. When I was a kid I thought it was perfectly normal to picnic at the cemetery. I actually looked forward to it!Grandma and Grandpa Kuna. This photo looks so ethnic, don’t you think?My dad. Apparently, he was so good looking that women would fake faint in church because they wanted him to carry them out (he was an usher). I know that this story sounds fantastic, but I have had it confirmed from multiple sources.My mom as a young girl. My mother was a product of the 1920s. She saw her role only as a wife and mother. With that said she was brilliant and extremely talented. She was very creative, a good artist, and an excellent writer. Her brothers (who were dismissive of girls) were shocked when she received the award for the most gifted student when she graduated. My mom in a snow ball fight. She is far right.I’m not sure what this photo is from, but my parents were styling. You have to love the 1920s fashion hat and dress. Many of my mom’s early photos show a gap in her front teeth. She apparently got the gap fixed because I have no memory of it.My parent’s wedding day. My mother said she hated the photographer but felt forced to use him due to parental pressure.Hamming it up on their wedding day. Another shot of my mom. It looks like she is wearing church clothes. Church was very important to both of my parents, they said the rosary on their knees most nights.My dad, second from the left. Here he is a fireman for CPS. He eventually became the chief operating engineer for one of the largest high schools in Chicago. I have always had a fascination with mechanical stuff. Unfortunately, my dad didn’t have a lot of interest in teaching me. This is probably one of the reasons that I went into science. No one in my family had a science background, so no one could criticize me. Another shot of my father, as a fireman.A later photo of my dad as a fireman. He is older in this picture (in his late 30s?). My father had a limited initial education but worked his way up the ladder to become successful in his career. He spent years in night school and eventually took classes at Amour College (which later became the Illinois Institute of Technology). My siblings. My parents felt that they had a complete family in the 1940s, then 7 years later I came along in 1953. Surprise! Four is company, five is a crowd?My mother, and two of my siblings. You have to love the 1940s style. I bet this was some sort of church activity. Me in our old run-down bathroom. The toilet would spit at you when you flushed it. I’m glad that the photographer respected my modesty by skillfully shooting me above my waistline. By the way, it looks like we were using Ivory soap-it floats! Am I asking for the towel?Me as a baby. Is that a crown on my head? I imagine that my mom is singing to me. I like this photo.Me on top of our old Nash. The car originally belonged to my uncle Nick. I think he sold it to my dad for a “good price.” We acquired several cars that way. We only had one new car growing up-a 1965 Ford Custom (A stripped-down Galaxy). Me with a baseball glove. This had to be a staged shot. I’m poorly coordinated and have no depth perception- I will never be a team’s MVP. I have never liked sports, I’m not good and I don’t like not being good at things. Go figure- Well actually, anyone who knows me well will agree with the above. I like doing things well.I’m guessing that I’m around 3 years old here. I always have been interested in how things work, even then.My sister Carol, likely her high school graduation photo. Every lady had a string of pearls in those days. I love this photo. Apparently, no one can stop eating for a 30-second photo! Typical Kunas. The photo includes my family as well as my Godmother and her daughter Suzanne. Suzanne is now a retired biology professor. Also in the photo is my aunt Lill, I’m guessing that the little girl is my cousin, Mary Lynn. I’m not sure who my aunt Mary is holding. Her son, Rudy? Her nephew Stevie?Santa and me. I would visit Santa at the Talman Saving and Loan on 55th street. Santa’s assistant took this Polaroid. I remember being absolutely fascinated with the fact that the photo developed “instantly.”For Christmas that year I asked Santa for, “A device that can convert battery power into AC power.” I guess was asking for an inverter, but I didn’t even know that they existed. Instead, I got a battery-operated train. Skunked again. I’m holding the train’s battery box in this photo. When I asked my mom why Santa didn’t give me what I wanted she told me that sometimes Santa gets confused by my requests.My parents with my sister, Nancy. It looks like she is going to some sort of formal dance. She is so young and pretty in this photo. I’m the kid who is still wearing his school uniform-I didn’t have a lot of clothes. The man behind me is my bachelor Uncle Nick. When I was in grade school I desperately wanted the electronics kit “101 electronic projects.” I begged, but my father said, “No way.” Uncle Nick heard me talking about the kit and gave my father the $29.95 to buy it. Nick didn’t want the credit, but when I profusely thanked my father he made sure to let me know that the kit wasn’t from him, but from my uncle. It was an incredibly kind thing for my uncle to do.Bowser and me. My sister found Bowser as a puppy. She was running across the street and was almost killed. I absolutely loved Bowser. She would listen to my troubles and patiently comfort me when I was down. She was an awesome dog. She had to be put down when I was in college and I felt like I lost a true friend rather than a pet. It took me some time to get over the loss. Note the fishbowl. One sister (I won’t identify further) used it as an ashtray, killing my pet goldfish. She did say she was sorry.I’m not sure how old I was in this school photo. Third grade?Here I am sandwiched between my Godparents-Mary and Laddie (Ladislav)Why do I look so awkward in this photo? Cousin Kris seems more in tune with the photo shoot. When we had parties my mother made everything from scratch. On rare occasions she would buy a decorated bakery cake. She did so for my first communion. I remember that it had a big chalice on it with a host sticking out of it. I was very impressed-and thought it was the best cake ever. In reality, my mom was a top-notch baker and could bake rings around any store bought cake.Just one of those “booth photos.” I’m guessing I was in 7th or 8th grade at this time.8th grade graduation photo-there is not that much more to say.My sister Nancy was a very popular teen. She had the looks and the personality. She must have taken more than her share because sadly I didn’t have either.Sometime in the 1960s. My parents with my brothers Tom and Dave. Tom passed away at 32 from cancer, and Dave passed away in his70s from a neurological condition. They look so young in this photo-so ready to tackle the world. I didn’t have a strong connection with my brothers, they were older than me and into their own things. However, I am more than fortunate to have great connections with my two sisters.Family shot at my sister’s wedding. I’m third from the right with my head cut off. I was in high school at the time.My brother Tom’s college graduation. I’m on the far left. Before the ceremony, a freak storm came and lightning hit the tree that I was standing under. It actually split the tree into two! I remember feeling the static-tingling feelings right before the tree cracked-thankfully I was OK.This is the way that I remember my parents. I think my dad was 43 and my mom was 41 when I was born. My parents were often the oldest parents in my peer group. It always felt strange to have parents who seemed to be as old as some of my friend’s grandparents. So what did I do? Well, I was 48 when William was born!High School Senior Photo. Everyone who sees this says I look angry… I was just trying to look serious! With that said, I didn’t like high school for a variety of reasons. A photo of some of my college friends. I really loved college, both the hanging out part and the learning stuff part. In high school, I never wanted to act “too smart” as it could mean being targeted (I went to a really tough high school). In college, I decided that it was time to be true to myself. I took on my classes with zeal. Surprisingly, people still liked me even when I busted the curves! Yay!I have know John for over 60 years, and his now wife Barb for 45. I last talked to John yesterday.My mother died suddenly at 65. Shortly there after my father started to date my future step-mother, Lill.I think this was in Dad/Lill’s basement. In the photo you can see my two sisters, and two of Carol’s kids. This is probably a party to celebrate something-I’m just not sure what.I married my first wife, and we had my daughter Anne. The marriage eventually ended. Prior to being married I never wanted to have children. I think this was because my father constantly told me what a burden kids were. When Anne came along it was love at first sight. I changed my attitude about being a parent and saw it as a great gift. By the way, you may see Anne referred to as Anna-she went by a couple of different names over the years.If you were cool in the day you had to have a kick-ass stereo system. It is uncertain how cool I was, but I did manage to put together a killer set of components. Around this time I became a lover of straight-ahead jazz… I still love jazz.Here is my daughter, Anne (holding a My Little Pony) with my two Godchildren, Jeannine and Jenny. In between is little Wendy. She is now a senior VP for a major bank.Northwestern University/Evanston Psychiatric Residency program. Somehow I managed to become chief resident of the residents. I’m standing in the back row, once again with part of my head cut off. This was a really nice group of people, very smart too!Dad, Davie, Kathy, and Carol. At this point, I was divorced and living in this “garden” (ie basement) apartment in Skokie. I couldn’t afford to live in Evanston even though I was being paid extra to be chief resident. How much more? One hundred bucks a month-and a whole boatload of extra work. The apartment wasn’t too bad, but you had to learn to ignore the occasional rat screaming after it was caught in a snap trap.Single Mike. I remember that I had to iron that shirt. I don’t think I had an ironing board and so I would lay towels on the kitchen table.Single Mike a few years later. Wow, a Christmas theme outfit.I had been divorced for quite a few years. Early on I had dated a lot of very nice women, but I just couldn’t see myself getting married again. Finally, I gave up dating altogether (it was too much work, and I hated upsetting people). I decided that I should just become a single person. I didn’t date for almost two years and I thought that I was happy during that time. Then I met Julie.This is what happened next. You can also see Best Man, John, and Maid of Honor, Amy. In the front is Junior Bridesmaid-daughter Anne. This is the same “John” as the young guy 12 photos above.Julie and daughter, Anne. They both had to adjust to one another, but it all worked out in the end.Me and Kathryn. OMG, they grow up so fast.Dr. Gracie with Grandma Avis.Christmas 2000- Do you remember Y2K? The world was supposed to end when the clock struck midnight on January 1, 2000. Several prominent engineers and a few Fermi Lab scientists warned me about Y2K. I listened and bought cases of dehydrated food. Ten years later I tossed the cases out-and yes, I never heard the end of it.I did other stuff to prepare for Y2K. I have been an avid radio DXer since childhood. However, I decided I needed to have the ability to transmit (communicate) if the phone lines were down. In 1999 I took the amateur licensing exam for the technician class, then I took the test for the general classification. By the end of the year, I passed the amateur extra licensing exam (the highest level) which allowed me to transmit on all amateur bands and modes. I over prepared-again.One thing led to another. Here sisters Kathryn and Grace welcome brother William. My in-laws, Bob and Avis were visiting in Naperville when William arrived. How great it was to have them around for that special event. We really needed them too, as I was spending time in the hospital with Julie while our two little girls were at home.Anne in a glamor shot. These head shots were a big deal a few decades ago.William. Note the sign in the lower left. The family was about to celebrate Father’s Day. I bet they made me mandarine orange cake, which is my favorite. You can never go wrong by adding Cool Whip to anything!Teaching Will and Grace how to cook has been one of my great joys. I cook a lot of the meals at home, and more often than not Will, Grace, or Kathryn will help me. Actually, sometimes all three will be in the kitchen at the same time. I really love spending time with my kids.Grace, Will, and Kathryn taken just this year. My babies are now adults. This makes me both very happy and very sad. However, I’m going with happy.Grandson Seb.Granddaughter Diana.Family! I’m have gone a long way from never wanting kids. To me, my family is the most important and most significant part of my life. Never base your opinion on someone else’s opinion. My dad felt that kids were a burden, but I now know that they are really a joy. They are my most important accomplishment.
We were already running late; we had a seven hours drive ahead, and I was feeling a need to get going. The family would be away for only three days, and we had gotten good at packing light. However, each of us wanted to have our space-occupying suitcase.
I started to pack Rosie, our red Ford Flex. First went the suitcases. On top of them, I carefully placed Tupperware containers that held the snowman cupcakes that Grace, Will, and I made. We had decorated them the night before by piping buttercream icing on vanilla cupcakes and making snowman heads out of marshmallows. We then added mini M & Ms for buttons and pretzel sticks for snowman arms. They were attractive, and I wanted to make sure that they wouldn’t be destroyed on the long trip to Minnesota. I found a nook next to the Tupperware for Julie’s Almond Pound Cake. She found the recipe for this dessert in a church cookbook 25 years ago, and it has become a Christmas staple in our house. Next went a bag of Christmas gifts. On top of the entire assembly, I placed four pillows, one for each of us. We would be sleeping at the Peterson’s, and I thought that having something familiar would add a little comfort.
Grace, Will, and I made snowman cupcakes.
When I drive to Minnesota in the winter, I like to be prepared, and so I tossed in two sleeping bags on top of everything. The bags were tightly wound like Swiss Roll cakes but squishy enough so I could squeeze them into two tight spots. Next, I added additional emergency travel items. Finally, I put our car-food bag in the front passenger seat. The car-food bag concept is Julie’s contribution to our family travels. This time it contained various chips, pretzels, and a few sweet treats for interstate munching.
I went back into the house and ground Dunkin Donuts beans and made a pot of coffee in our Braun drip coffee maker. I poured coffee into my reusable Starbucks travel cup and some into my little S’well thermos. Now back in the car, both items found spots in front seat cup holders.
car-food
I started the engine and pressed the on-screen buttons on the Flex’s control panel to adjust the heat. I activated the fan button, and nothing happened. I reset the car’s computer and tried again…nothing! I had just replaced the heater’s fan, and it was malfunctioning again! We could not drive the Flex to Minnesota for Christmas without a working heater. It would not only be uncomfortable, but it would also be unsafe. Our other travel-worthy vehicle, Violet, the campervan, was not a possibility as she only has two seats, and we had four passengers. The prospect of seeing our family for Christmas was looking grim.
Cars don’t hold much romance for me, but at times I have succumbed to their advertised hype. When I grew up in blue-collar Chicago, most people drove used American-made cars, Fords, Chevys, Plymouths, and the like. However, there was a house in my old neighborhood that had two Mercedes Benz sedans parked in the back. A friend told me that these were luxury cars and very special. Somehow that message has stayed with me into my adulthood.
I usually buy functional cars; however, there have been a few notable exceptions. When I finished my medical residency, I bought a speedy Mustang convertible. It was a fun car in good weather, but utterly treacherous with the slightest bit of rain or snow. After a few years, I sold it for something more practical, a Ford Explorer. Other rational cars followed the Explorer, that is until I turned 50.
By that time, I was an established physician, and there was a part of me wanted to show off my success. I had an urge to buy a Mercedes, but it seemed like a wholly wasteful purchase. I delayed my desire for over a year, but I finally could not resist my childish wish. I bought a hunter green Mercedes sedan with a tan leather interior. I remember the feeling that I had when I drove out of the dealer’s lot. A blue-collar kid from the south side of Chicago has arrived! I felt like the world was watching me and giving me a nod of respect. Despite knowing that my feelings were ridiculous, I held onto them. Why? Because they felt good.
In reality, a Mercedes is just a box on wheels, and my hunter green one wasn’t a very reliable box at that. The car made frequent trips to the dealership for repairs that ranged from disconnected door handles to defective computerized displays. In the beginning, these repair trips were OK, as I would always get a new loaner Mercedes to check out. However, this joy ended with the conclusion of my warranty. Post-warranty it wouldn’t be uncommon to bring the car in for a simple oil change and leave with a $1000.00 repair bill. My Mercedes went from being a classy status symbol to a financial anchor around my neck.
Fast forward to 2008. I was in the process of getting a new job in far off Rockford, and I wanted a car that was both reliable and economical. My radical move was to buy a Fit, Honda’s smallest and cheapest car. I can’t imagine that many people trade in a luxury car for a Honda Fit, but that was precisely what I did.
As compact cars go, the Honda Fit is very…compact. Its tiny engine sips gas at 40 MPG, and its small interior tries to eke out extra space with fold-down seats. At 6’3,” I fit into the driver’s seat, but I wouldn’t call the experience spacious.
The Honda commuted me for many years to my Wheaton private practice and my job in Rockford. The 80 mile trip to Rockford could be treacherous in bad weather, and so I had equipped the little car with all of the survival basics, jumper cables, a first aid kit, a sleeping bag, a change of emergency clothes, and even a towing strap. Being a solo traveler gave me plenty of packing space despite the car’s diminutive dimensions.
I loved the Honda and thought it looked attractive, but others felt it was too tiny for a man of my size. One case in point was my brother-in-law. He referred to the Fit as my “clown car.” The title referencing the tiny autos that are used as circus gags. A clown car would pull up in the circus’ center ring, and from its claustrophobic innards, six or more clowns would emerge. How they packed them in there, I will never know.
Five years ago, I drove my daughter Kathryn from Chicago to the University of Arizona in the Fit. We had pushed down the rear seats, and with precision packing, the Fit successfully transported the two of us and all of Kathryn’s college belongings to her freshman dorm at the U of A.
I was solo on the trip home, and the roads were plagued by an enormous amount of road construction. New Mexico was especially bad, and the highway would frequently transition from double lanes to a concrete barrier single channels. Large signs would announce, “Construction Speed Limit Strictly Enforced,” at the start of these channels. So I would set my cruise control to the appropriate speed limit to avoid getting a ticket.
I was driving through one of these construction channels in the middle of New Mexico. Suddenly, I had a strange feeling of danger overtake me along with a physical tingling feeling at the back of my neck that forced me to look up and towards the rearview mirror. What I saw horrified me. All I could see in my rearview mirror was the giant grill of an 18 wheeler. The truck was so close to me that I was invisible to the driver who was gaining on me. If I had not looked up at the very moment, the 18 wheeler would have run over me in the next 30 seconds. I could not escape the lane as the road construction channel was cordoned off. Honda Fits are not known for their powerhouse acceleration. Still, I had no other option, so I stomped on the accelerator. The car started to pick up speed but at an agonizingly slow rate. By this time, I was sweating, and it felt like my heart would jump directly out of my chest. I looked up and saw that I was now going slightly faster than the truck. I was pulling away.
Eventually, I cleared the barriers and pulled into a different lane. I looked back to see the truck in my rearview mirror. He was staying far behind me as he was now aware of what almost happened due to his distraction.
That incident stayed with me, and for some time, it felt like a PTSD experience as I would go into a near panic when I was surrounded by trucks on the expressway. I had to overcome my fear as I needed to drive the Fit to Rockford every week. So I eventually convinced myself that driving it was safe. However, I never took the Honda on long road trips after that, as it was just too stressful, and I was too fearful.
Cars don’t age well, and over the 11 years that I have owned the Fit, it has gained a bit of rust, and its paint has seen better days. Now with almost 130 thousand miles, the Fit has become our spare/kid’s car. It remains a perfect “around-town” vehicle despite its loss of beauty. I now mostly drive Violet the van, and we have the big Ford Flex for our other needs.
Our 11-year-old Honda Fit is showing her age.
“The heater/defroster fan isn’t working. It would be dangerous to take Rosie to Minnesota.” I announced in a solemn tone. I scanned the living room to witness a sea of wide eyes and dropped jaws. “The fan sometimes comes on when you drive her a little bit,” Julie offered. “That’s not reliable enough. What if we were stuck in a storm on the way and had no heat or defrost air.”
It was clear that everyone was very disappointed. What were the other options available? The only reasonable one at that late time was to drive the Fit. And although a solution, it was a pretty terrible one.
The Fit is fine for a lone driver, OK for a single passenger, but miserable for four adults that included two males who are both over 6 feet tall. Also, we had luggage, presents, food, and emergency items. I checked the weather for Minneapolis, which indicated that on our commuting days, the temperatures would be above freezing. We could probably forgo our emergency gear.
I mentioned the possibility of taking the Fit on the 7-hour journey, and there was a general nod of agreement. All of us unloaded the Flex and loaded the Fit. We left behind many items, but the hatch area was still very tight.
I also had to face my fear of driving the Fit on a long interstate trip full of 18 wheelers. I did my best to implement some self-CBT, took a deep breath, and plopped myself into the driver’s seat. Julie sat opposite me, and the kids each took spots in the tiny second row. We were off.
There are some desolate stretches along the way.
To keep ourselves sane, we took a few extra rest-stops on both the destination and return trips. I wanted to be as alert as possible, so I made sure that I drank my coffee. I keep my attention high when faced with construction zones, and made sure that we had plenty of gas. These were all small things, but they helped ease some of the stress.
Stopping at a random restaurant along the interstate. Having a full take of gas gave me a sense of security.Interstate rest areas allowed us to stretch our legs.I always have to check out rest stop vending machines despite the fact that they typically contain the same items.We like to stop at Culvers for our mid-trip meal. Nothing says love like cheese curds. Culvers chili and a half-eaten bag of cheese curds.
The trip was challenging, but we accomplished our goal because we faced our problem with a realistic and positive attitude. None of us complained; we all did our respective jobs. So why didn’t we just cancel?
Simple…
If you want to do something, you find a way.
If you don’t want to do something, you find an excuse.
Those two lines give you our answer. You may want to think about them the next time you need to make a decision, or wonder what another person’s real motivation is.
I opened the pantry door and selected a Trader Joe’s forever grocery bag that was decorated with bright swatches of colors. My eyes moved up towards Julie’s snack bin, where I grabbed a few bags of savory treats. I knew that I wouldn’t eat most of the snacks, but I like the security of having them with me in readiness for a Heartland hurricane or a Great Lakes tsunami. It is good to have a plan B, even when it is entirely unnecessary. My next stop was the refrigerator to secure a couple of bottles of Kirkland water. The bottles were left over from a prior camping adventure, and I was glad to give them purpose.
I pressed a button on our fire engine red Breville coffee grinder, and its LCD panel sprung to life, “Grind Level 44, Grind Time 26 seconds,” it read. I pressed the same button again and was greeted by the whine of the machine’s burrs as they converted roasted beans into ground coffee. Twenty-seven seconds later, the coffee was in the basket of our Braun coffee maker. A few minutes after that, it found its way to my reusable Starbucks travel cup and the small S’well thermos that the kids gave me for Father’s Day.
I always bring lots of snacks on a road trip, even with the knowledge that I probably won’t eat them.
Now in the car, I pressed the Google Map icon on my iPhone and tapped in the address of my daughter’s dormitory. My mission was to retrieve Grace from university, an eleven-hour round trip. The drive from Naperville to Ohio is mostly through the state of Indiana. It is an uninspiring trip. Still, I am grateful that the expressways are dotted with numerous small towns and refueling stops.
I moved into thinking mode, one of my favorite alone activities, and I started to process theoretical problems and scenarios as the miles clicked by. After a few hours of driving, I got a call from Tom, reminding me to stay alert on the road. I was grateful for his concern and expressed the same to him; he was about to drive to Wisconsin on a mini-vacation with his family.
My driving continued in an external silence as I pondered more questions, some relevant, but most trivial. It was now 12:30 PM. I was only mildly hungry. Still, I was transfixed by the number of restaurants listed on the blue information signs as I approached the exit for Layfayette, Indiana. One placard caught my attention, “Chick-Fil-A,” and I decided to stop for lunch. I exited on to a county highway and started to scan both sides of the street, but after 3 blocks, no Chick-Fil-A could be found. I decided to cut my losses and pulled into a Burger King. “I’ll have one of those Impossible Beef Whoppers,” I thought.
As I started to chomp on the synthetic burger, my iPhone rang. This time it was Julie checking on me. We talked a bit as I ate and told her of my drive. In return, she described her day at work. She would be home after 5 PM, but I wouldn’t arrive back in town until 10 PM or later.
It was time to get back in the van, and I once again filled my time with thoughts, now mixed with a little NPR, and a phone call to Nancy, my sister. I tend to tell myself that these types of trips are shorter than they really are. By the time I reached Indianapolis, I had falsely convinced myself that I was close to my destination. The miles dragged on. I munched on some of the chips that I brought, stopped for gas, and sipped coffee.
The last 25 miles to my daughter’s college are on rural roads. It is a zig zaggy experience that would completely befuddle me without the power of GPS. I started to send updates to Grace via Siri’s voice transcription. “Thirty minutes ETA.” “I’m in town, get ready.” “I’m 5 minutes away, where do you want me to park?” I can’t see the small texting print on my Apple watch without reading glasses, so my auditory efforts have sometimes resulted in ridiculous messages. I could only hope that no matter what they said, Grace would interpret their meaning correctly.
Soon I was illegally backing into a spot next to her dorm’s garbage dumpsters. With fingers crossed, I pressed a button to activate Violet Van’s emergency flashers and hoped that I wouldn’t become a towing victim. Thankfully, Grace was quick to come to the car, and we were off.
The university is always impressive on approach.
Although more fatigued, the return trip home was my reward. As I have said in previous posts, I enjoy my 4 children. I spent some “talk time” with William when he returned from his college the night before, and now I would have that same privilege with Grace.
Our conversation was lively as it jumped from topic to topic. Her final exams, some updates on her friends, national politics, and so it went.
My recent conversations with my kids have shown a subtle change. I have always felt that I have had excellent communication with my children, and I have ever tried to be respectful of their opinions. However, our interchanges now seem different. We are moving towards a peer level of conversation. I love this transition, but it does have its pitfalls. For instance, a driver rudely cut me off, and an expletive unconsciously left my lips. I’m usually more mindful of such behaviors when I’m with my kids, and I was surprised by my impulsive actions. I did apologize to Gracie, who seemed unfazed.
Soon it was time to refuel both the car and the riders. I pulled into a Pilot station, and we were dazzled by the enormous array of dining options. We elected Subway, as we have always found these joints to be relatively standard and safe when traveling.
Grace ordered a turkey and cheese sandwich. She always eats her sandwiches extremely plain and so I was surprised when she had the worker add some toppings. When I innocently brought my observation to her attention, she gave me a quick glare, and I instantly knew that I crossed an etiquette line. “I’m sorry, did I just embarrass you,” I said in earnest. “Yes,” was her reply. The faux pas now forgotten, we moved on. I ordered ham and Provolone on a toasted bun and added just about every free topping that was offered. By experience, I know that the meat portions at Subway are skimpy, and I have learned to boost the sandwich’s contents.
I maximize my Subway sandwich by adding anything, and everything free.
Now back in the car, our conversation continued, more out of the joy of reconnecting than anything else. Soon we were singing along with children’s songs streamed from Spotify. When we were tired of that activity, we each took turns picking artists that we enjoyed. My Frank Sinatra paired her Jon Bellion, my Sarah Vaughn countered her Lizzo… and so it went.
Before I knew it, I was pulling into our driveway, tired but happy.
Dear reader, most of life’s activities are routine, and many people view such tasks with dread or boredom. Yet, there is interest and excitement in all things. The trick is to find the uniqueness in every event and to celebrate it. An 11-hour drive could be a mind-numbing bore. However, it could also be an adventure. A time to catch up on the news, think, see new sites, ponder new thoughts, and to connect with people who you love.
Do you have tasks, activities, or events coming up in your life that you are not looking forward to? If the answer is “Yes,” I would ask you to use your creativity to focus on the positives of those experiences. Turn your lemons into lemonade.
It all started when my wife, Julie, returned to the paid workforce. My kids had been used to home-cooked meals, but her lack of time had them dining on fast food, delivery pizza, and frozen entrees. I thought I could kill two birds with one stone by starting a family cooking day that I labeled, “Cooking With Dad Thursday.” My goal was to provide my kids with more than a meal, I wanted to teach them how to cook and have them experience the fellowship of sharing a group-made meal.
The task was multi-faceted. We would plan, shop, cook, and clean up together. Each cooking Thursday culminated with a Facebook post where I would upload a photo of the plated and completed meal. Naturally, I tried to present our dishes in their most favorable light on Facebook. I would always ask my kids, “Reality or Facebook reality?” when I posted the photo in an attempt to emphasize that most things that you see on Facebook are highly curated. Another effect of posting the picture surprised me; friends started to post pictures of their homemade meals. Also, “Cooking With Dad Thursday,” spawned a mini-movement of others preparing real food from scratch.
I grew up eating great food. My mother magically threw things together in the most delicious ways. She didn’t teach us how to cook, but she did write down some of her recipes in a ledger style notebook, which was passed to my brother when she died. Her musings provided her with the information that she needed to remember a recipe but they were incomprehensible to anyone else.
Most of the “Cooking With Dad Thursday” recipes originated from conventional sources. Standard cookbooks like “The Betty Crocker Cookbook,” and “The Better Homes and Garden Cookbook” provided some inspiration, but most of my recipes were procured and printed off of the internet. I have always felt comfortable cooking, as the process is a form of practical chemistry. I have been making meals for decades and can interpret a list of ingredients quickly. Most of the recipes that I selected had to conform to the tastes of my kids and also be essential enough to teach a particular cooking technique.
Many of the dishes were well-liked by my children and warranted saving, but where? The answer came early in the form of an old and somewhat beaten up school folder from my son William’s elementary days. Its bright orange color made sure that we wouldn’t lose it; all that it needed was a little updating. With a black marker, I scratched out Will’s name on its front, and in a bold and sloppy script, I wrote “Dad’s Super Secret Recipe Vault.” The folder was neither super-secret or a vault, but reality should never stand in the way of a creative process. During any Thursday meal, I would ask the kids, “Is this dish worthy of saving in the vault?” If the answer was yes, I would toss it in the folder. One checkmark indicating pretty good and two checkmarks noting that the dish was excellent.
Nowadays, my kids can make anything from a savory lasagna to 6 loaves of 100% whole wheat bread. However, they are in college and beyond, causing “Cooking With Dad Thursday” to become a school break activity.
When a door closes, a window opens. With our new empty nest status, Julie and I had to negotiate who would be the meal preparer. In an egalitarian fashion, we decided to split the duty. I’m now the Sunday chief, and so “Cooking With Day Thursday” has evolved into “Simple Sunday Supper.” Julie is a more adventurous eater than the kids, and so I can revisit the culinary memories of my past, including soups, stews, and casseroles. However, she has banned peas from the list of acceptable ingredients.
My new routine often starts with an internet search for a potential meal candidate. Once printed, I check our larder to see what we have in stock. I’ll highlight any needed purchases directly on the recipe, fold it, and stick it in my pocket to serve as a shopping list. I dislike large stores, and so I’m fortunate to have a little grocer called “Fresh Thyme” just a few blocks away. Although limited in selection, they have all of the basics plus a good meat counter and an excellent fruit and vegetable section. It is a short and easy trip for me to buy any needed ingredients, and the store’s limited selection prevents me from overbuying.
I have also taken over the weekly house cleaning, which I do on Sundays. It is a bit of a balancing act when it comes to time management. However, I’m getting good a juggling these tasks and cooking is hardly a hardship.
Yesterday I made Italian sausage and lentil soup garnished with a little sour cream and served with chewy ciabatta bread. Total cooking time in my Instant Pot was 25 minutes, and it was the perfect dish for a frigid fall night. Julie gave me a thumbs up on dinner, and so I marked the recipe with two checkmarks. Where did I save it? In “Dad’s Super Secret Recipe Vault,” of course!
The folder is now over two inches thick. It has been loosely divided into categories such as “stovetop,” “oven,” and “Instant Pot.” In that old and now worn-out folder resides years of recipes and memories. It may not have the charm of my mother’s handwritten cookbook, but it is wholly legible and clear. I hope that someday one of my kids will want the collection, and perhaps they will teach their children using some of the recipes that we so lovingly made. The vault may serve as a new tradition as well as a vehicle for my kids to tell their kids about their crazy dad and the food adventures that were spent together.
Traditions don’t have been elaborate, they just have to be. What traditions do you have?
The old repurposed orange folder.The vault is over two inches thick representing many dozens of cooking adventures.I usually post an ingredient shot. Why? Because I think it looks nice.Last Sunday’s meal. An Italian sausage, lentil soup with chewy ciabatta bread.
