Surprise visit

 I traveled to Maryland for the Labor Day holiday weekend with a specific goal in mind: To surprise my father for his 90th birthday.

Yes, my dad, Marvin, is turning 90. Well, not yet. That happens on Dec. 27. 

But he already had planned to visit my sister, and when she broached the idea of an early milestone-like celebratory gathering, I booked a flight to join in the fun.

He had no idea I was coming, which, like so many good ideas, came from my sister.

The hastily-hatched plan was that while I was visiting our mother (who lives in assisted living near my sister), she would pick up Marvin at the airport, and then drive to the assisted living place and call my mother to alert me indirectly that she had arrived. Then, I would come down the back stairs, where my sister was waiting and I'd surprise Marvin, who was waiting out front.

Probably sounds a little convoluted -- which, like plans on the fly can be.

Here's how it unfolded.

You see the surprise, then the slap of initial recognition. What you don't see is my dad tearing up when he fully realizes I am actually there. He got teary, actually.

It was endearing.

And, so this long weekend, we will celebrate a man who is living a very long life. Who is a physical marvel. Who plays tennis, and more recently, pickleball, with folks years -- even decades -- younger than he. A jokester who revels in dishing out, but glares and glowers when it's delivered back to him.

Who doused me with a water bottle in a parking lot, because, well, he's still full of piss and vinegar, and by damned, why not do that to your son?

Who remains a curious sort, not a bookish intellectual per se, but is fully aware of the world around him, even if he doesn't fully grasp others' places in it (such as how social media relentlessly and viscerally shapes younger generations). 

Who wants the best for those he loves, yet can struggle how to effectively dispense that affection or delicately offer advice.

In other words, a flawed individual, like all of us. But a proud, good man.

That's my father.

I'm glad to be here with him.

First day of school (repeat)

 It's that time of year again -- the first day of school.

Like 100s -- no, make that 1000s -- wait, no make that 10,000s -- of parents have done, we take pictures each year of our children before they leave home for a new school year. Social media is bursting with these milestone-like pictorial tributes.

Many families have each child hold a sign, or handwritten note, usually with their names, school, and the grades they're entering. One family -- and I admit we had conceived this -- had each child with an easel-like board that included their favorite song, food, and what they want to do when they grow up. It must be fun for that family to mark time in those ways.

Ours has been flat-out pedestrian by comparison. It's picture of each child on our front porch, and a picture of them together. Except we didn't get the brothers picture this year, because Isaiah needed to be at school early for all-state choir practice. That in and of itself is a new development, and a different marker for this year.

For the record, Nathaniel enters 11th grade, Isaiah enters 9th.

Here they are:

And, here they are just three years ago:

A lot changes quickly, huh?

To me, the pictures truly do tell me a lot about the boys -- what they preferred to wear, their hairstyles, their demeanor, and of course how they looked physically. It also shows we got our house painted during that time, too, thank goodness.

So, while not a perfect record of the annual march of time with our kids, it shows us something, even if the way we present it is a little convenient and contrived.

And, it's a great way to go back, year after year, and marvel at quickly our kids have changed and how fleeting our time really is with them.

 

Boys & Basketball

 One joy I've had this summer is playing basketball with my sons.

The three of us will go to the community center in town and play 21 or a series of one-on-one games. They are duels, and as they've gotten taller, bigger, and more skilled, they've become battles.

As recently as last spring, when I played one-on-one against the younger son, 14-year-old Isaiah, I would remain on the perimeter, vying to beat him with shooting from outside. I could take him down low, but that would be unfair. But he has gotten taller, and regularly will block my shots. So, being the competitor and not wanting to lose, I will drive him on when the game is on the line.

Nathaniel, at 16, is not as basketball skilled as his brother. It's not his fault. He discontinued playing basketball in fifth grade, a victim of being on a league team by Dads Who Can't Coach (But Think They Know How To). You know the kind; a bunch of dudes who because they played some organized basketball, are convinced they are naturals as coaches. It's interesting: In youth sports, if it's football, basketball, or baseball, you had dads coming out of the woodwork, pining to coach their sons, to be the hand that guides said son to sporting glory. 

It rarely happens that way.

Most dads are clueless about coaching. And that was apparent with Nathaniel's 5th grade league team. Being new to town and not part of the "I was born here bro club," I gnashed my teeth as I watched my son during games being sent to the baseline, to stand there, completely uninvolved in the action, as a couple of kids ran a sloppy high-ball screen that resulted in turnovers more often than not.

I get it that youth coaches need to evaluate kids and put them in positions to succeed. But 5th grade basketball -- or any youth sport, for that matter -- is not the place to confine a kid to a position on the court, or field. Good coaches simply teach the fundamentals, day after day, practice after practice, and use the game as occasions to put those fundamentals into play. It's not about winning, in other words. Competing? Fine. But let the kids play all the positions, and learn the game.

Suffice it to say that did not happen with Nathaniel. It was heartbreaking to watch him lose confidence, and lose interest -- through bad dad coaching, no less. Kids see pecking orders, and they know from a very young age whether they're being anointed or ignored. The good coaches eschew such hierarchies, and in fact fight hard against them.

Isaiah, on the other hand, joined a league team as it was forned, and thus grew up playing with the same kids, year after year. His coaches largely understood the value of equality, and building fundamentals and skills, rather than a single-minded quest for Ws. Isaiah has benefited: While he may not be most athletic, nor naturally skilled, he is a solid baller. Now, a freshman, I project he will have a nice high-school career and will be part of some very competitive teams.

Nathaniel, to my surprise, has returned to basketball. And, he plays now for the right reasons: Because he enjoys it. As I've told him many times, basketball is one of the few sports you can play well into adulthood. You can shoot/play by yourself; you can play pickup ball; you can be on an adult league team. Big town, small town, you can find a game somewhere.

I should know, because I play pickup ball twice a week. Trust me, it's a blessing to do so, and almost always a highlight of my week.

Which brings me back to the boys and I, and basketball. How much fun I've had playing with them, either going with one or the other to the gym to wear ourselves out in multiple game of one-on-one, or when we three go together. It's precious, that time I get to spend with them. Soon, and very soon, they will be out of high school, and out of the house. 

I need to remember this, and relish those times we shoot some hoops together.

My kids and sports

 It has taken a long time for me to realize my sons aren't really into sports.

They have played sports. I have coached them, and their teams, every year in soccer since they were 3-4 years old. 

My youngest son, Isaiah, is a rising freshman who plays basketball and soccer -- and likely will play both throughout high school.

My older son, Nathaniel, a rising junior, elected not to play soccer last spring, saying primarily he didn't find it fun anymore, although I suspect there's more to it than that. He wrestled last winter, but now is vacillating between playing basketball or wrestling -- or maybe doing neither -- this winter.

To be clear: I have tried hard, really hard, not to be one of those parents who pushes his kids to pursue things that I'm interested in, or to live vicariously through my children, to reclaim some long ago glory that might have eluded me in my own sporting days.

I think I have largely succeeded in that. I tell Nathaniel and Isaiah regularly how important it is to pursue their own interest, to find their own passions, and certainly not to worry about whether it meets some parental approval.

They have charted their own paths so far. 

Isaiah excels in the performing arts. He has played a major character in two high-school musicals already, the only middle schooler to do so. He has been invited to all-state, honor singing performances for the past three years. He plays piano, the alto saxophone in the high school marching band, and the bari saxophone in the middle-school jazz band.

Nathaniel likewise is musically inclined. He has played the trumpet in the high school marching band since he was in 8th grade and has been chosen to play in the high-school's selective jazz band since he was a freshman. 

One of my greatest joys as a father is to sit back, and enjoy watching them perform. I call it the "parental dividend" for getting them to this point, and now, witnessing them succeed in their chosen pursuits.

Their pursuits certainly don't mirror mine. 

I grew up totally into sports. Could't get enough of it. Played football, basketball, baseball as a youngster. I devoured the sports pages of the newspaper every morning, without fail, even poring over the tiny, matrix-like agate that included standings in fringe sports, trades and other miscellaneous items. I watched a lot of sports, which back then, was confined to the three major networks, and you had to be present to watch it live. If I wasn't watching something or reading about something sports, I was outside playing some sport, my favorite being -- and remaining -- basketball.

Sports was about as foundational to my youth as breathing, drinking or eating. It was commonplace, and I liked it that way.

Which brings me back to my own kids. When they were younger, they would adopt my passion for sports, especially my support for the New England Patriots. We outfitted them in Patriots jerseys, they drew pictures at school of their favorite players, and they watched Patriots games with me. During timeouts, they would sprint between rooms as I spiraled a foam football for them to catch. 

Without doubt, my favorite memory was the Super Bowl between the Patriots and Falcons. If you know football – and even if you're not a Patriots fan – you know what happened. By halftime, the game was lopsided; well into the third quarter, with the Pats trailing by more than three touchdowns, I put the boys to bed. I told them, "I'll wake you up if it gets close."

Well, you know what happened, and when the Patriots scored late to put the game within reach, I rushed upstairs to get the boys. They bolted out of bed, clearly not having fallen asleep. Holding hands, we watched with intensifying giddiness as the good 'ol Patriots completed their epic rally and won the game.

As they grew older, they watched less and less sports with me. As I watched soccer more and more to better understand the game (and because I liked the sport), they rarely joined me. They were finding their own things to do, and that did not include sports.

They continued to play, especially soccer, and they liked doing so, but it dawned on me that tbey played only when something was organized, like a practice. Seldom did either go outside and just kick the ball around. That should have been the first signal that perhaps sports would not be the fuel for their engines that it had been for me.

I admit this has been tough to digest from time to time, Sports is so ingrained in me, it's hard to resist projecting it on my kids, to want them to play, to be part of teams, to compete, so I can watch them, like so many other of their peers' parents. 

But that's selfish, and I know it. It's also wholly unfair to them, and I know that, too.

What matters is whether they're happy. Whether they're finding joy in what they do. 

And, for me, to watch and smile.

 

Solo trip

I decided to go on a camping trip solo this weekend.

That wasn't the original plan, however. We sort of hatched a plan to camp near Waverly, Iowa, during the time our younger son, Isaiah, would attend a choir/singing camp at Wartburg College in that town.

The campground I found is called Cedar Bend Park, a county-run reserve along the banks of the Cedar River. I would leave on Thursday to secure a site, as it's first come, first serve. Michelle and Nathaniel would join me on Saturday, and we'd book a college tour for Nathaniel at Wartburg.

But Nathaniel is intent on banking more money through his job managing a produce stand, and so the weekend, come-to-Waverly plan evaporated. Michelle didn't want to leave a 16-year-old home alone, so that meant she wasn't coming either.

I deliberated a little before deciding to go by myself. It seemed a little selfish, to be honest, especially the day before departure, when our main refrigerator quit working. By late Wednesday, the fridge had sprung back to life, a work communications crisis had been resolved, and so I packed the camper and took off.

Two hours later, I was at the campground. It was mostly vacant, peaceful, expansive, and more scenic than I expected.

After setting up camp, I took a little bike ride to find out what's around. The answer: Not much. The one road leading from the campground ends up in a loop, and I saw no trail that leads to the Cedar River. I did find one spot, the West Shelter, with a clever setup for you to set your camera and take a selfie of you with the surroundings. The sign said, "Congratulations! You've found one of the most scenic spots in Iowa." I obligingly took a selfie.

Does the backdrop match the hype?

Our camper is mounted on a Ford 350 chassis, which means there is no second vehicle to get from here to there. I, of course, was aware of this, and also knew there would be no backup (i.e., Michelle arriving independently). So, I brought my bicycle, and had done my research. Waverly was about 4 miles south, certainly close enough to peddle. What I didn't know was the lay of the land leading there, so I hopped on my dad's 25-year-old former bike and motored toward Waverly. I didn't go all the way to town, but I did see some interesting stuff in the first couple of miles. Here's one:

The countryside is quintessential Iowa. Cedar Bend, like many parks in our state, occupies a sliver of land hugging a river. Everything around it is farmland. Corn fields that blanket rolling hills, undulating ribbons of pavement, a horse pasture here and there. It is serene, it is rural, and it has its charms.

After my short jaunt of exploration, I retired to my campsite to enjoy the peace and quiet, mix a Presbyterian, and build a fire to roast brats. 

Day one of solo camping comes to a close.

Tomorrow, I'll venture into Waverly and see what it has to offer. 

End of a (mini) era

 I was driving through the Iowa town of Solon when I noticed a handwritten message on the door of an establishment I used to frequent,

"Closed permanently" it read, scrawled in black ink.

I got out to take a closer look.

Sure enough, Eastwood's Bar & Grill was no longer. Just as the sign said.

How sad. The end of a mini era for me.

For a few years in the mid 2010s, I would meet my brother in law at Eastwood's, after each of us had filed stories from Friday night high school football games. He was the sports editor at the Iowa City Press-Citizen, and I was a stringer who just enjoyed dipping a toe back into the journalistic waters, riding the rush of filing a spot sports story on deadline. 

Eastwood's was our post-filing spot, a local watering hole with no pretensions, lots of characters, and a sense of anything goes.

There were our favorite bartenders, who greeted our entrance with a joyful shriek and hugs. There was the cook who was regularly high, and made delicious pizzas so loaded with toppings you could barely stuff a bite in your mouth.

Those bartenders, Heather and Amanda, were joie de vivre and then some. They were live wires, and my brother in law and I loved them for it. They jousted with us in conversation, joked with us, and were just plain fun. As the night wore on, they'd pour shots for us -- on the house, of course -- and join us as we downed whatever they had concocted. 

And then, as closing time had rolled by, they'd present the bill.

It was a fraction of what we owed. So, we naturally we tipped them a ton.

Solon, even nearly a decade ago, had some nice bars. Eastwood's was not one of them. Which is partly why we liked it so much. The outdoor sign had a gun on it. Its name came from the owner's fascination with the actor Clint Eastwood, he of the kick-some-ass, take-no-prisoners Dirty Harry movies. There were maybe three beers on tap, and at least two of them were Bud and Busch Light. The tables were wood, and unadorned. The music could be loud, depending on who was playing what. 

It had no pretensions. Which means it was perfect for us.

I drove by once, noticing the sign. I returned later, wondering whether I read it right, so I stopped the car, got out and walked to the entrance. As I readied to take a picture to send to my brother in law, a guy slipped behind me, and opened the door.

He caught me by surprise, and in my embarrassed panic over being caught taking a picture, I asked, "Are you all open?"

"No," he said, politely, considering he could have skewered me for my foolish question.

"The owner's in there," he added, pointing inside.

Sure enough, there he was, Eastwood's white-haired owner, sitting at a table, chatting with some folk.

I nodded at him, and perhaps he nodded back. 
I hope he knows how many good times my brother in law and I enjoyed at his establishment. I hope he's closing it because he wants, not because he was forced to do so.

I will miss that place. But I am happy for the memories I have there.

Brothers

 I was watching the boys play one-on-one basketball this evening, and it got me thinking about brothers.

My sons are 16 and 14, respectively. They've been brothers their whole lives, yet you never would have known it. They fought nearly every day. They scrapped, they wrestled, they pushed, they shoved. They battled all the time.

Witnessing their daily pitched encounters, trying to adjudicate each and every confrontation, was revelatory to some degree but mostly wearisome. I always felt like the judge who never made the right decision.

The older one, Nathaniel, has enjoyed the upper hand most of the time, a product of being two years older than Isaiah and the physical advantages that come with that. I often have told them, especially after some bruising conquest that left his brother in tears, how he needs to recognize his younger brother will be one of his best friends. He is blood, after all, I'd say, and that bond means everything.

I will admit this was lecturing with helping of hope. I mean, I can't guarantee they will be close. Many brothers -- and siblings in general -- aren't. But while aspirational, it seemed like the right message, the wise seed to plant in their minds. 

Now, as the two have gotten older, the daily, petty jousting has lessened. They share some common interests, and even share some common friends. Isaiah frequently hangs out with Nathaniel and his friends, playing games at our house, playing basketball or lifting at the gym. His older brother not onky has no reservations about it, he basically welcomes it.

And they do more things together. They went to a water park together (with other friends. too). They play soccer together. They play basketball together. They play video games together. They will congregate in one or the other's room on some evenings. Whereas once there was acrimony, now mostly there is harmony.

That said, you wouldn't have concluded that watching them juke, joust and trash talk each other playing ball on our street this evening. You would have seen two brothers in each's faces, fighting, clawing, competing to best the other.

But once the game was over, peace prevailed again. Harmony restored. You can feel the mutual respect, maybe even a twinge of admiration each has for the other.

It's a joy to watch them grow up -- together.