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.

Five years from now

I read the New York Times Morning newsletter just about every day. I find it a reliable, daily overview of the news that keeps me current with what's going on. It also has some other-news qualities that I enjoy.

This morning's edition led off with an entry about writing a letter to one's self five years into the future.

It spurred me to think what I think my life will be life in 2030 -- and what I hope my life is like then.

So, here goes -- My life five years from now. What do I envision?

• I aim to remain happily married to my wife and to be celebrating 25+ years of marriage.

This is no pedestrian wish. Five years from now, our sons will have graduated from high school, presumably left for a college, and we will be empty nesters. I have heard, and realize, this will be a big marital transition. No longer will our relationship revolve at least partially around caring and providing for our children, watching them perform artistically or athletically, negotiating their daily or nightly activities, etc. My wife and I will return -- some 25 years later -- to being just the two of us. That means our life before kids, when we were much younger. A lot has changed since then, of course, naturally or otherwise. Do just pick up from where you left off a quarter-century ago? Is it that simple?

My guess is of course it's not that simple. It will take effort and devotion to reimagine and remake our relationship, to freshen it up, maybe introduce some things that are new, to match some of our interests, to figure out how we spend quality time together, how we advance our union.

That certainly takes some thought.

I think we'll need to establish some patterns, some activities that we can put on the calendar, to do together. It can be as simple as a weekly "date night" or a once-yearly vacation. 

But it probably needs to be more than that. It probably needs to address at least at some level our daily interactions, what happens when we're home together. Not an exercise in granularity, I hope, but some contours for our day-to-day existence together.

I love my wife. She has her interests, I have mine. Sometimes those interests intersect; sometimes they don't. Imagining ourselves fives years in the future, I think it's important to highlight those intersecting interests, so we're spending enriching time together.

• Our sons have transitioned after high school

I hope that our children are excitedly embarking on their next phase in life, post high-school. They will be fully independent for the first time.  I hope they are embracing those moments, that they are responsible, mature, and ambitious in their scope of interests, friends, career paths and other pursuits. This is the time when anything, and everything, is open to them. The opportunities are high, the risks low. So much to gain from life, relatively little to lose (so to speak). Consider everything. Most importantly, find -- and do -- what makes you happy. I cannot stress that enough to my future boys. Success is about happiness, finding what brings you joy. Relationships, job, interests, hobbies, you name it. It's so much more than wealth, or material things. I hope that we have implanted this notion in our children. 

• Who will I be?

This is maybe the toughest question for me to address. What will I want to be doing What should I be doing? What will motivate me? Will it make sense vis a vis my relationship with my wife -- not too selfish, for example? I'll need to ponder this a bit.

I'll make this a future blog post. 

But not too far in the future.

The Slovak Spectator

 I had a great adventure 30 years ago.

I helped start a newspaper in the Slovak Republic called The Slovak Spectator. Our debut issue was on March 1, 1995.

Against many odds – and thanks to some great journalists, salespeople, business managers and several heapings of good fortune along the way – our modest little enterprise continues today, the only English-language news publication in Slovakia and a trusted journalistic mainstay in the country.

I am so proud of what I and so many others have accomplished.

Tomorrow, the Spectator's principals and staff will commemorate 30 years of publishing by hosting a gala event in Bratislava. I will attend remotely, for a group picture-taking session (I am intrigued how they will pull this off.) and some remarks by my co-founders and myself. I'll talk about how I got to Slovakia in August 1993 and why I decided to go there as a 26-year-old fresh off a stint as a press secretary in Congress. In that one sentence is a bounty of stories, fat too many to tell at this event.

But what I can say is I was at the right place, at the right time, with the right guys. And we decided to take a leap of faith.

What a great decision that turned out to be. What a ride I've had. 

I can't wait to talk about some of it tomorrow.

Rediscovered

Hi, everyone, I'm Richard.

I feel the need to re-introduce myself, because it's been a long time since I've posted to this blog. So long, in fact, that I had completely forgotten I had created it.

But today, I rediscovered my blog. This is how:

I was researching an educational exchange outfit that led me to teach in Slovakia in 1993. The outfit was (still is?) called Education for Democracy, and I was looking into it to shed the cobwebs of my memory as I prepared to participate in the 30th anniversary celebration of the founding of The Slovak Spectator, an English-language newspaper I co-founded in 1995. One of the questions I have been asked to answer is how and why I went to Slovakia in August 1993, and EfD was my ticket there.

That research led to me burrowing into my journalistic past as a reporter with The Associated Press. Call it vanity, curiosity, spare time, boredom, whatever. But it did prove fruitful: The first entry in my search "richard c lewis ap" was a bio sketch about me from Oceanus, a magazine published by the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution for which I wrote some stories in the late 1990s. I'm amazed my bio is still on the site, considering I haven't penned a piece for WHOI for at least 25 years. But there it was, still living and breathing, albeit outdated. You can see it here.

The bio mentions the blog I had created, the one you're at now. And, I hadn't remembered it, hadn't contributed to it, hadn't thought about it, since my last entry titled "Prayer for a Chicken" in 2013, written when my oldest son, Nathaniel, was four years old. 

He's 16 now. 

It's been a while.

This realization saddens me. I lament that I stopped writing, stopped contributing, stopped chronicling, stopped jotting down memories -- happy, funny, sad, pedestrian, outlandish, you name it -- of my family for so long. And, let me tell you, I wish I had, because my memory sucks. So many moments have blown by, gone, never to return. I've got pictures, thankfully, that will help fill some gaps, retrieve some past experiences. Nathaniel, Isaiah, and Michelle -- all of whom have far superior memories – will fill some other gaps. But many moments simply won't be relived, retold, or recalled. 

This is my attempt to reverse that, to chronicle again.

I hope I'm more diligent this time.

 

 

Prayer for a Chicken

Lately, we've been making it a point to say a prayer at dinner time. We had gotten out of the habit, but the boys are old enough to understand the reasons for thanking the Almighty and others for the food that they eat and the other blessings that we enjoy.

The dinner prayer can go two ways. There's the singing kind, courtesy of Michelle's family. As you tap your hands on the table, it goes like this:

"The Lord is good to me,
And so I thank the Lord,
For giving me the things I need,
The sun and the rain and the appleseed,
The Lord is good to me..."

Commence rhythmic clapping

"Amen, amen,
Amen, amen, amen
Aaaaahmen!"

The boys like this one, as you would imagine. We introduced a second, more solemn prayer as well. It's open to variation, but it goes something like this:

"Dear Lord, thank you,
For the food we're about to eat,
For the plants and animals that provided it,
For mommy for cooking it.
We thank you for our family and our friends,
We love you Lord, and we love you Jesus,
In your names we pray, amen."

Not exactly lyrical or rhyming, either, but at least it's sincere.

So, we mix the two up, depending on the children's mood (Spazzy? Go with the solemn prayer.), level of hunger (Famished? Whichever is quicker.) and when we're having dinner (Late? Solemnity prevails.). Also on Fridays as of late, Michelle's been whipping up a fine breakfast-for-dinner feast of scrambled eggs with veggies and pancakes dotted with chocolate morsels. Yum!

Last Friday, when we had finished reciting a prayer for that meal, Nathaniel opened his eyes and asked why we hadn't thanked the chickens – you know, for the eggs.

"Because they're animals," I replied. "We thanked the animals already."

He mulled my answer but did not query further. My guess is he was thinking about when we have chicken for dinner, in which case we certainly want to thank the animal's contribution to sating our appetite, and those chickens that laid eggs that turn into scrambled eggs, fried eggs, pancakes, french toast and other breakfasty stuff. It's a fair point and an understandably difficult distinction for a 4-year-old to make. Since I don't want yet to get into a discussion of dying versus living chickens' contributions to meals, I've not bothered to help clarify it for him.

Tonight, we were having tacos and a fruit salad, and began singing the amen song for our prayer. As we sang, Nathaniel had taken it upon himself to recite the serious prayer, or at least the parts he remembered. Michelle and I stopped singing and asked Nathaniel if he wanted to lead the prayer. He nodded, folded his hands, closed his eyes, and began:

"Dear Lord,
Thank you for the food,
For the plants and animals,
And for the chickens."

May they get their due. Thanks, chickens.