A Relaxing Run

 Our lives can be so structured. Overstructured, really.

Schedules dominate our days. We need to keep to our meetings, our appointments, our myriad chores. And inevitably there are circumstances that arise that demand our immediate attention, another task -- or two, or three -- crammed into our day.

For me, it means I need my outlets.

One faithful outlet has been basketball. Since COVID in 2020, I join a group of guys at our local community center twice a week and ball out. We span a range of ages, and of skills. Some have played lots of organized ball, some haven't. But regardless of skill and knowledge, we congregate to play, get in a good workout, and immerse ourselves in competition and camaraderie that comes with playing a team sport as adults. We play hard, try to win, and have fun -- just the way it should be.

We generally play for 60-75 minutes during the lunch hour. Breaks between games are fleeting, as we are trying to get in as much play as possible within our allotted time.  There aren't many opportunities to have much conversation when we're rushing to return to the court.

We decided to change that by getting together, off the court and out of the gym, last Friday evening. We congregated at a local bar and watched our football team take care of business as we slugged down pitchers of beer and gobbled pizza. Best of all, by far, was talking, and getting to know each other better. I learned about some of my ball players' occupations, families, where they grew up, and so much more. 

I had a great time.

All that merrymaking left me fatigued and with some cobwebs in my head the next morning. I shuffled around for a bit, trying to decide what to do on an on-off rainy day. I shrugged off my usual reflexive action of tuning into a soccer match or lapsing into melting into a series of college football games I wouldn't have cared about.

I made a better decision. I went for a run.

I don't jog as much as I used to. Basketball, by far my primary athletic participatory love, is my main outlet. But I've long found a run as a very good complement. I don't run as far as before; I go 4-6 miles, and call that enough. But I will say that, unlike basketball, a run represents a true personal outlet. It's just you and outdoors. No teammates, no chatter, just the quiet around you and the satisfaction of your body in movement, a rhythmic, almost machine-like propulsion in space.

I remember when training for my first marathon how astonished I was that during long runs, my mind would simply switch off, and wander from one thought to another, as my body moved effortlessly forward. It was exhilarating, really, knowing the miles I was knocking down with ease. I felt almost invincible.

I still get that feeling of mental liberation and physical production on runs, although they are briefer, considering the shortened distances. What I like best is I simply relax. My brain still switches off, and when it does engage, I am having constructive thoughts. Any negativity, or worry, is ignored. I think about my state of affairs in a positive vein, such as what I can do to improve myself, rather than tearing myself down in potshots of blame.

It's well known that physical exercise confers a wealth of mental and physical benefits. I am blessed to have two really good outlets -- one social, the other more in solitude -- that I can rely upon when my life becomes -- or seems to be -- veering into too much structure. So needed, so necessary.

And, so much fun.

Apples

How 'bout them apples?

I can say this literally, for once, because, boy do we have a lot of apples.

We have three apple trees in our back yard -- a Cortland, a Liberty, and a Honey Crisp. We planted the Honey Crisp first, followed by the Liberty, and finally the Cortland. 

It took some time for any of the trees to produce. The Honey Crisp yielded first, but its production was sparing and intermittent -- apples one season, almost none the next. This trend went on for at least a few years, which caused us to question what we were doing, or had done. Was it how, or where, we planted the tree? Was it getting pollinated? Soil issues? Bugs? Blight? Being rank amateurs, we had no answers, only guesses -- and poor ones at that.

When the Honey Crisp tree did produce, tiny black bugs called aphids or the insidious apple maggot fly ravaged what relatively meager fruit was growing. Then, five years ago, when the Honey Crisp tree was on its way to a big yield, the neighborhood squirrels made it a primary stop on their daily foraging. This was COVID year #1, and, working from home, I watched from my screen porch with mounting exasperation as those rampaging rodents scooted down the tree, scurried across the yard, scaled my tree, and snatched at my apples. They'd sample the fruit -- one or two bites -- and then discard it, like some glutton who already had had his fill. It got so irksome for me that I trapped nearly a dozen squirrels (and shepherded them elsewhere) before the Derecho of 2020 put a serious dent in their numbers.

Last summer, the Honey Crisp tree went nuts. Infestation was mild, and the squirrels must have found another major food source. I picked apple after apple, and for weeks, I enjoyed a Honey Crisp nearly every day. I like me some apples, and I really like me some Honey Crisps. I mostly ignore the Cortland and Liberty, and I kind of feel badly about that. But not too much. Those Honey Crisps are just better.

This past spring, I noticed blooms all over the Honey Crisp tree, and I got excited. Fast forward, and those blooms became apples, lots of them. Also, for the first time, I bothered to actually research Honey Crisp cultivation, and learned to cull small, misshapen or stunted apples early in the growth cycle, to give the fitter apples more nutrients to grow. The squirrels again left the tree mostly alone, and the insects' effect has been relatively muted. So, for the second consecutive season, it's been a good year for picking apples. 

I know this is confirmation bias-like psychology at work here, but I love eating apples from my (Honey Crisp) tree. For the past two weeks, I have been busily harvesting the fruit, and every morning, I slice one up and eat it, sometimes accompanied by cheddar cheese. So simple, so nutritious, so delicious, and so satisfying. 

I'm already looking forward to next season.

Homecoming Poster

 We haven't paid much attention to Homecoming at our town's high school.

Neither Michelle nor I is a graduate of the school, so there's no real incentive to get involved in the alumni-geared events that dominate the weekend.

Neither of our sons have taken much interest, either, except showing up at the football game -- more to socialize than to watch the action on the field.

But that may have changed for good.

Our youngest son, a freshman, told his mother out of the blue that he planned to ask a girl to the Homecoming Dance. And, he wanted to create a poster to make The Big Ask.

The announcement, as it were, came in the midst of a particular grinding day for our family -- or at least me. I had called for a family summit, an intentional choice of words to elevate the occasion from our relatively mundane family meetings to one imbued with more gravity.

Not to deviate too much from the Homecoming storyline, but Michelle and I had grown increasingly frustrated at our teenage children's abject inability to execute a host of simple tasks, from picking up their clothes, putting dishes in the dishwasher, disposing of food wrappers, shelving shoes and bookbags, and so on. Our house had become one constant mess zone, and Michelle and I were tired of being treated as their maids. So, it saw time to redraw the line, and remind them of their responsibilities to the family and to themselves.

The boys greeted the Family Summit announcement just as you would expect them to. First came the ? in the text replies. Then "What" and "Why" in subsequent texts. Then, as the meeting approached -- a resigned roll of the eyes and "how long will this take?" utterances that made clear just how they felt.

To cut to the chase here, the daily chore list (we call it "contributions") was reinstated, they had to sign up for concessions shifts that benefits their school's Fine Arts programs. Michelle and I also instituted a one-strike policy for any deviations from the keep-the-house tidy mandate.

We'll see how it goes.

Well, the summit concluded, and Isaiah transitioned immediately to creating his Homecoming poster.

The thing about Isaiah is he's a real study of extremes. There's the lassitude that comes with activities or subjects that don't interest him much or hold his attention. And, then there's the energetic, almost manic Isaiah that pairs with something that he's truly motivated by, or invested in. We've seen the hyper-motivated Isaiah in his performances in school plays and the hours upon hours of practice that lead to the shows. We've seen that energy and enthusiasm in music, too. In basketball and soccer, it comes and goes. I've seen Isaiah in full on mode and then in mostly off mode. As his longtime coach in soccer, I never knew what I was going to get -- fully engaged Isaiah or disengaged Isaiah. Only he seemed to know, or decide, when he was ready to get after it.

What I can say is he was fixated on creating an alluring poster. He listened intently as Michelle and he worked out the messaging -- a cheeky nod to the theme of his marching band's upcoming performances and the fact that the girl also is in the band. He attended to every detail, the colors, the adornments. He eagerly flitted from one vantage point to another as he watched his mother sketch out the letters, barking instructions (politely) as the artwork came into being. He was completely engaged -- drawing, coloring, scrutinizing, pondering his creation.

What he created is thoughtful, sweet and so on point.

How can any girl say no to that?

Welcome visitors

 

Michelle and I planted a zinnia garden at the beginning of this summer.

We have been richly rewarded for our efforts.

I know very little -- or often, just seem to forget -- the names of various flowers and plants. My wife is constantly reminding me of the constellation of greenery we have in our gardens. So, when she told me she wanted to plant zinnia seeds that she had gotten from a neighbor, I really didn't know what that meant.

We tore out some hostas (I actually do know and remember what these are.) that had crowded our back patio and added some fresh dirt and planting soil to ready the area. Then we planted the zinnia seeds. They're tiny, maybe a 1/5 the size of a pinkie fingernail. So, by planting, I guess I mean we sprinkled them here and there. I really didn't know what I was doing, and so I blanketed the area, deciding, with no prior research, that more was better. 

Some weeks passed, and not much happened. I grew concerned. We had gotten regular rains, but there was the ground, all brown and barren, just as it looked when we started.

But gradually, some tiny-leaved shoots emerged from their below-ground beginnings. And then some more. And more -- until, there were little green sprockets all over the place. It brought me back to when Michelle and I lived in Rhode Island, and we converted a patch of our backyard -- and area that was the neighborhood trash dump before we moved in – into a vegetable garden. I was amazed that through just a bit of thought and not much more labor what we could produce. Lettuce, snap peas, green beans, peppers, tomatoes, even potatoes. All sprouting up in neat little rows, as if we, sure-fire amateurs, had planned it that way. And how much fun is to eat what you have planted and produced? No wonder people get into planting their own produce. There is a visceral joy to watch nature serve up a bounty of goodness just from spilling some seeds into her ground.

Anyway, the zinnia patch here in Iowa reminded me of those good 'ol Lewis farm-to-table days. And, it wasn't long before those little sprouts grew tall, 3 to 4 feet in height in fact, and flowered -- hot pink, light pink, blood orange, fiery red, golden yellow, and hues of purple. 

I enjoyed looking out at that flowering rainbow every morning. But I didn't know the best was still to come. For what I didn't know is that zinnias attract all sorts of pollinators, from bees to butterflies.

And, best of all, those flowers brought in a special guest: Monarchs.

I'm sure you all have heard about monarch butterflies, and their epic, annual passage from the eastern United States to Mexico. That journey can cover as many as 3,000 miles, folks, including some 50-100 miles daily. All that fluttering means they need places to rest and recuperate. They're always searching for a buffet, and one of the items on their preferred menu is .... zinnias.

Which means for the past 3-4 weeks, I have delighted in watching monarchs flitter about and light on our zinnias, getting sustenance and perhaps lounging for a bit. I've watched them dart and dance. I've watched them fight over a particular flower. One day, two monarchs got into a real aerial fit. They shot after each other, up and down, at speeds, angles and G-forces that would have made any astronaut seek the vomit bag. Other times, they just swoop around lazily, riding the breeze, before settling on a flower.

While the monarchs are the marquee event in our zinnia patch, I have gotten a lot of satisfaction at the number of bumblebees that frequent our flower patch. I can count as many as a dozen easily at any given time. I love bumblebees. They're big, they're regal, and they're docile almost to the point of being polite. They want no business with you, and if you don't give them trouble, you can watch them as close up as you want. And they are mega pollinators. Our apple trees have gone nuts likely due to them.

Zinnias are annuals, I'm pretty sure. So, as we propel ourselves toward the cooling of fall, our patch will go away. 

But I can assure you, come next summer, we will make sure it returns -- and our visitors, too.

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.

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.