A Couple Hot Days in Quincy

Getting to Quincy, Illinois growing up required a good amount of time in the car. Mostly, we were driving from St. Louis, a couple times from Chicago, and one time we drove all the way from a beach vacation in North Carolina to the great state of Illinois. For a girl prone to car sickness, I'd generally complain. But there was something about this particular car ride; the anticipation building as we lumbered across corn fields in a Budget full size car that never really seemed full size at all, sweaty palms grasping my Game Boy, thoughts of Hello Dollies on my mind. The car ride helped us all transition, slowing down our pace to fit in with a city almost frozen in time.

We always arrived after dinner; a welcome lit only by the fading dusk, abundant lighting bugs, and warm smiles on my grandparents' faces. The click of a seat belt, the pop of a door. We all stretched and walked the stairs to the front porch to get hugs while sneaking a peak of the cookies waiting inside.

A visit to Quincy, usually in the very hot month of August, around my Dad's birthday, was comprised of the same familiar rituals. Food was always a focal point. As mentioned, there were cookies on the table when we arrived; perhaps eight different varieties lining a large tray. I went straight for the Hello Dollies and fudge. Meals were planned for the week; Underbrinks radio rolls and my Grandma's zucchini bread for breakfast, large lunches spanning from steak and french fries, to roast beef, to fried chicken, jello salad always on the side. Supper was always 'lighter', likely leftovers or cold cuts. There was always a visit to the Maid Rite, a native institution specializing in sloppy joe-like sandwiches. And we went out for a couple formal dinners, including one to Spring Lake's Clubhouse which featured Shirley Temples, Melba Toasts, fried shrimp and peppermint stick ice cream.

Despite all that we craved and consumed in Quincy, there was one easy way to burn it off. Spring Lake. Every day, weather permitting, we would pack our suits, towels and sand toys, and drive to my Grandparents country club, which was as unique as they come. The true destination was its sand bottom pool, filled with spring water, surrounded by a beach, shaded by mature Oaks and Sycamores. White finger docks jutted out on the far end to form swimming lanes. A platform in the middle was there for diving. And two slides; one for the fearful, the other for the fearless; provided the ultimate Stairmaster exercise. Hours melted into minutes quickly at Spring Lake. We soaked up every last second, including that coveted part of the day when we were allowed to order a Deter's Chipwich from the 19th Hole's window, biting and slurping it up greedily.

We came hungry for all that Quincy had to offer, and left so very full.

After my grandparents passed, there wasn't really a reason to return to Quincy. Despite that, thoughts of this very small dot on a map, hugging the mighty Mississippi River, come to me every summer. Particularly, as I walk by a stretch of Sycamores in my neighborhood. In July and August, something about their aroma mixed with the Midwestern air brings back Quincy memories and begs me to tell my kids about this special place.

Sometimes, seeing is believing though. And after a year of planning, I and 37 other descendants of my Grandparents got to show them what Quincy was all about.

On a blazing hot Friday, in keeping with tradition, I drove the kids four and a half hours down I-55 to the banks of the Mississippi. Mary had been asking if we were there yet for a while. Ten minutes. Five minutes. Okay, there's the sign. As we passed industrial sites and Gardner Denver's office, Bobby stared out the window and said, 'Ahhhh ... Quincy is beautiful, Mommy.' To a kid that loves construction vehicles, maybe. But I was quietly wishing it would get more picturesque as we climbed the bluff, hoping that the vision of this humble city would live up to the expectations I had set.

Starting with the warm welcome we got at the Hampton Inn from my Aunt Barb, the city didn't disappoint. From the Patio, to the picnic, to the pool, to the prayers at St. Francis, everything was perfect - just as I remembered and just as my kids might have envisioned in my stories.

Better than me relaying the experience, I asked my kids about their favorite parts of the family reunion. 

Bobby: Uh ... what's a reunion again, Mama? 
Me: It's when people come back together after being apart. 
Bobby: And what's that place called again that we went to? 
Me: Quincy, buddy. 
Bobby: Right, Quincy. Umm ... I liked tackling those big boys. You know I'm stronger than them. 
Me: Matt and Chris. Yep, you did do that. You also were wrestling a little too rough with Will. 
Bobby: NO! We were playing football, Mommy! 

Margaret: Me. Me. Like lemonaaaaaaade.

Mary: I liked getting to cut Aunt Barb's cake. 

Bobby: I got to cut a piece too. I liked that. 
Mary: I loved Spring Lake and getting an ice cream sandwich through that little window. 

Margaret: Mine ice cream. Mine ice cream. Yum. 

Bobby: I liked the slide. But I bumped by head. 
Mary: I liked getting all dressed up in the locker room and then going to dinner. I also really liked the fried shrimp - can you make those, Mom? But I didn't like when Bobby banged my head on the dance floor.

Me: Is that what this bruise is from? 
Mary: Yeah. 
Bobby: I said I was sorry! 
Mary: Also who is that girl? 
Me: This one? 

Mary: Yeah. She has two babies in her tummy! 
Me: That's right. That's Katrina. What else did you like? 
Mary: I liked those Sloppy Joes. 

Me: Maid Rites

Mary: And having dinner at the Patio. 

Bobby: I liked playing boats at Spring Lake. And I liked getting a toy for being a good boy in the car. 

Mary: I wish we were still in Quincy. 
Me: We will go back. I promise. 

The only thing my kids couldn't experience, the thing that really made Quincy shine, were my Grandparents. On Saturday morning, we ran by their house and I hugged their epic Oak. I relayed the stories and pictures of the place's heyday. On Sunday, we celebrated them at a special Mass at St. Francis. But knowing them, my kids' great grandparents, can only be felt in their offspring. And I've got to say, I think they felt their presence all weekend long.

Their smiles.

Their hugs.

Their laughter.

Their ability to beat the heat.

Their kindness

and generosity.

Their cooking.

Their style. 

     

 Their ever growing family.

 

Together in their hometown.

Lo.

Our New Old House

Seven plus years ago, we moved from the Ranch at 4 North West to a little white house with a little more space. We bought the house out of foreclosure and in disrepair. It actually wasn't white at the time, but a dirty, worn beige. The wood frame was rotting in several places. The chimney was a brick or two away from falling down. And the inside. Oh the inside.

It was ours though. And over time, we repainted, redecorated, replanted (after a weekend war on poke weeds), and re-outfitted the house to make it home sweet home; a perfect place to start and then grow our family.

The white house with the red door became the backdrop for so much of our family's life. We made countless meals in the kitchen, paced the rooms late at night with crying babes, danced across our sun room floor, snuggled by the fire, and played hard in the basement. We hosted parties and welcomed many guests. We planted and weeded, hid Easter eggs and found them, grilled and picnicked, ran through and sprayed the sprinkler, raked and bagged, cider pressed and sipped, sledded and built snowmen in our yard. We used the house to its full potential and cherished our time there.

Kid by kid, we outgrew it though. Mostly, the line for the bathroom got too long. So we looked and looked, until this Spring, we found a house and a yard that suited all five of us.

On Thursday, we packed everything up. On Friday, we sold the white house, bought the big house, moved out of the old one, and into the new one. It was an amazing day, filled with energy and excitement.

On Saturday, we started unpacking, and unpacking, and unpacking ... and I'm still unpacking.

That night, we went to bed, full on Nabuki sushi (the first meal in our new house) proud, exhausted, and satisfied. With all the stuff going on, I felt like I hadn't slept in a week, so I crashed and slept hard ...

... until 2:30 AM. Margaret had woken up, crying from a fever. I gave her Tylenol, attempted to rock her back to sleep, but noticed that I was rocking to the rhythms of water dripping. I got up, Margaret in tow, to investigate. It wasn't coming from the bathroom, it was coming from somewhere else. Bobby's room. I opened the door, and saw water dripping down, not in any small amount from the fan. F! I woke up Peter with the warning, 'we have a problem.'

Peter was up. I threw Margaret down in our bed. Lights went on in Bobby's room. Bobby was up. 'Hey guys, what's going on?' He got thrown in our bed too, welcomed by Margaret shouting 'hey Bubba!' The two of them laughed in bed together (at 3:00 AM) as Peter and I set out to get into the attic sans stairway to investigate the AC unit.

The ladder was in the garage, under the Guest House where Nana and Opa were sleeping, so thoughtfully we tried alternative methods of ascension. The original strategy was to stand on a chair and levitate into the attic. That didn't work. So we pulled out Margaret's dresser which gave us a little more height. Standing on top of it gave Peter the chance to dangle from the attic's entry way and pull himself up. He dangled, but then fell, like a cat, to the ground. I then offered to provide some cheer leading support, giving him a mount from dresser to my hands, into the attic. 1-2-3, that worked. He was up.

Yep, there is a problem. The condensation from the AC unit was filling up a drip tray and spilling over, so let's talk about next steps. We're going to siphon the water out.
Ok.
We need the hose.
The hose?
It was 3:30 AM and the new neighbor, moi, was outside uncoiling the hose and bringing the whole honking thing into the house. I passed one side up to Peter and I held the other. I followed his instructions from there.
Put that side into the tub.
Ok.
Now suck on it.
What?
Suck on it.
Umm ...
Are you sucking on it?
Ahhh ... yep.
Is it working?
Nothing is coming out, so I'm thinking no.
Suck again. The water will come out slowly so you'll have time to pull your mouth away.
Oh my God. YUCK! Okay, sucking again.
Glub, glub, glub ... the water started moving from the attic to the bathroom and we were in business. The water was out, the dripping eventually stopped, the kids had fallen asleep after their twilight party, and I crashed harder than I did at the beginning of the night.

For the past two nights, Peter and I have been team siphon. Or more accurately, team f-ing siphon. The HVAC man came out yesterday though, gave us an estimate, and we gratefully accepted the proposal.

So we have a couple things to do besides unpack. We knew that walking in. While it's our new house, it's actually older than the white house, built in 1926.

I'm still in love with everything about it though. We have space. And better yet, more than one bathroom. Peter and I aren't crashing into each other in the kitchen. We have a driveway that the kids ride up and down. And the yard, it's the best.

And perhaps one of my favorite parts - it has a place for our visitors to stay. While we used to recommended accommodations at the Hyatt Lodge, we can now have people stay with us. And fittingly, the Lodge's most valued guests, were our first guests.


The house is beautiful, and to me, represents a decade of hard work between Peter and I.. It also means I'll be working for the rest of my life, but I wouldn't have it any other way. Now to plan the housewarming party. 

Lo.
     
Some more posts over the years where the white house plays a central role:
http://theearlyriser.blogspot.com/2012/04/house-rules.html
http://theearlyriser.blogspot.com/2012/06/brewer-baker-and-mimosa-maker.html
http://theearlyriser.blogspot.com/2013/03/milk-maid.html
http://theearlyriser.blogspot.com/2013/12/the-twelve-hours-of-christmas.html
http://theearlyriser.blogspot.com/2014/03/party-girl.html
http://theearlyriser.blogspot.com/2015/01/survival-of-cutest.html
http://theearlyriser.blogspot.com/2016/03/my-little-princess.html
http://theearlyriser.blogspot.com/2017/10/another-year-another-press.html
http://theearlyriser.blogspot.com/2017/08/a-week-and-day.html
http://theearlyriser.blogspot.com/2018/08/margaret-x-one.html

Under One Big Roof in Hilton Head

Last week, we packed many bags and flew to Savannah, Georgia for the start of a beach vacation.

While in Savannah, we stayed at the Kimpton Brice, jumped in their posh pool and ate a posh, but very late dinner. We did a running and then pedi cab tour around the city, had brunch at the Grey Market, spooked the kids with ghost stories, went through the Ships of the Sea Maritime Museum, bought some new sandals, put our stuff back in our rented Ford Explorer, and then drove up to Hilton Head.

Every other year (or so), my parents like to bring us together under one roof, usually along a southeastern shoreline. This year, we returned to Hilton Head Island where we had vacationed several times as family of five back in the 80s and 90s. Much of it was the same: the Spanish Moss dramatically hanging from the trees, the threat of alligators submerged in the golf course water traps, the humidity that could practically be bottled, literally the same guy singing under the live oak in Harbor Town, the populace on leisure bikes peddling away their stress on the many island trails, and the jelly fish lined beaches keeping me only knee deep in the ocean.

There were differences though. For one, the size of the rental house. My parents now need to accommodate a family of fourteen, not five: that's three in-laws and six grandchildren added to the bed tally, grocery list, dinner reservation, bike rental, and noise level.

I can see why my parents prefer to invest in a big house instead of separate hotel rooms or condos though. While on any given week, they have grandchildren sleeping over, family around the Sunday dinner table, and rooms that are still very much dedicated to their three children, they are empty nesters. And I'm sure it's hard having their kids split across other households now, with my branch being the farthest from their nest.

Part of Merriam Webster's definition of family is the notion that it resides under one roof. And I can sense how special it is, especially to my parents, when we are able to fit within this definition again.

While in theory, a family should easily come together as one household again, it can take adjustment and practice. My family has unique rhythms to life, as all families do, that I sometimes forget. For instance, my parents only carry the salt free, whole grain, or low fat versions of traditional snack foods (to my kids dismay). And my Mom needs diet Tonic Water for cocktail hour, which tends to start a little before 5:00 PM. Everyone is really focused on daily workouts. And not getting to work out is the ultimate cause of angst. My brother anxiously anticipates a meal and then loudly and rudely announces his satisfaction with it. There are a lot of lawyers in the room and my sister still finds a way to get the last word in. Notre Dame football is a go to conversation starter. But for a more therapeutic discussion, a walk and talk with my Mom can be fruitful, plus always promises good gossip. And I'm a middle child again; with so many people around, it's hard to get the attention my breed desires.

Then you add the newer recruits, finding a different set of patterns, adjusting accordingly. They also need to work out. There are early morning photos to capture, and early evening fish to reel in. There are things that they eat, and things that we eat. There are some that love the beach, and others that prefer the pool. And there are varying nap times, bed times, and naturally melt down times.

But once you start anticipating ... yep, there's the burp. You realize, a quite full household, is a very happy household (at least for a week.)

That celebrating several dads on Father's Day is more fun that celebrating one.

That three chefs in the kitchen can cover more territory than going solo.  And ideally, those three chefs can find replacements for kitchen clean up.

That despite our last name, without Peter we'd probably never land a fish.

That a better set of eyes sheds the right kind of light on the photo. (Follow @four_one_two on Instagram for the more impressive beach photography.)

That there tends to be a willing and better yet free babysitter or two around when you need a little help.

That group participation is generally higher when peer pressure is involved.

That running after a baby all day can be just as good of a workout as kick boarding.

That bedtime is easier when you have the oldest cousin doing the hard work.

That happy hour is happier with a baby in one arm and whoever was drinking that Corona Light next to my Mom.

That two years difference in your best girlfriend is nothing when you speak the common language of how to play with bare Barbies. And bare Ken.

That finding a partner to fend off jellyfish ...

and bury in goop sand makes the waves epic.

But that knowing Bobby is a middle child too, finding some alone time can be powerful. 

That having a sister to take a photo of your family actually gets you a decent one, or as good as our family gets.

And that despite my branches' distance, despite the time and events that have passed, folding into the full unit again, under one roof, can help reinforce how close we all are. How much we have in common. And the strength of a support network that I know we need to lean on a little more sometimes.

Thank you, Nana and Opa  ...

For giving us a week in the surf, sand and setting sun.

Your big family is so blessed to have you. 

Lo.