R and R (and R)

A couple days ago, on the way home from our resort's posh pool complex, Mary fell asleep in her stroller. The veritable war against her nap had been getting out of hand while on vacation; my ears were beginning to ring with, 'NO SLEEP! NO NIGHT NIGHT!'; so on that particularly hot, humid, Georgian afternoon, when I saw her head start to lilt and her eyes slowly draw to close, I decided to keep walking. Four lazy miles and a couple blisters later, she woke up refreshed and ready to play (hard) once again. I on the other hand, knew that it was 5:00 right where I was.

While many may diagnose this type of stuff as classic two-year-old behavior, I'd like to argue that Mary has a genetic strain of what I call calendar horror vacui: my family's unique fear of empty spaces in a daily agenda; the urge to seize every second of every day and gauging the success of any given day on the number of things you could fit into it. Mary clearly inherited some of that, and thus treated her vacation like one of the big kids last week. Play hard. Don't nap. Ever!

For other families, and for Bobby, vacation is purely about rest and relaxation; not only a break from work, but a respite from diets and workout regimens, an excuse for indulgent meals and lazy morning afters, an agenda cleared of responsibilities and filled with refreshed beverages. While the notion of rejuvenation is a vital component of our vacations, we tend to do it by adding another r to the equation: that is relentless activity.

In my family, vacation has always acted as a chance to recommit in a frenzied way to those things that tend to get squeezed out of your life by work. And this year's summer holiday was no different. Exercise in all its various forms and formats was the theme of each day; and from sun up to sun down everyone did their best to pursue as many passions as possible.

Morning walks to watch the sunrise.

Fishing for something to eat for dinner

And fishing for lost balls.

Running, biking, swimming, logging mileage, and congratulating each other for achieving a virtual triathalon every day.

Leveraging creative capacities and exploring nature's beautiful creations.

Pursuing the Southern art of cooking, baking, and barbecuing. 

  

Dancing and singing along to beachside crooners.

Catching up on movies, books, and games, while sipping one last glass of wine.

And photographing all of it.

But perhaps one of the most challenging, yet rewarding exercises that the family tried all week, was an exercise in living under one roof again. It was far removed from 6524 or 1026, but Cottage 155 on the 13th Street of Sea Island played host for a week of ultimate bonding within a shared (luxurious) living space.

It was an exercise in passing germs again, in particular one little virus that went from kid to kid, and now Mom to Mom.

It was an exercise in sharing a kitchen and the meals that came out of it.

It threw us back to shared rooms and with it shared bedtimes regimens.

It prompted a couple spats and splashes of spit up; but nothing that couldn't be promptly cleaned up.

There was a good old fashioned birthday celebration.

Everyone played a parent, taking turns watching the kids and taking the time they needed away from them.

We shared laundry machines and a Mom that uses them so well; sand toys and beach towels; a pantry and the snacks it held; remotes and WiFi; bikes, strollers, cars, and a living room where we could congregate at the end of the day to relay our adventures du jour.

As we started our trek home to Chicago yesterday, my foursome parted ways from the extended group and spent an afternoon soaking up a little history in Savannah before boarding our flight home. Trimmed down to size, my nuclear family seemed a little quieter and dare to say a little sleepier.

And this evening, as I watched my kids run and roll around in our front yard after dinner, home sweet home once again, I couldn't help but think how fast they will grow up; how soon our house won't be big enough; and how much I will need a vacation like the one I just shared with my extended family.

A big thank you to my parents for getting the gang back together, under one roof, for a non-stop fun family vacation. And a big thank you to the Cloister and Sea Island for entertaining and serving us so beautifully all week. We did it all. And I'm pretty sure we'll be back to do even more next time. 

Lo. 

Pittsburgh, PA

In fourth grade, along with reading, writing and arithmetic, I learned geography. The worldly pursuit had been bucketed under 'social studies' classes in previous years, but when I walked into my classroom in 1991, I could tell the subject was about to be elevated by my all-star teacher, Mr. Sciulli.

At St. Edmund's, he was THE teacher to get. A short, Italian man with coal black hair, he moonlighted as a soccer referee, was the brother-in-law of my gym teacher, Mr. Filosemi, and had an uncanny passion for education and his students. Getting a letter sealed on my school's stationary in August, assigning me to his classroom, was one of the most joyous days of my summer as a 9-year old.

He had designated a whole wall in his classroom and a whole period on his students' schedule to homemade game show style adventures. There was a giant spinning wheel for his one-of-a-kind Spelling Bee where students were challenged to spell Whopper Words like Chrysanthemum; a colorful map of the United States on which the Ranchers, Miners, and Fisherman battled for 'State-A-Fact' supremacy; and a paper-mache model of the Earth, across which the Yellow Jet, Blue Jet, and Red Jet raced by answering global geography questions.

Every Tuesday afternoon, he would play host for his students, asking questions he had designed himself on laminated index cards. You could see his creative pride and hear his enthusiasm bubble up as the room waited with baited breath to hear the question and corresponding response. The 'mmm ... wrong' or 'that's CORRECT!' followed by a thunderous roar for or against the current contestant could be heard around the school. It was pure magic. And honestly, I owe a great deal of my ability to spell and spout off the country's major cities to Mr. Sciulli's wall of educational fun.

***

Last week, at a convocation of burger marketing leadership, I found myself wishing that all kids had benefited from Mr. Sciulli's progressive geography lessons. In the middle of a typical networking conversation starting with name and profession, ending with 'need another beer?' I was asked my favorite question; 'so where's home for you?' Pumped with steel city pride, I responded 'Pittsburgh!' As an egocentric native, I thought my colleague would immediately visualize my great city; registering it among the other greats in the world; Paris, London, Sydney, Tokyo, New York, LA ... Pittsburgh!

But during this particular passing of business cards, I sensed a heady case of mental mapping. After a quizzical pause, he replied, 'cool. I've been to Philadelphia before.' Ah. Fatal miss to a Yinzer. Other side of the state, buddy.

Over the years, I feel like I've had a leg up in networking due to my State-A-Fact skills. I've talked to people from Des Moines, Duluth, and Albany; Augusta, Reno, and Providence; Albuquerque, Juno, and Eugene; each time able to pinpoint where on the map their business or home base was located, which added another dimension to a more or less monotonous conversation. But I can't tell you how many times people haven't been able to return my favor.

So to shed some light on my favorite destination, some facts and figures about Pittsburgh. It's just a short (in my case stressful) flight in the friendly skies from Chicago.

It's the second biggest city in Pennsylvania. Located on the Western side of the state. Settled at the confluence of three rivers. Known for his its steel making history. But as recent press has highlighted, it has been reinvented today as a urban gem with unique food and beverage offerings, niche sites to explore, a host of affordable museums and entertainment venues, a one of a kind culture, and vistas that are truly breathtaking.

But what the press or a simple geography lesson won't teach you about Pittsburgh, are the parts of it that I love so much; the things that keep me coming home, despite the chaos my clan might add to any given plane.

Say the utter peace of the Pittsburgh Golf Club - a historic inner city oasis founded by the city's original steel tycoons and bankers.

The dinner table at my parents house, always filled great food, wine, and riveting conversations on criminals and care models.

Ellis Girls - a unique breed of high school friend with whom you will spend a lifetime bonding over an academic experience like no other.

Burnt almond tortes for Mom. And thumbdrop cookies for their little girls.

Popcorn necklaces.

And the best, most creative babysitter ever who made them.

(And her legendary husband.)

Stylists that make you feel beautiful inside and out.

Bubbles and other point of purchase sundries rung up with an old fashion cash register.

Pony rides. 

Cute cousins and crazy aunts (that I forgot to photograph.) 

Hugs from some of our favorite people.

And an airport just waiting for more planes to come its way.  

                    
You will understand a Pittsburgher's iron pride, after one visit. Just please don't limit your stay to Cranberry.

And now, after catching lightening bugs with Daddy last night, we're off to the beach.

Lo.