At 2:30 PM yesterday, I left my house and went into the office for the first time all day. I had just gotten a shower; a humble attempt to scrub away the vomit and disinfectant covering my body. With a clean, wet head I breathed in the fresh air of corporate productivity from within the walls of my second floor cubical. I felt so much better: healthier, more relaxed, almost giddy. For the next two hours it was just me, my work and the well side of the world, and it was glorious.
There were evenings growing up when my Mom would abruptly tell us she was going back to the office. The day was over, she had already driven the Boulevard of the Allies twice, and she wanted to go downtown again? As an 8 year old, I thought she was nuts. As a 35 year old mom, I have realized the office as occasional sanctuary.
***
The plague manifested itself at our house on Mother's Day eve. Peter and I had just sat down to enjoy a beautiful spring dinner on a beautiful spring evening, but two bites in, we were interrupted by all too routine fighting and fussing. I scarfed down the rest of my scallops and got the kids bathed and in bed. Bobby kept waking up, fussing. I figured something was wrong.
A couple hours later, Bobby was crying in his crib, covered in puke, confused, smelly, and to a Mom filled with pity for her poor sick peanut, more cuddly than ever. Peter and I bathed him, got him dressed again, changed his sheets, started the laundry, and put him back to sleep. Ten minutes later, we were on repeat. And so it went until the wee hours of the morning.
I spent Mother's Day cleaning up another round of vomit, disinfecting our house, napping, reading, praying the plague would pass me by, and otherwise exercising the less than glamorous role us Moms were being celebrating for.
The rest of the week was met by illness further penetrating our household, including our poor nanny. It was characterized by dozens of Clorox wipes, many more tears over "why water, why not milk(?!), leaky diapers, yucky sheets, loads and loads of laundry, little sleep, and an extra dose of pre-natal vitamins, hoping they would fend off the pukes.
On Mother's Day, we missed brunch, and the boat, and a beautiful family photo, but I did get to Mass. And in the tradition of my Parish, one of the Moms in the congregation gave the homily. In the past, the speakers have been good, not great. Sorry, I'm judgmental. This year though, the woman was dynamite.
She is an ER Doc downtown. The mother of two teenage kids. She has Notre Dame in her DNA and does volunteer work with disadvantaged women in Honduras. Her role model is Dorothy Day. She spoke with conviction and passion, and I was engrossed. She compared society's view of the ideal mom (beautiful, perfectly shaped, raising 2.5 kids on organic homemade baby food in a sparkling house and a Cheerio free minivan) with the moms she views as role models (widows she has met throughout life.) She spoke of the sacrifice and selflessness of these moms, working two jobs and night shifts to put kids through school. She admired how their prayers were always for everyone but themselves. And she praised their hope and perseverance in the face of all they had been through.
(And I'm trying to sell more chicken tenders for a living ...)
She ended her homily by saying something that will always stick with me. She said, "there is no time to be hopeless in life. There is far too much work to do."
Amen!
Such a perfect sentiment.
This was a week that I thought my Mom would text me, 'this too shall pass'; one of my Grandma's oft repeated mantras. However, in keeping Preacher Mom's (never caught her name) advice in check, the added work and loss of sleep over the past six days didn't seem to phase me. I just kept moving ... cooking and cleaning, solving and selling, flying the turbulent skies and landing on two feet again, wondering, is the work I do enough?
For now, I'll say it is. Because I'm home from the office. Everyone's healthy. And it's Friday.
Lo.
Friday, May 19, 2017
Thursday, May 11, 2017
Mother of Three
Every time I return to Pittsburgh, my parents house seems a little emptier. My dad has spent many hours of his newfound retirement, purging the attic, closets, shelves and drawers of stuff that is decades past its useful life. The blank spaces make you take notice of the other stuff, hand selected to remain.
At Thanksgiving, I was putting Bobby to sleep in my brother's old room, a landmark that now doubles as a teenager's shrine to Notre Dame football and a baby room. The two-fold purpose has created an abundance of furniture making you shimmy through crevices to get from doorway to crib to changing table, inevitably sending me back to Chicago with bruised knees and elbows as souvenirs.
In the depths of the furniture maze is a little rocking chair, made for a four year old perhaps. On it always sits a little embroidered baby pillow that has been in the family for as long as I can remember. It's blue and white with lace around the perimeter. I picked it up to move it to bed so I had a chance of squeezing into the chair, and for the first time, I read what was embroidered on it.
It says, "A baby is God's opinion that the world should go on."
As I sang and rocked Bobby to sleep I was distracted. It was kind of an ominous sentence; dark for an infant's memento. I wondered where my parents got it and what was going on in the world at the time it was created. Did my Mom share some of the emotions I had been experiencing as she brought us into this world?
Thanksgiving was a confusing time for me. We had a new president elect, the liberal media had sufficiently convinced me that the world could very well end, and there was a chance that God's opinion could already be taking shape in me. The pillow said it all. And as I rocked Bobby to sleep, I felt tears run down my cheeks onto his little golden head.
***
A couple weeks later, I confirmed that I was in fact pregnant with number three. I remember telling Peter as we warmed up by the fire after taking the kids sledding in December. "Are you ready to do it again?" I asked him.
His emotional response said it all. He absolutely was.
I just wasn't sure that I was. But week after week, pound by pound, the pillow kept interrupting me ...
Listening to and reading the news: I turned off NPR for awhile and removed myself from the social hysteria.
Figuring out what to wear to work: I ate for two and woefully kissed my new favorite jeans goodbye.
Settling: I scoured Redfin, looking for an upgrade and extra bedroom.
Climbing the ladder: I tried to relinquish my calculated plans: a promotion that continues to be just shy of attainable, momentum, the stage. I waited and waited to tell people at work. I kept thinking about yet another maternity leave holding me back. Finally, the news and my belly came out.
Doing it all: I worked and then worked harder and told them I wasn't going to slow down. I came home to make dinner. Rough housed in the basement. Baths. Bedtime. I opened up my laptop and got back to work. I kept running, turning over the ground, planting the garden, scrubbing the floors. Peter looked at me last night and said in a very real way, "you can't work too hard."
After I had Mary, I seriously debating quitting the workforce and never going back. Four years later, I can't believe the hesitancy I have experienced about the blip in time that my maternity leave will be.
I think there is a reason my third one is sticking out a whole lot more than the first two. She wants to remind me of God's opinion daily, and with it the most important roles I have: those of wife and mother. And I know she and God are right. Life will go on. And I'm pretty sure my career will go on.
As I make my way down the homestretch of pregnancy, feeling my baby girl dance a little more jubilantly in me everyday, the idea of dedicating a couple months to just being a mom is growing on me. And I think calling me.
Lo.
At Thanksgiving, I was putting Bobby to sleep in my brother's old room, a landmark that now doubles as a teenager's shrine to Notre Dame football and a baby room. The two-fold purpose has created an abundance of furniture making you shimmy through crevices to get from doorway to crib to changing table, inevitably sending me back to Chicago with bruised knees and elbows as souvenirs.
In the depths of the furniture maze is a little rocking chair, made for a four year old perhaps. On it always sits a little embroidered baby pillow that has been in the family for as long as I can remember. It's blue and white with lace around the perimeter. I picked it up to move it to bed so I had a chance of squeezing into the chair, and for the first time, I read what was embroidered on it.
It says, "A baby is God's opinion that the world should go on."
As I sang and rocked Bobby to sleep I was distracted. It was kind of an ominous sentence; dark for an infant's memento. I wondered where my parents got it and what was going on in the world at the time it was created. Did my Mom share some of the emotions I had been experiencing as she brought us into this world?
Thanksgiving was a confusing time for me. We had a new president elect, the liberal media had sufficiently convinced me that the world could very well end, and there was a chance that God's opinion could already be taking shape in me. The pillow said it all. And as I rocked Bobby to sleep, I felt tears run down my cheeks onto his little golden head.
***
A couple weeks later, I confirmed that I was in fact pregnant with number three. I remember telling Peter as we warmed up by the fire after taking the kids sledding in December. "Are you ready to do it again?" I asked him.
His emotional response said it all. He absolutely was.
I just wasn't sure that I was. But week after week, pound by pound, the pillow kept interrupting me ...
Listening to and reading the news: I turned off NPR for awhile and removed myself from the social hysteria.
Figuring out what to wear to work: I ate for two and woefully kissed my new favorite jeans goodbye.
Settling: I scoured Redfin, looking for an upgrade and extra bedroom.
Climbing the ladder: I tried to relinquish my calculated plans: a promotion that continues to be just shy of attainable, momentum, the stage. I waited and waited to tell people at work. I kept thinking about yet another maternity leave holding me back. Finally, the news and my belly came out.
Doing it all: I worked and then worked harder and told them I wasn't going to slow down. I came home to make dinner. Rough housed in the basement. Baths. Bedtime. I opened up my laptop and got back to work. I kept running, turning over the ground, planting the garden, scrubbing the floors. Peter looked at me last night and said in a very real way, "you can't work too hard."
After I had Mary, I seriously debating quitting the workforce and never going back. Four years later, I can't believe the hesitancy I have experienced about the blip in time that my maternity leave will be.
I think there is a reason my third one is sticking out a whole lot more than the first two. She wants to remind me of God's opinion daily, and with it the most important roles I have: those of wife and mother. And I know she and God are right. Life will go on. And I'm pretty sure my career will go on.
As I make my way down the homestretch of pregnancy, feeling my baby girl dance a little more jubilantly in me everyday, the idea of dedicating a couple months to just being a mom is growing on me. And I think calling me.
Lo.
Monday, April 17, 2017
Rise and Shine
As Christ rose from the dead on Easter Sunday, I was helping Bobby help Spot find his ball. As I turned the page, whispering 'grab it butterfingers' into Bobby's ear, I brushed pretzel crumbs off his new blue blazer, found a place in my purse to put Mary's slobbery lollipop stick, and hoped the sweat pouring down my face wouldn't ruin the one day my hair and make-up looked relatively good.
We were at St. Bede's for Mass. My sister was singing in their ethereal choir. I spied several familiar faces in the crowded pews. My kids were behaving, but I was performing a muted three ring circus to garner the effect. The homily was apparently moving, fitting, the congregation laughing at the punch lines. At one point, my brother reached over me to tell his daughter to listen because the priest was talking about children. If only I had taken his advice. Bobby was driving his cars up and down the 'lanes' of my dress at that time though.
Much of Lent, the most reflective part of the year for us Catholics has a similar quality. That is, every time I set out to pray, I seemed to get interrupted. And God was never as persistent as a friend, family member or co-worker coaxing me to go on and finish what I had started to say. He mostly just let it go, hoping I'd return to the thought soon enough.
There have been so many nights when I began an Our Father or Hail Mary, poised for success, only to find myself asleep half way through.
Life continues to be so busy, and with it more challenging to find concentrated time in the day, or week, or month to just sit with my thoughts, offering them to God. And throughout the past forty days, which have largely gone unrepresented on paper, I felt like I needed to tame the rigors of work and family life more than ever, so I could practice my faith more fastidiously.
Instead, it went something like this:
Our Father who art in heaven ...
Sales are up. Top complaint continues to be dry / overcooked. That image needs to say 'we are in the dinner business' and it's worth your $20. Can we thaw it faster, cook it better, hold it less? Answer text, call him back, reply all, into one meeting and onto the next. Introduce my new guy. Thank you, new guy. We're winning new guy.
Hallowed be thy name ...
Thy will be done ...
We were at St. Bede's for Mass. My sister was singing in their ethereal choir. I spied several familiar faces in the crowded pews. My kids were behaving, but I was performing a muted three ring circus to garner the effect. The homily was apparently moving, fitting, the congregation laughing at the punch lines. At one point, my brother reached over me to tell his daughter to listen because the priest was talking about children. If only I had taken his advice. Bobby was driving his cars up and down the 'lanes' of my dress at that time though.
Much of Lent, the most reflective part of the year for us Catholics has a similar quality. That is, every time I set out to pray, I seemed to get interrupted. And God was never as persistent as a friend, family member or co-worker coaxing me to go on and finish what I had started to say. He mostly just let it go, hoping I'd return to the thought soon enough.
There have been so many nights when I began an Our Father or Hail Mary, poised for success, only to find myself asleep half way through.
Life continues to be so busy, and with it more challenging to find concentrated time in the day, or week, or month to just sit with my thoughts, offering them to God. And throughout the past forty days, which have largely gone unrepresented on paper, I felt like I needed to tame the rigors of work and family life more than ever, so I could practice my faith more fastidiously.
Instead, it went something like this:
Our Father who art in heaven ...
Sales are up. Top complaint continues to be dry / overcooked. That image needs to say 'we are in the dinner business' and it's worth your $20. Can we thaw it faster, cook it better, hold it less? Answer text, call him back, reply all, into one meeting and onto the next. Introduce my new guy. Thank you, new guy. We're winning new guy.
Hallowed be thy name ...
"Is that a snake?" Bobby asked when he pooped in the potty for the first time.
Thy kingdom come ...
I heard my Dad talk about his big brother, my Uncle Jim. My eyes started to well and then drip. Mary asked me, 'why are there tears coming out, Mama?' I tried to recount - nope, I don't think I've cried in front of her before. When they played the Notre Dame fight song at the end of the funeral Mass, I couldn't hold it together. Such an icon; such a great man. Gone too soon.Thy kingdom come ...
Thy will be done ...
I was in the middle of fighting off my kids' fear of Marquette's mascot, the Eagle. I decided to give them a break, get them some ice cream, and return at the end of the game. My best friend's team had won. Bravo! I gave her an overdue hug - one that I wish I could have given her months ago and felt a pain relaying the news I was carrying.
On Earth as it is in heaven ...
"Eagle in the bubble gonna eat me, Mama?"
"No Bobby, the Eagle is nice."
"I afraid of Eagle, Mama."
"The Eagle went home. You're fine."
Give us this day, our daily bread ...
I said one more goodbye to my VP. I wish I could have had another drink with him at his party, but I had to go home. And I had to figure out a way to move on. He told me to keep in touch. I knew I would, but it still hurt seeing him go.
And forgive us our trespasses ...
"You're welcome," Peter replied.
God, the amount of times I forget to just say thank you to my amazing husband is embarrassing.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you!"
As we forgive those who trespass against us ...
Chemical weapons, Russia, North Korea, the mother of all bombs. Geez Louise.
Meghan.
God bless her.
Bobby came downstairs with his arms full of toy cars, then proceeded to drop them all over the floor. "Geez Louise" he repeated back to me.
As we forgive those who trespass against us ...
Oh my gosh, my dress just split open. In the middle of Easter brunch. In the middle of the Golf Club. In the middle of everyone. I think I might just die of humiliation, right here, in front of the balloon man.
As we forgive those ... crap ... where was I? It's about now that I lose track. I quickly shift out of one prayer and into the next. For all those that are suffering - through war, famine, disease, distress, despair. And I start wondering why me? Why has life left me so blessed? I go from an attempt at pious formality to a simple, but honest, 'thank you.' And a request to let me know how I can use all the stuff God has given me as he would want.
In saying just that, I feel more at peace. Able to move on. And maybe that's the thing about prayer. It can be as messy, confusing, and scatter brained as daily life, but as long it's done genuinely and graciously, it's effective.
So on Easter Sunday, I just said thank you. Over and over again.
For kind, thoughtful parents.
Cousins, brothers and sisters.
Spring days and sunshine.
Forgiving dresses. And a sister who came to my rescue.
Champagne and macaroons.
Wasp swatters.
Easter eggs, bunnies and baskets.
Chubby cheeks.
Pirates and Penguins.
Ellis girls.
Haircuts by the one and only Anne.
My husband.
My kids.
And our Lord. For rising, shining, and showing us His graces every day.
On Earth as it is in heaven ...
"Eagle in the bubble gonna eat me, Mama?"
"No Bobby, the Eagle is nice."
"I afraid of Eagle, Mama."
"The Eagle went home. You're fine."
Give us this day, our daily bread ...
I said one more goodbye to my VP. I wish I could have had another drink with him at his party, but I had to go home. And I had to figure out a way to move on. He told me to keep in touch. I knew I would, but it still hurt seeing him go.
And forgive us our trespasses ...
"You're welcome," Peter replied.
God, the amount of times I forget to just say thank you to my amazing husband is embarrassing.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you!"
As we forgive those who trespass against us ...
Chemical weapons, Russia, North Korea, the mother of all bombs. Geez Louise.
Meghan.
God bless her.
Bobby came downstairs with his arms full of toy cars, then proceeded to drop them all over the floor. "Geez Louise" he repeated back to me.
As we forgive those who trespass against us ...
Oh my gosh, my dress just split open. In the middle of Easter brunch. In the middle of the Golf Club. In the middle of everyone. I think I might just die of humiliation, right here, in front of the balloon man.
As we forgive those ... crap ... where was I? It's about now that I lose track. I quickly shift out of one prayer and into the next. For all those that are suffering - through war, famine, disease, distress, despair. And I start wondering why me? Why has life left me so blessed? I go from an attempt at pious formality to a simple, but honest, 'thank you.' And a request to let me know how I can use all the stuff God has given me as he would want.
In saying just that, I feel more at peace. Able to move on. And maybe that's the thing about prayer. It can be as messy, confusing, and scatter brained as daily life, but as long it's done genuinely and graciously, it's effective.
So on Easter Sunday, I just said thank you. Over and over again.
For kind, thoughtful parents.
Cousins, brothers and sisters.
Spring days and sunshine.
Forgiving dresses. And a sister who came to my rescue.
Champagne and macaroons.
Wasp swatters.
Easter eggs, bunnies and baskets.
Pirates and Penguins.
Ellis girls.My kids.
And our Lord. For rising, shining, and showing us His graces every day.
Happy Easter.
Lo.
Sunday, March 19, 2017
Four
Mary woke up a four year old on Tuesday. She had been counting down the months, then weeks, then days till her birthday since around Uncle Adam's birthday in September.
She usually calls me in the morning to get her out of bed, but as she turned four at exactly 7:20 AM, she walked down the stairs to get her hug, breakfast, and confirmation that today was in fact the day.
Proud of her newfound, more senior status, she ate all of the pancakes I had made for breakfast. Before getting dressed, Daddy let her open a couple presents; a giant tattooed Maui and a more diminutive Moana doll. Then I surprised her with a new party dress for school; something to make her feel extra special in front of her class.
As I walked into Pre-School with her, I checked to make sure nothing had appeared on my calendar in the last ten minutes, assuring myself that it was okay to indulge in her day as well. About six inches of snow had fallen the night before. While local traffic was moving at a steady pace, the routine jams that snake their way from the suburbs to the city were at a stand still. As the commuters in higher offices sat in their cars, things on my calendar magically disappeared.
So I got to see Mary crowned birthday queen, and then sat down in the rocking chair on the edge of the carpet, Mary at my side, her classmates all around us. I read Mary's choice of story for the day: Moana; the Little Golden adaptation of the movie that she and Bobby adore. I read it with dramatic effect and the kids stared in awe at the fantastic images of coconut pirates, a monster crab and a lava monster.
At the end, an announcement rang out over the school's loudspeaker. It was Mary's birthday today! She blushed with pride and nuzzled into my arm as her classmates joined in singing 'happy birthday to you.'
Next, she got to unveil what she put in her 'Me Box,' the school's branded version of show and tell within the constraints of a container that might have carried stationary at one point in time. She was supposed to pick three of her favorite things, but naturally she reached for more when stuffing it. In it were:
I left shortly afterward to head to work. Mary still had a birthday smile plastered on her face, which she would keep until I returned home that evening.
Peter and I took just her out to dinner on Tuesday night. She wore her new dress and the birthday crown she was given at school. She requested sushi, so sushi she got. She ate almost all of her California Roll while I longingly looked at Peter's Hamachi and settled on my choice. She asked for another present, which she was granted when we returned home. Bibbidi Bobbidi Boo! She was Cinderella until bedtime.
Something just clicked for Mary this year; and that is that birthdays are a big deal. She saturated herself in every second of attention, greeting of 'happy birthday', and gift received.
A couple days later, as more thoughtful gifts came in the mail, Peter and I discussed how she had been acting out, that her birthday had almost gotten the better of her. I lectured her about appreciation, sharing, and eliminating her whiny tone of voice. She understood. She told Eva on Friday that when she grew up she was going to give all her toys to the poor kids. We were getting somewhere. But when Nana and Opa arrived on Friday night she went straight for the gift, and then asked Aunt Dee Dee where her present was. The points of the lecture were reinforced.
Saturday brought her party, our house transformed into a romper room, I saw Emma, and Andrew, and MJ, and a leprechaun, and Mary, cake, and ice cream, and a plastic present explosion in our sunroom.
Being four, having a birthday, inviting your whole class to a party, and opening a room full of presents is pretty amazing. And as a parent, it's hard to put it all into perspective for your little girl. Until it's time to clean up, move on, and get back to the routine, which includes sharing everything you just received.
Minus a couple moments of selfishness over the past week, I'm very proud of my four year old. Mary is a good girl, a loving girl, and a smart girl. And just as her Me Box selections described, she continues to keep her favorite things top of mind: faith and family, creativity and curiosity, a belief in a little magic and a mandate of inclusiveness.
And as for all of the presents ... we'll have to save some of them for a rainy day.
She usually calls me in the morning to get her out of bed, but as she turned four at exactly 7:20 AM, she walked down the stairs to get her hug, breakfast, and confirmation that today was in fact the day.
Proud of her newfound, more senior status, she ate all of the pancakes I had made for breakfast. Before getting dressed, Daddy let her open a couple presents; a giant tattooed Maui and a more diminutive Moana doll. Then I surprised her with a new party dress for school; something to make her feel extra special in front of her class.
As I walked into Pre-School with her, I checked to make sure nothing had appeared on my calendar in the last ten minutes, assuring myself that it was okay to indulge in her day as well. About six inches of snow had fallen the night before. While local traffic was moving at a steady pace, the routine jams that snake their way from the suburbs to the city were at a stand still. As the commuters in higher offices sat in their cars, things on my calendar magically disappeared.
So I got to see Mary crowned birthday queen, and then sat down in the rocking chair on the edge of the carpet, Mary at my side, her classmates all around us. I read Mary's choice of story for the day: Moana; the Little Golden adaptation of the movie that she and Bobby adore. I read it with dramatic effect and the kids stared in awe at the fantastic images of coconut pirates, a monster crab and a lava monster.
At the end, an announcement rang out over the school's loudspeaker. It was Mary's birthday today! She blushed with pride and nuzzled into my arm as her classmates joined in singing 'happy birthday to you.'
Next, she got to unveil what she put in her 'Me Box,' the school's branded version of show and tell within the constraints of a container that might have carried stationary at one point in time. She was supposed to pick three of her favorite things, but naturally she reached for more when stuffing it. In it were:
- Ballet slippers
- A miniature toy horse
- A photo of her family at the top of the Pittsburgh incline and another one of her hugging Snow White at Disney World
- The pink rosary that Aunt Erin gave her for her Baptism
- And a little paper book that Peter had made her when she was about 18 months old.
I left shortly afterward to head to work. Mary still had a birthday smile plastered on her face, which she would keep until I returned home that evening.
Peter and I took just her out to dinner on Tuesday night. She wore her new dress and the birthday crown she was given at school. She requested sushi, so sushi she got. She ate almost all of her California Roll while I longingly looked at Peter's Hamachi and settled on my choice. She asked for another present, which she was granted when we returned home. Bibbidi Bobbidi Boo! She was Cinderella until bedtime.
Something just clicked for Mary this year; and that is that birthdays are a big deal. She saturated herself in every second of attention, greeting of 'happy birthday', and gift received.
A couple days later, as more thoughtful gifts came in the mail, Peter and I discussed how she had been acting out, that her birthday had almost gotten the better of her. I lectured her about appreciation, sharing, and eliminating her whiny tone of voice. She understood. She told Eva on Friday that when she grew up she was going to give all her toys to the poor kids. We were getting somewhere. But when Nana and Opa arrived on Friday night she went straight for the gift, and then asked Aunt Dee Dee where her present was. The points of the lecture were reinforced.
Saturday brought her party, our house transformed into a romper room, I saw Emma, and Andrew, and MJ, and a leprechaun, and Mary, cake, and ice cream, and a plastic present explosion in our sunroom.
Minus a couple moments of selfishness over the past week, I'm very proud of my four year old. Mary is a good girl, a loving girl, and a smart girl. And just as her Me Box selections described, she continues to keep her favorite things top of mind: faith and family, creativity and curiosity, a belief in a little magic and a mandate of inclusiveness.
And as for all of the presents ... we'll have to save some of them for a rainy day.
Lo.
Sunday, March 12, 2017
Dan and Kerry and Everyone Else
When I drove 40 miles north west of Charlotte, North Carolina, I saw a shack with a solo smoker out front, two storied locals were sitting beside it waiting for a passerby to pull over for their legendary BBQ. I saw pick up trucks with confederate bumper stickers, billboards advertising Jesus, just Jesus. I counted the number of different fried chicken destinations at every mile marker, wondering how mine was going to break through. I saw ads for gun shops and gun shows, scratch made biscuits, sweet tea, NASCAR, and beach chairs for sale on the side of the road.
A couple hundred miles further north, as I drove to and through Ripley, West Virginia, I saw rolling hills gradually growing into mountains. I saw forests populated with nothing more than deer hunters and their prey. I smelled gravy, spied camouflage, and heard rural poverty speak with a particular twang. I wondered how median household incomes of $20,000 can keep the Bob Evans, gas station, church, Holiday Inn Express, and McDonald's in town in business. And I soaked up the enthusiasm of hopeful young cheerleaders on the road to Disney World and a way out.
Thousands of miles south west, in Phoenix, Arizona, I saw purple mountains, cacti soaking up the desert sun, and hikers who knew every rock on Squaw Peak. I saw baseball stadiums, an enthusiastic network of fans who had arrived for the season, and the ball signed by Kris Bryant that Peter brought home from a game. I saw signs for Masses in English and Spanish and sensed wall lovers and wall haters. I rubbed lotion on my bronze son, and doubled up on my sunburned daughter. I felt the spirits of golden age movie stars, past presidents and a legendary architect and his sprites around the property of the Biltmore Hotel.
Back home in Chicagoland, I was once again greeted by a blue flat landscape interrupted only by some of the tallest buildings in the country starkly standing in defiance of nature. I saw the cold waters of Lake Michigan and a river waiting for its green dye. I drove by the remnants of a prairie that used to cover the state, through traffic and beside the trains trying to beat it. I sat down at my cube for a second, then rushed around with the rest of the hardworking people in my office. I thought about deep dish pizza, hot dogs, Fannie May, Rahm, and an Irish tradition that brings the divides of a big city together.
All the way to the northeast, Philadelphia was filled with historic markers, cheese steaks, and angry Eagles fans. I saw Abraham Lincoln presiding over the Union League's elite members and diverse city sidewalks slick from the melting snow. I looked up at William Penn who was staring down at Benjamin Franklin's parkway. I ran up the Rocky steps and saluted the statue that protects them. I danced to Neil Diamond and his band, I put on my robe at the Ritz and had a Bellini. I walked into Saint Augustine on Fourth Street and watched one of my favorite couples saying 'I do' in front of a congregation that characterized the city's branded brotherly love.
It was in Philly, my last stop of the week, that my friends, Dan and Kerry, brought together people from Seattle to South Bend, Amarillo to Austin, Denver to Detroit, and the Big Apple to the Big Shoulders; they brought together bankers and branders, cattlemen and car men, skiers and the doctors that take care of their knees, high tech companies and their instruments of obstruction, an Army ranger and an Air Force man, darling little cousins and their daring 94 year old Aunt Eleanor, proud parents, a little sister who's world was her big sister, and an eloquent and authentic best man who brought everyone together.
Dan and Kerry - I wish you a lifetime of happiness filled with all that I experienced this weekend: great music and electric dance floors, steaks for dinner and dessert, champagne and the bourbon after, schooners, skiers, stages, love, laughter, and family and friends that will always be there for you.
Lo.
A couple hundred miles further north, as I drove to and through Ripley, West Virginia, I saw rolling hills gradually growing into mountains. I saw forests populated with nothing more than deer hunters and their prey. I smelled gravy, spied camouflage, and heard rural poverty speak with a particular twang. I wondered how median household incomes of $20,000 can keep the Bob Evans, gas station, church, Holiday Inn Express, and McDonald's in town in business. And I soaked up the enthusiasm of hopeful young cheerleaders on the road to Disney World and a way out.
Thousands of miles south west, in Phoenix, Arizona, I saw purple mountains, cacti soaking up the desert sun, and hikers who knew every rock on Squaw Peak. I saw baseball stadiums, an enthusiastic network of fans who had arrived for the season, and the ball signed by Kris Bryant that Peter brought home from a game. I saw signs for Masses in English and Spanish and sensed wall lovers and wall haters. I rubbed lotion on my bronze son, and doubled up on my sunburned daughter. I felt the spirits of golden age movie stars, past presidents and a legendary architect and his sprites around the property of the Biltmore Hotel.
Back home in Chicagoland, I was once again greeted by a blue flat landscape interrupted only by some of the tallest buildings in the country starkly standing in defiance of nature. I saw the cold waters of Lake Michigan and a river waiting for its green dye. I drove by the remnants of a prairie that used to cover the state, through traffic and beside the trains trying to beat it. I sat down at my cube for a second, then rushed around with the rest of the hardworking people in my office. I thought about deep dish pizza, hot dogs, Fannie May, Rahm, and an Irish tradition that brings the divides of a big city together.
All the way to the northeast, Philadelphia was filled with historic markers, cheese steaks, and angry Eagles fans. I saw Abraham Lincoln presiding over the Union League's elite members and diverse city sidewalks slick from the melting snow. I looked up at William Penn who was staring down at Benjamin Franklin's parkway. I ran up the Rocky steps and saluted the statue that protects them. I danced to Neil Diamond and his band, I put on my robe at the Ritz and had a Bellini. I walked into Saint Augustine on Fourth Street and watched one of my favorite couples saying 'I do' in front of a congregation that characterized the city's branded brotherly love.
It was in Philly, my last stop of the week, that my friends, Dan and Kerry, brought together people from Seattle to South Bend, Amarillo to Austin, Denver to Detroit, and the Big Apple to the Big Shoulders; they brought together bankers and branders, cattlemen and car men, skiers and the doctors that take care of their knees, high tech companies and their instruments of obstruction, an Army ranger and an Air Force man, darling little cousins and their daring 94 year old Aunt Eleanor, proud parents, a little sister who's world was her big sister, and an eloquent and authentic best man who brought everyone together.
During the blessing before the meal, the priest described the elaborate banquet at the perfectly themed Union Club as a reflection of the heavenly one we await. And as I reflect on my week that took me on eight flights, through five states, and back and forth between three time zones, the priests comments reinforce how much we need people like Dan and Kerry and events like their wedding to bridge the sometimes polarizing credos we carry, from coast to coast, from left to right to those of us that stay firmly in the center.
Dan and Kerry - I wish you a lifetime of happiness filled with all that I experienced this weekend: great music and electric dance floors, steaks for dinner and dessert, champagne and the bourbon after, schooners, skiers, stages, love, laughter, and family and friends that will always be there for you.
Lo.
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