Month: September 2026

After our son grew up and began carving out a life of his own, he left home as young men often do. It was about 21 years, one month, 17 days, three hours and 10 minutes ago, but who’s counting?

He married a young woman whose passion for camping, hiking, dogs, night skies and the great outdoors matched his. After tying the knot, they fled to the wilderness—Chicago.

We missed his old truck with the loose muffler rumbling into the driveway late at night. The walls no longer shook because he was playing drums upstairs. Towels in the bathroom magically began staying on the towel bars. Strawberry Pop-Tarts on a pantry shelf let out soft sighs of loneliness.

Meanwhile, he and his bride were exploring the foreign terrain of tangled interstates and towering stands of concrete in the Windy City.

After their fifth baby was born, they moved back to our neck of the woods, settling just an afternoon drive away amid rolling hills blanketed in maples, red oaks, tulip trees and coyotes that serenade in the dark.

Our extended family numbers had swollen to 19 by then. Meaningful conversations at family gatherings consist of:

“Did someone put the mac ‘n’ cheese in the oven?”

“We need the piano bench and a 6-foot folding table from the garage!”

“Anybody find a black tennis shoe?”

One-on-one time with adult children or their spouses is a rarity. But once in a while, our son passes through the city on business and stays overnight at the house.

He texts an approximate arrival time. I run the vacuum, freshen towels in the bathroom and whip up a batch of his favorite cookies. We watch the clock and peer out the windows as his ETA draws near. We catch his headlights turning into the drive.

He walks into the house, and we try not to wag our tails like overly excited labradoodles. We sit at the kitchen table and talk about kids, work, family projects, everything and nothing.

I can still see the toddler who loved dinosaurs, the schoolboy who dismantled appliances and the high school kid who installed stereo speakers in the garage ceiling. I slide a plate of cookies his way. He acts surprised and takes two. Then a third.

We talk for a couple of hours, bouncing from topic to topic, then turn in so he can be ready for an early morning appointment. The last light is out and the house feels full.

We say goodbye in the driveway the next morning before the sun rises and watch the taillights disappear.

That was four days ago, one rumpled bed, a wet towel slung over the towel bar and a scattering of new gray hair around his temples, but who’s counting?

 

 

When a technician pronounced our refrigerator’s ice maker beyond repair two years ago, he bowed his head, marked the event with a moment of silence, then handed us an outrageous repair bill.

Not going down to defeat, or life without ice, we went out and bought two plastic ice-cube trays. Making our own ice was such a throwback to the past that I bought a poodle skirt, the husband greased his hair, and we began jitterbugging.

Who knew what could happen next? Would we start drinking out of the garden hose?  Would we call the bank for current time and temp? Ride bikes without helmets? Put rabbit ears on top of the television?

Recently, a son-in-law pulled the fridge out from the wall, dismantled the ice maker component, installed a new unit he bought online, waved a couple of tools over the whole operation, shoved it back into place and said, “Fingers crossed.”

I wish more repair people had his honesty.

He checked the ice maker during dinner and announced water had filled the tray for cubes. Excitement reverberated around the table.

There weren’t any other signs of ice during dinner or after dinner. When they left for home, he said, “Just chill. These things don’t happen quickly, but delivery could be soon.”

We promised to stay cool, but it was like waiting for another grandbaby to arrive.

I cracked open the freezer door every few minutes and gave updates. “The water in the tray is freezing. I think it’s getting close.”

We even whispered as though our voices might disturb the ice maker waiting for the big moment.

Texts flew back and forth.

Any ice yet?” our daughter texted.

“Still waiting! We’ll keep you posted.”

“Ok,” she texted “we’re going to bed soon but let us know if there’s any news.”

A working ice maker would be a game changer. We’ve grown accustomed to buying big bags of ice at the grocery, having them meld into one small iceberg and then whacking the bag with a large mallet in the garage as people arrive. It’s a rather unsettling start to social gatherings.

We sat on the sofa, waiting and listening, listening and waiting. At exactly 10:23 p.m., a low rumble was followed by the clatter of ice cubes dropping into the bin.

Houston, we have ice!

We can finally retire our plastic ice cube trays, as they are now mere water under the ‘fridge.

 

The question these days is not, “Can we afford to eat out?” but, “Can we afford to tip?”

If you pay on a screen at a restaurant, the tip choices are 15 percent, 20 percent, 30 percent, and “take my wallet.” The awkward part is thinking it through and doing the math while the server stands there watching you.

We always tip, but sometimes one of us has to wrestle the other one for the payment screen to ensure a generous option.

I have worked a good part of my life in food service: Thanksgiving, Christmas, Fourth of July, Labor Day, birthdays, anniversaries. It may not be the same as working at a sit-down restaurant, but the feeling in my feet at the end of the day sure is.

Why I didn’t put a tip jar in the middle of the kitchen table years ago is beyond me.

Still, the matter of tipping poses more questions than answers.

We tip pizza delivery and DoorDash, so why don’t we tip the Amazon guy?

If I were to tip Amazon for leaving a package, would I also tip the clerk at the UPS store for returning the package?

I question the need for tipping at self-service kiosks. If I punch in the order, pick up the order and carry out the order, the one I should be tipping is me. That will be 30 percent, thank you.

I recently bought two donuts at a donut shop. The young woman took three steps to the left, leaned into the counter, pulled out two donuts, dropped them in a bag, handed it to me and twirled the payment pad around with options for a tip.

Will they be asking for tips at drive-throughs soon? You can
shout the amount of your tip into the speaker along with a request for extra ketchup.

Some recommendations for tipping percentages look exorbitant, but the fact is many full-service restaurant workers are paid little more than $2 per hour. They bank on tips to bring them up to the standard minimum wage and, hopefully, beyond.

They put bread on your table, why not put some on theirs?

My new therapist is sitting on the edge of my desk, legs crossed, head slightly bowed, with his beady eyes peering at me through his black framed glasses as he holds a pen poised over his clipboard.

He’s three inches tall, made of molded plastic, and looks like a cross between Freud and Dr. Leo Marvin from the movie, “What About Bob?”

The therapist was a gift from one of our girls who thinks I’m stressed. Why wouldn’t I be stressed? We need a new garage door, and for someone to install a new garage door, the garage floor must be cleared.

It’s probably been 11 years since we had both cars in the two-car garage. The truth is I am a minimalist married to a collector. We are living proof opposites attract.

Half of the garage is filled with big plastic storage tubs holding old scrapbooks, family records and journals, old family photographs, sports collectibles and random memorabilia.

When I push a button on Dr. Marvin’s chair, he asks thoughtful counselor-like questions. “What was your childhood like?”

“Organized. A place for everything and everything in its place.”

I like this. It’s good to hear my thoughts out loud. Then he says so, “Tell me about your mother.”

“Don’t bring my mother into this!”

The husband’s defense is that he only saves things he finds interesting. The trouble is, he finds everything interesting.

If we were to take this tug-of-war family wide, every single grandkid would side with Grandpa. He brings home vintage board games, cool ride toys, scooters, butterfly nets, play money, hula hoops and any kind of ball you can kick, throw or hit with a bat.

Moments ago, I spotted four large water blasters added to his collection. I guess that is two apiece if we decide to settle this in backyard at 20 paces.

Dr. Marvin is intuitive. His next question is: “What do you think would make that better?”

Me: “A dumpster.”

Then Dr. Marvin says, “Let’s bring him back in the room.”

No, let’s not until he has a few more storage tubs cleared out.

Dr. Marvin: “And what kind of changes would you like to make in your life?”

Me: “Aside from erasing some deep lines in my forehead and the dark circles under my eyes, I really can’t complain. Life is good.”

Dr. Marvin: “That’s all the time we have for today.”

“Same here, doc, I gotta get back out to the garage and supervise.”