Toby Goodshank Original Art 2025

Life with Chicken and Broccoli

Tag: family

  • Remembering Pocmont

    Remembering Pocmont

    Driving to Kalahari this Sunday with my brother and son, we took an unexpected diversion and ended up going down memory lane on Route 209 South. Going to the Poconos is a special part of our family history. For my parents, it was their destination for a romantic honeymoon-style escape at places like Cove Haven and Paradise Stream. They were “Forever Lovers,” VIP members from long ago. They always spoke fondly of those resorts and their time there, saying how quickly the years had passed and how the places just weren’t what they used to be.

    Before everyone had bigger ambitions, driving two hours into the wilderness was the vacation, especially for city people. Back then you went either to the mountains or to the shore. The idea of taking a plane for a getaway was a radical departure from their modest upbringing and surroundings.

    Pocmont became another special place for us. Once my mother grew comfortable with the area and the drive, she would find a weekend, or more often several weekdays, to take advantage of better prices and bring my brother and me.

    Pocmont Lodge was one of those classic old-school Pocono resorts that had a bit of everything rolled into one. Families came in the summer for a week, parked the car, and never had to leave the property. It was a kind of limited Dirty Dancing experience, with enough activities and entertainment to fill every day.

    The food setup was classic resort dining hall style, with buffets and communal seating. The atmosphere was family-friendly but still appealing to couples on a weekend escape. I remember we had the same server for the whole trip, and we’d quickly become best friends with them. They would sneak us extra dinner rolls, bring more drinks, or even slip my mom another entrée that she would stash away in her Mary Poppins bag for her growing boys. It became an epic doggy bag for a dog who was never there.

    The campus in Bushkill was sprawling, with a lodge, conference facilities, and plenty of outdoor activities. Guests could enjoy indoor and outdoor pools, tennis courts, shuffleboard, and golf. In winter there was skiing nearby, and in summer there were organized games and entertainment. At night we would go to the live shows: cabaret-style performances, music, and comedy. Danny and I even played bocce ball with the Italian men and somehow won a weekly tournament one year, much to their surprise.

    Most of our days were spent playing ping pong in the arcade room. Ping pong is our family sport, if a family can have a sport. My mom was our teacher; she learned and played as a child at one of the city’s summer camps. We had a table at home eventually, but before that, Pocmont was where we practiced for hours, trying to beat one another on that resort table.

    Those weekends at Pocmont were our special trio getaways. It was all my mom. She worked hard to make those trips possible, saving her twenties, fifties, and hundreds. She put her own touch on every detail. The resort was fun, and the game room with its ping pong table was our anchor.

    I loved that time with Danny and my mom. The warmth, love, and adventure of those days still course through my spirit. I didn’t realize until today that our trip was an unspoken homage to our past. It was part of that unknown reason we have always been drawn back to this area. To revisit the ghosts of a well-lived childhood, filled with blessings and love. A love note to my mother for all that she did for us, and a way to keep her spirit alive through our commitment to each other and the next generation.

  • Senior Year

    Senior Year

    It feels like just yesterday we were all standing outside, putting you on the bus for that very first day of school. So many pictures, so many memories. The hustle and bustle of getting you ready, us ready, with grandparents, aunts, and uncles all coming by to wish you well.

    And now, today, you left at 7 a.m., driving yourself to school. No crowd, no fanfare. Our group was cut last year, and that loss still runs deep. The house was quieter. Just another Monday morning—except it wasn’t. This is senior year. Our little dancer’s last year of high school.

    The speed of it all is staggering. How quickly these years have flown. Memories flash through my mind like a reel, pulsing, unstoppable. I think back to my own senior year, how I got lazy when I should have gotten busy. I don’t remember my first day as clearly as I should, but I remember enough to know it was good, though not great.

    Now I see her stepping into this season, and everything comes at once. It’s like a midlife review—seeing her life, seeing mine, both layered together. I found old clips from my father’s phone, small pieces of the good times he thought were worth recording. They make me realize how little we actually carry with us or keep. These quiet times of reflection cut deep, like a single raindrop that swells into a flood of emotions. I brace myself against its raw power, but it breaks over me and carries me away in the current.

    I’ve made peace with that. We’re not meant to remember everything in crystal detail. If we did, we’d never be able to step into a new day. Life only gives us enough to build from, enough to grow. Every moment is preserved somewhere, even if not consciously. We are part of the endless dance of life—Lila. None of it is wasted.

    That’s why nostalgia is tricky. We try to hold on to things as if they’ll slip away, but nothing is really lost. I believe when our time here ends, we’ll move differently, through time and memory, able to revisit, replay, relive whenever we want. Which means the more important task is simply this: create memories worth reliving. Push when you can, because you always can.

    Watching my kids in these formative years makes me remember how unsteady I was back then. I wish I could hand them the confidence I have now, the freedom from fear. At the time, everything felt so heavy, as if one wrong move mattered forever. But now I see it didn’t. Fear was wasted energy. I wish they could feel that already. Maybe they can’t. Maybe it’s just part of the process, like any hero making their way into the world. It’s a gift that can’t be bestowed, only earned through the walk of life.

    What I do know is this: my little girl is a senior. My baby is grown. My wife feels it deeply; I do too. But I’m steadied by the truth that every moment counts, that nothing disappears, and that all of it is worth carrying forward. This year will go quickly, but it will not be wasted. It will be lived, and it will be remembered.

    Olivia, I hope you feel the weight of this year, but not as a burden. I hope you see it as a gift. Try new things. Take chances. Don’t let fear hold you back. The truth is, it doesn’t matter if everything works out perfectly. What matters is that you live it fully. You must fail in order to succeed, and I hope you fail gloriously, then rise again with the courage I know you have to keep moving forward.

    You are ready for this moment. You are stepping into the next part of your life, and I couldn’t be prouder. Every day ahead of you is another memory in the making, another chapter worth writing. So live it in a way that makes you smile when you look back. We’ll be smiling too, every step of the way. Forever and always your biggest fans.

  • Review: The Jersey Shore – Diamond Beach, NJ (Part 1: Hotel & Vibe)

    Review: The Jersey Shore – Diamond Beach, NJ (Part 1: Hotel & Vibe)

    What can be said about the Jersey Shore? For better or worse, my impression was shaped early on by a little MTV show called Jersey Shore. I thought it was a carnival side-show hookup spot for young Italians trying to catch every survivable STD before summer ended.

    My first trip down didn’t really change that view. I had to come back a few times to get my mind right. We went to Wildwood Crest—Exit 0—the very end of the Garden State Parkway, the end of the line. We stayed in the Diamond Beach area, a tiny sliver of shoreline just before Cape May.

    After going over the iconic E-ZPass bridge, then an inlet stretch or two, you make your way into a different mindset. It’s the kind of place where the road is policed by the Jersey Gods who nobody dares defy. The speed limit is 25, and everyone drives 25 or less. I spent a week there and only saw one police SUV. What kind of law-abiding madness is this? I felt like the Outlaw Josey Wales doing 30, just waiting for the Wildwood PD to swarm in.

    Driving 24 mph, we arrived at Icona Diamond Beach, a boutique hotel that had once been problematic during my first visit. They’ve since transformed it into something completely new. The core of what it was is still there, but this lipstick made the pig completely lovable and livable for our 5-day excursion.

    The rooms, I believe, are all suites. Ours was nicely appointed, though the bedroom area was tight. My wife and I had to do the boardwalk shuffle to get past each other, and sharing one bathroom with four people gets tricky as the kids grow. Thankfully, our daughter stayed with her Mima and Aunt, which helped.

    Still, the tight quarters sparked some memories—back to earlier trips when the kids were little and the space didn’t feel quite so cramped. That wave of nostalgia hit hard. How quickly it all moves. How every age holds something magnificent. I tried to store it all away on that mental shelf where the best moments live, while quietly dreading how much slips away with time.

    The hallway was a long run down the length of the hotel, and the pattern made me feel like I was at the Overlook Hotel in The Shining. There are historical photos lining the hallway, and I was looking for a party with Jack Nicholson at the beach with that wild Joker smile.

    The hotel employs young people from all over the world, it seems. The staff feels more like they would on a Caribbean island than in New Jersey.

    After breakfast, we’d make a quick visit back to the room to get ready for the day. The walk to the beach is great. It’s a fair distance from the hotel to umbrella city. Once you get to the end of the composite deck walkway that runs adjacent to the beach bar, I flip my flops into the air and plant my feet in the hot, warm sand. It seems like they brush it out each night, creating a fluffy step for me each day.

    I enjoy the little walk and feel the hot sun on my face, causing me to squint like Clint Eastwood staring down an adversary in any Wild West exploit.

    The staff helps you set up any number of chairs, lounges, umbrellas, and towels you need for the day. I’m always a fan of the efficiency in getting this done, complete with their cordless power drill to dig out a place for the umbrellas each day.

    Then we set up our chairs and sit. We sit and enjoy the all-excellence that is going to the beach. The warm air, constantly stirring and flowing over your body. The sounds of summer—fun, seagulls, kids, cocktails, mocktails and waves crashing forever. The shells and sand being turned into fine elegance, millennium after millennium, as the circular waves crash down and out.

    It’s always so amazing how quickly time can move and how tired you can get doing nothing all day. It doesn’t feel the same as sitting at home and watching shows that leave you deflated. A day at the beach leaves you feeling invigorated, closer to God, and with a sense of accomplishment. I don’t know what was accomplished, but I felt like I had put in a day of work.

    Vacation work.

    Sitting around with my family and two stowaways that joined us on our trip, I felt renewed under the energy of the plasmatic sun. Taking time to enjoy this flow of time, surrounded by the people that I love. Thinking of the people that I’ve lost and inviting them to join us.

    I didn’t expect to fall for the Jersey Shore, but somewhere between the wind, the waves, and watching my family lounge in the sun, it got me. It’s funny how doing nothing can leave you feeling so full. We didn’t conquer anything. We didn’t need to. We just showed up, stuck our toes in the sand, stayed present and let the days take us.

    Final Verdict:  8.15/10  (Aruba Light)

  • Phase 3: The Never-Ending Summer of Baseball

    Phase 3: The Never-Ending Summer of Baseball

    We’re now entering Phase 3 of our young teenage son’s baseball career. The never-ending rhythm of summer tournament play. Long weekends, hotel rooms, musty cleats that stink up the car, dugout dust, and emotional highs and lows packed into 72 hours.

    The truth is, we haven’t been all that competitive in our past two tournaments. We’ve run out of steam, lost our foam, just didn’t have enough Rizz to carry us through the lean moments. But this weekend, something shifted.

    This tournament, War at the Shore, held near the tribal lands of Mohegan Sun and Mystic, CT, felt different from the start. We opened with a strong Friday night showing, and our team rolled through with three wins before falling short in Sunday’s matchup, a rematch with our toughest opponent.

    It was a winnable game. We battled back from a 5-0 deficit, but baseball, as always, has its element of luck. A few balls dropped into the Bermuda Triangle, just out of reach beyond the infield or along the foul lines. Add in some costly errors, and we lost our edge, both in pacing and psychology.

    Still, we made it back. And though the ride home felt especially long, there was something satisfying in the silence and the over-analysis of what-ifs. Every small moment matters in baseball. And somehow, every moment mattered this weekend.

    What really stayed with me wasn’t just the score or the stats. It was the time spent with my family. It felt like we were gone for a week, not just a weekend. Watching your child play is like being pulled into a Broadway show. You lose yourself in the performance and production. Every play, every at-bat takes something out of you. The butterflies, the anxious pangs in your gut, the quiet hopes;  it’s all part of it.

    I sat slightly away from the crowd on a grassy knoll on this warm summer day, a little removed but with the best view. It gave me perspective, a moment to breathe it all in. The game below, the sky above. The majesty of it all. These are the days that move fast and live forever.

    Every kid contributed this weekend. They showed up, brought their energy, and let their favorite juiced bats bring out the best in them. They thought they could, and so they did.

    There’s a synergy now. A chosen family dynamic forming between the boys. The time spent together on and off the field. I love watching them come together, the way they cheer for one another. The way they shout to their teammate who made an error, telling him to shake it off and get the next one. No blame, just TLC for one another. We’ve played on many teams, but this is a special group of young men.

    Then there’s the parental chaos. Multiple hotels, packing and repacking supplies, forgetting essentials, trying to make a reservation for 30 people to eat together, then figuring out how to split the bill. Ending the night with fireside table chats in the bagel buffet lounge. We become friends, make it work, and enjoy our time together.

    These joyful, chaotic weekends are forging memories that will carry them through the long walk of life. Because we’re not meant to just try. Life isn’t something we have to do, it’s something we get to do. We’re meant to reach. And the bigger the challenge, the greater the memory, whether or not we come out on top.

    And maybe that’s what makes it all so special. The dirt on their cleats. The voices in the dugout. The pain of a loss, the joy of a win, and everything in between. Chasing childhood greatness with your friends, giving it everything you’ve got, leaving it all out there.

    That’s the part they’ll remember.
    That’s the part that lasts.

  • Restaurant Review: Down the Hatch – Brookfield, CT

    Restaurant Review: Down the Hatch – Brookfield, CT

    On a beautiful sunny day when the breeze is gentle, continuous, and blissfully free of humidity, where can you go to enjoy it all? I’ve never been one for regrets, but I’m slightly disappointed I only discovered Down the Hatch later in life. At least I found it. What an amazing little spot to have tucked away in the heart of northern Fairfield County.

    I’ve been several times over the years, and this place is always about the location. It’s beautifully nestled on a hill overlooking scenic Candlewood Lake. There is only the outside here, not unlike in Ghostbusters when there is only Zuul. Zuul, you big nut.

    You wouldn’t want to sit inside even if you could. And if you had to, you probably wouldn’t want to be at this restaurant on that day.

    You walk down the handicap-accessible ramp to the first level of the restaurant and bar. You always get a good mix of people, though I do prefer coming earlier now to avoid some of the rougher types who seem disappointed with life after several Budweisers and are actively looking for someone who doesn’t agree with them or someone with whom they can have a misunderstanding. My misunderstanding days are long gone. I’m just happy to enjoy any nice day by the water.

    We came in with our core three — daughter Judy was at work — and were meeting my brother-in-law with his kids. They’re young and playful, so we were looking for a spot that still gave us a view without being too close to anyone else’s table. We were seated on the lowest level, and that was perfect. There really isn’t a bad view, though I didn’t want to be up top, stuck behind a few tables that might block the breeze or obstruct the view of the lake.

    The whole point of this place is the outside, and I was just so happy to be sitting outdoors. Any summer day in Connecticut when the sun is shining and the humidity is low is a big win.

    Our summer table for six was shaded under an alcoholic beverage sponsor tent overlooking the lake. The waitstaff are all young, home from college or whatever it is kids are doing now. I honestly have no idea. But they’re friendly and happy, and that’s what matters. Our waitress was a kind redhead and had a bit of Southern sensibility, though I don’t know if it was earned down South or acquired from watching too many shows set there. There’s this big amalgamation of phrases now like “I got you” and “y’all” all mashed together.

    The food is what you’d expect and good enough for what it is. I got the mahi-mahi in a wrap instead of a sandwich, along with a small crock of coleslaw. It was vinegar-based and delicious. I only wish the portion had been a bit bigger, but I suppose not everyone is a cabbage fiend like me. I also took a bite of my wife’s lobster roll, and that was very good, with large chunks of tail and claw in a buttery roll.

    It was really great that my brother-in-law came with my niece and nephew. It’s always good to see them. As close as we all are, life pushes you in different directions, and you have to push back to make time. The kids are extremely cute, fun, playful, and smart. I just enjoy taking a minute in their world, watching them do their thing. It reminds me of my own kids and how quickly they grow up.

    As I sat outside in the sun, I was hit by a deep wave of calm. The kids wandered toward the fence to look out over the water and watch the ducks go about their day. I’ve been lucky lately, but more than that, I’ve been grateful. Grateful for these kinds of days, and really, for any day to be alive. For hope and for my family.

    It’s easy to forget how miraculous the ordinary is. The weight of gravity holding us here. The sun warming the tops of exposed skin until it becomes just uncomfortable enough. A thin layer of sweat rising. The gentle whisper of wind across the skin. The smell of fried French fries drifting by. Ducks gliding silently without concern.

    There is beauty in all of it. In simply being here. You just have to want to see it.

    Final Verdict with view multiplier: 7.5/10

  • America’s Oldest Park, Lake Compounce

    America’s Oldest Park, Lake Compounce

    My son and I had talked about doing an amusement park trip, and we ended up choosing Lake Compounce. It’s just the right distance from our house and the right size for a 13-year-old boy who outgrew Quassy Amusement Park some time ago.

    Honestly, I was hesitant to go. Maybe I’m getting old. I just didn’t feel like going on any rides and getting mangled up. We checked the weather on Sunday, and it looked good for Monday. We went back and forth. I told him he should go to the pool with his friend and I’d just go to work. But he has his Flea Market madness way of negotiating and re-negotiating a price or getting what he wants.

    I got up and went outside to have my coffee, grounding my feet in the grass and enjoying the quiet morning scene. The calm before the storm is something I love. It gives me a chance to reconnect with what’s important. As I slowly sipped my brew, I thought about his age and how many more times he might even ask me to do something like this with him. In just three more years he’ll be driving, like his sister, who was going to spend the day at the pool with friends. There are no guarantees and no tomorrows. That’s all a false hope and a mismanagement of human perception.

    After the spark of affirmation, I speedily finished my cup and went inside to tell him. He knew I had been on the fence, so when I told him, he wasn’t sure if I was serious. Once he realized I was, he came out of his room to confirm, and I was so happy to see he was still that excited.

    We had about an hour to get our stuff together. We wanted to be on the road by 10 a.m. so we could arrive by 11 a.m. for the park opening. We got ready quickly, and it’s always easier for the guys to get out the door. Driving up I-84, another trip, another adventure. Suddenly the dreaded red line of traffic appeared on our GPS after Exit 13. I thought we’d only hit some traffic in Waterbury. After an 11-minute delay due to completely unnecessary roadwork that never seems to get worked on, we made it through and arrived at 11:05.

    For some reason, our GPS never brings us to the main entrance. We always have to ignore its instructions or we’ll end up at the employee gate. We finally got in line to enter the parking lot. I had already purchased our tickets and parking pass, but none of the signs indicated where pre-paid guests should go until the last second, when we were stuck in the wrong lane. We got passed by a guy who cut across two lanes of traffic to jump ahead. What made this creature even worse was that his initial payment failed, and he had to get out his debit card and punch in a code.

    Finally, after the traffic and the line-cutters, we parked in section C2 on this warm summer morning. We quickly walked the half-mile tunnel path and made our way to the entrance of Lake Compounce. We were excited and deliberated how busy it would be. It turned out to be busier than expected, but most of the crowd seemed to be heading for the water park which made sense.

    For $34.99 each, plus $25 for parking, we got a full day at both the regular amusement park and the water park, all for under $100.

    We rented a large locker to hold our towels and other water park necessities. We took a right and started our Father and Son field trip with the park’s bigger rides.

    We began with the Wildcat, their mid-level wooden roller coaster. We had done this one before and remembered getting a little banged up. But this time, sitting in the middle of the train, or maybe thanks to a newer cart, we had a smoother and fun start to the day. The kids behind us were screaming so loudly it felt like they were on a completely different ride.

    Then it was on to Down Time, the drop tower, which quickly confirmed whether our stomachs were ready for the day. As we shot up and dropped down, we had a beautiful view of the park and surrounding hills. The other two big coasters, Phobia and Zoomerang, were exciting. Unfortunately for me, not knowing the turns and fighting the momentum left my aging body taking some hard hits to my equilibrium. I rallied though, and we took a break to make a solid purchase: the all-day plastic drink cup for $17.99, which let us refill with Pepsi products and water all day. On this 90-degree day, it was worth every penny.

    My favorite ride of the day was Thunder N’ Lightning, a giant swing that makes you feel like a kid getting pushed high into the sky. My son loved it all. One of his favorites was the Ghost Hunt, a haunted house ride with light guns where you compete for the highest score. The first time we did it, I didn’t pay attention to the target colors and got destroyed. But this time, I was ready to go after the purple targets. Room after room, I thought I was winning. I was, for a while. But in the last room, he pulled away and beat me by 30,000 points. Even after a second attempt, I was soundly beaten. He was thrilled to be the camp champ.

    A special shout-out to Boulder Dash, which is the most thrilling wooden coaster I can remember ever being on. It’s an old wooden coaster and appears weathered and worn as you view it from the wooden deck before getting on, even though it was built in 2000. The ride is extremely thrilling in its own right, but the creaks and shakes of the wooden structure definitely add levels to the ride. We both, young and old, came off this ride shook with a nice dull headache for our trouble.

    We walked the park looking for something decent to eat. After a full loop, we ended up back at Wildcat Grill for a double cheeseburger. The food was fine. It would be nice to throw in a few healthy options, but based on this slice of Americana we traversed today, I’m sure it doesn’t make any fiscal sense.

    After confirming he was all set with the amusement park side, we made our way over to the water park, which was definitely busier, especially as the temperature climbed. We lathered up with sunscreen and hit my all-time favorite, the Lazy River. I have to say, the Lazy River here is well managed. They have staff controlling the flow of guests, helping people on, and enforcing the one-lap rule. They even built a tube ride in the middle that drops you into another section of the river. Since I consider myself somewhat of a connoisseur, I have imagined similar when designing my own one day.

    The river was calm, and we floated along, deciding not to wait for the inner-tube ride. I told my son to pretend we didn’t know what was going on and try to sneak past the attendants. A young staff member eventually told us to get off, but when he saw how long the line was, he said, “The line looks big, so just keep going.” A win. We continued our second lap like the big-time rule breakers we were.

    We spent some time in the United Nations wave pool, where everyone got along gently rolling in the chlorine blue waves. My son hit a few more water rides while I found a lounge chair and waited as he went to a less crowded section to try all three variations of the body slide tubes.

    Finally, with our fill of fun, we made our way out of the park. It was another amazing day because I got to spend it with my son. I’m grateful for this time, especially now, during what feels like an ever-shrinking window to do things like this together.

    One day, he’ll be grown and off chasing his own life, and these chances will be fewer and farther between. I hope he carries these memories with him. I hope he smiles when he thinks back on days like this. And maybe one day, he’ll be the one sipping coffee in the morning, deciding whether to take his own kid to the park.

    If he does, I hope he goes.

  • Review: Walmart Supercenter – Middletown, NY

    Review: Walmart Supercenter – Middletown, NY

    Norman Rockwell’s Nightmare

    After our nostalgic dinner at Outback Steakhouse, we needed to grab a few supplies we’d forgotten for our overnight stay at the baseball tournament. And when in doubt, you can always count on Walmart. They say the average American lives just 4.2 miles from one. The blessings of unimpeded capitalism.

    We arrived at the Walmart Supercenter in Middletown, NY, around 9:30 p.m., expecting a quiet scene. Instead, we stumbled into something closer to a chaotic night market. The parking lot was packed. People were loitering around their cars like it was a social event. For a moment, I wondered if we’d accidentally shown up for a midnight console release, with eager fans waiting for their chance to buy.

    But no. Instead, I thought of Al Pacino in Heat, describing “the dregs and detritus of human life” circling the toilet bowl, waiting to be flushed.

    As always, I scoped out an open section of the lot. I didn’t want to park too far off and draw attention, just a strategic space near the Garden Center. My son and I moved quickly toward the entrance. My wife trailed behind, thanks to her shorter stride, but we kept the group together.

    The tone was set almost immediately. A couple entered just ahead of us; him dressed like someone in a “white trash male” Halloween costume, and her in an outfit that led me to believe, rightly or wrongly, she was a hired professional. It was hard not to assume a transactional nature to their night out.

    Inside, we were smacked with the unmistakable smell of urine. I half-expected to see someone relieving themselves in a corner or a bathroom door swinging wildly off its hinges. But there was nothing; no culprit, no bathroom, just the stench. The greeter didn’t greet. He stood stiffly like a late-night club bouncer deciding whether we were worth the risk.

    Still, once inside the belly of the beast, things felt oddly familiar. That gentle blue-and-white color scheme of Walmart had a strange way of calming the fight-or-flight system. We got down to business. Band-Aids for my son’s leg. Some forgotten essentials. This place was massive; easily the biggest Walmart we’d ever seen. Fortunately, the first-aid section was just to the left.

    As we gathered our items, we watched a group of young teenagers spraying perfume liquids on each other while their dazed, over-medicated parent enjoyed a late-night Dr. Pepper, hunched over a cart like they were on mile 23 of a grocery marathon.

    My wife was ready to leave. But my son, Elroy, wanted to explore the place he now referred to as the Mecca of Commerce. So we walked, partly to digest the Kookaburra Wings still testing our stomachs. Inevitably, we ended up in the video game aisle, where we saw our old friends from the entrance. The man in the costume and his late-night lady. He was trying to buy a game, and had sent his companion to find an employee to unlock the case.

    There was something weirdly honest about it. Taking your go-to escort to Walmart on a Saturday night for the Girlfriend Experience, capped off with some light retail therapy. Buying video games together. In a way, this man was my white trash spirit animal. Thank God I’m married, because I could almost understand the appeal. Cost-effective. Low maintenance. Fun.

    Perhaps I had this guy all wrong. I found myself wondering if he had stock tips. Maybe he’s the best accountant in Orange County. He probably runs a wellness clinic and helps fatherless kids set up Roth IRAs for their future. The light bulb of imaginary musings dimmed as I was pulled back to reality by the cold glow of the self-checkout kiosk, prompting me for payment.

    Walmart, in all its fluorescent, urine-scented glory, delivers what no curated Instagram feed ever could: truth. uncut, unwashed, unbothered. Where else can you see a budget-conscious couple’s version of romance, a greeter playing nightclub security, and teenagers engaged in what can only be described as a diabetic late-night shower of perfume?

    In the end, we accomplished our mission. And we got something better than supplies: an unfiltered snapshot of America after dark.

  • Father’s Day 2025

    Father’s Day 2025

    I asked my kids for a parade around me while I sat and drank my coffee. My son was quick to oblige, and my daughter was slower to follow after several prompts and me saying I needed to see some of those multi-thousand-dollar dance moves we’ve been paying for over the last 12-plus years.

    After a few rotations around the couch with various high steps, hand waves, and general silliness, the children came to a stop. Then I asked them for their rendition of the Von Trapp Family’s good night song and the light-hearted and fast Lonely Goat marionette show. We had a great laugh and reveled in the silliness of the moment.

    I love this time, and I love being their father.

    We then had to complete the Daily Stoic, a tradition now in our home, reading one of Ryan Holiday’s carefully curated stoic quotes, followed by his interpretation. We’ve done this consistently for several years. We do fall behind on the day-to-day reading and end up with these longer catch-up sessions on the weekend. This particular Father’s Day included over a week’s worth.

    I’m never impatient or in a rush during this time. I love reading the wisdom of these old sages and trying to find ways to connect it to my kids’ lives. Even reading this book now for the fourth time through, there is always new meaning to divine as we grow, mature, and age through life. Also just taking time to talk about things, to hear what they think, and be there together.

    I know that for the kids, sometimes it feels like a chore, maybe more than sometimes. I can see it when they lose focus or drift off into their own thoughts. Today, my son decided to stand up and move over to the mantle to pick up a baseball, which he immediately dropped. I rebuked him:
    “Can’t you just sit still for a few minutes while we do these?”

    It was all quickly forgotten. There was no punishment. We returned to the book.

    Today on Father’s Day, I get to officially be in charge, so we went slow and we took our time.

    We took turns reading the lessons, day by day. They’re both fantastic readers, and if one reads, I’ll ask the other what they thought it was about or how they’d apply it. Most days, to push through, they’ve become masters of repackaging, paraphrasing, and just regurgitating it back to me.

    After so many years, the base principle is the same:
    We focus on what is in our control and let go of what is not.

    I know, for myself and for them, that this is truly useful, practical, and meaningful information. It can and should be used in all parts of life. But I also know that only through daily and consistent repetition do the lessons and ideas really take root.

    I wait for that one glorious moment when they step back in a stressful situation, analyze it clearly, and make that cardinally guided decision; to be the good people I know them to be.

    I hope they will continue to find this wisdom meaningful as they grow, and that one day, they will pass it on to their own children. I know that when I’m a grandfather, I’ll still be doing this with their kids. I hope we’ll do it together whenever we can and that we’ll make the time.

    I think about my father’s consistent lessons, the things Dad would say, how he worked hard to be a good role model. He’d often say he was “constantly instructing,” providing constant vigilance against the dark arts. I’m especially reminded of him this first Father’s Day since he passed. His ways, his sayings, the phrases I knew him by and I can still hear them in my head.

    I remember when I would ask, “Dad, if you could talk to anyone from history, anyone at all, who would it be?”
    His answer was simple: “My dad.”
    I never could understand the answer. With all the amazing historical people, why he chose his father.

    I’m reminded of an exchange student party I attended at UConn. There was a priest there for some reason who described life as the tapestry of our lives, woven together by the people we love and who love us in return. The things they say and the places they hold inside of us remain, blending into this eternal tapestry we’re all a part of, stretching back to the beginning.

    It felt heavy at the time, surrounded by a nighttime fire and strangers all sharing in the moment, and it has stuck with me.

    Now slightly more than halfway through the average life, you reminisce, ponder, and travel around different paths. The midlife crisis of achieving the goals of society only to find out that most of them carry no weight. The greatness you never achieved. Dreams you never chased. The what-ifs you question. I move to the end and see my entire life.

    I know and have always known that being a father is the greatest gift. To be a great father is greatness.  It’s my vocation and the thing I take the most pride in. I’m grateful, thankful, and appreciative every day for the souls God chose me to be a father to, and I try in earnest not to take that for granted.

    Every day, I look to honor this gift by continuing to show up and be the example of a “good man” that my father was.  That’s what Father’s Day is. A thread pulled from the tapestry, handed down and tied with care.

    I don’t need a big celebration or the perfect day. I just want the time, the laughs, the moments that stack into something lasting.

    That’s enough.
    That’s greatness.
    That’s everything.