Toby Goodshank Original Art 2025

Life with Chicken and Broccoli

Tag: life

  • 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.

  • Nintendo Switch 2 Caper

    Nintendo Switch 2 Caper

    My son and I are avid video game collectors, and we were excited about the release of Nintendo’s new console, the Switch 2. We tried earnestly when the initial pre-order website launched, only to get frozen out and miss our chance months ago. My son threw a gentle zinger at the time, letting me know that so and so’s dad had stayed up and snagged one. The dagger through any father’s heart, losing out to Mythical Dad X who obviously cares more about his kid.

    But June 5, 2025 was my chance for redemption.

    With the help of our new AI friends, we learned that several retailers would have midnight releases online, and a few would be selling the console in-store at 12:01 AM and again when stores opened. I’m extremely line averse. I’ll do just about anything to avoid waiting in a line and have lived a life designed around avoiding the WAIT. Eating at off hours, traveling through the night, researching how to dodge lines like it’s a game. My kids are lucky to have Magic Genie Pass, Express Lane Hotel Staying Dad who makes it his mission to squeeze the most out of our time with as little waiting as possible. Maybe it stems from some childhood trauma, etched into my DNA, a nightmare of a line where everything went wrong.

    Options were limited. Best Buy was opening at 12:01 AM and the backup was Target at 8:00 AM. Sadly, we’ve lost our Gamestops in the Danbury area, and the nearest one in Trumbull, inside a mall, was guaranteed chaos.

    At first, the plan was Target. Get there by 6:00 AM. But after watching a few YouTube videos, my son started to get anxious. The lines were already being reported by local media. With limited quantities per store and only a few retailers carrying the console, he wanted to pivot. He started nudging me to head out to Best Buy that night instead. I agreed, thinking maybe we could avoid the early morning chaos.

    While watching TV with my wife, I noticed my son stealthily creeping around, checking his phone, glancing at the clock. “Maybe we should go now,” he suggested. I had originally said 10:00 PM. Two hours seemed tolerable. But he worked me down. By 8:30 we were in the car headed to Danbury.

    Taking the highway instead of backroads, we could already see the line had wrapped around the front of Best Buy. We knew they had 40 consoles available, so we figured we’d drive around to the back to assess the situation. That’s when we saw the line stretching all the way around the corner. He wanted to wait. I couldn’t do it. Three and a half hours in line with no guarantee? No thanks.

    We pivoted to Target to see if a line had started, even though they weren’t selling until 8:00 AM. Nobody was there. We took our customary stroll through our favorite sections. The Nintendo Switch display was barren, cleared out in preparation for the launch.

    We got home by 9:30 and reported to Mom that the first attempt was a bust. I wasn’t thrilled about waking up even earlier to wait in line again, and the debate started. “Please Dad, please!” My wife reminded me, “He’s a good kid.” She wasn’t wrong. How could I say no?

    Sitting there at 10:00 PM, I made a call. I’d try again at 12:01 AM online. My son was doubtful. He figured our best shot was showing up in person the next morning. Still, I logged into all the retailers: Costco, Walmart, Gamestop. Made sure my accounts were updated with payment info and mailing addresses. I knew sometimes sites upload inventory a bit early, so I kept refreshing just in case.

    My son went to bed around 11:00 PM, or so I thought. At 11:45 he rose like the living dead and wandered back in, just as I was getting my tabs organized. I gave him the phone with the Gamestop app while I took the computer.

    From 11:50 on, we were refreshing like maniacs. At 12:00, Walmart’s countdown timer hit zero. But the links were frozen. Nothing redirected. Just spinning wheels of death. As minutes passed, our hope was draining. How can we beat bots, resellers, and whoever else figured out an algorithm?

    By 12:16, we were ready to call it. My son, now even more dismayed, knew that if I stayed up past midnight, the odds of me waking up at 4:30 AM were basically zero.

    Then one last round of refreshing. Suddenly a third icon appeared on Walmart’s site, joining the two blank Switch listings. This one had an “Add” button.

    Mash. Mash. Mash. Click click click.

    Error. Out of stock.

    Refresh. “Add” again.

    Then, a new screen. We were in a queue. A little window popped up in the corner saying we’d be notified and could view or dismiss.

    We waited. Low expectations. Probably a glitch.

    And then, Eureka. A 9-minute countdown popped up. We were in. The purchase screen loaded.

    I clicked “Add to Cart.” Nothing happened. Tried again. Still nothing.

    Then I noticed it was prompting for the CVV code.

    “Get the light!” I yelled, as my son turned on his phone flashlight.

    Code entered. One final click. Successssssssss!

  • Field of Dreams

    Field of Dreams

    Field of Dreams is one of those movies that leaves a lasting impression. I’ve seen it many times, and each viewing through the different epochs of my life, feels a little different. It’s an ode to a beloved game, but at its core, it’s really about a father and a son.

    I was never a big fan of baseball. The furthest I went in my younger years was T-ball or maybe Charlie Brown baseball. But the movie isn’t only about the sport. It’s about connection. About time lost. About youth and the wisdom that only comes from looking back. It’s about how pride can quietly wedge itself into the spaces between men, especially fathers and sons. It explores the classic “what if,” and reminds us that what truly makes life worth living is the love we share; our connections, our relationships, and especially that sacred bond between father and son.

    Our generation—Generation X—is denoted in mathematics as the unknown. But if there’s one thing we do seem to know, it’s the importance of being present in our children’s lives, especially in their sports. Our parents’ generation followed a more traditional arc, only to realize later that they wished they hadn’t spent so much time working. Through their passing and their experiences, we’ve begun to see through the shroud of that false reality.

    For my family and for my son that sport has always been baseball. America’s pastime.

    I know how precious this time is as a dad; the small window of adolescence when a father can still be both a hero and a friend. I can feel the life-sized hourglass pouring sand through my fingers. I get excited on game days, leaving work early, picking up my son,  and sharing that anticipatory car ride to the field. We talk about the game, what he’s working on, what he’s going to try. We talk about the effort he’s put in at practice, and always the psychology of hitting. Continously working on a routine so that thought doesn’t interrupt what repetition has already mastered.

    I drop him off and watch as he hustles toward the field. I take a breath and work hard to be in the moment; the warm spring air, the bright sun inching toward the crest of the tree line. Our games are held late in the working day, and most parents are there. We bring our folding vinyl chairs and line them up together along the baseline. No one congratulates themselves or talks about the “sacrifice” of being there, because we already know the heavy price of regret if we are absent.

    We watch our kids with heightened anticipation, that nitrous-like jolt of nerves as they step into the batter’s box or push off the pitching mound. My joy isn’t rooted in some longing to live vicariously through my son. It comes from being a proud, loving, and deeply content father, watching the most beautiful thing I’ve ever helped create simply living his life. The strength and rhythm of youth, the untarnished optimism, and a glorious, unknown future. I just want him to know how proud and loved he is, and for him to be able to step back and truly enjoy his moment.

    We sit quietly, offering our hopes and wishes to the baseball gods. Hoping for that “good hit”, that allows them to beat the throw to first. We know a bad at-bat will replay in their minds, and we just hope, deep down, that they can recognize the wisdom of not placing too much weight on any one moment. Smile. Breathe. See the ball. Hit the ball.

    Time is limited. And while the days can sometimes feel long, the years and life itself are incredibly short. I try never to rush the day or the moment. I take time to breathe in the air, to say my own quiet prayers of gratitude, and to give thanks for the chance to be part of something this beautiful.
    I remember the line in Field of Dreams, when the father turns to Kevin Costner’s character and asks, “Is this Heaven?”
    And in moments like these; watching my son, the sun setting behind the trees, a gentle spring breeze carrying a well hit ball through the air. I think to myself, it is.

  • Selling Our Childhood Home

    Selling Our Childhood Home

    My mother died unexpectedly on March 16th, 2024, from what we still don’t truly know. For a lot of people, that uncertainty causes angst. It seems that when people know what someone died of, they can soothe their own fears or file it away in a box to be shelved and never reopened. Science currently tells us that genetics only account for about 5 to 12 percent of our health outcomes, so I’m not concerned for myself.  What’s more disconcerting is that the people we love can be here one moment and gone the next. We all know this on some level, but when it’s your mother, it hits differently. You can’t fully grasp it until she’s no longer there.

    Her passing caused my father to follow not long after; he died in July of what I believe was a broken heart.

    Your childhood home is always your mom’s house. A father might pay for it or be the main contributor, but your mom makes it a home. She creates the atmosphere, the warm air of comfort and serenity that makes it a safe haven against the world. My parents were warm and loving, and our home was a fortress of solitude filled with a childhood of happy memories. My favorite spots were the living room, the downstairs game room I created, and the property outside.

    My brother and I are blessed in that we could keep the home. We could leave it empty indefinitely as some kind of forever monument to our parents. But choices aren’t always blessings. They can bring ambiguity, and with that comes stress. What should we do? Should we sell it? Turn it into a giant man cave with video games, projectors for movies, pinball machines, arcade cabinets, a meeting place for family dinners, pickleball courts, and maybe even a lazy river around the perimeter? My son was fully on board as the vision for this funhouse kept ever growing in scale.

    We also considered turning it into a rental or Airbnb, but when we looked at the income versus the upkeep, it didn’t make sense. It does have an in-law apartment, but that couldn’t be used unless we lived there. When your parents die, you grow up. Even though I’ve been doing all the adult things for years, I have managed to remain childlike until now.

    My parents were what I’d call “light” hoarders. They had an addiction to stuff: knickknacks, bric-a-brac, collectibles that lost value over time, obscure curios, and they just kept adding shelves to hold more and more. They enjoyed the thrill of acquiring things they’d rarely touch again. We always joked that when they passed, we’d need a bulldozer to clear out the house. Instead, we’ve spent months going through everything slowly, trying to be respectful and dutiful sons. We did our best to keep what we could and ended up moving several shelves’ worth of their things to my mother-in-law’s house. My mom’s Beanie Babies made the cut, and I hope she can forgive us for what we threw away.

    All the while, we kept deliberating on what to do with the house. Eventually, we made the decision to sell, and once that choice was made, I felt a huge wave of relief. We’re still in the process of clearing it out. Three (soon to be four) giant dumpsters later, and we’re finally getting close to the finish line.

    After finishing another long Sunday of cleaning on a beautiful spring day, I brought my brother up to the deck. My father had fallen in love with the house because of the property. Even though it was on a busy road, the back of the lot reminded him of Central Park, a peaceful escape for someone who grew up on the streets of Manhattan. And he was right. It’s beautiful, quiet, and serene. The deck is surrounded by the family room and the master bedroom addition he had built. It created a kind of protected enclosure with a park-like view. He never dreamed, growing up, that he’d have something like this. I can still see him floating in the pool on his raft, soaking in the sun.

    The nostalgia hits hard: hanging outside, growing up, playing in that yard, parties, holidays, family movie nights. With those memories, my resolve wavers. My brother has been conflicted as well. But I know those ghosts of the past are just that, memories. What we had can never be again. That is incredibly hard to reconcile and yet as the same time, it is still okay.

    I’m incredibly grateful. I love the life I have now, I love my family, and I treasure the way we grew up. I feel renewed and oddly content. I think about the future and the family who will one day buy this home. I imagine them walking through the door and somehow feeling what we always felt coming home: peace, safety, love. I hope the home my mother created, the protection my father provided, and the warmth that filled these walls blesses their lives the way it blessed ours.