Toby Goodshank Original Art 2025

Life with Chicken and Broccoli

Tag: love

  • All State

    All State

    Last night we went to the All State Dance Banquet at the Aqua Turf Club in Southington, Connecticut.

    My daughter was honored there. She was a recipient, a winner, a true star. Newtown had an incredible showing, with eight students recognized in All State Dance and seven in All State Academic. Most other towns seemed to have two or three, and far fewer on the academic side. I have always said we must have good water in Newtown. It grows the kids tall and apparently makes them pretty smart too.

    It was a very special night, and I was so happy to be there celebrating my daughter’s accomplishments. Over the years, my wife and I have often divided and conquered when it came to the kids’ activities. That usually meant my wife and daughter were the ones going on the dance excursions, trips, banquets, and showcases. Because of that, it felt especially important for me to be there. Really, there was never any question that I would be.

    They put on a beautiful event for the young women, and for one young man named Jack, who all the girls from Newtown seemed to know and love.

    My daughter’s journey through these years has truly happened in the blink of an eye. It feels like I just looked up and suddenly she is grown, getting ready to leave for college this fall. Where did all the time go?

    In some ways, time moved slower in the beginning. When she was little, and my wife was commuting to Norwalk, I was the one getting her ready in the morning and bringing her to my mother’s day care, then picking her up later. Those felt like slower days. Sesame Street would be on in the background, and Abby Cadabby would keep watch over her while I got ready for work.

    There are so many things that change as they grow, and then one day they are grown. I saw something recently about how many moments in life happen for the last time without us even realizing it. You only recognize them later, when you stop and think. I found myself thinking about something as simple as holding her hand. How long has it been since we last held hands? The last time she reached for my hand while crossing a road probably felt like yesterday then, but in truth it was many years ago. So many years ago, just like the car seat rides and booster seat rides home, singing songs together in the car.

    There is something natural about the rush to prepare your children for the world, to help them become capable, confident, and independent. That is part of a father’s job. And yet there is also something heartbreaking about doing it well, because the very success of it means they cannot stay young forever. You cannot keep them small. You cannot keep them reaching for your hand. I still think about those quiet moments watching her shows beside me in bed, holding her favorite sippy cup. I have always been sentimental about the past, about the ache and beauty of nostalgia.

    But I am just as grateful now for this new season of her life. For all the firsts still ahead of her. For all the adventures, lessons, friendships, and memories she has yet to make. Last night was not just a celebration of what she has accomplished. It was also a quiet reminder to me that life keeps moving, whether we are ready or not.

    And maybe that is the bittersweet beauty of being a parent. You spend years helping them grow, praying they become strong, capable, and ready for the world. Then one day you look up and realize they are. The little girl who once held your hand is now stepping forward into her own life. It is hard to let go of the old days, but what a gift it is to have lived them. And what a privilege it is to still be here, watching her shine.

  • Coffee is for Closers

    Coffee is for Closers

    “Put that coffee down. Coffee is for closers.”

    One of the many lines my father and I used to repeat to each other from Glengarry Glen Ross while we sold insurance together for eighteen years.

    As I sit here doing my accounting on this spring like day, March 10, working through QuickBooks, I am still entering revenue from our old health insurance business. I started in insurance with my father right after my glorious quitting at GE. I burned those bridges well and good. Quickly and abruptly. I had my fill of the long hours in accounting. When I figured out how to get ten hours of work done in eight, they simply tried to give me ten hours again. I was done with that.

    All these years later, five years after my father stopped working and two years after he passed away, I am still receiving these small commission payments from our health insurance carriers.

    They were my father’s commissions. Our agreement was that I would give him half, a deal we renegotiated and argued about more times than I can count. Too many fights, too many battles.

    Because of that experience, I am adamant that my kids will never work for me or with me. I can only work for them, so they can fire me anytime they no longer need me. That seems like the fairest way to protect the relationship.

    As time passes, the rose colored glasses grow even rosier. I remember the good times more than the arguments. It is a cautionary tale, but it was also my life, and it was good. There is far more to appreciate and be thankful for than there is to regret.

    We had big personalities, which meant strong opinions and strong fights. Now, with the perspective that time and death bring, I can see more clearly. My father might have understood my perspective, and I know I was not always right no matter how many times I retell the story in my own head. I was not wrong, but neither was he.

    If we could achieve perfect understanding, we could have perfect forgiveness. I know that truth intellectually, but it is hard to feel completely in this life.

    I cared deeply for my father and I loved him. I wanted to take care of him, and I did. In truth, I gave more than the half we agreed on in commissions to both my father and my mother. I was happy to do it. They were my parents and I loved them.

    Eventually I surpassed them, which is always the plan. Children are supposed to find their own way.

    But I still think back to those moments when things were good. When we would joke with each other and throw out lines from the movies. “Kibbits,” he would say to other people. Many of his expressions are etched into the ridges of my mind. They are part of my makeup now, even though I rarely say them aloud. Sometimes I say them quietly to myself and smile.

    The inner ghosts of the people who shaped us.

    I was proud to work with my father. I was impressed by him. He had gone through so many things and tried so many different businesses before finally finding insurance at around fifty five years old. His previous business had been hollowed out underneath him by his trust in the wrong people.

    That experience left its mark. The trust he struggled with after that was always a point of tension between us. I had never betrayed that trust, but I still felt the weight of it. It cut deeper than I ever admitted at the time.

    In the end, after all the arguments and the Greek word he loved to use, fouskaries, the nonsense and the noise, I find myself remembering the good days.

    The days when it was fun.

    When we were selling and laughing and shouting our lines at each other across the office.

    So in the end, all I really want to say is this.

    I miss you, Dad. I love you.

    That is what matters in the end.

    And I still smile when I think of you.

  • The Phantom Limb of Love

    The Phantom Limb of Love

    We are coming up on the anniversary of my mom’s passing, two years ago. It is less about the day itself and more about the slow remembering of her life as the date approaches. The weight grows a little heavier each day. The gravity of it becomes more present.

    I still miss her every day. There are moments when I forget she is gone. I will think of something and instinctively reach for my phone to call her and share it, only to remember a second later that I cannot.

    It is a strange feeling, like the phantom limb phenomenon. Except the missing piece is a large part of my heart, and sometimes my brain forgets to tell the rest of me that it is gone.

    Today I cashed in my Barnes and Noble rewards. Buying books with my mom was something special we shared growing up. Early on I was a terrible reader because of a hearing issue that had been missed. Later, when that was resolved and I committed to getting better, I fell in love with reading.

    My mother, as all good mothers do, fueled that fire.

    We would go to bookstores and pick out fantasy novels together. A father might say, “Why are you reading that nonsense?” But a mother knows better. My son was reading. Whatever he was reading was wonderful. She was proud of me.

    Those trips were usually part of a larger kind of day. The kind where we would run errands together, grab lunch, and she would buy me a small gift somewhere along the way. Simple days. Nothing extraordinary on the surface. Yet those memories remain etched deeply in my mind. I hold them now with a deep sense of gratitude.

    In the end we are still little children at heart. I can buy almost anything now, any material object I want. But none of it fills this space. The tears come from the heart and from a beautiful love remembered.

    Sometimes I think about the movie AI. The robot who just wanted one last perfect day with his mother. One day of being loved unconditionally by the only person who could give him that love. The quiet perfection of peace in a mother’s arms. The way she would look down at you with that expression of pure love.

    That joy.

    I think of the words of Jesus: so that you may have joy, and that your joy may be complete.

    Jesus promised that we would not be left alone. He said that when he left, he would send the Holy Spirit, described as the Comforter, the Advocate, and the Spirit of truth. That presence has always felt a little like a mother to me.

    All is not lost. Even though I am fully here in this world, I can also feel the almost imperceptible release of weight being removed from the scale of life. And yet I trust that death is not the end.

    I look forward to seeing her again someday.

    And to that embrace.

  • Dolly

    Dolly

    Aunt Lucy

    I feel compelled to write something for our family blog. I feel like I’ve been visited in my dreams by a spirit who asked me to jot down a thing or two. To let us know they made it safely and there is no need to worry. The history of the histories. The living memory of the people who shaped us, and who continue shaping us long after they are gone.

    Aunt Lucy was many things to many people. To my wife, she was a second mother and grandmother. To my mother-in-law, she was a second mom who listened and didn’t judge. She was an aunt by blood, but she became Aunt Lucy to all by the way she lived. Her title was not merely a fact of family structure, but something earned through years of love, admiration, and presence.

    The great ones share a similar mold. They are formed in love. Life subjects them to pressure, loss, and hardship. They pass through the crucible. They have every opportunity to harden, to close off, to become stone. But they do not. They remain soft at their center. They remain love.

    She was the mother of four children. Three daughters, Laura, Lisa, and Lorraine, and her favorite son, Robert. Near the end, I asked her, “So who is your favorite child?” Even medicated, she gave the answer only a true mother could give. She did not have a favorite child, because she had four. But she could have a favorite son.

    Aunt Lucy reminded me immediately of my own grandmother, my Yia Yia. She was someone who radiated love in ways both large and small. She would lean forward when you spoke, fully present, as if nothing else in the world mattered more than what you were saying. She chose to make you feel held.

    My grandparents died many years ago, and without discussion or ceremony, she filled that space for me. It was never spoken. It was simply who she was. People like Aunt Lucy do not announce themselves as pillars. They simply stand, and over time, everyone leans on them.

    She cared deeply for my children. She wanted to know everything. What they were doing. What excited them. She celebrated their lives as if their exploits were her own. Being around them brought her joy, and being around her gave them something they may not fully understand until much later. The quiet certainty of being loved without condition.

    She was the matriarch of her family. Even at the end, she was assigning roles, keeping order, maintaining the invisible architecture that holds a family together. She called my brother and me darling. She called the girls dolly. These were not just words. They were her words. They were her way of placing you safely within her world.

    I have vivid memories of our family vacations together, my family in law that simply became my family. We would rent houses in the Poconos or on Long Island for a week at a time. Mornings filled with quiet coffee and sunlight through unfamiliar windows, with an enlivening game of chess. Evenings filled with laughter, meals, a card game, and the simple comfort of shared presence. Those weeks now feel preserved, untouched by time.

    Watching her and Sal together was witnessing something rare. They were not just husband and wife. They were fully intertwined, as two souls who are married can strive to be. A kind of unity that only emerges after decades of shared experience, imperfectly perfect. It was beautiful to see. Something I hadn’t witnessed with my own grandparents, but something I was blessed to witness and strive for in my own life.

    They embodied the simple joy of being together. Being present. Greeting each sunrise as something new to experience side by side.

    Life was not easy for her. But life is not easy for anyone. We are all visited by loss. The more we love, the more loss visits us. It can make a person want to close their heart, to protect themselves from future pain.

    She never did.

    People like Aunt Lucy carry forward something ancient. A tone of voice. A way of caring. A standard for what family means. They become part of you without you realizing it. In the end, it’s amazing how someone you might describe as having a simpler life ends up having the most meaning and impact. Their influence moves quietly through generations.

    Just as with the death of my own parents, Christmas will now carry another absence. Another chair that will not be filled. Another voice that will not call out from across the room.

    Yet I feel peace knowing she is with the ones she loved who went before her. I imagine them together again, laughing, playing cards, resuming conversations that never truly ended. Making sure the dice are shaken in a cup.

    The casino in heaven just gained a fierce new player.

    And somewhere, she is calling someone darling.

  • The Last Holiday Show

    The Last Holiday Show

    Sunday came and I found myself getting ready, excited to attend our final Christmas show recital. It was Olivia’s last holiday performance as a senior, and it struck me all at once that seventeen years have passed in a blink. Where did all this time go? The days feel long while you’re living them, yet the years slip by before you even have a chance to catch your breath.

    All those seasons of gathering our family for the holiday show came back to me. The performance has always been something special, a bright spot that lifts my mood just as the weather turns cold and dreary. It marks the beginning of Christmas, with all its magic, love, and giving.

    She looked beautiful on that stage. I felt like the proudest father in the audience. Every routine showed how much she’s grown, how hard she’s worked, and how steadily she has become her own person. I remembered those early performances when she was small and nervous, and how each year she stepped out there with more confidence and talent. All the practices, the patience, the late nights, the dedication were visible in every movement.

    I’m grateful to my wife for the countless hours she devoted to making it all possible—practices, recitals, overnight trips—staying steady through the friendship drama, cliques, breakups, and reunions that came with growing up.

    My pride in Olivia is beyond words. I always admired the seniors who stayed committed long enough to reach that moment when they received their flowers. Watching her become one of them felt surreal. Life moves quickly, and moments like this reveal everything that mattered along the way.

    I think about how many things I never finished myself, which makes me even more grateful that my children have their own sense of follow-through. They see things through to the end. They carry a strength that feels like its own kind of blessing. Every day I feel lucky to be their father, and especially blessed to have a daughter as talented, determined, and beautiful as Olivia.

    When the show reached the March of the Wooden Soldiers, my thoughts drifted to my parents. I felt the ache of knowing they weren’t physically with us after all the years they sat in those seats cheering her on, and sometimes dozing off. They didn’t get to see her big senior moment. That ache lasted only a heartbeat before a sense of comfort settled in. I knew they were with us in their own way, watching from a place we couldn’t see, feeling pride and joy beyond anything we could imagine.

    Sitting beside my brother reminded me how grateful I am for him. He has been steady through every chapter of our lives, carrying memories only the two of us share and bringing a sense of grounding and humor that makes our family feel whole. We were still very much the little boys who grew up wrestling, laughing, and knocking into one another. He is the last piece of our original tribe, and having him there made the night feel complete.

    Our extended family filled the row around us, in-laws who have become as real and true as any blood relative. Their presence added warmth to the evening and reminded me how lucky and blessed we are to have such a circle.

    By the end of the night, I felt refilled with love. The kind that settles deep inside you long after the lights fade, quietly reminding you that every step, every year, and every moment is a beautiful mystery worth living.

  • Day Off with my Boy

    Day Off with my Boy

    A day brought to you by Miss Lil, my sweet and beautiful mother. I remember our day-off-from-school tradition, Mom, running errands together, buying a book at our corner bookstore in Danbury right next to future Walmart. We would have lunch, talk, and simply be together. Those were our special days.

    James and I had our day and kept the tradition alive. We went to the mall, stopped at Round 1, played our video games and coin pushers, and then faced off in air hockey. I eked out a win, 7 to 6. He was annoyed, but come on, give a middle-aged dad something. 😊

    We wandered the mall afterward and grabbed coffee at Barnes & Noble. The smell of books brought me right back to those afternoons with you. I still have my laminated Waldenbooks gift card. My fantasy books back then were five dollars, and you were always happy to get me one.

    I went looking for an Ethiopian Bible, of course I did, but they didn’t have one. We kept walking. On Level One, James found a video game for the Switch. I asked if he would always remember this day. He said yes without hesitation.

    It’s hard sometimes, because as much as I want to, I’ve forgotten so much. You start to feel like you’re losing the person or that you didn’t pay enough attention. But it’s just the way of being human—to forget. I’ve come to trust that when I die, it will all return: the joyous, wonderful memories, every detail. So I don’t sweat it anymore.

    I always think of that scene at the end of A.I. when the boy finally gets to spend a perfect last day with his mother. It hits harder now than ever before. He just wanted that one sacred day where he was the beloved son, being together and basking in her light.

    We headed to Buffalo Wild Wings next. They seated us like cattle waiting at the trough. I get annoyed being treated that way and rage quietly, but I stayed put; it was fine. Our waitress was clearly fighting battles greater than my imagined societal rules, so I let it go. Fifteen quick wings before the movie—spicy garlic and our family staple, salt and vinegar dry rub. They forgot our veggies, but we got them in the end. I wasn’t about to forgo included accoutrements. I am my mother’s son.

    Then came our main event, Tron: Ares at the Southbury Movie Theater, the last great local cinema around. It’s a throwback to the golden age: quiet, clean, and no nonsense. The elderly man who takes the tickets will take them until his body fails.

    I was happy to see only a handful of people in the audience, and the seats were perfectly cozy. I said, “Aren’t these seats amazing compared to when I was a kid?” James smirked, “You mean when they were wooden seats?” “No,” I said, “I’m not that old.” He laughed and said it was something Mima once said, and I told him that made sense.

    Back then our theater seats were close and stiff, with no recline, no heat. We were practically on top of one another. You had to pick your spot carefully and pray there weren’t disruptive kids in the row behind you kicking you in the back.

    We expected a complete train wreck of a movie based on a few YouTube titles, but we didn’t watch them. As Frank Costanza would say, “I like to go in fresh!” And I did. It turned out to be a fun, surprising romp through the digital world brought to life by The Dude himself, Jeff Bridges, the spectral father of 80s neon creation.

    On the drive home, we talked about the movie. I’m always struck by how similarly we think. My son is a digital reflection of me, thankfully better in every way and still uniquely himself. People say you shouldn’t be a fan of your own children, but how could you not be? How can you not be in awe of God’s creation, our own slice of heaven on earth?

    Our task as parents is to raise them, but along the way, we are the ones transformed. In guiding them, we rediscover what it means to live fully.

    “Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights.” — James 1:17

  • 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.

  • 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.