Toby Goodshank Original Art 2025

Life with Chicken and Broccoli

Tag: writing

  • Review: Duff Beer Garden, Universal Studios Florida

    Review: Duff Beer Garden, Universal Studios Florida

    Tucked along the side of the road as you meander through the Simpsons area of Universal Studios Florida, Duff Beer Garden feels like a little oasis in the middle of the park. It is not fancy, and it is not trying to be. It is a simple place to stop, cool down, have a drink, and take in the strange joy of being inside a real life version of Springfield.

    Growing up with The Simpsons, I watched Homer drink Duff Beer for years. Somewhere deep inside, probably at the subconscious level, it made me want to drink Duff Beer too. Then, finally, I got my chance.

    They have Duff Regular and Duff Light, and in the fall they usually have Duff Oktoberfest. I normally get the Light, and it is a nice draft beer. Without all the fanfare and Simpsons nostalgia, you probably would not think twice about it, but that is also part of the fun. You are standing in Springfield, drinking a Duff Beer, watching old Simpsons clips, and for a few minutes it just works.

    But what makes this place special for us is not really the beer. It is the bartender we met a few trips back, named Demar.

    I love watching a well run business, and before we even spoke to him, I noticed how well Demar worked. He was the superlative of a bartender. The bar usually has about three bartenders, and it gets busy quickly with people coming over for a cold beer. They also sell pretzels and corn dogs, although I do not think I have actually seen anyone eat one.

    What stood out to me was Demar’s speed, consistency, and command of the bar. He knew every combination of every order and exactly what it cost, including the tax. At one point, the other two bartenders went on break, and he had the whole bar to himself. That would be daunting for anyone, especially outside in the hot Florida weather, but he just kept moving. He had a knee brace on at the time and still kept cranking along, explaining the differences between the beers, ringing people up, calling out exact totals, and doing it all with almost robotic, lightning fast efficiency.

    But the impressive part was that he was not just fast. He was kind, friendly, and completely present with people. That is not easy to do when there is a line, the sun is beating down, and everyone wants something at the same time. He made it look easy.

    After a few trips, he remembered us, and that changed the whole feel of the place. It stopped feeling like we were just walking up to a theme park bar and started feeling like we were visiting someone we were genuinely happy to see. As my family sat around and hung out, we began to talk with him, and over time we developed a friendship.

    We had a lot of similar interests, and there was something almost reminiscent of Tom Cruise in Cocktail about him. He had ideas, investments, big dreams, and plans for where he wanted to go in life. That is one of the things I really respect about him. He was not just standing behind the bar pouring drinks. He was working hard, thinking ahead, and building toward something bigger.

    Now, part of the retirement plan at Universal is getting a fully loaded jacketed baked potato and making our way over to Duff Beer Garden for an excellent mixed drink or the occasional Duff Light. We sit there, let the gentle breeze carry the day away, rewatch old Simpsons cartoons, and hang out with our friend.

    That is what makes places like this special. It is not always the menu, the theming, or even the drink in your hand. Sometimes it is the people you meet along the way who become part of the tradition. Duff Beer Garden could have just been a quick stop for a cold beer in Springfield. Because of Demar, it became one of our favorite places to return to.

    Review Score: 9.5 out of 10
    Rating: Duff Worthy

  • The Greatest Thing He Ever Built

    The Greatest Thing He Ever Built

    We all knew that when Aunt Lucy passed, it would not be long before Uncle Sal joined her. It is deeply saddening to understand that and to watch it unfold, especially for the children who so desperately want more time with their parents. But it is not about us, nor is it within our power, to stop a choice like that, even when we do everything we can to hold it back. Reflecting now on my own parents, I know it was in God’s hands, and I trust in that always. More than that, I am thankful for this beautifully poetic example of marriage, the union of two souls so completely entwined that one could not remain here for long without the other.

    I am deeply grateful for Uncle Sal. We had a special relationship. I say sincerely that he was the grandfather I never had but always wanted. Some family members may have thought I was simply being gracious by spending so much time talking with him, but our relationship was never about sympathy. We were kindred spirits. We were both curious, both drawn to what other people thought, and so we asked each other questions endlessly. Big questions, small questions, and everything in between. Government, work, finances, marriage, children, purpose. We were both smart enough to understand how much we did not know, and excited by the chance to hear the other speak. There was no ego in it, only humility and a real desire to listen, to think, to be surprised, and to stand amazed at life.

    Uncle Sal understood his purpose with a kind of quiet clarity. He had found something so many people miss while trying to play the game of life by other people’s rules. He learned long ago that life is malleable, and so he made his own rules. Then, like a piece of wood in his hands, he shaped them and refined them until they became simple and true. He found a way to win each day, and because of that he was able to be present in the moment and enjoy his life. All the little things we are meant to cherish and appreciate, he did.

    I think we both loved not knowing almost as much as knowing. There was joy in discovery, in mystery, in hearing a new thought and turning it over together. He was a Renaissance man in the truest sense, interested in everything around him. He wanted to learn, to experience, and to play in the world. He always described himself as simple and uneducated in his self deprecating way, but his curiosity made him so much more. He was an artist, a musician, a tinkerer, and a space explorer. He spoke Italian and English, played chess, loved nature, and was an avid walker. There was far more depth in him than he ever gave himself credit for.

    He was a carpenter by trade, but even more by passion. He loved wood, loved working with his hands, and loved making something lasting and beautiful out of what the world had given him. He was always building, always creating, always shaping something for someone else. An Uncle Sal work of art. A fully articulating standing clock. Wood inlay paintings. The family elves he made for us, each one with a Christmas name from a different language. The time he got lost and scared his family because he had pulled off to the side of the road for hours to paint a beautiful vista that had caught his eye. His hands were never still for long because his heart was curious and always ready to play.

    And for all the things he made with his hands, the greatest thing he ever built was a life rooted in love. He taught me, and reminded me, that the simplest things in life are the greatest things. And none was greater to him than his love for his wife and family. He looked upon Lucy as an angel. Always. I never heard him complain. I never heard him ask for more. I never heard him wish for some different road. He loved as we are all meant to love, selflessly, freely, without keeping score, and without asking for anything in return. His advice on a successful marriage that lasts was simple. He would say, “I work hard and hand over my paycheck to Lucy, no questions asked.” His was an endless well, overflowing with devotion, tenderness, and grace.

    I think often of John 14 and Jesus’ promise to prepare a room for us in His Father’s house. I can picture Sal arriving there and being shown to his room, plain and simple at first, sparse and untouched. But he would know immediately that there are no limits now. No constraints. No weakness in the body. No shortage of time. And so he would begin. He would reshape that room into something only he could imagine, some great woodworking cathedral filled with the richest woods, carved and polished into magnificence. The walls and ceilings would soon be covered in inlaid scenes of nature, heaven, and earth. Beauty rising everywhere under his hands. He would run out of room quickly and begin working into the hallway. By the time the rest of us arrive, I would not be surprised if Jesus Himself had to move into another house just to make space for all that Sal had created.

    So now, as he leaves this world, I do not think of loss alone. I think of gratitude. I think of laughter, questions, wood shavings on the floor, and the quiet strength of a man who understood what mattered. He lived simply, loved deeply, and left beauty wherever he went. And though we will miss him here in ways words cannot hold, I trust that heaven has already placed tools in his hands and love all around him. More than this, my heart rejoices that he will be reunited with his love and finally know peace.

  • Aruba with Friends

    Aruba with Friends

    Aruba with friends was a long time coming and a long time in the making.

    I have always felt that traveling with other people usually comes with a certain amount of friction. A few issues. A few inconveniences. A little nonsense here and there. That just seems to be part of the deal whenever multiple families, multiple personalities, and multiple rhythms try to move together in one place.

    But Aruba, at least to me, is one of those rare places that almost cannot be ruined.

    The trade winds do something magical there. They seem to blow through every irritation before it can take root. They lift heaviness off the day. They carry away tension before it has the chance to settle in. Everything feels lighter there. Easier. Softer around the edges.

    And somehow, this trip turned out even better than I imagined.

    Maybe that is part of getting older. You slowly begin to understand that the real treasures in life are not places at all, but people. Even the most beautiful setting in the world becomes a little less beautiful if there is no one beside you to witness it. Paradise without companionship is still lovely, but it is incomplete. There is a deeper joy in sharing adventures with people you love.

    That is what this trip felt like.

    There is something almost childlike in introducing people you care about to a place that already means something to you. It is like watching your children open presents on Christmas morning. Your own joy is there, of course, but it is magnified by theirs. You get to experience the gift twice. Once as your own memory, and once again through the delight of someone else discovering it for the first time.

    Aruba is a place where you do nothing, and somehow that becomes everything.

    So much of life at home is motion. Constant motion. We are always going somewhere, planning something, fixing something, driving someone, checking a calendar, answering a message, or moving on to the next obligation. Life can begin to feel like an endless list of duties, even when it is full of blessings.

    And then Aruba interrupts all of that. What are we doing today? Nothing.

    We walk. We eat. We sit in the pool. We sit on the beach. We drift and bob in the ocean. We talk about everything and anything. Like Kevin Malone, we dream big and then we double it. We let the wind touch our faces and the sun warm our skin. There are no real plans. No excursions. No need to fill the hours so we can say we made the most of them. No bikes. No quads. No party buses.

    Of course, people can do all of that if they want to. Many do. But for me, the great secret of Aruba is that if you try too hard to conquer it, you miss what it is trying to give you.

    To sit there for hours, almost like a ten hour meditation in the sun, while the wind moves over you again and again, as if it is trying to smooth out the inner life you brought with you. The point is to relax so deeply that you begin to remember who you are underneath all the rushing. To let the moment be enough.

    After enough hours like that, you begin to wonder why anyone ever leaves a place once they find it. Or maybe, more honestly, you begin to wonder why the rest of life cannot feel this simple.

    What also made this trip so special was the kind of people we were with.

    There was no competition between us. No subtle scorekeeping. No trying to outdo one another. No performance. Just families trying to grow well together. Just people trying to raise their children with love, attention, and presence. Just friends trying to build lives that carry forward the good things they were given as children, while hopefully making those lives even a little better for the ones coming after them.

    It matters to be with people who understand that being present is more important than being impressive. People who care about the texture of family life. People who know that the small moments are often the big ones in disguise.

    We also do not judge each other, and that matters more than people realize. If one family wants to do their own thing for a while, that is fine. If someone wants more beach and someone else wants more pool, that is fine too. There is no resentment, no weird pressure, and no keeping score. Everyone should be allowed to enjoy the trip in their own way and find out what doing nothing looks like for them.

    Maybe that is part of why it worked so well. The right place, the right people, and the right expectations.

    In the end, that is what made Aruba with friends so good. Not just the island itself, but getting to share it with people we care about in a way that felt easy, natural, and right. Sometimes it takes a long time for things to come together. Sometimes the group gets smaller. Sometimes plans fall away before the right one finally takes shape.

    And maybe that is how it was supposed to happen.

    Because once we finally got there, it felt simple. It felt peaceful. It felt like one of those experiences that reminds you what actually matters.

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • The Playoffs

    The Playoffs

    Driving down to our playoff game, the mood in the car is relaxed. So much has changed since we started our travel, competitive AAU baseball journey, even since last fall. Back then, we were a new team, a group of kids coming together from the western side of Connecticut with a few New York drop-ins. No single town was overly represented; we were all looking to get away from the small-town Babe Ruth baseball we’d played for the last five years and find something grander.

    It’s hard to describe your emotional state as a spectator and parent on the sideline. It’s like having your heart walk out of your chest and start hitting and catching balls. You pray, hope, and will things to happen from the fence, wishing to see your kid succeed in their own effort while keeping the team’s momentum alive. It really is an emotional roller coaster that you do your best to keep hidden as you coolly post up on the side of the fence.

    Our feelings that day were subdued, a kind of quiet solitude going into the game. We’d had an amazing season, only really facing a few defeats. The Patriots were the number one seed in our division or group, whatever you want to call it. When we beat them earlier in the season, it seemed they thought it was a fluke, a one-off their coach told them to shrug off.

    I remembered one of their fathers from a previous spring or summer game bragging about how his son was so talented that everyone wanted him on their team. He said that this wasn’t even his son’s “real” team, that it was the level below, and on that day, they beat us. He was the kind of dad who knew everything about everything, his sideline gear manufactured by pretension. He was a John Kreese type who expected victory, preached “Mercy is for the weak,” and could imagine punching through a car window if his son failed.

    Now we were playing his son’s team — the A team, the gold or diamond-level best. I hadn’t forgotten, because that kind of peacocking surety in a game of probabilities leaves a stink you don’t forget.

    We got off to a great start, two runs batted in, momentum on our side. Our pitching was superb, and we closed the first inning up 2–0. That held until the third inning, when two quick outs were followed by an error that let in two runs. We’ve never been the kind of team to rally with two outs, and we always seemed to face teams that did.

    We escaped the inning tied 2–2, but then the errors came, and we couldn’t hit anymore. The tie turned to 2–4, then another run came in. You could feel the momentum shift. The other team’s parents, whose voices somehow sounded like nails on a chalkboard, started chirping, and I walked down the line muttering a few expletives to myself.

    We entered the seventh inning down 2–5 but starting with the top of our lineup. I was restrained but hopeful. It was our best shot, though being down three runs felt heavy. James singled on a line drive to center, and we had a man on base. A dash of energy stirred as Will hit a fielder’s choice to second. Thankfully, James stayed up instead of sliding, and the baseman couldn’t complete the double play. One out.

    Up next, Joe hit a clean single down the line, putting runners on first and second. Our big hitter, Liam, stepped up. The stars aligned; the outfield was playing too shallow, and he crushed one to left that rolled to the fence. Two runs were scored, and now it was 4–5.

    They changed pitchers. Casey was hit by the new hurler and took a base. Runners on first and third. Keegan smacked one down the line, bringing Liam home and tying the game. Our runner advanced to second. Two outs. Tommy came up to bat and knocked a solid hit to left, bringing Casey home. 6–5, Rangers Black.

    We just had to hold them for one more at-bat.

    Then, like Maximus fighting the northern tribes, Will unleashed hell from the mound. Three pitches, three strikes, one out. The second out came from Kai making a ground play to first. Now two outs, no runners. The parents were burning up in the cool forty-five-degree air. We were doing all the chirping now. Their last batter popped one up, and Tommy charged in for a tough catch to close it out.

    It felt incredible. Even as I write this, I can feel the energy again — the kids shouting and sprinting toward one another. A hard-fought victory, not just over their opponent but over themselves. They learned what it means to stay calm, stay focused, and win through mindset as much as skill.

    As we drove home, the energy of the game still filled the car. We replayed the moments, analyzed the plays, and basked in the joy of his experience. All the gripes about playing on a cold Sunday night an hour from home disappeared, and even the smell of his cleats couldn’t touch this high. For one night, this was our World Series, and nothing on TV could compare to the greatness we felt out there under the lights.

  • 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