It was a cold fall day, not as frigid as the days we’re having this week, but we felt it more sorely, the chill unaccustomed after a summer of warmth and sun. Gram was babysitting us, so I couldn’t have been much older than ten or eleven. My brother and I had been outside playing in the leaves, jumping and tumbling in the piles beneath the maple trees. The chill and damp eventually got to me, so I came in for a lunch with Gram. She hovered over the warm stove after pulling a plate of leftover chicken out of the refrigerator. Stirring in some flour to a pan of melted butter, she briefly described the steps of making creamed chicken on toast, prompted by my inquisitive curiosity. Years later, I would understand that she was making a roux, the standard starter of any decent cream sauce.
She didn’t expound upon her method, mistakenly assuming I wasn’t as interested in this as I was in the later, reclusive years of Greta Garbo, but I was, and I paid attention to how she went about it. Adding some milk or cream, she stirred steadily, eventually adding the chicken and heating it through. The sauce became thicker, and she deftly toasted a pair of bread slices, buttering them just as the chicken and sauce were coming together. That butter seemed extra indulgent, but it also worked to keep the bread crunchy even with the creamy topping of chicken she spooned onto each slice.
It was a simple plate of comfort food, served by my beloved Gram on a frigid fall day. It was exactly what I needed when I didn’t even know what I needed, and I’ve kept that simple lesson with me for all these years. Nowadays, I’ll modify it for more flavor – the addition of some fresh garlic at the start, and my Mom recently mentioned she uses some celery salt when she makes it. It keeps Gram alive, and keeps us comforted on the cruelest winter days. There’s nothing fancy or excessively bombastic about its basic make-up, but much like my Gram it has its own subtle sparkle, and like her love for us, it came from the heart.
A very happy birthday goes out to my Mom today – and even in this pandemic-riddled world I hope she finds a bit of the joy and happiness that she so richly deserves. By the time this post goes up, she will have already received her gifts, so I’ll get into the slight change-up this year brings. Traditionally, I’d be gifting her with a Broadway show or something to wear to said production.
That proving impossible this year, I’ve replaced the outfit with a cashmere cowl-neck sweater, for maximum luxury and comfort while staying cozy at home, and a perfume from Henry Rose, because there’s no reason why we can’t be slightly glamorous even while home. (Henry Rose also has an environmentally-sound and friendly history, with a transparent ingredient list that is as impressive and feel-good as its end result is exquisite.) Finally, a hard-cover printing of ‘Country Flowers’ by Lee Bailey will hopefully provide some inspiration for the spring that is to come. We’ll fill it out with some flowers and knick-knacks from Faddegon’s.
My Mom has been the one to keep the family together over these last five decades, and I learned that difficult hat-trick directly from her. These days she takes good care of my Dad, a momentous act of love and devotion, something only a professor of nursing could handle with such grace and competence. I know and I see how much work that takes, so whenever I can I’ll drop off food and offer whatever I can safely offer within our current circumstances. She doesn’t need much from my end, because she’s that effective as nurse and wife and mother.
For today, though, I hope she gets to enjoy the happiness and relaxation and indulgence she doesn’t always find. I love you, Mom – Happy Birthday!
It was my Dad who unwittingly taught me how to make a good soup base. Growing up, we didn’t get any official formal training from him – he never sat us down and instructed us on the method or the amount of ingredients, but over the years I gleaned the main components – a base of chicken – bones and skin intact – a long slow cooking time, and three or four bay leaves. It was the latter that stuck with me, and is the secret to many a good soup.
Now at the age of 90, my Dad is a little more frail, so I’ve been making the soup for him. I employ his same methods, and the requisite bay leaves, though I modify it to make it ulcer and stomach friendly (turmeric is one key ingredient, while a reduced salt and acid component form another healthy dimension). Sugar snap peas and spinach add greenery and iron, while celery and carrots round out a rather basic, but tasty, soup. Salt and pepper can be used sparingly, and to taste – and even if you add a bunch there’s still less sodium you’d have if you used a store-bought stock. This easy soup constitutes a decent lunch or early dinner for winter.
Amendments to bulk it up include cooked rice or noodles, which should be added right before serving (unless you’re cooking them in the soup, which I’ve never done), or simply serve with a side of hearty bread. A good soup warms the heart, and kindles warm memories.
My Mom is on FaceBook, but she keeps it private and wouldn’t accept your friend request even if she knew how. Last night, she posted this amazing piece, which puts into words what so many people are thinking and feeling right now. I had no hand in this, remarkably, and the first time I knew of it was when it appeared on my feed. Anyway, I’m long accustomed to feeling pride in my parents and what amazing people they are, but this still moved me immensely. Thanks for speaking out, Mom.
“I am not a regular on Facebook. In fact, when my son set up my account, I thought I would never use it. For the most part that has been correct. I am a private person to a fault.
The situation in America right now is an exception. Since Trump was elected, I have been unable to call America “my country”. By that I mean that it was no longer the country that my blue-collar parents raised me to believe in. They never achieved my level of education but they had a perfect sense of the right thing to do in life. I am grateful that they taught me what that meant.
I could go on for hours about why I could NEVER support Trump but, now, that is irrelevant. I will summarize briefly. If a person is deemed, rightfully, to be a menace on Twitter, how in the universe can he be deemed safe to be left in office for a moment longer, where he has control of the nuclear codes AND has top secret clearance to access the most sensitive security matters of the United States of America? Does anyone question for a moment whether or not he would sell these secrets to the highest bidder?
Please, anyone who can contact legislators, anyone with power to put forth any and all means to support the removal of this person immediately, move forward. The security of what is left of this country is at stake in a way that has not been present in my lifetime.†– Laurel Ilagan
There are certain years when Christmas seems to mean a little more, when the previous months have been so difficult and trying that we hold a little tighter to those we love, and that has certainly been the case this year. What a tumultuous and frightening time for so many, and how much we have turned to the loved ones who mean the most to us in the hopes that we see each other through it all. Christmas and its story of love and light – birth and charity – kindness and hope – lasts but a short season, and I wish we were able to carry its goodwill and bonhomie through all of the seasons. Maybe that should be our goal for the next year.
As for this Christmas, it’s been thrown for the loop that is 2020, and we are dealing with it accordingly. We will still reach out to those we love, we just need to be safe and do it a bit differently. For my extended family that means waiting until it’s safe to reconvene outside in the spring – when we will have our big family gathering for Christmas dinner (and another go-round of gifts since we have more than earned it) out on the patio. We’ll have an early spring at the sign of the first thaw.
There is something cathartic and reassuring about having something to look forward to. As much as we try to live in the moment, my default is to have something planned just beyond the horizon, something to keep in the distance that propels us forward.
Until then, we will find our way in this new world together, celebrating from a distance, and honoring the spirit of Christmas with kindness and compassion. My heart is filled with a multitude of Christmas memories, and I hope you have a similar set of recollections to keep you warm on this day.
Merry Christmas to friends and family, near and far.
“What is Christmas? It is tenderness for the past, courage for the present, hope for the future.” ~ Agnes M. Pahro
On its surface, the main image of this year’s holiday card is a rather plain, if slightly strange, pose featuring my family. It’s also not my typical garb (I’m more Reebok than Adidas any day.) Taken with its inspiration photo, however, it gains a greater resonance, and recreating an old family photo is always a fun affair.
My Mom had sent me the original photo a few months ago, and I cracked up for days when I saw the histrionic pose I had apparently been perfecting even as a child. Ladies with an attitude, indeed. I vaguely recall this vacation – a southern trek that found us in Florida – and I remember giving this fierceness in all the photos from that trip. (You should have seen the dramatics in which I engaged at Epcot Center. There was a particularly fanciful photo taken on a fountain somewhere around Norway if I recall correctly.)
Striking a pose since 1975 hasn’t always been easy, and yet somehow I’m still managing to pull it off, thanks largely to the two people behind me here. Literally and figuratively. I realize and appreciate their support more and more the older we get. And so, in this year perhaps more than any other, with all that has happened to us as a family and as a world, this image is the one that means the most to me. I share it with you and your family, and wish you the very best for the holiday season, and for the new year.
These are the two people in the world for whom I am most thankful, not just for today, but for all the days I will be here. Mom and Dad. Two little words that universally mean love and adoration, and I am no exception to such sentiments. This year, I’m a little more thankful than I usually convey, maybe because we have all seen the way the world can turn. In the darkest times, when everything feels a little uncertain and unsure, I turn to my family for comfort and safety. In the topsy-turvy way this year has gone, we’ve had to be there for each other.
Back in September, Dad turned 90 years old, and a couple weeks after took a nasty spill on the back patio, breaking a couple of ribs and landing himself in the hospital. A tough healing process for anyone, it’s made especially so for someone in their 90’s, with all sorts of other concerns heaped upon the pain. I made daily trips to Amsterdam to spend time with him and Mom, at a safe distance in the garage, or in a mask and even further apart in the living room. In those first few days, it was frightening to see how a fall could so badly ravage a 90-year-old man. Dad didn’t have a taste for anything and wasn’t eating much. His nights were restless and disorienting, making sleep and recuperation doubly difficult, which is probably what he needed more than anything. To stimulate his appetite, I made all sorts of his favorite Filipino dishes, starting with lumpia and pancit, which he gamely tried and began to eat.
Gradually, he ate more and more. I brought over pans of babinka, and pots of adobo, along with a steady supply of more lumpia while our deep fryer was fully operational. The weather outside turned colder and crueler, but within the garage a safe cocoon of warmth and sustenance came into existence. The scent of freshly cut wood and piles of sawdust lent the space a cozy atmosphere, while candles burned and gave off little flickers of heat and light. Even, and perhaps especially, in a pandemic, family finds a way.
The Ilagans will celebrate Thanksgiving and the rest of the holidays a different way to be as safe as possible this year, and that’s ok. I think we all realize what’s really important, and for these two people I remain most thankful. Thank you, Mom and Dad.
Happy Thanksgiving to you and your families as well – enjoy them in whatever capacity you can!
Our somewhat-annual treasure hunt for the twins managed to take place in this time of COVID thanks to some clever garage and back patio staging, along with some cooperative weather. Before they arrived, I broke out the smoke machine and filled the garage with some atmospheric spookiness, accompanied by the eerie soundtrack to ‘The Day the Earth Stood Still’ – so that when they arrived the garage door opened in a puff of theatrical fog, portending the spooky Halloween aspect of the day.
Unphased by the Halloween trappings, the twins eagerly listened as I laid out the intricately-plotted outline for the day. We began with a trail of tree identification for seven different trees around the yard, coupled with a list of five objects that would cast a magic spell. We found all seven trees, as well as the list of five items – an acorn, an oak leaf, a pinecone, a green tomato and a sprig of lemon verbena – and by the time our journey rounded us back to the garage, two Halloween baskets filled with candy and treats had miraculously appeared. The spell had worked!
From there we moved to the back patio, where curtains hung from the circular canopy, closing us off from the wind. A group of candles flickered on the table lending some warmth and light. I brought out some hot cocoa, marshmallows and fresh cinnamon rolls to keep us toasty. The twins also started in on their candy, which Uncle Al allows because he’s the funnest uncle ever.
They wanted to decorate pumpkins, so we stopped at Troy’s Landscaping before our lunch at Smashburger. We found a koi pond and some cacti, then made our way to lunch.
They showed me the Smashburger pose, we ordered our meals, and made a quick stop at Starbucks for dessert.
Back in the garage, we finished up the day with some pumpkin-decorating and more marshmallows. Apparently the hottest contest right now is figuring out how many marshmallows you can fit in your mouth while still being able to recite a sentence.
It was a very good day – the longest of our treasure hunts by far. They are more talkative now, and there are more things to say, and they also have their independent streaks so I don’t need to lead absolutely everything. That said, it wiped me out. After four and a half hours, their Dad arrived to take them home, and I laid down for a two-hour nap. Next stop will be Thanksgiving, and we worked on some special name cards for that…
Pulling his yellow raincoat on and rushing out with the rest of his classmates, the boy looks up into the gray sky and feels the sting of rain. Looking further up the hill, he searches for his mother’s station wagon, always there on the days when it rains. He pulls his hood over his head and hurries the pace. The rain comes down steadily and as he reaches the top of the little hill outside school, he still cannot locate her station wagon.
Tentatively pushing forward through the rain, he is unsure whether to wait, or keep moving. Time travels differently for children. He doubles back, suddenly doubting himself, and passes the same cars he did before. She is not there. He returns to the way home, passing each car and looking down in shame and embarrassment. He’s done nothing wrong, but he doesn’t feel that way. Surely there is shame in being forgotten?
The initial flash of abandonment is replaced with a sudden prickle of anger, which is quickly subsumed by a feeling of guilt and worry – what could have happened to his mother? The worry and the stress stays with him as he walks to the end of the block and turns up the long hill that brings him closer to home. His eyes wet with rain and strain, and the nagging fear of guilt gnawing on his heart, he walks into the rain, letting the hood fall from his head, letting the rain sting his face, giving in to the dimming of the day. Halfway up the hill, his Mom’s station wagon speed into view. He gets in, wet and a bit of a mess, relieved and hurt and mad and silly. By dinner, he pretends he’s moved on to something else.
It’s strange the way hurt seeps into the soul, and it’s different for everyone. One person’s sensitivity barely registers a forgotten ride in the rain while someone else feels it so acutely it stays with them for life. First world problems, some would snarkily suggest, but if it’s your very first first world problem, and you’re only a child, who can say what scars will be wrought in the end? Who can say how deep they will run?
The most frightening moment of my life thus far was not when I let a stranger bring me back to Brandeis from Boston in a big white van, which he pulled off the road on some dark, desolate stretch of Waltham only to park and negotiate questions on when he might see me again, but when I was five or six and holding my mother’s hand in the Amsterdam Mall. I let go for a second to look at some storefront, not letting her silhouette out of my peripheral vision, and when I reached up again to the hand beside me it wasn’t my mother’s. Immediately I panicked. I didn’t see her right away, and the terror was intense. It lasted a few mere seconds – my mother didn’t even know I was gone – but the fear was instantly crushing, crippling and debilitating. When I saw her just a few feet up ahead, unaware and unconcerned with our separation, the world returned to normal, but my heart had been stricken forever. It’s something I recall vividly to this day – one of my first memories, seared indelibly on whomever I was about to become.
I’M LOSING MYSELF IN THE DARKNESS OF THE WORLD CATCH ME BEFORE I FALL SAVING MYSELF IS ALL I REALLY KNOW SEEN IT BEEN DONE BEFORE
The Fall Song of 2020 has been selected and it’s called ‘Dynasty’ by the amazing Rina Sawayama. With its familial themes and defiant streaks of rage and independence, as well as its dramatic musical bombast, this is a perfectly powerful statement in an age when families are being rendered apart thanks to things as light as politics and as deep as four-decades of mistakes and angst.
Those relationships with family members are what run the deepest, my therapist confirms after I recount a childhood memory that has haunted me for years. Almost inextricable, they have hooks that are intertwined and entangled with the entire history of a human being, conveyed from the moment of birth and running through the formative stretches of a person’s existence. They are the most difficult patterns to change, and their chasms run deeper and darker than we usually realize. Our families mark us from birth – they know our most vulnerable weaknesses, they know our most formidable powers, and if we’re lucky they only want what’s best for us. Yet it’s never quite that easy, at least not for me and mine.
“All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” ~ Leo Tolstoy
I’M A DYNASTY THE PAIN IN MY VEIN IS HEREDITARY DYNASTY RUNNING IN MY BLOODSTREAM, MY BLOODSTREAM DYNASTY AND IF THAT’S ALL THAT I’M GONNA BE WOULD YOU BREAK THE CHAIN WITH ME?
In the midst of my teenage years of turmoil, when social anxiety was heaped on the impossible fact of being gay, I was the oldest child in a family where I did everything I was supposed to do, was the perfect son in every way I knew how to be, and still felt the chill of being different and never quite belonging, sensing even then that love was contingent upon how proud I made my parents, and one wrong misstep would result in punishment or desolation. Whether or not it was all in my head is a question that creeps into my mind to this day, a lasting effect when stability is rocked, such as when you come out as gay and it’s not greeted with a hug or instant love and assurance, but rather concern and worry and the desire to keep it secret and silent.
Every dynasty has its outcasts. Every dynasty has its rebels. And every dynasty has its stars who rise above the binding shame of history and biological bonds to ascend to something they deserve. Call it survival, call it independence, call it the righteous rage that results from a person finally refusing to be anything less than beloved – the human spirit will forge a way and we will craft our own families when the ones we’re given cannot or will not play fair.
I’M GONNA TAKE THE THRONE THIS TIME ALL THE WORLD’S ALL MINE, ALL MINE IT’S BEEN WAY TOO LONG, TOO FAR TOO GONE, TO CARRY ON YOU CAN’T HIDE IT IN THE WALLS SWEEP IT UNDER MARBLE FLOORS IT’S BEEN LIVING IN OUR LIVES BEST TOLD DAMN FAMILY LIE
I remember a morning in high school, trying to rush my way out and feeling utterly defeated by something someone did or said – I don’t even remember what it was, but I remember throwing open a desk drawer, ripping out a sheet of paper, and violently scribbling in bold, black, smelly marker: ONE DAY I WILL LEAVE THIS PLACE AND NEVER COME BACK.
Every dynasty has its drama queen. I taped it to the mirror of my bathroom, hoping someone would find it, hoping someone would try to help. No one did. I took it down when I got back from school. It was still hanging there from the mirror, the same dejected face peering behind it, only the tears had dried and the rage had dissipated. I had to let go of the anger, and the notion of fairness and equity. The world was not fair or equitable. Families weren’t either.
ANYTHING YOU GET, RETURN TO DYNASTY THE PAIN IN MY VEIN IS HEREDITARY DYNASTY RUNNING IN MY BLOODSTREAM, MY BLOODSTREAM DYNASTY AND IF THAT’S ALL THAT I’M GONNA BE WOULD YOU BREAK THE CHAIN WITH ME?
Families beg for forgiveness, over and over, and if you happen to be the one who continually gets hurt, who continually must forgive and forget, it does start to feel a bit personal. You feel a bit paranoid. You wonder if it’s you, and what might set you apart from everyone else. When you’re gay, you wonder if that’s the difference, because what else could it possibly be? You’ve done everything else right, you’ve done everything else perfectly, you’ve never messed up, and still somehow you stumble enough to be the one who gets hurt.
When parents try to correct things in the past by doing better in the present, it’s rarely with the original cast, even if we’re still around, only older. Back then I didn’t see that, so I fought harder, even as I understood less.
MOTHER AND FATHER, YOU GAVE ME LIFE I NEARLY GAVE IT AWAY FOR THE SAKE OF MY SANITY HURTING INSIDE, NO END IN SIGHT PASSING IT DOWN, I’M NOT LOSING THIS FIGHT MOTHER AND FATHER, I KNOW YOU WERE RAISED DIFFERENTLY FIGHTING ABOUT MONEY AND THIS INFIDELITY NOW IT’S MY TIME TO MAKE THINGS RIGHT AND IF I FAIL, THEN I AM A DYNASTY
Every dynasty has its trials and tests, those moments when you decide whether to stay or go, whether to keep working at it or to give up and find an easier path. Every person has their own journey to take, in whatever dynasty they find themselves, and even if their family isn’t the one they would have chosen, there is no denying the bonds and the love that almost every family has at its heart. We don’t always do it well, we don’t always do it right, but we are still there, repeating some mistakes, making new ones, hoping that this time it will be better, that this time it will all work. Humans have that basic primal need – the need to belong, to be part of a tribe, to be a valued member of a family. And luckily for us, we can make our own families, because that’s what you sometimes have to do to survive.
DYNASTY THE PAIN IN MY VEIN IS HEREDITARY DYNASTY RUNNING IN MY BLOODSTREAM, MY BLOODSTREAM DYNASTY AND IF THAT’S ALL THAT I’M GONNA BE WOULD YOU BREAK THE CHAIN WITH ME?
Happily, these three favorite people of mine are still dining out and about whenever possible, and in whatever manner and means this new world demands. The featured photo is from a sunny October weekend visit to Amore Breakfast in Ogunquit, something we will look to do again possibly next year, because there is always hope. All four of us keenly felt our extended absence from Ogunquit this year – it’s been too long, and we can’t wait to return when things get back to normal, or at least into a mode of new normality.
The other photos are from a recent birthday dinner at Yono’s, which is probably our favorite Albany restaurant (tied perhaps with dp: An American Brasserie) and I put them up here to remind myself as much as anyone else the importance of family at such times. In the next few weeks, when our country tears itself apart and who knows what may come of it, I find myself retreating and relying on those who mean the most to me – the family and the friends I have made into my family – and that’s how I’m getting through it.
Luckily, I have Andy to help see us through the difficult times, and operating under a safe veil of social isolation and a quarantine-like fortress, we will batten down the hatches and hole up in our home for the fall and winter to come. We will be all right. We have to be.
How do you celebrate Thanksgiving when you have to social distance and protect the elderly and otherwise-immune-compromised in a family? You get creative and rustic, and recall what they did in epidemics of the past, all while being flexible and willing to go with the flow. Keeping all that in mind, I came up with a possible solution to the worrying question of what the Ilagan family would be doing for this Thanksgiving.
Recently, I saw a picture of a class being given during the big flu epidemic of 1918, when open-air classes were an actual thing, even in January. The students looked as fine as students in a learning situation could be, all of them bundled up and at their desks, safely distant from one another in the open-sided airiness of what looked like a glorified tent. That gave me an idea.
My parents have a decent-sized garage, with a rustic wooden interior. Two traditional doors are in the front and back, three windows let in light (and air if need be) and the main garage door opens to allow for maximum air-flow and circulation. With a couple of heat lamps, some buffed-up electrical wiring, and decorations by yours truly, we have a Thanksgiving-in-the-making that will likely be one of the more memorable on record. A single long table (or pair of long tables) will make room for social distancing, while a wall of sheer curtains will allow for air movement and a pretty screen. An abundance of candles will add light and a surprising amount of warmth to the space. Most exciting for me is the opportunity for an expanded palette of wardrobe options. The fashion possibilities of wraps and scarves and faux furs that this opens up is a gift unto itself!
Taking lemons and making lemonade is something that 2020 has certainly taught all of us, so we will be well-equipped to re-fashion our holiday celebrations this year. Depending on how this goes, we may repeat the rustic glory for Christmas. (Though we might need heavier curtains in December…)
Yesterday my Dad turned 90 years old – a milestone for a man who has slowed down a bit in recent years, but in whom there are still glimmers of the hero I idolized from the moment I came into the world. Since that was 45 years ago, and Dad just turned 90, the math means that I am the same age at which my Dad first became a father. It’s the first time I’m realizing that, and the first time I understand a little more of my childhood.
Focused mainly on his work and career in those days, Dad was busy making a good life for my brother and myself as we grew up. The idea of having a child at my age fills me with a certain sense of wariness, and when I think back to the years when our Dad was somewhat uninterested in playing or running around when he got home from a long day of work, I suddenly have a better sense of where he was at in his life, as I find myself in a similar position, and gratefully without children. Seen in that light, I have even greater respect for my Dad, who did his best even with the unruly craziness of two rambunctious boys.
I’m filled with gratitude that I get to see that now, and at his best moments I hope Dad is able to appreciate that gratitude. My Dad never really did anything that required our forgiveness, but there were times we didn’t understand his drive for work over fun – now that I’m the same age that he was when I was born, I get it. His choices were made out of love and protection, and a keen foresight to plan for the future. That’s the mark of a good father. I understand that now.
When I was a little kid, one of the best things I got to do was crawl into the bed between my Mom and Dad if I’d had a nightmare or was freaking out about bugs being in my bed (oh, the joys of sleeping with me). Most children have the same experience: the supreme safety and coziness of sleeping next to your parents, when no matter what worries or concerns you have about school or friends or siblings, simply waking up with the two people who love you unconditionally makes everything better.
Back then, my parents felt invincible, larger-than-life, and perfect in every single way. Before the light crept in, and before Dad got up to get ready, he would shift and slowly stretch his legs, raising each one up and down, slowly and methodically, working out the cracks and snaps, twisting slightly to stretch every muscle. He would do the same with his arms. Unaware of my observance, he went through this routine before he got going every morning, and it stuck with me. My Dad was doing his part to keep active and fit, and it was a lesson that has stayed with me to this very day.
It’s also something I think of when I see him slowing down, when his body is no longer able to do what it used to do. I want to see him keep going, to push himself to stay active. I write him letters imploring him to walk every day, reminding him that a little discomfort and muscle ache now might lead to a prolonged health and ability to keep moving later on. The way children and parents switch roles is an accepted way of life, and we all go through it in our own manner. I hope I’m doing some justice to the way in which Dad taught me so much.
For his age, he’s in remarkable shape, and there are still those moments when his eyes alight and he looks and engages like he is is his forties again and I’m a little kid, soaking in all his wisdom and heroism.
On this Father’s Day, I honor my Dad and all that he’s done for me, and for our family, for all these years. We get to have a outside visit, in this changed new world, and hopefully spend some more time together in the coming months.
We also remember Andy’s Dad, whose birthday was yesterday, because Father’s Day is about those we have lost too. Good Dads never stop watching over us.
Our recollection of Mother’s Days that came before continues with this concluding post of previous Broadway weekends. Theater, shopping, dining out, and simply spending time with Mom are happy events taken on their own – combined they are a bit of magical alchemy that lent such joy to our trips. The look back continues with the last three years of outings.
Suzie was back for one of our dinners this time, as was her Mom Elaine, so it was a triple Mother’s Day extravaganza, as I was the only non-mother at the table. (I’ve been hailed as a different kind of Mother, and I’m talking MoFo.) Over the course of the weekend, we saw ‘Hamilton‘, ‘To Kill A Mockingbird‘ and ‘The Cher Show’. A little bit of everything basically.
Thinking back on all these wonderful times leaves me with a pang of sadness that things are so different right now, yet there is such happiness and love in all these memories that they will see us through until we can make new ones. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you.
The calamity that is 2020 ended up canceling this year’s Mother’s Day Weekend on Broadway, making this pair of posts the closest we’ll be getting to the stage in quite some time. Originally we had tickets for both parts of ‘The Inheritance’, ‘Jagged Little Pill’, ‘The Minutes’ and ‘Six’. That’s quite a lot of dashed dreams, but such is the price of being safe so we’re not complaining. And while social distancing has kept Andy and I from properly seeing Mom and Dad since mid-March, I sent her a Mother’s Day gift box (fully sanitized of course) in the snail-mail which has already been delivered. With that, I wish her a very Happy Mother’s Day, and with this we’ll take a moment to look back at what we’ve done over the last few years.
Since we have some time, here’s a detailed and link-filled revisiting of our previous Broadway jaunts, all of which are filled with happy memories and wonderful recollections. We’ve been doing this off and on since the 90’s (see the photo below, taken the first time we saw ‘Sunset Boulevard’ in its original Broadway run in 1995). Our Broadway tradition has taken hold as a Mother’s Day mainstay, one that we’ll miss this time around, but we’ll make it up in different fashion sometime in the future.
