As is often the case, the end of the year has me doing a bit of a retrospective, but probably more so than usual, with the kid in the midst of her senior year. Much of my life revolves around her and her mother, but some of these are personal experiences, too, as we prepare for life as college parentals, wherever that may be lead. And that’s a great place to start.

1. The senior year — For the last several years, autumn has been dominated by football and marching band —  trips to far off locations in rural Pennsylvania on Friday nights, often followed by trips to equally remote locales on Saturdays. From late August to late November, we barely have a moment to catch our breaths. This season, obviously, was particularly bittersweet. The kid mentioned last week she was closer to the end of the school year than the beginning. She’s ready, who wouldn’t at her age? But we’d be happy if it slowed down a little.
2. Selling our house — We are determined to downsize when the kid goes to college, and once a decision is made on one of her top two locations, to head somewhere nearby. As anyone who has gone through the process can tell you, selling a house can dominate your life. From the moment you put it on the market, you are giving up a claim to your personal space. Our home holds a lot of memories for us, but I think all three of us are ready to put those memories where they belong and move on to the next place.
3. The kid’s musical escapades — One of my fondest memories will definitely be the kid’s role in the spring high school musical: Seussical. The kid was cast as Sour Kangaroo, and she nailed it. For the initiated, the role is sort of Aretha Franklin-esque. No surprise, she also was the featured vocalist for the high school jazz band, and for this lifelong jazz musician and singer, it hit me right in the feels. Now, I know you’ll think I’m biased, but that kid has more talent in her little finger than I’ve managed to muster in 40-odd years. She’s the lead in “Annie Get Your Gun” this spring — I can’t wait!
4. Cape Cod — In late spring/early summer, we spent a week in Cape Cod. A college visit in New Haven, a brief stop at Mystic, and an afternoon in Fall River to see the PT Boats (which my Grandpop served on in the Pacific in WWII) at Battleship Cove on the way up was the icing on the cake. Good food, memorable experiences, and time well spent together. How you know it was a good trip? The kid asked if we can go again this summer.
5. Sauce Boss — It only took 25(?) years, but I finally saw the Sauce Boss live. The key ingredient to a Sauce Boss show, besides the blistering music, is the pot of gumbo he cooks on the stage while playing. Everyone gets to share in the goodness at the end of the night. Maybe twice a year he would come up out of Florida and play somewhere near where I was living, but for a variety of reasons I was never able to see him.An amazing player and showman, and a gracious man off the stage as well. All due respect to my significant. Most bucket list artists play arenas or large concert halls, mine plays a small bar in rural Maryland. She didn’t seem to mind.
6. Golf — This year I finally managed to play golf on an almost weekly basis. I couldn’t tell you why I love golf — it is intensely frustrating, and I am not particularly good at it — but, if I get out early enough, I can play by myself, get around in an hour and 15 minutes, and be back in my office with plenty of time to get my work done for the day. I may not have improved any, but it’s therapeutic. I’ve even hooked the significant (spoiler — she’s a trash talker!)

 
It wasn’t all fun and games, but with some much change waiting in the wings, we made a lot of great memories. What more could I ask? I hope for the same for you and yours. Onward to 2020! 

I hate getting sick. The coughing, the sneezing, the wild temperature swings, all of it. 

That hardly makes me unique, I’m sure. I doubt anyone goes around bragging how much they like to get sick, but I like to think my dislike is special.

Hey, I’m sick. You can grant me that, right?

It surprised me, getting sick this early in the winter. I’m blaming it on working by myself at home the majority of the time.

Back in the day, riding public transportation, constantly crossing paths with people carrying the plague, I think I built up a decent resistance. Sure, there was always some point in the year when I’d get hammered by whatever was going around, but for the most part, I developed an iron constitution.

But, after a year of mostly working solo at home, I feel like I lost that superpower and I’m far more susceptible to what’s out there. Maybe not to the point of being John Travolta living in a bubble, but maybe Dustin Hoffman/Rene Russo “Outbreak” toxic levels. 

I go out one time last week and I catch the death flu. Or a mild cold. Whatever.

I know when I’m coming down with something, too. I wake up every day with a sore throat, but if it hasn’t gone away by morning coffee, I know it’s only a matter of time before the nastiness sets in. The dread builds in me throughout the day, but I’m guessing it is probably nothing near the level of dread that my girl feels when she hears me say the words, “I think I’m getting a cold.”

Now, I always thought I’m a pretty good patient. Stiff upper lip, muddle through and all that. According to her, however, I’m the worst. A moaning, groaning, pain in the whatzit.

That can’t be right. Can it?

I’ve given quite a bit of thought to the cause of this difference of opinion, and I’m pretty sure that has something to do with the her having been a mom.

For me, getting sick meant shutting down for a few days to rest and recuperate. Sure, I’d drag myself to work, we all have to do that, but when I’m home, that means park in bed or in front of the TV and put off chores until I’m “back on my feet.”

Bear with me, I know I’m on dangerous ground. 

You see, I think when we are under the weather, we guys revert to what we remember about being sick as a kid. Skipping school, resting on the couch or in bed, daytime TV — morning shows, game shows, cartoons — occasionally being looked in on to make sure we hadn’t actually developed something life threatening. 

Mom, of course, never gets that option. Sick or not, her work never takes a break. Families still need to be looked after and taken care of. Even now, with the kids mostly out of the house, as much as I try to pitch in, putting her feet up really isn’t in her DNA.

So, when I’m sick, that just adds one more to the list of those who need to be looked after, and wrapping ourselves in a blanket and parking ourselves in front of the television probably isn’t appreciated.

So, rationally, I get it. I really do. But that doesn’t help when I’m looking for a little unearned sympathy (cough, cough).

I spent the weekend freezing my tail off.

For those who have followed this space, you know that’s not one of my favorite things to do, but it was all for a good cause — helping my significant with her stall at a traditional Christkindlmarkt.

For the uninitiated, a Christkindlmarkt is a street market associated with the celebration of Christmas during the four weeks of Advent. Christkindlmarkt originated in Germany, but now are celebrated worldwide.

I’m predominantly Irish, but a bit of a mutt, and German plays a big part of my background. So a celebration of Christmas with delicious sausages, nuts, beer and Glühweinis right up my alley.

For some reason, throughout my life I seem to get caught up in these weekend long events. Had work, long hours and good times. The Christkindlmarkt was a wonderful way to get into the Christmas spirit — but it was cold! That kind of creeping cold that works its way into your bones that takes hours to warm up from. Even with a great bonfire to warm ourselves by, I think I’m still thawing out.

I spent most of my time hanging out by the Biergarten, ladling out hot steaming cups of Glühwein— spiced, mulled wine that might otherwise be known as a “cup of cheer” — and, of course, German beer. Hofbräu, to be precise —the first beer I ever had, now so many years ago, in Munich.

In a way, volunteering to sling beers was the fulfillment of a life-long ambition. I always thought I’d have made a pretty good bartender. For one thing, it is in my genetics. I think in particular of an old family photo I can across of some of my relatives behind a bar just after the end of prohibition. Plus, as a journalist, I’m can be a pretty good listener.

This setting was perfect — plenty of time to interact with the clientele without having to worry about the darker side of serving — enforcing the rules and handling the rowdies my girlfriend’s bartender son talks about so much.

The majority of my fellow volunteers were much younger than me, but that’s ok. I’m becoming more and more used to that, and I thought I was “hanging” pretty well with the kids.

Leave it to my generation to burst my bubble.

Chatting with a customer who was clearly closer to my age than theirs, she wanted to pass along a story that was a little risqué. Pointing to the younger gentlemen around me, she checked if “they were old enough” to hear it.

We all had a good chuckle.

Then she pointed at me and said, “I know you are old enough, Dad.”

Ouch. Now THAT’s what I call cold.

Not sure how it happened. One moment, you’re flying high, in the prime of life, and the next, you’re suddenly the old guy at the bar wearing the sansabelt slacks and trying to hang with the kids.

Of course, when I related the story back home, everyone had a good laugh at my expense. And I probably deserved it. We all need to be cut down to size now and then.

Besides, she always said she kept me around because I made her laugh, so I guess that means we can chalk one up for the good guys.