It has been quite a few years since I was able to spend Father’s Day with my dad. That doesn’t mean we didn’t celebrate but living in another state the celebration tended to be a little more virtual in recent years.
 
In fact, even in his Pennsylvania county that is finally just emerging from shutdown, we managed to get out for a dinner we didn’t have to eat at home or in the car.
 
I guess that’s what made this year so special — against the backdrop of our shared experience this spring — this was the year we got to celebrate together.
 
This year’s visit was especially poignant, as last weekend was likely the final time I’d be inside the house I grew up in. Dad moves to his new home in Florida in the next couple of weeks.
 
As expected, it was bittersweet. 
 
By no means do I begrudge my father for moving. For one thing, it is necessary for his health, and for another, two stories on two acres of ground is more than someone living on their own should have to manage unless they really want to.
 
I should know. I never did, and I made clear several years ago that while I have many good memories of the place, I simply was not interested in the upkeep. I’d like to think that decision made it possible for my dad to consider the move.
 
But that doesn’t mean there wasn’t a flood of emotions saying goodbye to the place that, built for us, has been in my family for nearly 45 years.
 
No room was unchanged from the time when I moved out in the early 1990s (my room, for example, became my dad’s office before my furniture had made it up the ramp into the truck). But the bones were the same. The trees around the property, those I didn’t accidently whack with the lawn mower in my youth, were the same. 
 
Looking across the neighboring two yards, where a couple of my closest friends and I played while growing up, I could see countless football and baseball games. Trees we had climbed. Hills we had sledded on. And so many other things we had done.
 
My mind’s eye could still see the chickens and hunting beagles that the farmer next door, who had once owned the entire property our neighborhood was built on, kept in the back corner. He is long gone now, but I still have fond memories of him telling me to grab my wagon because the corn he grew was ready for picking.
 
I could see my mom working in her flower beds, keeping house, or in the family room where she’d be taking a quick break to watch her soaps when I’d get home from school. Cold cuts and board games with my grandparents, or my dad and grandpop working on some project in the yard. And, so many holidays our little family gathered around the dining room table.
 
I have many friends and reasons to go back to my home town, but I can’t imagine going back to the old neighborhood. That house, like those of my childhood friends, will soon belong to someone else. So, in a few quiet moments Sunday morning, I took some photos, talked to a few ghosts and said my goodbyes.
 
Letting go is never easy. I’ll miss having the “Motel Six” to return to — particularly when I have to pay for a real hotel. But, more important, it was a happy home full of wonderful memories. So much of that was thanks to the man who worked so hard to provide it to us.
 
Thanks. Happy Father’s Day.

This weekend we did something some will find controversial. We went away for a long weekend.
 
Most of us probably have the same assortment of friends and contacts on social media: Those who want to get back to the way things were as of yesterday, those who believe any opening without a treatment or vaccine is crazy, and those of us in between who believe in remaining vigilant, but acknowledging we can’t stay home forever.
 
We all have our reasons to believe what we do, and we all have the right to those beliefs. That right is what makes this nation great, so long as we don’t impose our beliefs on others.
 
We’re I to classify myself, I’d fall in the “can’t stay home forever” group. For one thing, I need to earn money. Without it, I’ll be on the streets, and I’m not the only one in that boat. The economy must function, and I’m simply not someone who believes business failures are just part of the price for this situation.
 
For another, this isn’t going away. Perhaps it will spread less in summer, but we don’t know. Maybe there will be a treatment, the folks at Oxford seem to have hit on something, but who knows? A vaccine? A year if we are lucky. We can’t sit and wait for a year or two. So, for me, that means it’s time to start getting back out in the world.
 
When we moved out of home in February, we promised ourselves a weekend away. It would be the first time we’d been away on our own in a couple of years. Obviously, the lockdowns changed those plans, but with businesses starting to reopen, we seized on the opportunity to escape to the water. 
 
Risky? Some may see it that way. Certainly, even after months of living with COVID-19, we seem to know very little about it. Thus, we took plenty of precautions. We wore masks. We used sanitizer. We kept to ourselves and maintained distance. 
 
We also ate out, stayed in a hotel, and took a boat cruise.
 
All of this was in Maryland, which was among the more cautious states to reopen its economy (here in West Virginia, we have been at this stage for several weeks).
 
Everywhere we went, employees took their own precautions while showing patience and understanding with the new way of doing things to comply with state regulations, and everyone seemed happy to be able to get back to work, help the businesses they worked for and to interact with the people again.
 
A couple of places even had live music, and it felt good to hear musicians, who have been hit so hard by these circumstances, being able to get back to work.
 
From our point of view, the new rules presented their challenges. Certainly, there were longer lines, capacity issues, typical human-based frustrations, and some places remain closed. But, in the end, the weather was beautiful, we had some delicious food and drinks, amazing experiences and plenty of relaxation time.
 
I don’t think our decision was particularly cavalier, and I say that knowing there are people in my family who fall into the at-risk categories. In the end, each of us is going to have to weigh that decision for ourselves, based on what we are capable of doing  and what we believe is necessary for our families. 
 
For my family, both close and extended, we were comfortable with getting back out there. Responsibly.

I don’t think it is a reach to say that for many of us, 2020 has been a bummer.
 
Stuck at home, restrictions on shopping and eating, no sports, we are now almost at the midway point of the year and it seems most of us are spinning our wheels getting out of the gate.
 
That said, I can’t think of anyone who has it worse than this year’s crop of high school seniors, and for that, I have had a front-row seat.
 
The late winter and spring of this year originally would have been a celebration of all things the kid was involved in. I was particularly looking forward to jazz band and the spring musical. A culmination of all her achievements through four years of high school, and a lifetime in the school district.
 
The kids, bless ‘em, have made their own arrangements (My favorite is the “morp” — their replacement for their canceled prom).  Still, it is particularly hard for we adults. This was the youngest — the last one — for my girlfriend, and the only one for me. Even trying to stay objective, it is hard not to feel robbed, and it isn’t even “about” us. 
 
The class of 2020 was born in the wake of 9/11, at the beginning of our forever wars and now graduates during a pandemic against the backdrop of protests.
 
Compounding the issue is Pennsylvania’s agonizingly slow emergence from lockdown restrictions. Oh, the school district is trying its best. It held a virtual senior awards presentation, a virtual baccalaureate. Unique, maybe, but not special moments shared with friends and family.
 
Friday night, however, the district and the town both nailed it by holding a parade for the class of 2020.
 
It was the real deal. Streets closed down by police, fire department escort, and each family had the opportunity to decorate their car and drive their senior through town in cap and gown. And parents didn’t disappoint, many bringing out their classics or whatever was available to make the experience special.
 
Happily, having a convertible, I was able to put the kid on center stage. With graduation limited to 10 students at a time and only two family members permitted (a place rightfully reserved for her mom and dad), acting as the chauffer was an honor.
 
I couldn’t help having The Beatles singing “Drive My Car” in my head while we passed through town. And the residents stepped up, with friends and neighbors, families and teachers lining the streets to cheer on the class of 2020. They marveled at how much fun they were having, how they could see the students from the comfort of their front yards and how they didn’t have to bake in the sun listening to speeches. 
 
I think it probably felt good for everyone to celebrate the achievements of the seniors after being shut away for so long, and I know it must have felt pretty amazing to be on the receiving end of all of that as well.
 
More than a few of us were thinking after the parade it could be the start of something big. What better legacy for this amazing group of young people than the beginning of a new annual tradition?
 
Something worth consideration. For now, congratulations, class of 2020!