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Our First Christmas Tree

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  Ramblings of a Retired Mind Our First Christmas Tree When I married a fallen Catholic, I quickly learned that Christmas comes with a rulebook—one that is invisible, ironclad, and absolutely nonnegotiable. My wife’s family is wonderfully complicated and just scattered enough to make every holiday an exercise in logistics. She has four sisters and one brother, and every single one of them had their own Christmas traditions. Separate celebrations. Separate locations. No exceptions. So when her brother announced he’d be bringing his family up from South Carolina to spend Christmas in Chicago, my wife made what seemed like a perfectly reasonable suggestion: “Could we all celebrate together, just this once?” The answer was swift and unanimous. No. Since her brother and his family would be staying with us, I figured they deserved a proper Christmas—tree, lights, the whole deal. The problem was simple: we had never had a Christmas tree. Ever. “Well,” I said, “let’s get one. We’l...
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  Ramblings of a Retired Mind Can I Change? The question hit me today: Can I really change? A simple inquiry, yet somehow endlessly complicated. I’ve always believed that part of our purpose in life is to keep learning, seek new experiences, and grow. But for all its importance, change is hard—much harder than I like to admit. Some days it feels as though I’m living in a permanent state of self-renovation. This drive toward self-improvement shows up everywhere. There are the shifts I know I need to make, and the personal adjustments I owe my wife. Then there are the subtle behavioral tweaks—the ones that affect friendships and everyday interactions. The feedback I receive is rarely cushioned: “Bob, you’re talking too much.” “Stop interrupting me!” Statements delivered with the sting of inconvenient accuracy. Still, I’m willing to put in the work. I’ve changed before, even when I fought it at first. For years, I terrified passengers with my driving, brushing off their ...
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  Ramblings of a Retired Mind The Glance A Year of Change The year I turned twenty was a trying one. I was studying History with a Pre-Law minor at Roosevelt University in Chicago. My sister was on the verge of graduating from the University of Illinois. With both of us grown and busy, my parents decided it was time for one last family vacation . Two years earlier, they’d traveled through Italy and fallen in love with it. Now they were determined to share that love with us. And so, in May 1972, we embarked on a multi-city road trip that would stay with me for the rest of my life. I took the wheel; my father became navigator. Into Italy Our flight from Chicago took us through a chaotic layover in Paris—customs lines, hustling crowds, and a near-missed connection. But eventually we touched down in Milan in the gentle light of early morning. Within minutes of picking up our rental car, Italy offered its first challenge: a five-lane traffic circle with no clear escape route. Aft...
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Refugee

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 We never really know when we’ll meet our closest friend. Many people drift in and out of our lives, but only a rare few become the ones we can trust completely—the ones who understand us without needing an explanation. Back in 1974 , I was working days in an institutional food factory and attending college at night. One morning, I showed up to find a new guy had joined the crew on the loading dock—the place where tons of sugar, flour, and other staples came in to be turned into food for schools, hospitals, and prisons. He was tall and lean, with a long shock of hair and a spark in his eye that told me he didn’t quite fit the mold. We hit it off almost immediately. Before long, we were inseparable during breaks. His sense of humor matched mine perfectly, and within a week, we’d developed our own nicknames for the rest of the crew—our little inside jokes that only we understood. Did I know then that this man would change my life? Not a chance. But through him, and later through ...
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  Ramblings of a Retired Mind Warp Speed Stroke—formally known as a cerebrovascular accident—runs deep in my family. A Childhood Memory In 1965, my parents moved my sister and me from the only home we knew in Chicago’s Rogers Park to Stamford, Connecticut. We went from neighbors stacked on top of us to an acre of land with a pond out back. I was in heaven. We arrived in October, right after my Bar Mitzvah and my thirteenth birthday, beginning our new life out East. The following spring, my father’s parents came to visit. But at that age, treasure hunts through the vast three-hundred-acre forest beside our house with my best friend, Fang Ferguson, were far more appealing than slow afternoons with grandparents. One afternoon, Fang and I were watching a baseball game in the den with my grandfather when my grandmother headed toward the kitchen—and collapsed face-first to the floor. At first, we thought she’d tripped on the step. But no—Anna had suffered a stroke. An ambulance wa...
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  Ramblings of a Retired Mind The Award I knew she was sick. Her body was frail, but her mind remained sharp. She may have been down to ninety pounds, but nothing was going to stop her from seeing her beloved grandson receive his award. The trip from Chicago to Washington, D.C., would be difficult—airport lines, cab rides, and long days of exploring our nation’s capital. She knew her limits. She would go slow, steady, and never let anyone rush her. From an early age, everyone recognized my son’s remarkable artistic talent. It came naturally to him, and his grandmother was his biggest cheerleader. Her house was filled with his drawings, proudly displayed for anyone who visited. The award—presented by Hallmark through the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards—recognized his detailed drawing of a busy street scene. She couldn’t have been prouder. The trip to Washington would be unforgettable. The Journey The winning artwork was to hang in the Corcoran Gallery of Art, home to the Co...
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Some Weeks

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  Ramblings of a Retired Mind Some Weeks In my retired life, the weeks often pass with predictable regularity. A text reminder tells me it’s garbage day, so it must be Tuesday. When I finish brushing my teeth and see my pillbox is empty, I know it’s Sunday—time to refill it again. Most weeks go by like this: small routines, simple markers of time. Yet each day still brings something new—a fresh idea to write about, a new book to start, or a grandchild who needs a ride home from school. But the past few weeks? Anything but ordinary. So unusual, in fact, that I sometimes wonder if they really happened. The Mini Cooper Incident It all started about six weeks ago when I decided to clean my beloved Mini Cooper convertible. During the winter, I keep it in the garage with the top down—mostly so I can track where dust, dirt, and stray candy wrappers (thanks to my grandchildren) have settled. One day, I spotted a wrapper poking out from under the back seat and decided to retrieve ...
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