“What we have to be is what we are.”
― Thomas Merton
As I continue along life's journey, honestly coming to grips with what I am, enabled me to finally let go and simply be.
There is no shame to be found in it whatsoever. And as time passes, my only regret is that I didn't sooner.
But then again, this all came to be when it was supposed to. Not when I wanted it to.
I just have to be what I am.
It was Spring Games for the Special Olympics Wisconsin this past weekend, at UW Osh Kosh.
Six of the Hawks were on the bus with we coaches this past Friday afternoon, while the remaining two of the kettle landed Saturday. We did a shoot around and talked in the fitness center next to the Kolf Sports Center. The weather in these parts necessitated canceling our last regular practice earlier in the week and the opening ceremonies were dropped Friday night due to thunderstorm and tornado warnings.
When we walked to the shoot around, it was a light rain. As soon as we got in, it went to a dark monsoon, thunder, lightning and gale force winds. And then, when we finished, just like that, the sun was out, clouds dispersed and this was over the campus:
We were thinking about looking for that pot of gold, but elected to head back for some dinner.
As I shared prior, my perfect storm altered how I come to view of life now.
Truly, only by the grace of God, was I able to find dry land. And as counter intuitive as it may seem, although I was barely clinging to keep my head just above, until I chose to let go, I was surely going to drown.
For far too long, I was convinced I was in charge. Knew everything. Could make things work. Step in. Lead. All from my over-functioning perspective. My will steering my boat straight up that wall of water.
Loosening my grip was the beginning of that decision. Allowing trust to ameliorate my fear eased that release. And now, as the letting go and trust acquire more of a second nature status, the ebbs and flows no longer grow into swells then tidals.
Like six or so years ago, I contributed to the making of conditions leading to a perfect storm in my life.
Wait. Let me rephrase that. We need some honesty here.
Let’s just say the way I chose to think, speakm behave and live for the bulk of my life created an all encompassing tropical depression. That then became the perfect storm I spoke of. My unstable behavior triggered the convection, leading to front, after front, after front.
This pretty much depicts what I drove myself to.
But by the grace of God, I found dry land.
Without a doubt, this is where I would never want to visit.
The single thing that has cast the most positive, lasting and loving impact upon this stoic has been intentional, genuine and ongoing engagement.
Whether it be nuclear or extended is of no concern. Heck, it can be from those that are vying to become adoptive members of the family, at their peril. Old friends, coworkers. Those that treat me like family are definitely a part of mine. Matters not one bit.
A true and unending one-on-one is life altering.
There is nothing transactional at all about it. No accounting spreadsheets or pivot table. Whatever that is. Just giving and getting, just because, just to be. The get to the heart of things times, talks and some of that just good old silence. Makes me smile just thinking about it.
Here’s a good one.
When my kids were growing up, hearing them sleep filled me to the brim. Just them breathing under their bankies. Nothing at all more positive ever than that. They don’t owe me anything either because they gave those memories to me. Now, it’s the talks, the texts, getting together, relating, being, and holding that each on theeir own way offer that level of engagement.
Holiday get togethers, impromptu cook outs, dropping by, whether nuclear, extended of adoptive all provide that mesmerizing opportunity to be guided by an intentional, genuine and ongoing engagement.
In my younger days, it was the McDonalds on Ogden in Westmont.
Before play areas, and tables pretty much for that matter, I just recall a counter facing the street, with spinny seats. Once the cheeseburger, fries and chocolate milkshakes were granted, we could sit, watch the cars, dip the fries and spin. A great break from having mock chicken legs. tuna casserole, vegetable soup or S.O.S.
We soon ventured out Oak Brook/Yorktown way for a try at Beef & Barrel. An early roadhouse effort, with baskets of peanuts in the shell on the tables. And shells everywhere. That was half the fun right there. Couldn’t tell you about the Beef & Barrel Burger, if that is what it was called. But whippin’ peanut shells at my brothers, and lobbing them into their pop made so-so food plenty good for our palates.
Somewhere along the way was a Connie’s Pizza down the block from Mickey D’s, some fried chicken joint in Western Springs that was very good, and the dime store on Ogden and York that had a food counter. The fries there were majestic. We could walk there, down a plate of fries, a Coke and on the way back, stop at Vittori’s Deli for a Hostess dessert fix.
When college and all that it entailed crept up and headlocked me, we discovered White Castles. Nothing like 20 cheeseburgers, large fries and a large coke to cap off and soak up the evening. The staff loved us, and we would joke around with them all of the time. We were like sons. We just sat, ate and laughed for a while until it was time to call in the dogs and put out the fire.
But then somehow, this one became part of the family repertoire.
The Parthenon.
In Greektown in Chicago, on Halsted, not far from the old Chicago Stadium. When this dinner destination was announced, we were in the car before the last syllable left our parent’s mouth. It was a hike. Down the Ike to Halsted on the west side of the city. Sort of by Cook County Hospital.
I recall my dad saying that an owner was in school with him in Champaign, or something like that. After witnessing the adults party there, perhaps that city was misspelled. The front, landscape size window displayed some of the foods you could try and grow to love. Entire gyro roasts were spinning and cooking. Cheeses, desserts, entrees, wines were there for the drooling.
On the sidewalk, you could sense a fever pitch inside.
Like the whole building was vibrating. There was suction pulling against you as you were opening the door. Your eyes and ears were instantly immersed in an overhwhelming symphony of laughter, talking, family warmth, flames and “Opa!” over and over.
Picture a kitchen area in a small, city bungalow home with the old 50’s style chairs and tables – times one hundred. That was the Parthenon. It was like one huge family gathering of nothing but strangers. Like we all knew each other, enjoyed our collective company and just had fun at dinner. All in the same bungalow on Halsted.
Waiters spun all around, carrying huge trays of food and drink, weaving in and out without ever spilling a drop. The Dan Ryan at rush hour was nothing compared to how they kept the food and drink traffic flowing.
Then, intersperse that flow with some fire. Cast iron plates of saganaki, being copiously doused with Ouzo, then a Bic, lit to their forever melody of “Opa!”
The best Horiatiki salads ever tossed without lettuce, served with copious amounts of Feta.
Thin sliced portions of the gyro meat from the window, with pita for mopping.
Moussaka, Dolmades, Pastitsio, Souvlaki, and Spanakopita.
And should there be a small opening left, somewhere deep below, it could be topped off with a smidge of some warm baklava.
The Parthenon is where I first learned to love calamari – squid and/or octopus. A fav to this day. So many other acquired tastes there that I still savor.
A definite food coma on the way back to Franklin Street every time.
It had to be sometime in the late 70’s when I had my last piece of saganaki. . Sadly, the Parthenon closed after 48 years In 2016.
My favorite by far. For the food, atmosphere, and memories of true sustenance.
