Category: Meet the Players

Happy 90th, Maw!

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Mom’s BIGGEST Epic Adventure ended on June 26th. She passed peacefully at home, surrounded by Family. This video played at her service in Michigan. Watch until the end; it will make all the difference.

I used my time at the service to speak about the last few years with Mom and what I’d likely miss most: Talking Michigan football on Saturdays, daily dinner menus, current events and politics. We made much of the fact that her 90th birthday on November 3rd would coincide with the presidential election. She was one sharp cookie until the very end.

Her body was failing her though, and she was relegated to her chair or bed most days. She had bouts of pain and loneliness. A few years back, I started using delivery apps to surprise her with dinner from her favorite places. Her absolute fave was calamari from a place called Carrabbas in Woodbridge. To make the enterprise more efficient (and fattening!), I’d add a chocolate “dream” cake to the order. The delivery notice would pop up on my phone which would soon ring. Maw usually had the first or fifth bite in her mouth by then, and I could hear the joy and laughter in her muffled voice words. She usually admitted to starting with dessert.

In the days leading up to the service, during preparation and travel, I tried to arrange my thoughts on what to say about Mom. Actually, the thoughts tend to organize themselves in these moments of grief and reflection. The memories come rushing in, each one special and each one worthy. But memories and moments alone do not define who Mom was.

The idea of Mom as a Champion started to take root. Now, Mom would be the first to tell you that she was no champion because she never won anything of significance in her life. Fun story: at the awards night at a family summer camp we attended back in the mid-70s, prizes were given for the best scores and performances, as well as the worst. We didn’t win a thing. Mom was good with mediocrity. Her mantra — which I and my brothers had long emblazoned on cards, T-shirts and now her obituary — was “Es mejor que nada, baby.” It’s better than nothing.

Here’s the thing, Mom was a Champion in so many ways, mostly as a Champion of others. As a teacher, she went to bat for the good kids and the bad, encouraging them and their families to do the work and achieve. She was a Champion of causes, like the Equal Rights Amendment. She would travel to marches, something which met with snickers and derision from the four men in her household. Woke we were not.

I came to realize in my ruminating that Mom was a Champion for herself too, often because no one else would do it for her. She wanted to assert — no, prove — her independence, something that was not part of her upbringing. She was creative and entrepreneurial, determined, busying herself by staging puppet shows at schools and selling her crafts at weekend markets. And of course she loved to travel.

Then it hit me: Mom had been my Champion all along. (Let’s dispatch with the “my Mom is the best” debate, if you please; I win.) Mom inspired and guided me in ways I’m just now realizing. There are the obvious things like creativity, theater, wanderlust, socializing, Christmases at Disney, love of KFC and black olives. Deeper than that, Mom was curious, and that made me curious. She also made me compassionate. As a Champion, she could see the best in people, but she also understood the worst in them too. And she could tell when people were hurting. My empathy and occasional kindness stem from this.

Returning to the 70s for a moment: picture an awkward 7th grader who was not even the king of the nerds. Braces, horn-rimmed glasses, acne, B.O., gifted-talented, the total package. In an attempt to socialize, I would attend the junior high school dances. Boys on one side of the gym, girls on the other; the cool kids would meet up in the center. I watched from the corner, talking with nary a soul.

Mom would fetch me and drive us to the Big Boy on Maple Avenue for hot fudge sundaes. I’d regale her with stories of the two times I danced — it was always two. She knew I was making it all up, and I knew she knew. Of course, she never let on. She’d move the conversation forward and we settled in with our sundaes. Simply put, she made me feel normal and loved.

As I concluded my remarks at the service by noting that I would forever miss having a sundae with my Mom, my throat tightened. It was more than just the sadness I was feeling; I was struck right then by a revelation. When those chocolate cakes showed up at Mom’s door and she called to let me know, and we’d chat about the day we’d had, I think her pain and loneliness would ease for a bit. I hope it made her feel normal and loved, just as she’d done for me.

This marks the end of this blog series. Marge Binder’s Epic Adventure has been my adventure too. Godspeed, Mom!

August 16, 1969: Home.

No rain ‘til we’re loaded! Then it poured on the Pa turnpike. Had pancakes in Youngstown. Got home at 4:15. Great place and Jim had it all cleaned up and lots of goodies to eat.

Marge Binder, August 16, 1969

This passage reads like a movie climax: a race towards home, battling every mile against the Family’s travel nemesis — the Pennsylvania Turnpike (though there’s always time for pancakes!) — resolving in the warm glow of Dad’s tidy largesse. We are home at last with “goodies to eat.”

It was a fun and fulfilling 62+ days, both back in 1969 and here in 2019, constructing this blog.

A Few Words with Mom

Mom and I talked a lot about the trip when I visited her last week at our place on Lake Michigan. Here’s a bit of that, shot with the SHAKIEST selfie stick I could find.

There’s one question I forgot to ask Mom in this interview: “We’re you worried about anything on this trip?” So I just asked her on the phone. She thought about it just a few seconds and said, “Nope.” She talked about the new car and her skills with the tent. When I probed a bit, she didn’t back down. “Nope, I knew we’d be fine.”

That’s Mom.

August 9, 1969: Uncle “Unc” Harold

Washed, packed and Mike and I drove down to Harold’s. His apartment looked very nice—new rugs, etc. He took us to dinner, gave the boys $30 in change and we watched TV and drank champale.

Marge Binder, August 9, 1969
Gran, Unc and Mom

I got my middle name from my Grandfather and my Uncle Harold. Turns out that “Unc” and I shared a few other things in common: dark complexion, unibrow, a droll sense of humor and a bit of a rogue demeanor. But he was also tall, with a full head of hair and a great smile.

I visited his home a few times in my youth (though not on this occasion). He was a bachelor for life, a drinker and a smoker and a slob. In my 20s and 30s: Check, check and check. I won’t dwell further on his traits because some readers might misunderstand these comments as insults. They are quite the opposite; they are aspirational even.

Aside from Mom’s own observation about the condition of Unc’s house (“very nice”), she notes in her diary that he “gave the boys $30 in change.” Unc was famous for that. As a gift, he’d dump his loose change on us to sort, roll and cash in (and keep). We’d think he was Mr. Uncle Vanderbilt.

Champale

In Mom’s diary, this is the first reference to champale. As described in an earlier post, Mom assured me that she had a champale most nights on this trip. Deservedly so!

August 7, 1969: Pure Michigan

Rained. Washed hair, wrote bills, etc.

Marge Binder, August 7, 1969

A pretty chill day for Mom, especially after almost eight weeks of rigorous, daily roadtripping.

Seems like a good time to get the lay of the land. Here are some of the places we’ll be talking about in the next wee — our Family’s footprint in Michigan. (Or, as true fans of the Mitten might say: our Family’s handprint. That’s the kind of side-splitter that’ll score you an extra slice of pie!)

Mom is Pure Michigan

She was born in Grand Rapids at the height of the Great Depression. She and the Family spent her first ten years moving about the area, including a stint in Muskegon Heights. Her Dad (my Grandfather) was a civil engineer who designed bridges and only occasionally found himself without a job, even in those tough times. Whenever the topic came up later in life, Mom had no complaints about surviving the Depression. Neither did my Dad, for that matter (though his was a very different story).

  • Mom and Gran, 1933.
  • Work ethic: 3 years old in Muskegon Heights.
  • My Grandfather Harold Rose.

After her Dad’s untimely death at only 41, Mom moved with her Mother (Gran) and brother Harold (“Unc”) to California. We explored some of that journey in this blog back in early July; I think that was really the impetus for the roadtrip we’re on now.

When they returned two years later, Gran settled in Ithaca and took a job as a teacher and later principal of the elementary school. Mom graduated from Ithaca High School as Valedictorian (duh) and went on to Central Michigan University (nee College) in Mount Pleasant. That’s where she and Dad first met and courted. They married while still in school and became BCOC — the Big Couple on Campus.

  • High school graduation
  • Courting at a CMU party
  • Campus bada**es
  • The wedding in Ithaca
  • Graduation with Gran and Gramma Essie

After graduation, they headed to the Detroit area in southeast Michigan where Dad worked for Goodyear and then as a reporter and editor for the Pontiac Press. They started a family: Tim in 1954, Mike in 1961. Eventually, they bought a home in Northville, in the burgeoning suburbs west of the city.

This is where I come in. I was born in ’65 in Ann Arbor, home to the University of Michigan, where Mom earned her Masters Degree in History. As a result, we are a Go Blue! Family.

We are All Pure Michigan

Looking north towards Silver Lake and the miles of sand dunes. The three houses on the lower right constitute the “Family compound.”

In 1954, Dad’s Mom — my Gramma Essie — purchased land on Lake Michigan just north of the lighthouse at Little Sable Point and built the first house there. Today, the land she bought features three houses, seasonally full of cousins. It will continue as the family “compound” for generations to come.

Back in 1969, we didn’t visit the Lake as part of this trip, but it became an annual pilgrimage starting in the early 70s.

Cosmic coincidence: we’re arriving there tonight, August 7, 2019.

August 5, 1969: The ER!

Mike snorting and snuffling. Ran into rain in Omaha (yesterday). Crossed the Mississippi. Camped near Utica, Illinois. Tim fished. Mike swam. Had to take him to St. Mary’s LaSalle emergency room for his ears.

Marge Binder, August 5, 1969

We are officially back east, now that we’ve crossed the Mississippi into Illinois. Even with the typical daily activities of Tim fishing and Mike swimming (where was I? Knitting?), Mike also found time to snort, snuffle and eventually visit the ER. I would agree that this post’s headline is a little sensational for an ear ache, but this is — shockingly — the only ER visit cited on the entire trip.

Below is a postcard of the hospital in La Salle, Illinois back when people sent postcards of hospitals they visited. Actually, my brother Mike would have been a prolific mailer (sorry, Miko!).

July 25, 1969: “Bye Dad!”

Must have been a dreadful way to start the day: 4AM alarm so that Mom could drive Dad to the airport. And, just like that, he was gone, leaving Maw with her three boys to navigate 3000+ miles back east.

Oh, and Tim fished.

Jim and I got up at 4 AM and took him to catch the 6:10 plane for Seattle. Got Mike’s shot, did the laundry, washed my hair, bought groceries etc. Tim caught some nice fish in the Lewis River.

Marge Binder, July 25, 1969

Open Road. Big Screen: Roadtrip Movies

A few weeks ago we looked at books about roadtrips. There weren’t a lot to include, best, worst or otherwise. But movies? Oh yeah, the movies were invented for the roadtrip.

There’s a great chapter in Aaron Sorkin’s Masterclass program that uses the roadtrip as a means to explain intention and obstacle — the basics of story. It’s simple but brilliant. You can’t just go from point A to B, you’ve got to want to get there so bad — money, love, freedom, salvation. You have to be willing to put your life on the line for it. And, of course, obstacles arise that must be overcome.

Intention and obstacle make for great stories (especially movies), but for this series of posts, I’m going to veer into other roadtrip films that are merely good or special to this scribe.

As with the post about books, we need to define what is a true roadtrip film. Because film is a modern invention, compared with the written word, most tales of travel tend to rely on a motorized vehicle and a surface on which to operate it. Unlike, say, The Odyssey or The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. I also considered films like “The Wizard of Oz” but called a DQ. So basically, I consider a roadtrip movie to be any movie where the plot centers on people who quest to go somewhere in a motorized vehicle that follows a road or surface. Nuance: it’s not about the car, it’s about the journey, so no “Herbie the Lovebug” or James Bond.

And, as with any list based on personal opinion, this list will rile critics and detractors. I don’t care. Make you own list if you feel the need.

Herewith, the first of a few lists of roadtrip films, starting with the five honorable mentions for films about roadtrips without destination.

Honorable Mentions: Roadtrips that Lead Nowhere

“Sideways”

With great writing and direction by Alexander Payne, it’s a buddy film set against the lush wine country of SoCal. Mix in a little mid-life crisis-times-two, lots of drinking and a star turn by Virginia Madsen, and there’s a lot to love about this movie.

“Tommy Boy”

A silly frat boy pic that involves a lot of driving with no destination. Good gags and great chemistry — Chris Farley is a one-man chemistry set; David Spade is a beaker. If only Brian Dennehy’s Big Tom had survived the inciting event, that would have been a great movie.

“About Schmidt”

Another Alexander Payne film and one that got me hooked when I saw the trailer. Unfortunately, Jack Nicholson’s Schmidt is a miserable wretch, and in the end, he finds peace not on the road but in a letter from his adopted “pen pal” child in Africa. He didn’t need to leave the house for that.

“Thelma & Louise”

You can tell early on that T&L need more than a girls’ weekend. To me, what keeps this from being a top-tier roadtrip film is probably its most memorable scene. (Spoiler) Great roadtrips and films find a way to avoid the cliff. I suppose, though, that if you can’t find an alternative, gunning the gas into fiery oblivion makes for a spectacular send-off.

“Almost Famous”

The “Tiny Dancer” scene epitomizes the joy of a true roadtrip: rolling together, warbling harmonious with conviction, even though everyone is royally hung over and the bus reeks of stale beer, old bathroom and bruised testosterone. Or, as I like to call it: my college days.

July 23, 1969: Fishing, not a fan.

Tim rented a boat and fished all day. He took Doug out too and we all took a ride and a hike and collected pine cones. Cooked spaghetti and brownies. Battened down and had a rain storm.

Marge Binder, July 23, 1969
Inside I must have been miserable. But that couldn’t stop the cuteness!

Mom’s diary clocks 30+ times that Tim fished on this 62-day trip. I wouldn’t be surprised if she omitted 10 or 20 other times. Tim loved to fish. All his life, that was his catharsis, his place to be alone, to captain his own ship and leave the rest of the world back on shore.

As an adult, when he visited our Lake Michigan home each summer with his own family, he’d set out on the big lake from Pentwater pretty much every single morning and return well after dark (which could be after 11 o’clock). Dad bought a real fishing boat — the Pequod — back in the 90s to encourage even more fishing. Tim rewarded him with dozens of huge Coho salmon and some other kinds too.

Dad would sometimes accompany Tim for one of their marathon conversations. (More often, Dad would beg to be released after a few hours.)

Tim and fish, but probably not from this trip.

In the minutes after learning that Tim had died unexpectedly, I pictured him and Dad being reunited aboard the Pequod in the sky. This is the image that resulted, in time for what would have been his 61st birthday.

ADDENDUM: After I published this I realized this installment takes place in Oregon. Another eerie coincidence with this blog: When I got news of Tim’s death in 2015, I was on a business trip in Portland. As I wandered the downtown streets in a daze, this scene first began forming in my mind’s eye.

July 22, 1969: It’s all fun and games until…

Photo credit here

Got up and drove to Howard Prairie Lake near Ashland, stopping at a good store & bakery at Medford. The kids swam.

Marge Binder, July 22, 1969
Could this be the last photo of Tim with his glasses? Maybe.

Mom must have submitted her diary entry before the drama that unfolded later that night. My brother Tim, a gifted raconteur, was holding forth around the campfire after dinner, doing impressions, mimicking the Borscht Belt greats, “owning the room.”

At some point, he slung around and — phwoosh — off flung his glasses into the fire. While we all reacted in horror (and a bit of “what an showman!”), Tim went about trying to retrieve them. But they were already literally toast.

To a Binder boy, lost or broken glasses meant humiliation, like getting a C+ on a test (Tim was the exception to this analogy). Lost glasses was just one more piece of tinder to stoke our raging insecurities. Our childhoods were littered with such spectacles (pun intended), some involving snowball fights, scrapes at school or simple stupidity.

On top of the initial sting of loss, Tim would be blind for a while, until we were someplace long enough for lenses and glasses to be made — pretty much the remainder of the trip.

No matter, it was really funny. Mission accomplished, Timbo! You owned it!

Fun story: When I finally got contact lenses in 1978, I lost one before I even got out of the office. Must have been a sight (puns abound!) for arriving patients to see a half dozen nurses and admins crawling around on the floor.

Note the address: Dead Indian Road. Well certainly they’ve changed the name of that by now. Nope. It’s actually got a pretty significant history. You can learn about it here.

July 19, 1969: Tim Sees a Doctor

Mike has a friend next door named Mark—6 ½ yrs old, several inches taller than Mike and over 100 lbs. Took them on a hike with the ranger. Went to town to buy groceries and have a doctor look at Tim’s rash. Swam and went to the camp fire. 100° by the river but nice & cool at night.

Marge Binder, July 19, 1969

Okay, I’ll admit the headline “Tim Sees a Doctor” seems a little unexceptional. Thing is, it’s huge. Tim avoided doctors his whole life, so I don’t think he went willingly back in 1969, especially for a measly rash.

In his life, Tim experienced several injuries that would require anything from stitches to not-simple surgery. The ones I can remember from the last 20 years or so: he got bit by a copperhead snake and watched his hand swell and turn black, waiting several days to seek treatment; he dropped a fish-cleaning knife into his foot, severing a major tendon and was goaded by Dad into finally seeing a doctor, only to forego the kind of therapy he needed to heal; a few years before he passed, he twisted his knee in an unfortunate encounter with his car on an icy driveway, so he used a cane from then on rather than get help.

That was Tim, and he was proud of it.

In the book we made for our parents’ 60th anniversary, Tim contributed an essay about one of these doctor-avoidance episodes, something I called “Medical Attention Deficit Disorder.” Here is an excerpt:

Until the last few years, fish-cleaning was done on a makeshift table
in the garage. In 2002, I was butchering a bountiful day’s catch with a
murderous and electric fish-fillet knife. Between salmon, this implement
fell — while switched on — off the table and onto my right instep, slicing
a tendon neatly in two, and causing blood to gush. It also caused a vocal
argument between Boss, who advised a trip to the emergency room, and
I, who wanted to wrap it in gauze and duct-tape and go fishing the next
morning. As Captain of the ship, Boss’s will prevailed. Besides sutures,
the local doctor advised surgical splicing of the tendon, which I declined
when told this would keep me off the water for several precious days.

T. James Binder, 2010

July 13, 1969: That Iconic Photo

Dad took the photo of Mom on Pismo Beach 50 years ago. It is my favorite and a family treasure. It captures what Mom must have been feeling after four weeks in the car with three boys and a tent. When I think about her looking at Dad behind his camera, she was definitely having a real moment: funny, exasperated, resigned, authentic. And, of course, she’s beautiful!

Every Christmas Eve almost ’til his passing, Dad would put together a slide show, usually four or five carousels full of his latest photos and the classics. When this one hit the screen — which it did every single year — the room would light up. Oohs and aahs and hoots and whistles. Even now, it lights up my day

    More normal—cold. Rented a spot at the deluxe campground and they swam in the pool and we all took showers. Jim and I walked up the beach.

    Marge Binder, July 13, 1969