Category: Mom is a Saint

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 15, 1969: Homeward Bound

Loaded up and got started about 9:30. Ate cheese sandwiches on the way and reached Youngstown about 5. Set up and “built ourselves a tommy ache” of ice cream. Then swam.

Marge Binder, August 15, 1969

We camped at the same place every summer, right off exit 16 of the Ohio Turnpike: The Ohio Motel near the Pennseyvania border. It was mostly a campground, with a small and stately structure for those incapable of fending for their own shelter under canvas. Sad.

It had an arcade with the latest (and oldest) pinball machines, and we’d squander the spare change we’d earned for keeping quiet during that day’s drive.

Fronz

The “‘tummy ache’ of ice cream” could be gotten at Fronz (sp?), a place that made its own ice cream and candy. It was in a strip mall a few miles down the road from the Turnpike. We stopped there pretty much every summer. The owner was a friendly guy, a stocky Wonka type, sans top hat and libretto, who remembered us and gave us tours of his operation. Impressive!

A rite of passage (that I’m sure I never even attempted) was to wolf down a Belly Buster, a massive sundae of some 10 or 20 scoops. Heck, it could have been 31, I can’t say. I’m sure Tim tried, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he succeeded one day.

In constructing this blog, I’ve not been able to unearth a single shred of evidence that Fronz ever existed. That is really sad.

“…Then swam.”

Wait, have we learned nothing on this trip? I hope we waited an hour after the ice cream to take this swim.

Homestretch

We arrive home tomorrow, after 62 days away. Come back for an interview with the Marge Binder of MargeBindersEpicAdventure fame, as well as to share in some of the excellent feedback and accolades her trip received via this blog. Thank you for that!

August 14, 1969. Ithaca, Part 3. Time to say goodbye.

Gran treated us to a big A&W lunch. Washed, washed my hair and packed some. Took Tim to the west gravel pit to fish and Mike and Doug to Crystal to swim.

Marge Binder, August 14, 1969

Mom prepares to head home to Virginia, but not without making it a full, fun day for us kids. Gran treated us to a “big A&W lunch” at the drive-in outside of town, now the site of a big gas station and travel center (check the video for more).

This sure looks like the “gravel pit,” a swimming and fishing destination outside of Ithaca.

Ithaca: Then and Now

Mary and I visited Ithaca two days ago (August 12, 2019). We had hoped to bring Mom along for a first-person narrative of her history there, but time wasn’t on our side. Instead you get me, wandering about the streets, making the locals leery, and reliving my own stints of childhood there.

Check out the video below for one final look at some of Ithaca’s most treasured places, in my memory, including the A&W that no longer exists and the last time I saw Gran’s place.

As I was planning this brief tour of Ithaca, a few things aligned in my memory of the day of Gran’s funeral. As I observe in the video and earlier writings, Gran’s house was close by the funeral home, and it played a role in our summers there: she often walked over to say goodbye to friends.

As we carried Gran’s casket to the hearse in 1984, I looked over at her place one last time; it was already a ghost of what it had been. By now, I had spent days trying to keep it together, watching how Mom was conducting herself during this time. Now I could feel myself slipping. A few minutes later, as I rode with Tim and Mike in the procession to the gravesite, down Center Street towards the North Star Cemetery. As we passed the already-shuttered A&W just past the highway, that’s when I finally lost it. I had a good cry, stifled at first but then an all-out sob the rest of the way.

This feels like a nice way to say goodbye and move on towards home.

August 13, 1969. Ithaca, Part 2

Went to Allen’s restaurant for pancakes. After lunch took the little guys to Jean Trask’s to swim. They loved it.

Marge Binder, August 13, 1969

Like most of the restaurants and small businesses Mom cites in her diary, Allen’s appears to have been forgotten like a rogue hashbrown slipping between the griddle and the fryer. But there is hope!

A few days ago we were visited here at the Lake by cousins Pam and Jen Trask, and Joan Zemmin. They had some serious intel on the fate of a very special place…

…The Polka Dot

Originally housed in a pre-fab shell just north of Ithaca proper, I went to the Polka Dot with Mom and Gran a number of times. We’d meet up with a tableful of ladies for a full-on coffee klatch that could drain a few urns and burn a full morning. What I remember most was the hard-earned dime one of them would leave on the table for the excellent service.

Thanks to the cousins’ insight we learned that the Polka Dot is now living its third incarnation, at least, now as an all-day restaurant with full bar going by the name of JJ Rubys. When Mary and I visited Ithaca yesterday (August 12, 2019) for an upcoming blog post, we stopped there for lunch. We were happy to learn that the Pure Michigan niceness is real at JJ Rubys, as is the sodium. Not a bad thing.

Aunt Margaret’s Place

Aunt Margaret made these chocolate cookies with a sweet, sour creamy dollop that were just the bomb.

She was married to Gran’s brother Dale. Uncle Dale passed away when I was very young, and Margaret and Gran remained like sisters forever after, truly. I would ride my bike over to her place on West North street to hang out on her back porch, especially if one of the cousins was passing through.

Among them were members of the Trask tribe I mentioned above. We had a nice reminisce about Aunt Margaret (aka Nonnie) and a few others, like Kim Trask. In Mom’s diary today, she references Kim’s mom, Jean, who did indeed have an awesome. Even in this socially mediated world. I’ve lost connection to Kim.

At the same time, I’ve reconnected with Mark Zemmin, a cousin for life and a best friend for a few days when we were kids tripping about Ithaca. Props to Facebook for that!

West Center Street & Hanners

West of the main drag are the stately Ithaca Fire House and what is now the Gratiot County Historical Society. The latter is housed in a home built in the 1880s. Back in my day, this home featured a little store called Hanners.

I remember a few times my brothers and I walked down to Hanners after dinner for penny candies and soda pop. It was a dark, tiny place — in my mind’s eye there is candlelight, but I doubt that. No question: it smelled like wood and sugar. There was also a rack of magazines, comic books down low, girlie mags up top.

We stopped by this area yesterday, during our visit to Ithaca; I’ll share some video in a later post — don’t wait up though.

  • Ithaca Fire House
  • One-time home of Hanners

Want to learn more about the area (and you should), Visit the Gratiot County Historical Society website. It’s a nice site with lots to dig into.

Ready to call Ithaca home?

Check out this nifty guide to everything you need to know about life in the seat of Gratiot County, Michigan.

August 11, 1969: “Sick and…cross”…

…So let’s go to the Movies!

We are on Day 57 of Mom and her boys spending nearly every waking moment together. This the first time she cites any hint of acrimony (besides her ongoing trials with Sears). I hope it didn’t take too much of a toll.

Mike bought a “power sub” and we got back to Ithaca in the afternoon. Tim sick and the others cross.

With folks out of sorts, perhaps this is a good time to escape into an afternoon of movie watching.

Roadtripping Movies, Part 5: The Best

In the past few weeks I’ve revisited a few favorite films about roadtrips. You can click on the Movies & Books link to the left to find those posts. To catch you up, here are ones that have been covered:

  • About Schmidt
  • Almost Famous
  • Beavis and Butthead Do America
  • The Blues Brothers
  • Cannonball Run
  • Duel
  • Dumb and Dumber
  • Flirting with Disaster
  • The Great Race
  • The Hangover
  • Harold and Kumar go to White Castle
  • The Hitcher
  • It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad World
  • Little Miss Sunshine
  • Motorcycle Diaries
  • O Brother Where art Thou?
  • The Roadtrip
  • Sideways
  • Smokey & the Bandit
  • The Sure Thing
  • Thelma & Louise
  • Tommy Boy
  • Y Tu Mama Tambien

Choosing my favorites was pretty easy, once I laid out a list of the 25-30 to be included. The Top 3 were there all along.

5. “Easy Rider” 1969

This is a no-brainer, like listing out the best presidents: George Washington just shows up there. I get that he was a statesman, a brilliant politician and a war hero. But he was also a bit of a pretentious bore, even by that era’s standards. It’s only when he meets up with Jack Nicholson do things get interesting. That applies to pretty much everything. Extra credit for this film’s release coinciding with our roadtrip. As you might remember from our July escapades, we too communed with some hippies.

Watch this trailer. Just do it.

4. “Rain Man” 1988

This one was late to the list, and I had a hard time writing commentary about it. It’s a good movie, maybe a little too sentimental in places. For sure, the road, car and destination are all central to the plot. So why doesn’t this feel like a roadtrip? Maybe this one looks great through the windshield, but you don’t smell the fuel or feel the pavement.

Or perhaps the Oscar-winning performances overshadow the simple romance of a roadtrip. It won four of the biggies (best picture, actor, director, screenplay). I don’t think the other 20 or so movies listed in this blog have four Oscar between them. For sure: “Kmart sucks.”

Wild Card: “The Shawshank Redemption” 1994

Wait, what? But they were in prison the whole time! Hear me out. The lure of the road is often born of routine and boredom, of feeling confined and trapped. In the case of Andy and Red, they had been hobbled for 30 years. Great quote from Red, riffing on Andy’s love of rocks: “Geology is the study of pressure and time. That’s all it really takes. Pressure and time.” What happens once that pressure escapes?

Andy “squares” his accounts and hits the great, wide open road — with the top down and the wind in his hair — and beelines to the Pacific coast of Mexico. Red follows a few years behind him, going Greyhound with the windows open and the sun in his face. They are delivered to Eden, and we want it to last forever.

“You get busy living, or you getting busy dying. That’s goddamn right.”

Shawshank might be the most perfect of roadtrip films.

3. “Midnight Run” 1988

In addition to this being among the best roadtrip movies ever, it’s also one of the best buddy pics as well. The chemistry between DeNiro and Grodin is surprisingly rich; thank God they didn’t try to reprise. Instead this is a one-off piece of pure fun, great storytelling and brilliant roadtripping from coast to coast. Final scene: Deniro stands on the curb at LAX, newly rich but unable to get a ride, “Looks like I’m walkin’!”

How they made a 2-minute trailer without an expletive is beyond me.

2. “Planes, Trains and Automobiles” 1987

Another buddy pic as the foundation of a roadtrip, this time with two legendary comedy acting who didn’t need to stretch to make this work. Five or six unforgettable sequences and lines (e.g., “Those aren’t pillows!”), as well as direction by John Hughes, helps this films stand up to time. In fact, we screened it last Thanksgiving for a multi-generational audience to rapt attention — until the last scene. In its Hughes-ian way of blending warm light, longing looks and an alt-80s ballad, it always felt a bit much. The youngsters agreed, groaning “that’s pretty cheesy.” Okay, but Neal and Del deserved some cheese.

1. “National Lampoon’s Vacation” 1983

Two reasons for calling this the #1 roadtrip film: It’s about a family, as opposed to a buddy film, and it aspires to be no more than a silly roadtrip film — no lessons, no mission, no purpose. Clark & Co. just want to ride rides at their favorite amusement park. Along the way they encounter a series of unpredictable but mostly familiar tropes: urban crime, crazy extended families, an empty dog leash on the bumper, a mad aunt’s corpse tied to the roof of the car, urine-soaked cheese sandwiches, hot blondes in convertibles, and so on.

Written by John Hughes and directed by Harold Ramis, the film colors generations of family roadtrips with the legacy of the Griswolds, the magical allure of Walley World, and the trusty and reliable Family Truckster.

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 6, 1969: Gran!

Rained at 6AM. Miserable morning but we got to Ithaca at 5PM. Gran just beat us. Talked and washed. Mike pretty sick. Took a bath!

Marge Binder, August 6, 1969

More travel woes: rain, “miserable morning,” “Mike pretty sick.” But that was the last morning Mom would be waking up in a tent with three boys — at least for a week or so.

An arrival of sorts.

Gran in 1983

We’re far from home yet, but today we arrive at Gran’s home in Ithaca. For the next few days we’ll be hanging in this little town smack-dab in the middle of the mitten. It’s a place we visited every summer of my youth, as far as I know.

Mom went to high school here; she and Dad got married at the Methodist Church down on Center Street. Gran is buried a few miles away in the North Star Cemetery, along with a few of our relatives who helped to settle this part of the state in the 1800s.

Over the next week, please indulge me to unload years of memories of this place, most of them watercolored by five decades of romanticizing.

I remember the wide streets and lumpy sidewalks, the stately courthouse with its tolling clock tower across the street, the candy store with the girlie mags over by the firehouse, the A&W Drive-In out by the highway, the house on West North Street where my Aunt Margaret and Uncle Dale lived, days riding my bike everywhere and nights in the front yard chasing fireflies.

I remember how Gran’s house smelled (sweet and calm). Mom references here that she took a bath the day we arrived, likely the first in months. I can tell you this: the whole place must have smelled like sulfur when she ran the water. And later that night, it probably smelled like Swiss steak.

When it’s your Gran’s house, though, all of the senses just surrender and you are overcome by the embrace of acceptance and love. Welcome to Gran’s.

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!).