Empty Nest

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Empty Nest

July 2008

The dog and I stand outside, five feet apart, shoulders squared, mano-a-poocho, engaged in our morning ritual of

Potty Training
By Mark Wiertalla

         I’m out of bed a couple of hours before my wife each morning, so I have the privilege of ushering the dog that I didn’t really want into the garage, out the side door and into the cold darkness of the early morning for rounds – plural – of bladder and bowel evacuation. A friend of mine – he’s a ballplayer, too – acquired two dogs only days apart and he had to train them in tandem before they ruined his house. I consider him to be an expert in the field of canine behavior modification. His advice was “You gotta stand there until they do it.” So at 5 a.m. the dog and I stand outside, five feet apart, shoulders squared, mano-a-poocho, daring each other to blink first. If the dog could talk, I have this impression that he’d say “I really didn’t care much for last night’s dinner, it being smelly, dried bits of by-products and all.” (He’s a King Charles Cavalier Spaniel, so he has this stiff, British-like structure to his imaginary speech.) “I’d much rather fancy a few helpings of your beef stew for this evening. By the way, lad, aren’t you a tad cold standing there without a fur coat and in your knickers?”

         I respond with a curt, “C’mon dammit, get on with your business.” With children we say “number one” and “number two.” But because dogs can’t count (or talk) I just refer to it as his “business” and assume that he’s intelligent enough to get it.

         “Or what, you say? You’ll cane me with a rolled up newspaper, I suppose?” He continues to stare at me like he’s waiting for me to take a leak. Honestly, on the coldest mornings I’ve considered it, but there’s shrinkage to consider and the fact that he’s a moving target. “Frankly, Sport, I don’t think the Lady of our House would approve. Could get rather cold at bedtime, wouldn’t you think?”

         God, I just loathe that dog when he’s right.

         “C’mon, already. I’m going to miss my train. Get down to business.”

         The dog continues to stare at me, resolute in his mission to punish me for waking him long before breakfast will be served. “I’m terribly sorry but, well, the truth is: I really don’t feel the need to do business this morning.”

         I know this tactic. Oh, I know it well. If I trust him and let him back into the warmth of La Casa dei Sogni, he will turn around and discipline me with a little custodial activity that requires paper towels and a sprayer of stain remover. “No dice, champ. You’re just like the kids were, probing for a weakness in my parental armor and then exploiting it so you can skip your homework … or something doggie-like.”

         Now it’s 5:05 a.m. I’m shivering and desperate for bargaining leverage. Something. Anything. Time is running out and I expect to hear the whistle of my train before I have the opportunity to get dressed for the office. “If you don’t go right now, mister, then no Cheerios for you.” The ultimate threat.

         We taught our children how to use the “facilities” by floating Cheerios – yes, the breakfast cereal – in the bowl. The dog was raised by a breeder who also performed daycare for toddlers, and Cheerios became a staple of his diet. Wife R2V2 and I use them to reward good behavior. Or withhold them to punish bad behavior.

         “Really?” He continues to sit there like a stone sphinx – the dog version, that is.

         And then, just as shrinkage gives way to hypothermia, salvation arrives. I hear the engine of an approaching car pierce the quiet calm of the morning. I begin to count … one… two …three … and then there is a distinct plop from the driveway in front of the house. Sparky raises his eyebrows and his eyes instinctively look beyond my shoulder to the access gate. The morning paper has just arrived. Yesssss.

         “Oh, listen.” I put two fingers to the back of my ear. “The newspaper has just arrived. You wait here while I go and fetch it.”

         I turn and reach toward the gate latch. The dog springs to his feet and begins to sniff around in the gravel-coated area that serves as his gabinetto. (It’s Italian. Look it up.) The standoff is broken and peace has been restored between the species.

Moral: With dogs, as in children, the threat of discipline is worth its weight in newsprint. No, wait. I never caned the kids with a rolled-up newspaper. Or the dog, for that matter. Despite what he says.

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June 2008

The need for nourishment becomes acute after the nest is empty because we lose one of our primary measurements of self-value. Here’s my full-course

Menu for Soul Food
by Mark Wiertalla

When the chicks are in the nest, the role of Dad is to ensure they are nourished in many ways – mentally, educationally, spiritually and, of course, physically. We, the charter members of Dadnation, get so consumed with running and supporting nest operations that it’s easy to overlook the obvious: Dads need nourishment, too. And the need for nourishment becomes acute after the nest is empty because we lose one of our primary measurements of self-value. Here’s my menu of culinary essentials which should satisfy the appetites of other empty-nest dads as well:

Feed the inner child. Just because my children are no longer children, it doesn’t mean that I no longer have a need to play. In fact, it’s just the opposite. After all the years of working to be the best, steadiest father I could be, the need to play is stronger now than it ever was. I still need to dance and sing because it just feels good and it makes people laugh. Or perhaps it makes them shake their heads in disbelief. Either way, I am comfortable with it. And it isn’t that I am missing a sense of self-awareness. In fact, here, too, it’s just the opposite. I am aware that this is who I am, and I simply choose to revel in my unique space. A typical appetizer can be found by using any popular Internet search engine to call up the music video Kitty Cat Dance.

Nourish the adventurer’s spirit. I still hunger for the wonderment of new sights and sounds and to experience a world that, up to now, I’ve only read about. I need to feel like that twelve-year-old who took the bus from the suburbs into downtown Detroit with my friend and $5 in my pocket to see the hometown team play at Tiger Stadium. And with no adults to tell me to stay on the well-trodden path. I need to take a wrong turn now and then because of the discoveries it might lead to. I need to land in Venice with nothing more than an address for a hotel. Or land a new job. Or land in a new home. There is a lesson here: Not all who wander are lost. Some of us are simply cleansing life’s palate in anticipation of the next course.

Quench that thirst for knowledge. My empty-nest world is no longer centered on knowing which teachers to talk with on Back-to-School nights, understanding the psyche of adolescent softball players, being schooled by the pediatrician on childhood maladies, or learning where to shop for high-school prom dresses. Despite the comment in my April 2008 column, ignorance is not bliss and I continually strive for a refreshing swallow of sparkling, cool, refreshing knowledge about the world around me. I browse through Wikipedia to learn more about Eritrea. I take two minutes to quickly scan an analyst’s assessment of the latest tech merger. I watch a video clip of the “now” performer so I can assess why they are relevant to yesterday’s conversation in the office kitchen. What’s going on the world? What are the arguments on both sides of an issue? What is the insight on a social condition? I strive to spend my time with knowledgeable, informed people because of whom they help me become.

Enjoy a steady diet of love. I keep my body healthy by choosing high-protein, gilled fish instead of high-fat, sautéed meats. Or vegetables instead of cheese. An extra helping of vegetables instead of fried potatoes. Water versus sugary soda. And regularly scheduled meals rather than binge eating. In this very same way, I keep my soul healthy by feasting upon the high nutritional quality of my wife’s love. I’ve heard the saying that “Variety is the spice of life” and I wholeheartedly agree. But there is a difference between variety and a steady diet of empty calories from casual relationships. And I’ll make the argument that a consistent main course of fish, vegetables and non-fat dairy can be served in a very exciting variety of ways.

Satiate that hunger for appreciation. For the most part, my life’s work of raising and nurturing children has been accomplished. But now it means the world to me to get a phone call from one of them asking for career advice, or asking how to evaluate a new car purchase, or confirming that there is merit to my perspective on relationships. My ego loves to hear that I’m still cool or to hear my wife brag to workmates that she had dinner waiting for her at the end of a long day. It may be just a side dish or a contorni, but I need to know that I’m not just another dad and just another husband and that this place in the world can only be filled by the uniqueness of me.

Have the occasional dessert of sensual satisfaction. (About this point, my editor is shifting uneasily in his seat, finger poised over the delete key, and rightfully suspicious of where I’m taking this particular discourse.) Wife R2V2 tells me that I was “frustrated” in another life and that I’m using this life to mend that hole in my spirit. (Note: I’ve mentioned before that this is one of her metaphysical leanings I am unable to connect with.) I can only say that I have learned to be very aware of the connection between my mind, my body and my spirit, and leaving any one of these unfed leaves me undernourished on the whole. This menu is only complete with an occasional scoop of the pure, natural sweetness of life. (I'll stop short of turning this into a sundae so my editor doesn’t have to censor the end of this column.)

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May 2008

I look up about every three or four breaths, only to confirm that I’m not there yet. My progress is agonizingly slow. But I have

Higher Goals
By Mark Wiertalla

         Later this month iDaughter, Techboy and I are going to run a relay marathon. Because I’m the somewhat experienced member of our team of five, I volunteered to take the longest segment (seven miles) and most arduous segment (two miles uphill) of the race. I’ve been training on the weekends for a month and a half by running up the ridge that forms the western border of our valley. Little by little, my holy trinity of heart, lungs and legs have taught me how to adjust my pace, how to land and push with power, and how to shorten the length of my stride. In return they have responded to deepen my breathing, pump blood with more force, and build muscle from the waist down in places that allow hills to be conquered.

         On this morning, a glorious Saturday in early spring, the Jeep and I make a 9 a.m. docking in the parking lot at the base of the ridge. My running watch is tightly clasped around my right wrist. The time says “1:13,” which is the round-trip time for my previous assault upon the 500-foot elevation and return to the park entrance. On this day I have two goals. One, better my previous time to the picnic table that sits at the top of the ridge and, two, add at least a mile of flat running along the ridge from the point of my previous best distance. I reset the time piece to “0:00”, breathe in two lungs full of resolve, hit the start button, and take the first step up.

         Training the mind to think of anything but pain is a critical skill for any physical challenge. At this very moment, two of my teammates (iDaughter and Techboy) are running the hills along Vallejo Street in San Francisco, enroute to their own personal monster known as the Lyon Street steps. I think about them, running towards their own personal goals. Techboy; his very first race and training for his five-mile segment; iDaughter; taking the first step towards her first real marathon in the Fall. Both of them running toward marriage, and doing it together.

         I trudge past a point of significance on the trail. Several months ago, during our Sunday morning walk with Sparky the Dog, my wife and I met a runner going upward at a painfully slow pace. He was much younger than I, and I remember thinking at that time, “what a doofus.” Little did I know that he was showing me one of the stages that this doofus would also pass through.

         The trail makes a long, sweeping switchback, and my mind switches to the Bay to Breakers race. Two years ago, I trained for several months so I could best the Hayes Street hill, a stretch of five city blocks in the middle of the course that separates the men from the costumes. Now, halfway up to the clouds, it occurs to me that the physical challenge that seemed like a monster at the time – just like this monster – was only a monster because of the fear that my mind granted it. I look at my watch during a quick break that allows the interchange of oxygen and carbon dioxide to transition back to my favor. I must be leaving scorch marks along the trail … I can’t believe the pace that I’ve been setting.

         I meet a woman, about my age, who is headed downhill and we exchange a runner’s salute. I don’t know how far she has run this morning, but I do know how she got up the hill. I’ve already saturated my running shorts, my shirt and my Detroit Red Wings cap with sweat. She’s lithe and energetic. I wonder if I will ever make running look that easy.

         I pass the point where I surrendered on my initial run, many weeks ago, when I had to sit down on a patch of wet grass and heave for ten minutes before I could regain the strength to get back to the Jeep. Today it’s become just another milestone that I’ve recycled for another, newer goal. The rise continues for about 25 yards past the point, and I take another short, 30-second breather. I take stock of the temple. The knee that I injured playing softball still feels solid and strong. No hot spots on the feet, especially on that second toe where, if I’m not paying attention, the big toe will overlap it and chafe it to the point of blister. My lungs quickly recover and confirm, “Okay, we’re still good.” I look up the trail and see the final hill, the one that hoists the picnic table up toward the sky. I’m almost there, but I have to run the gauntlet of grazing cattle along the trail and make one more painful climb.

         The final stretch of trail is only a hundred yards long, but the incline is probably 30 degrees. To use backpacking terms, this is a “buttkicker.” Despite my penchant for assigning nicknames to people and things, I haven’t christened it yet for running; I haven’t been able to coin a humorous catchphrase for “agony.” I just put my head down and push up off my toes, just like I’m climbing really steep stairs. My progress is agonizingly slow. I look up about every three or four breaths, just to confirm that I’m not there yet. My calves threaten to tear. My heart pounds faster. Harder. I have an eyewash of sweat and it stings. My hat just can’t wick it away fast enough. And then finally a step comes easy. And another. I reach the picnic table, throw off my running belt and pull off the top of my water bottle so the flow isn’t restricted. I suck in gulps of water in between gasps for life. My watch tells me that I have shaved a full ten minutes off my previous time. Great, I’ve achieved one of the day’s two goals.

         From the valley floor, the horn for the Union Pacific echoes its way up the ridge. I hear it and think that my wife is at home, counting the trains that have passed by La Casa dei Sogni since I left, and she’s caching the train kisses for when I return. The thought causes a smile. The involuntary reaction rejuvenates me and refreshes my stamina. For the first time I look farther up the trail, past this point that has been my goal, but also my limit. I thought I’d be adding some flat miles to my training regimen today. But the ridge has set a higher goal for me. I see a point farther along the trail, perhaps a mile distant, and I decide that it represents my new objective. And just like life’s challenge of maintaining a regimen for health, my new goal is uphill … all of the way.

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April 2008

I let go of the safety of my parent’s teachings and I stretched out to grasp

A New Way of Thinking
By Mark Wiertalla

         My parents’ views of money were simple: Work hard, save what you can along the way, and build a good pension. And in the end, Social Security rides in on a golden horse with a green mane to help you maintain your quality of life.

         For most of our marriage, my Wife R2V2 has handled the household finances and I remained blissfully unaware of my personal wealth and cash flow. In fact, for most of those years I couldn’t even recite the size of my bi-weekly take-home paycheck. But I was working hard, saving in company plans and counting on her to put a little more aside when the opportunity presented itself.

         A couple of years ago, about the time that Wife R2V2 and I were unconsciously beginning the transition into empty nesthood, we attended a weekend seminar called “The Wealthy Mind.” This was clearly her idea. I went along with an attitude of “Ah, what the hell. I might learn something.” One of the activities in the training was for me to respond to a fairly lengthy questionnaire and then discuss my responses with my partner. It wasn’t a test in the classic sense, so there were no right or wrong answers and no consequences. The only objective of the questionnaire was to reveal my attitudes about money and wealth. I remember very little else about the seminar other than this question:

    Fill in the blank: People with money are …
    My answer was: Careless.

         From the perspective of a work-hard-and-save-what-you-can mentality, frivolous spending is wasteful. Frivolous spending is disrespectful of the hard work that created the wealth. Frivolous spending has no purpose and is senseless. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

         As I described – or rather, defended – my point of view on money and wealth, I had an honest-to-god epiphany. And when we get right down to it, folks, epiphanies don’t really happen all that often. This one has reshaped the way I think and behave. And please don’t ask me to describe how I moved from one side of the wealth debate to the other. It wasn’t a logical transition. I just know that in that instant I let go of the safety of my parent’s teachings, balanced myself on a wire that was probably a thousand feet above my life and stretched out to grasp a new way of thinking that had always been just beyond my fingertips and out of my reach.

         When I think about it from the other perspective, people with money are able to use it to increase their own life experiences. They use it to enable more opportunities to meet interesting people. They use it to increase the quality of life in the years that they have yet to live. People with money are more able to share it with others and improve the quality of life for others around them. And … people with money are more able to work smarter instead of working harder.

         Aha.

         This revelation was the catalyst that thrust me into action. I started with a mental evaluation of my behavior, the evaluation process going something like this:

   Admit that I’m just not very savvy about money and finances. The ballots are all in, and it’s unanimous. I’ve been elected King Stupid.
   Decide if it’s a weakness that I can live with. Perhaps. But my wife can’t live with it, and I can’t live without her.
   If I can’t live comfortably with the weakness, then do something about it.

         This process resembled the classic steps addressing a self-destructive addiction. In the special little world of Empty Nest Dad, my addiction had been financial ignorance. After all, what I don’t know can’t hurt me. Fortunately, I decided that, yes, indeedy, this was going to come back to hurt me in a very bad way and with long-lasting, nasty consequences that I didn’t want to think about. If not at the time of retirement, then sooner.

         So I opened a checking account with only my name on it. I had my bi-weekly take-home paycheck deposited directly, and I forced myself to develop the discipline to maintain the account regularly. I started to pay my credit cards monthly and then I developed a plan to pay them off. I developed a budget and a savings plan. The savings plan had a goal and a purpose: build a critical mass and invest it so it would grow at a faster pace than traditional savings accounts. And when I finally hit my goal and the plan said, “Time to invest,” then I had to learn how to invest. Recently Wife R2V2 and I have attended investment classes for stocks and options, and I’m poised to gamble just a little bit of the present to ensure a better future. I’m less than two years into this transition to financial competence, and I don’t know where this road leads me next (if you give a mouse a cookie ...). But I do know that I am at the cusp of getting my money to work hard for me, instead of the other way around.

         Work hard and save. Mom and Dad, that’s been good advice and, with it, I’ve been able to live well, raise children to adulthood and care for my family. But it’s good advice for a different goal than the one I have now. The nest is empty. Now it’s time to live larger.

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March 2008

One of the advantages of the empty nest is the opportunity to travel without kids, hence this

Travel Advisory
By Mark Wiertalla

        I’ve written previously about travel-related revelations of empty nesthood. Wife R2V2 and I have seized the opportunity to leave the “kids” behind and explore the world, and we’ve learned a few things about travel.

        If you’re planning solitary travel, then it’s all about you, baby. But assuming you have a companion, it’s probably more about your “baby” than it is about you. And if your baby has a baby, then it’s not even a little bit about you. If that’s your situation, then I suggest that your first trip should be a visit to the New Dad column.

          Finding a destination that maximizes the points where your personal interests intersect with your travel companion’s interests is the real challenge. In order to make this process just a little less contentious, I suggest that you focus first upon the essentials of travel. Let’s start with food. Everyone has to eat, and most of us have resigned ourselves to enjoying the experience. My wife and I have adventurous palates so, if the waiter has to explain to us how it should be eaten, then we call that a “good” travel experience. But some of us need visual reminders of the familiar in order to venture out of the nest and experience the world. If you need to see the Golden Arches in order to stir the old salivary glands to life, then I’d suggest Muskogee … or maybe Tijuana, Mexico.

          Speaking of Tijuana, we should talk about water for a moment. Don’t take it for granted. Prior to my trip to India, I was cautioned to drink only processed water (we know this better by its Latin name, beer), eschew fresh fruits and vegetables because they have been washed with untreated water, and brush my teeth only with boiled water. I can verify that this will help you avoid developing persistent dysentery, or the other popular sub-continental malady, explosive diarrhea. And if you can avoid eating, breathing or shaking hands, that would be a good strategy, too. Unfortunately for this empty-nest dad, I have an adventuresome palate. I recommend a pre-travel cocktail of vaccinations administered by your favorite healthcare barista. Oh, and a gastro-intestinal prophylactic is a good idea, too.

          Language is another travel qualifier. I learned some basic Italian before my wife and I visited Italy. Using even the simplest Italian enhanced the experience for both of us. Especially our last night in Rome, where there was no English to be found in the pizzeria. And I’ve learned that sign language – like pointing at clocks and holding up fingers in order to purchase train tickets – is a commonly understood language in Japan. But if you need to see a menu written in English, then I’d suggest London. Although the food choices in the pubs get olde pretty quickly, the ale is room temperature and, when you’re pissed, it’s not difficult to find the loo.

          Consider transportation for a moment. Wife R2V2 and I prefer to explore on foot. Or train or trolley or bus or whatever the locals use. To us, an automobile is a large and unnecessarily expensive ball and chain. Cities and culture need to be consumed at a leisurely pace, not in fifth gear. But if you really need a car in order to feel fully confident and liberated, then I’d suggest the Queens Highway (Canada). To a citizen of the U.S.A., it’s a foreign country, they drive on the right, there are plenty of fast food signs, and they speak fluent English. Um, yeah, except for Quebec. But you can always exit at Toronto and ask for directions to Wendy’s on Younge Street. Order the Triple. You’ll have more than enough for the drive back to Vancouver.

         Our uniquely individual interests present a challenge … or an opportunity to enhance our negotiation skills. For example, I really enjoy spending an afternoon in an art galley or museum. That’s sheer boredom for my wife, akin to watching paint dry. She has a strong metaphysical leaning that I just can’t connect with, and she wants to go on spiritual retreats and stuff. If there’s nudity involved then, sure, I’m all for it. But that always earns me a sniff of reproach. I love adding a new ballpark or stadium to my long list of places where I can say “I’ve been there;” my wife would rather have teeth pulled without anesthesia. She likes walking through gardens; I daydream about how large the bottle must be for all that salad dressing. I recommend that you leave room enough in your travel agenda for personal pursuits. Just remember that what happens in Amsterdam’s Red Light district doesn’t necessarily stay in Amsterdam’s Red Light district.

         And finally, here is my empty-nest travel recommendation for everyone. There is no better travel value – and read along with me here, folks – than a cruise. A cruise has all of the comforts of a hotel, and the high probability that
    (1) the sheets are clean,
    (2) the room doesn’t smell, and
    (3) insects weren’t the tenants previous to you.

All of your meals are included (and don’t roll your eyes at me – I’m not talking about the buffet line). The average person will eat world-class meals that could easily run upwards of $50 per person at restaurants. The nightlife and entertainment are outstanding with – get this – no cover charge. There are single-day commitments to ports of call, but if they don’t appeal, no worries. You’ll be leaving that evening. And if it does appeal, like Kauai appealed to my wife and me, then it’s already a familiar destination for a return visit. There is an incredible choice of shore excursions that can accommodate the adventurous, the inquisitive and the less mobile. There is an additional price to pay to the tour operator, but the cruise lines offer more options for touring than a person could ever find independently. The only worry is the budget for the bar bill. But if you can’t manage a budget, then may I recommend the Mojitos?

Empty Nest News Flash: Twenty-seven years ago, I proposed to Wife R2V2 on Valentine’s Day in her dorm room at Oakland University in Rochester (Cee Oh Ell Dee). Twenty-seven years later, Techboy proposed to my iDaughter underneath the Golden Gate Bridge at sunset for Valentine’s Day. I’d accuse him of one-upsmanship, but a good son-in-law is worth holding onto.

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February 6, 2008

Empty nesthood presents the opportunity to refocus on the one relationship that started everything; it's a chance at

Second Love
By Mark Wiertalla

    A friend of mine once said, “Love really is better the second time around.” She made that statement almost twenty years ago, and this was after her divorce and remarriage. I viewed my friend’s observation with the logical conclusion of, “Well, of course it’s better the second time around. If the first marriage wasn’t good, then why would anyone get married a second time unless it was better.” Duh.

    My wife and I were perhaps only a half-dozen years along our own journey when my friend shared her observation. So my perspective on the whole second-love concept was formed from only a few years of life experience and a single marriage. Until recently I have always assumed that “second love” is synonymous with “second marriage.” That’s my analytical self churning logically away in its comfortable little happy space, a whitewashing of all the complexities of second love with a broad brush stroke of “It’s all very simple, really.” I’ve written previously about some of the challenges that empty nesthood can present. Breaking out of old behavioral patterns and redefining a relationship is one of those challenges. So twenty years later, this “Duh!” would be for me.

    But I have learned that empty nesthood also presents opportunity. With the children on their own, my wife and I have learned to refocus on the one relationship that started everything. In a way we’ve gone almost all the way back to the beginning when it was just us and the Murphy bed and a few bills to pay. We’ve learned to sift through all the years of ingrained and mindless habits, outdated roles, pleasing and painful memories, and burdens and joys of parenthood. The trappings of hard-edged, foul-tasting hulls have been thrown to the wind. They are our hulls, and I suspect that the wind may bring them back from time to time if we’re not vigilant. But the good times and the good memories and the lessons learned have floated through our sieve to form a fine, delicate, shimmering mound of high-quality flour that represents the very best of our former life, the very best ingredient for making something new and wonderful and sweet.

    This month, the month of hearts and flowers and jewelry and love and, occasionally, marriage proposals, I’d like to confirm that love really is better the second time around. For those wondering “What does second love look like?” I’ve created a partial inventory:

         An afternoon stroll down a main street
         Dance lessons
         A cruise
         Pole dancing (bonus points if it’s in front of your daughter’s friends)
         A $30 beer, where price is inflated by casual ‘shopping’
         A Sunday-morning hike up to the best vantage point over the valley
         A weekend for two at a clothing-optional resort
         A small celebration of a new home with a kiss every time a train goes by (warning – may lead to perpetually chapped lips!)
         A walk downtown for dinner
         Risqué Halloween costumes
         A surprise abduction at the train station
         A sushi dinner during Friday-night concerts in the park
         A Father’s Day hike through our very own palm oasis
         A warm, sunny Sunday-morning breakfast in a new kitchen

    This second love-thing is like having a second, upgraded wife – a kind of Wife Release 2, with a minor version thrown in every once in a while, just a little something to fix a few minor bugs. And you know what? This one is a lot more fun than the last model – a little more trusting and more accepting of me. And worth all of the investment.

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January 9, 2008

My kids grew up enjoying the beauty of minor league baseball

Diamonds
By Mark Wiertalla

         In the transition into empty-nesthood, I’ve left behind one of my favorite family activities. I’ve mentioned before that iDaughter has the family baseball gene, but all three of my kids grew up on minor league baseball. They’ve seen more minor league baseball games in places like Stockton, Modesto, San Jose, Fresno, Reno and Sacramento than most kids have seen movie theaters. For about the same price as a movie ticket, a box of popcorn and a soda, we spent quality dad-n-kids time building memories around things like running the bases on a real baseball field, mimicking umpire calls, laughing at goofy mascot pranks and basking in the afternoon sun on Home Run Hill.

         I love minor league baseball. There’s an intimate connection with the minor league game that just doesn’t exist at the major league level. The small size of the stadiums keeps everything within reach, within earshot or within sight. It’s the short walk from the parking lot, the narrow strip of grass that separates the seats from the first base line, the sound of chatter between the players on the field that makes the experience much more interactive for a fan.

         I like the unpredictability. Young men are still honing their skills and the ever-present element of error leads to more surprise. An overthrow on a routine grounder to third can become a surprise turning point in a blowout. A fashionable but careless swipe at a grounder starts a rally. A “brain fart” catches a runner leaning the wrong way off first base and kills the rally. And because rosters change every year, there are no dynasties and each season and each game begins with the chances even for each team.

         I like the faster pace of the minor league game. There’s a purer desire to play rather than insistence upon statistical lefty-righty matchups, stepping out of the box just as the pitcher begins the windup, and long breaks for commercial advertisements. In fact, for a knowledgeable, experienced baseball fan, I find this aspect to be the most troubling trend in the major league game: the endless delays and strategic maneuvering that create a painful four-hour experience. In contrast, minor league games rarely last more the two-and-a-half hours. I don’t play softball at a snail’s pace. And I certainly didn’t play high school ball for four hours. This may be a key reason why I find a greater affinity with “baby ball.” It’s baseball the way that I would play it.

         It may be trite, but all of this fun is ridiculously affordable. Entrance to almost every ballpark can be had for $5. For $20, fans can treat themselves to a front row, lean-over-the-railing-to-grab-a-foul-ball, will-you-please-sign-my-scorecard, first-class experience. Parking is cheap (when there is a charge), and there is enough left over after the beer and dogs to grab an official team hat.

         Jeezs, I love this game.

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December 12, 2007

A new nest spawns

New Traditions
By Mark Wiertalla

         I grew up in Michigan – by the way, that’s spelled, capital Cee, oh, ell, dee – where my parents always held a Christmas Eve get-together at their house for the neighbors, relatives and friends. It was the highlight of the season for me, even better than tearing into gifts on Christmas morning. My wife and I hadn't hosted anything like that since moving to California twenty years ago. It’s probably a consequence of being house-poor and living in melting-pot neighborhoods where every household seemed to be in different stages of life… DINKs, young families, mature families, retirees. I’m writing about this memory because we hosted a combination holiday-gathering, house-warming party last weekend. It gave us the opportunity to reach out to the new neighbors that we’re still getting to know and to get together some friends that we haven’t seen for a while. It was an after-the-kids-go-to-bed, adults-only gathering, and it was a very warm and pleasant evening. The neighborhood likes to party on holidays like Cinco de Mayo and the Fourth of July, but we’re not aware of a social gathering during the Christmas season. Perhaps we’ve just created the blueprint for a new social tradition among the families on “The Circle.” I know it felt immensely satisfying after being absent for a couple of decades.

         One tradition that I know won’t/can’t change is Christmas crab. Crabbing season starts in late November off of the Pacific coast and for years I have made the December 24th trek over to Half Moon Bay to pick up live Dungeness crab for Christmas dinner. This year we were concerned about the access to crab because a recent fuel spill in the Bay forced the commercial crabbers to keep their traps onshore. But the season officially opened and I’m a happy camper once again (as long as I don’t think about the price per pound). Last Christmas we were between homes and living in rental properties and I floated the idea that maybe a simple Christmas dinner was appropriate. That proposal was soundly defeated during the preliminary caucuses, and the kids let it be known that, if there was no crab, there was no Christmas. Several years ago my parents were with us through the holidays and, for whatever reason, there was no supply of Dungeness crab. So we opted for Rock crab instead. Here’s a fact: The name Rock crab doesn’t originate from where the crab lives. Instead it describes the tool that one uses to open the stubborn little devils once they are cooked. My advice: Go with Dungeness. It’s better-tasting and you won’t need to wash your ceiling after dinner.

         One of our California traditions still honored these twenty years later is our day-after-Thanksgiving trip into The City to drink in everything that San Francisco (and its retailers) offer for the holiday spirit including, literally, spirits on the top floor lounge of the Hyatt Hotel after dark. This year we stumbled upon a sale and, on the spur of the moment, Wife R2V2 and I decided to go with a designer tree in our new home. We purchased a new set of ornaments, lights, ribbon and angel for our tree. I must say, it looks very nice and Wife and I make a pretty good designer team. It was just the two of us decorating, and we spent an entire afternoon sipping wine to Christmas music on the local radio station. And the big plastic storage container that holds 26 years of Christmas memories is still up in the garage, waiting for our adult children to pick their favorites out when they come over for Christmas day.

         Speaking of the Christmas tree, one tradition that is going through a subtle empty-nest change is that thing that happens underneath it. As a consequence of the wanton spending on home improvement projects through the year, we chose fiscal responsibility for gift-giving and we’ve budgeted. Sure, we’ve filled up the space between the floor and the lower branches, and the blockade of foil-wrapped boxes still extends around to the back. I say blockade because someone (me) needs to run the blockade every few days to add water to the stand. But this year the colorful wall of larger-than-life Lego blocks no longer spills out onto the floor, forming a moat of gifts. My wife and I have arrived at a point where there are very few things that we really truly want for, and there are no grandkids to spoil yet. So we’re in a period of modest gift-giving, where being with family and friends in a warm home is really the gift that we desire most.

         Oh, except for Sparky the Dog. That little gift to my wife blew my Christmas budget in the days before Thanksgiving. I keep shoving him under the tree but he just won’t stay.

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November 21, 2007

I’ve done my share of diapers. But this column is not about my past, it’s about why babies are great any time of your life. In particular, there are

Three Advantages of Babies
By Mark Wiertalla

         My wife and I are empty nesters only because the nest was full at one time. I have done my share of diapers, lost quality sleep due to midnight feedings, and developed forensic parenting skills (“Why is this kid still crying?”). But this column is not about my past, it’s about the effects of the present upon my empty-nest life. So, here are my top reasons why babies are great, even when the nest is empty:

Queue Priority.   Nearly all of my business travel is through a well-known discount airline. There is no reserved seating and “We, the Cattle” are herded into the big blue-red-and-orange flying corral in three groups: A, B and C. For those who are math-challenged or still paying premium prices for in-flight meals, Group A gets the choice of the window or aisle seats, Group B gets the remaining window and aisle seats, and Group C gets the middle seat and the promise of an arm rest war on two fronts … unless you are a family traveling with small children. Then you have priority boarding, and that means the first 30 seats are filled with families – and babies – before the Group A elitists even finish their lattes.
          So, if I’m a late-arriving member of Group B, I’m looking at a cross-country flight sandwiched between a Sumo with a nervous tick and a retired grandmother who is on her way to see her grandchildren because her daughter and son-in-law moved east to follow their jobs and she misses the babies because they have careers and his job as surgeon doesn’t allow them to vacation so she doesn’t see her only granddaughter and… and it’s easy to understand why those first 30 seats can be so important.
         Lesson: Babies are an essential business travel accessory.

Carpool Lane. In California, we love cars (and petroleum companies loooove Californians). Everybody has at least one car. Lots of folks have two or more. SUVs are considered good starter vehicles, but most Californians really aspire to some class of monster pick-up truck or urban military-class conversion. Gas consumption is a status symbol. There are roughly 5 million people in the greater San Francisco Bay Area and that leads to a lot of cars converged upon a limited number of freeways during the morning and evening commute windows.
         In order to alleviate freeway congestion, a special lane of the freeway is reserved for those vehicles that transport two or more passengers as an incentive to get cars off of the road. Drivers who don’t transport two or more passengers are faced with a binary choice:
    1) a 90-minute drive home, or
    2) hefty fines, widespread social derision and probably eternity in hell by cheating in the carpool lane. For the privileged, life in the carpool lane is swell. It moves along at posted speeds and reduces commute time, reduces fuel waste and preserves the fragile balance between inner peace and road rage. Passengers is a classification for homo sapiens and is not defined by age or size, and you know where this going. The really smart commuters know to purchase car seats that the Highway Patrol can see just above the edge of the back seat windows.
         Lesson: Babies are an essential tool for a successful commute strategy.

Conversation Starter. Let’s say two empty-nester dads are sitting outside of the local coffee shop on a pleasant Sunday morning. They’re sipping lattes and sitting only a few feet away from their SUVs parked in the street. They’re the same age, same build and looks, same khakis and polo shirts … in fact, let’s just say they are identical twins. Except that one of them is also tending to a baby in a stroller. Guess which one is irresistible? Guess which one is the attention magnet for the hot moms?
         I’m going to stop just short of getting myself into literary damnation and say that none of us happily married empty-nest dads would ever – ever – use a baby as a devious alternative (and insensitive) pickup strategy. Sure, we like the attention, but we are happily married, after all. This is about the legion of unmarried empty-nest dads. We’re in this together and, guys, you know what I’m talking about.
         Lesson: “Oh her? She’s my granddaughter. I just agreed to watch her until you arrived.”

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October 24, 2007

It threw me for a loop. We were moving my daughter to her new nest, and I wasn't sure

When to Let Go
By Mark Wiertalla

I helped iDaughter and Techboy move into their first apartment a few weekends ago. It’s a small, one-bedroom place about the same size as the first apartment that my wife and I had. Ours was a tiny little place in Wayne, Michigan, and it looked out over a dumpster. Theirs is on the Alcatraz side of Russian Hill, overlooking San Francisco Bay, and it has one of the greatest views in the entire world. I’d complain about the unfairness of life, but my editor would just highlight my gripe and hit delete.

Their place is in a high-density neighborhood – high density for people and vehicles alike – and Techboy had to leave the moving van parked across a neighbor’s driveway to make the distance from van-to-doorstep as short as possible. Their apartment is on the third floor of a building with no elevator so, after two hours of intense manual labor, Techboy and I had emptied both the moving van and our well of physical resources. The girls decided that the boys were due for a small reward of sorts, so the four of us – iDaughter, Techboy, Wife R2V2 and I – headed down Russian Hill to the Marina district for lunch.

Just after we settled down and ordered sandwiches and beers, a cell phone rang out. The neighbors had returned home from their walk and needed their driveway cleared. Our lunch hadn’t arrived yet, and stress levels immediately leapt from “relief” to “frantic.” Run back or walk the eight blocks uphill? What about lunch? Once the van was moved, could it be parked somewhere else? Who goes? Who stays? How quickly could we get the check?

My wife and I looked at each other and, without saying anything, we knew the question was, “OK. What do we do here?” Typically, Dad would make the run, park the van in a distant lot at considerable expense, run back to the diner and everyone else would party hardy in the meantime. In summary: Dad would save the day.

But this was a new day. It was the kids’ apartment, their new neighborhood, their choice of locale, their decision, and logistical challenges like this were bound to be a consequence of their choices. So the answers were: Run, take out, no, iDaughter, the rest of us, not quick enough. My wife and I helped by picking up the check.

My point is this: I felt as stressed as the kids. My first impulse was to be Superdad and just assume responsibility for everyone’s happiness and security. In hindsight, that was my pre-empty-nest dad skills naturally rising to meet a challenge. I’m pretty sure that none of the others expected me to solve the problem. Perhaps, no one even wanted me to solve the problem (gasp). Looking back, it’s an epiphany of sorts. As much as I enjoy life without the day-to-day burdens of family and, despite the considerable effort that it took to push myself into this new life (documented in columns previous to this one), it was surprising how quickly my mind stepped back into the old role. And it was rewarding to see them solve the problem. It validated that, yes, they really are ready for the big jump into their own nest.

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Empty Nest News Flash: Stepford Daughter is featured in the new 2008 Hooters calendar. I won’t say which month, but it’s not that difficult to deduce who she is. I’ll just say that I’m unreasonably fortunate to have such a beautiful, intelligent and talented young woman for a daughter. It must be life squaring things up for that old view of a dumpster.

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September 12, 2007

Dad Unmasked
By Mark Wiertalla

I had lunch with a lifelong friend the other day. It’s been years since we had the chance to have a leisurely discussion. Over the years it seems like it’s always been raising families, managing careers, or two thousand miles getting in the way of quality time … whine, whine, whine. We’re both the same age, and we’ve followed the same general road in life (note to reader: Most maps refer to this kind of road as “unimproved”) through careers, marriage, family and health. Despite different bloodlines, education, careers and geographical locations (California, me; Michigan, him), there are surprising similarities in our personal growth, especially when it comes to transitioning from full-time dad to caretaker of an empty nest.

The transition into full-time fatherhood was less challenging for me than the transition out of it. Perhaps it was the limitless enthusiasm for living that comes with young adulthood and the belief that anything and everything will be possible in life. I knew that being a dad was going to be a life role for me even prior to becoming an expecting father, and I entered into fatherhood with a master plan. I intended to have my children early in life so I could devote maximum energy to the role. I wanted to be a young dad to my teenagers and share some of the best times of their lives with them, going snowboarding, dancing until the early hours of the morning, and taking multi-day backpacking treks. I eagerly – and just a little naively – took on one of the major stressors in life and moved a young family of five across the country to California because the Golden State offered the kind of life for my family that I envisioned.

Expectations and obligations came with the role of Dad. Children had school schedules, they had mealtimes, they had learning times, they had recreation times, and they had bedtimes. Schedules were always defined for me, and I didn’t have to think about the options of how I would spend my time, like “What else would I be doing?” Children need routine, and so I adapted to household routines and, frankly, I didn’t have to think much, I only had to do. In general, when life offered choices, they were easier to make because, when children are the highest life priority, it doesn’t take much cerebral mass to choose to be a softball coach, a music teacher, or a Scout leader. Vacation choices were easy – we went camping instead of going to, say, Vegas. Parenting problems always had solutions within reach. I had my own parents to consult, and they had become Parenting Masters by virtue of charting the parenting path ahead of me. I had a network of other dads whom I could consult for innovative solutions. And there was always an inferred position of advantage in the parent-child relationship that allowed me to solve problems via authority. That wasn’t always the best tool to use but, as I’ve stated, being the Dad did make some problems easier to solve. And oddly, I think even my career choices were made easier because, as the primary revenue generator for the household, the stability of career and employment had to be respected and maintained.

With the transition into fatherhood and throughout all of the transitions within it, I was always looking ahead, regularly defining and redefining my fathering skills and priorities and assessing the next days of my life from that single, significant perspective. Now that I can look back at the road that I uniquely forged from the vantage point of hindsight, I realize something that surprises me. Fatherhood made life easy. I am not referring to fatherhood itself – that was always a challenge. But as I defined my life around the theme of Fatherhood, there were a great many life choices I didn’t have to face. Sometimes, perhaps, I even avoided making them – with reasonable defense, of course.

The toughest challenge of transitioning out of full-time fatherhood was letting go of the role that had defined who I was for more than 20 years because I was unmasked and I had to stand in the mirror and ask the stranger, “If I’m not a full-time father, then who am I?” Or more appropriately, “Who do I want to be?”

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August 29, 2007

Room for Funnel Cake
by Mark Wiertalla

The fair is in town. La Casa dei Sogni is only three blocks from the fairgrounds, so my wife and I walked down the street for dinner on Tuesday night. No parking fees, a special “$2 Tuesday” entry price, and fair food. It’s only taken me 30 years, but I’ve finally learned how to treat a girl right.

We sat under the umbrellas of the picnic pavilion eating BBQ, sipping on a bottle of water, listening to the same blues band that we could hear from the house, and drinking in everything that is unique to our new home. At each of the picnic tables around us, parents were tending to babies in strollers and squawking toddlers, assuring them that they could get cotton candy but only after they finished their hot dogs. I remarked to my wife, “Gee, it only seems like it was 20 years ago that we sat here with ours.” It was a poignant moment.

I realized – and appreciated – how different our motivation for attending the fair is now compared to what it used to be. Frankly, it’s all about a dinner consisting exclusively of fair food. Funnel cakes, candy apples, micro brew and a plate full of Big Bubba’s BBQ (and worth it at twice the price I should add). For two empty-nesters who spend a serious percentage of their time managing healthy menus and maintaining aggressive exercise regiments, a trip to the fair is all about self-indulgence. And the $2 entry fee stripped away any self-respect that might have managed to cling to us on our walk down the street.

We took a stroll through the midway, and I watched groups of “tweens” clustering about the arcade games and squealing from rides while spinning upside down. I said aloud, “For $25, a kid can spend the entire day on rides with their friends. What a great place to be a teenager.” I thought how differently the fair must seem to parents who watch their kids walk off the Tilt-a-Whirl laughing and feigning dizziness, or listen to them plead for tickets to ride the Matterhorn. Those times are past for us. I expect we’ll have the chance to relive them in a couple of years when the grandkids start to spend overnighters during the fair season. For the time being, I think I’ll savor the amount of time that a funnel cake lasts when there are only two people pulling at it.

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August 8, 2007

If a Dinner Bell Rings in an Empty Nest, Does it Make a Sound?
By Mark Wiertalla

Sunday. My wife and I both rolled over at 6:30 am, which was a wonderful extra hour of sleep compared to our work week, and we got our day started. She flipped on the television and tuned it to the local jazz station – it’s a wonderful thing, this radio-through-television-thanks-to-cable technology – and then she primed and kick-started the coffee pot. While she sat down to take care of some of our personal bills and tend to some budgety-things for work, I did what I have done on a lot of Sunday mornings over the last 25 years. I made breakfast. But breakfast this morning was unique, yet another example of how change creeps stealthily into my life without asking for permission.

This was my first morning at the helm of our new kitchen – new granite countertop, new cabinets, new stove top, new oven, new refrigerator – the entire works. On this glorious morning, with the combination of relaxing music, the warm smell of coffee, the shine of the morning sun off of the new granite countertop, I was in the frame of mind to be extravagant and creative – design the biggest, baddest breakfast that there ever was, toss in a surprise ingredient obtained from yesterday morning’s trip to the farmer’s market, maybe even use some cheese– and craft a meal that would become epicurean legend, retold across breakfast tables in kitchens across the land. Maybe even land me a guest spot on the Food Network after I figure out in which of the new cabinets my wife has hidden my favorite griddle.

But I realized there was a fairly significant problem stewing between me and my grand aspirations: It’s just my wife and I. The breakfast table is absent the three noisy, gaping jaws that should be at the end of outstretched necks, begging for regurgitated worms. Or perhaps Dad’s famous fruit-and-cream-cheese crepes. (They didn’t always notice the difference, and now that’s a secret between us, okay?)

Nowadays Café Dad has to deal with the loss of the regular breakfast clientele. If I look at this dispassionately, the market’s changed, nothing more, and the menu should change in keeping with the times. But it’s a whole lot easier to change the menu than to change 25 years of trial-and-error culinary training. There’s a man underneath the sweat pants and the cat-in-a-blender t-shirt, damnit!, and he misses cooking for five.

I’ve learned how to right-size my whole breakfast production. I peel one potato instead of five. Snap a couple of sausages off the end of the frozen array instead of cooking up the entire package. Slice an end off the deck of bacon instead of sending an entire pound through the microwave. And I use the freezer frequently. For example, the sausage may initially come out of the meat vault in the refrigerator but, once opened, it goes directly into the freezer, sans two or three links.

A more difficult problem for Chez Dad is that some of my favorite recipes – waffles, pancakes, crepes – can’t be halved or quartered. My wife, who is the skilled tradesman in Cucina Della Casa Dei Sogni (and generally likes to take Sundays off) assures me that simply cutting recipes in half results in less than half of the consumable product. And since I don’t always listen to her – usually an unwise thing for me to do – I can attest that it results in no consumable product. I did pretty well in math in school, and I can handle fractions with skill. But the concept that half the baking power doesn’t yield half the rise, or a quarter of the sugar doesn’t leave things the same shade of golden brown, well, that kind of talk just sounds illogical to me. I’m not expecting to get another 25 years to relearn my craft and a real man does not resort to Eggo. So another solution had to be found.

And I found it by consciously changing my breakfast routine through the rest of the week. If a batch makes up six or seven waffles, then I pick a hot one off the stack, bag the rest and, as long as I’m disciplined, I can have a tasty microwave breakfast with plenty of spare time to catch my train. Sure, by the time Friday morning rolls around, I’ve grown sick of waffles/pancakes/crepes. But on the other side of the argument – and I’m arguing with myself – I’m learning that a lot less money evaporates from my wallet during the week. So this moose-turd-pie-of-a-Dad-problem does have a buttered crust after all, and having empty chairs at the breakfast table is not an entirely bad thing. One nest, minus baby birds equals better breakfast throughout the week. Now there’s some math that is perfectly logical to me.

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July 25, 2007

Happy Birthday to Me
By Mark Wiertalla
.
        I had a birthday recently. It was a milestone birthday, and I was proud to attain it with my health, career, marriage and love for life all intact. Way back when I was thirty-five, I set a life goal to still be able to play competitive softball at fifty. Proving once again the power of manifestation, our team had a game scheduled upon my special day. To anchor the occasion, I told the team that after the game we’d go upstairs to the sports bar for pizza and beer on the senior representative’s credit card. A birthday party, of sorts. I thought it would be a good family experience to bring everyone together for the occasion, so I called each of the kids and invited them down to the softball complex to share some birthday cake with us.

        With the chicks having flown in different directions, the logistics for this kind of event can’t be overlooked or left to the last minute. iDaughter works in the City (San Francisco) and a late-afternoon trip down to the South Bay is an hour’s commute and a non-casual commitment. She is the fortunate recipient of the family baseball gene, so I knew she would get there. And it turned out that her boyfriend – the impending graduate from Chico State’s Mechatronics program – was going to be in town and could join us. Techboy and I always have a memorable time when we go imbibing, so I looked forward to seeing him. Stepford Daughter lives in Sacramento and is easily the busiest of the three. I knew the chance would be slim, but I was hoping to guilt her into the long trip for the sole purpose of sharing a piece of pizza with dear ol’ Dad on his birthday. No dice. She had a class that night and it was the last week of the semester; could I spell F-I-N-A-L-S? I called my son, the carpenter, who still lives with us but whom I see least of the three, to make sure that I got a spot on his social calendar. I was 3-for-4. In softball terms that’s a .750 batting average and good enough to lead the team.

        Most of what happened between the last out of the game and four o’clock the next morning – when I woke up naked on the bathroom floor – is flatly incriminating. So in order to protect the identities of the people that I shall eternally blame, I’ll summarize it this way:

        I went 9 full innings with Senor Patron. And I would have won … except for that last pitch.

        The legend of iDad and Techboy grows. And when our inhibitions are sent forth to frolic, he prefers to sing Guns-n-Roses while I prefer to draw upon the greatest hits of the ’60s.

        Carpenter is reputed to have some kind of “evidence” recorded into his camera phone. Now he smiles at me and says “YouTube.”

        iDaughter doesn’t like Guns-n-Roses, either out of tune or at 120 decibels.

        If the half of what she has told me is even partly true, my wife must love me. My fiftieth birthday was memorable, but I don’t seem to have the same memories as she does.

        Alcohol poisoning is no less painful at 50 than it was at 25. I thought I would be able to drink twice as much at twice this age. (Don’t bother looking for that wisdom in the Dad Instruction Booklet). Actually, the formula is far more vindictive: It is twice the pain with half the drink at twice the age.

        I'd like to think that my fiftieth birthday party helped me pass a few valuable and constructive lessons on to my children: Live life to the fullest. If you have to turn fifty, do it with the top down, the wind in your hair and, when you turn onto the tree-lined parkway of middle age, make sure to do it on two wheels and leave skids marks. Make it memorable for everyone. Just let someone else do the driving.

        And the game? I went 1-for-3 with a sacrifice fly, turned two double plays and the team chalked up a win. All this from a fifty-year-old left-handed shortstop.

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July 11, 2007

An Empty Nest Full of Dreams
by Mark Wiertalla

I’m going to ask you to suspend disbelief for a few paragraphs. This column is about manifestation, and it brings together everything about transitioning our empty nest.

For almost twenty years I’ve commuted to the Silicon Valley. If I average the amount of time I’ve spent in my car – and that stereotypes me as a typical Californian – it’s probably been about an hour and fifteen minutes each way. For those of you keeping score at home that would be about two-and-a-half hours a day. I willingly sat on the road so that my family could have an affordable home in a nice community. But enough was enough. I no longer had to be home for softball practice, or Scout meetings, or music lessons. An empty nest meant that I could set my own schedule and I was going to commit myself to commuting by train.