Castles in the Clouds (Now with Structural Integrity)

Over the past seven years, I’ve had the honor—and let’s be honest, occasional heartburn—of watching each of my kids graduate from high school and make their way to college. And just this spring, I watched my youngest cross that stage, diploma in hand, looking ahead to college and new opportunities to perform on stage. Not long ago, I stood in similar crowds as both my oldest daughter and my son graduated from college in 2015 and 2017, respectively—she now heading to medical school, and he just beginning his professional journey. Five graduations in seven years. One by one, they’ve crossed stages and thresholds, each carrying their own hopes, anxieties, and a slightly wrinkled gown we definitely didn’t press well enough.

And with each of them, I found myself standing at the edge of something too—part pride, part panic, and part wondering: What now?

Not just for them, but for me.

Because no one tells you that watching your kids leave the nest doesn’t just mean you’ve finished building their launchpad—it means you’re suddenly staring at a big stretch of sky and wondering if it might be your turn again.

That’s where Thoreau comes in:

If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them.

I love that quote. It sounds dreamy at first, but dig deeper and it's rock solid. Dream big. But then—get to work. And not just once when you're young and fearless, but again and again as your dreams evolve. My mom actually gave me a card with that quote when I graduated from high school. At the time, I probably didn’t grasp the full weight of it—too distracted by tassels and the vague smell of barbecue from the grad party—but it stuck with me. Decades later, I see how right she was to press that wisdom into my hands. It’s not just advice. It’s a blueprint. One I’ve watched my kids begin to follow in their own way—and one I’m finally coming back to myself.

It reminds me, too, of a softer take from Little Women:

Wouldn’t it be fun if all the castles in the air which we make could come true, and we could live in them?

There’s something tender and hopeful in that. Because of course, dreams can come true—but not by accident. They’re built slowly, intentionally, with more elbow grease than fairy dust. That’s what I’ve tried to teach my kids. And what I’m still learning myself.

Watching my kids head off into the world reminded me that dreaming isn’t a phase—it’s a practice. And while they’ve been sketching out the first spires of their castles, I’ve been quietly digging up some blueprints of my own—the ones I tucked away years ago under a pile of permission slips, grocery lists, and sports schedules. Dreams don't expire, it turns out. They just wait for quieter mornings.

Still, this post isn’t just about me dusting off old ambitions. It’s also a note to my kids—and anyone else standing on the edge of graduation, or reinvention, or just the next big thing.

If I could give you one more speech (the kind you don’t have to sit through in a folding chair), I’d borrow heavily from Paul Graham’s brilliant essay, What You’ll Wish You’d Known. It’s the kind of advice that skips the clichés and gets to the good stuff. So here goes:

1. You don’t have to know what you want to be.

Seriously. You’re not behind if you don’t have a 10-year plan. Let curiosity lead for a while. Try things. Follow what fascinates you. Most people don’t find their path—they stumble into it while doing something else.

2. Work hard at things that feel fun to work hard at.

This is the secret sauce. Don’t chase status. Chase flow. If you find yourself losing track of time while building something, learning something, fixing something—that’s a clue.

3. Don’t be afraid to be bad at something.

The early stages of any good project—whether it's a podcast, a physics degree, or a life—are messy. Ugly, even. You have to wade through awkward to get to awesome.

4. Pay attention to the things that bother you.

What frustrates you about the world? What would you change? That’s often where your purpose lives. Don’t be afraid to ask, “Why is it like this?” and then go fix it.

5. You’re not locked in.

Change your major. Change your mind. Change your definition of success. Anyone who tells you that you have to pick a lane at 18 probably sells traffic cones for a living.

And to my kids specifically—thank you. For letting me walk alongside you as you started your own builds. For teaching me that dreams are not a one-time event, but a renewable resource.

Because watching you chase your castles has reminded me: I’ve got some unfinished architecture of my own. And now, with a little more time, and a lot more perspective, I’m putting those foundations in.

So wherever you are—clouds, sky, or air—keep building. Keep learning. Keep asking better questions. And don’t worry if the blueprint changes along the way.

Oh—and come home sometimes. I’ve got snacks.

The Last Game

Last night, May 26, 2017. I'm sitting in my living room in La Crescenta, laptop open, watching a grainy live stream of the West Coast Conference tournament. Six hundred miles north in Stockton, my son Ted is warming up in the bullpen for what has just become the final game of his college baseball career. The Loyola Marymount Lions are facing elimination against BYU, and I was supposed to be driving up today for the championship game—if they could pull this one out.

The Lions are down 5-1 in the seventh inning. It doesn't look good.

Then Ted gets the call.

Where It All Began

The journey to last night in Stockton began on a different field entirely, decades earlier, with a bucket of tennis balls and a toy wooden bat that looked enormous in four-year-old hands. I bought him his first glove and baseball the day he was born—I know that was more about me than it was about him. But before he was old enough for organized teams, we were out in the backyard—me pitching underhand, him swinging with all the ferocity a preschooler could muster.

That little boy who slept with his glove under his pillow became the kid who mimicked batting stances he saw on TV, who lived and breathed Cubs baseball like his dad. He had a quick bat and a sharp eye, even as a little kid. He didn't just play baseball—he loved it. He studied it. From the time he started in Tee Ball, I saw his competitive fire up close. He wanted to win, sure—but more than that, he wanted to be better. To do it right. To work harder. To be ready.

His first Little League hit was an RBI triple off Nate Rousey—I still remember poor Nate cried afterward. His first home run came the next season. With each passing year, the instincts sharpened. The arm got stronger. The glove got quieter. The bat got louder. By the time he was a senior in high school at Crescenta Valley, he wasn't just a good player—he was a leader, a shortstop you built your infield around, a pitcher you trusted in big moments.

And then came that magical evening against Arcadia High—four years ago. Two outs in the bottom of the seventh, the Pacific League title hanging in the balance. CV down 4-2. Ted stepped up to the plate and launched a three-run homer into the night to give us a 5-4 victory and the championship.

Crack.

That sound—you know the one. The sound that makes a stadium rise as one. The ball sailing high over the left-center-field fence. But this wasn't some major league park. This was a high school diamond where my son had just become a legend, where years of backyard practice and Little League dreams crystallized into one perfect swing.

The College Years: Learning to Let Go

When Ted committed to LMU, it felt like the natural next chapter. Division I baseball—his dream realized. But it also marked a profound transition for me: from the sidelines coach who knew every pitch and every at-bat to the distant observer, I was lucky that he was close by so I could watch home games and I went to as many away games as time and schedule permitted. I followed LMU's box scores online, and loved the chance to take him to dinner after games.

But college baseball is different. The talent gap narrows. The stakes feel higher. And parents have to step back, to trust the coaches, to let their kids figure it out on their own. The intense involvement of Little League and high school gives way to something more like faith—faith that all those years of instruction, all those conversations about effort and attitude and what it means to be a teammate, have taken root.

For four years, I've watched from afar as Ted found his place on the team, from third base his freshman and sophomore years, and injury that sidelined his junior year, then as a pitcher in his senior year. I watched while he learned what it meant to compete at the highest amateur level. There have been highs and lows, moments of brilliance and stretches of struggle. The typical arc of a college athlete learning that talent alone isn't enough—that consistency, mental toughness, and team-first thinking separate the good from the great.

Last Night

Which brings us to last night in Stockton, to that elimination game, to Ted jogging in from the bullpen with the season on the line.

Down 5-1 in the seventh, facing a BYU rally with runners on base, this was exactly the kind of pressure moment we'd talked about since he was little. Not the glory moments—not the home runs or the strikeouts that make highlight reels—but the quiet, crucial situations where everything you've learned gets distilled into execution.

He shuts down the scoring threat in the bottom of the seventh. It wasn't perfect, but it was good.

Then, he pitches an almost spotless eighth inning.

Watching from six hundred miles away on that grainy stream, I can feel something building. The Lions start scratching and clawing in the ninth, mounting a comeback that brings them to within one run. Tying run at third base, two outs... For a moment, I can see it all unfolding: the impossible rally, the championship game I'll drive to today, one more chance to see him pitch at this level.

But baseball doesn't always deliver the endings we script in our heads. The Lions fell short, 5-4. The comeback comes up just shy. Ted's college career ends not with a championship, but with 1⅔ innings of relief, one strikeout, no runs allowed, and a team given every chance to win.

It was a beautiful ending, even in defeat.

What I'm Realizing This Morning

I had hoped to see Ted play live one more time. To make that drive to Stockton for today's championship game, to sit in unfamiliar bleachers and watch my son take the mound in the biggest game of his college career. That's not in the cards.

But as I watched him walk off that field last night for the final time, something unexpected happened. Instead of disappointment, I felt overwhelming gratitude. Not sadness that it's over, but appreciation for what we've shared.

I don't need one more game. I have a lifetime of them.

I have those early backyard sessions with tennis balls and patient instruction. I have Little League memories of gradual transformation from enthusiastic kid to serious ballplayer. I've coached him, watched him grow, seen him develop not just as a player but as a young man who understands what it means to be part of something bigger than himself.

He has high school glory—that championship-clinching homer that still gives me chills, the no-hitter against Loyola High earlier that spring, the Pacific League MVP award. The moments when talent met opportunity and created magic.

And now I have this: watching him finish his competitive career with grace, professionalism, and the kind of performance that reminds me why I fell in love with this game in the first place. Two crucial innings when his team needed him most. No fanfare, no headlines, just a job well done when it mattered.

The Gift of the Last Game

The thing about being a baseball parent is that you spend so many years living for the next game, the next season, the next level. You mark time by tournament weekends and playoff runs. Your calendar revolves around practice schedules and game times. And then, suddenly, it's over.

What I'm learning this morning is that sometimes the endings we don't choose are more meaningful than the ones we plan. I thought I wanted one perfect final game, one last chance to see him pitch with everything on the line. Instead, I'm getting something better: the realization that Ted has become exactly what we hoped when he first picked up that toy wooden bat.

A player who can be counted on. Who can handle pressure. Who can leave everything on the field whether the lights are bright or dim, whether the crowd is thousands or just a few parents and coaches watching a live stream. Someone who understands that how you finish matters as much as how you start.

Ted's baseball career has taught him about effort, teamwork, resilience, and what it means to be reliable when others are counting on you. It's taught me about patience, pride, letting go, and the beautiful complexity of watching your child pursue their dreams at the highest level they can reach.

What Remains

Now he's moving on to a career, to a life beyond the diamond. But somewhere in him will always be that four-year-old swinging the big wooden bat, that Little Leaguer crossing home plate after his first homer, that high schooler rounding the bases in triumph, that college pitcher walking off the mound after giving his team every chance to win.

And somewhere in me will always be the dad who got to watch it all unfold, one game at a time, one memory at a time, grateful for every single pitch.

Even the last one.

Especially the last one.

Because that's when I learned that the end of something beautiful isn't always sad. Sometimes it's just complete.

I'm grateful, too, that I was able to capture last night's game. That live stream, which I managed to grab, now holds Ted's final collegiate performance. Having it preserved means our family can revisit this moment—not just the statistics or the outcome, but the grace under pressure, the professionalism, the way he carried himself in those crucial innings. Years from now, when the details start to fade, we'll be able to watch again and remember not just what happened, but how it felt to witness the beautiful completion of a chapter we'd been writing together for over two decades.

Sometimes the most precious gifts come in the form of technology we take for granted—until it captures something irreplaceable.

Searching for Mom's Meatloaf

There's a certain kind of recipe that lives only in memory—formless, undocumented, yet stubbornly persistent in taste and feeling. For me, it's Mom's meatloaf. The one she made when we were kids, back when Tuesday nights meant the smell of onions browning in her old cast-iron skillet would drift upstairs to where we were supposed to be doing homework. The one that would somehow taste even better the next day, straight from the fridge, nuked in the microwave until the edges got those perfect crispy bits, and served with some mixed vegetables and a helping of Del Monte canned pears (yes, with the heavy syrup—because Mom believed dessert didn't always have to come last).

I can still see her in that kitchen sleeves pushed up to her elbows. She'd hum along to whatever was playing on the little radio on the counter top—sometimes Debbie Boone, sometimes the local news, sometimes just static that she'd forgotten to tune out. Her hands moved with the confidence of someone who'd made this meal a hundred times before, never measuring, never second-guessing. A pinch of this, a splash of that, all while keeping one ear tuned to our chatter from the next room.

I've asked her about it a few times over the years. She always gives that same good-natured shrug—the one that says oh, honey—and points to her old recipe box, which is really more of a time capsule. Index cards soft with age, yellowed newspaper clippings held together with scotch tape gone brown at the edges, and the occasional note scribbled in my grandmother's careful shorthand that only Mom can decode. But no meatloaf. Whatever magic formula she used back then is either lost to time or never existed outside her muscle memory and instinct—the kind of cooking that came from feeding a family on a budget and making it feel like abundance.

Cooking was one of my mom's love languages, though she never would have called it that. She was from a generation that showed love through action, not words. But you could feel it—in the way she made holiday meals feel like grand occasions even when money was tight. In the homemade birthday cakes that somehow always turned out perfect despite our ancient oven's uneven heating. In the way she'd quietly orchestrate dinner for six while juggling homework questions and referee disputes, never once making it seem like a burden. That meatloaf was part of that rhythm, part of that daily offering. It wasn't fancy—we weren't a fancy family—but it was made with intention, with the kind of love that asks for nothing in return.

I didn't inherit the creative cooking gene—let's be honest about that. Where Mom could look at leftovers and see possibility, I see only confusion. But she did teach me something just as important: how to read a recipe with patience, how to follow steps without cutting corners, and how even a simple meal, made with care, could carry a little of that same love forward into the next generation. So I try. Even now, all these years later and eight states away from that kitchen, I find myself chasing that feeling. Recreating it, however imperfectly, in my own smaller kitchen with its different sounds and different light.

Sometimes I'll catch myself humming while I cook—usually something I heard her humming years ago—and for just a moment, I'm eight years old again, setting the table with our mismatched plates and waiting for Dad to come home from work.

So recently, I decided to try my own version. Call it meatloaf archaeology—digging through layers of memory, trying to unearth something that might never have been written down in the first place. A little educated guessing, a little wishful thinking, a little trial and error. And this time, miracle of miracles, it came out close. Maybe not exactly Mom's—I suspect that particular magic is locked in with her recipe box secrets—but close enough that my younger self might've mistaken it for the real thing if I'd come home from school, backpack slung over one shoulder, baseball cap askew, looking for something to tide me over before "F Troop" came on and the world got quiet for thirty minutes.

Here's what I came up with—part memory, part hope, part love letter to Tuesday nights that felt like home:

---

My Almost-Mom’s Meatloaf (Baked Alaska Style)

Ingredients:

For the Meatloaf:

    • 1½ pounds ground beef
    • 1 cup quick-cooking oats
    • 1 packet au jus mix
    • 1 egg
    • ½ cup milk
    • 1 small onion, finely chopped
    • 1 tsp Worcestershire sauce
    • ¼ tsp black pepper
    • ½ tsp minced garlic
    • 1 tbsp mustard
    • ¼ cup ketchup

For the Mashed Potato Topping:

    • 4 servings mashed potatoes (homemade or instant—no judgment)
    • Optional: more ketchup

Instructions:

Preheat the Oven: Set to 350°F and lightly grease a loaf pan.

Mix the Loaf: Combine all meatloaf ingredients in a large bowl. Don’t be shy—use your hands. That’s the only way to get it right.

Shape and Bake: Press the mixture into the loaf pan and bake for 45–55 minutes, or until the center hits 160°F.

Make Your Potatoes: Whip up your mashed potatoes while the meatloaf cooks. Feel free to add chives, cheese, or a little garlic if that’s your thing.

Top and Broil: When the meatloaf is done, spread the mashed potatoes over the top. Want to go full retro? Add a thin layer of ketchup on top of that. Then broil for 3–5 minutes to get a little color and texture.

Rest and Serve: Let it rest a few minutes before slicing.

---

Is it exactly like Mom's? No. The honest truth is, nothing ever will be. But it feels like it is, and maybe that's the point. Maybe the secret ingredient was never something you could measure or write down—maybe it was just the love that went into it, the hands that made it, the home that held it.

I'll keep tweaking it here and there, chasing the flavor that lives in my head and my heart. But in the meantime, this one's earned a spot in my recipe box—right between "Mom's Overnight French Toast" and “Christmas Kolachky,” in the place where memory meets hope.

And who knows? Maybe someday, twenty years from now, one of my grandkids will come home hungry and remember this version just the same way I remember hers. Maybe they'll chase their own perfect meatloaf, adding their own touches, their own love, their own memories to the mix. Maybe that's how the best recipes survive—not on paper, but in the hearts of people who understand that some things are worth remembering, worth recreating, worth passing on.

That's what Mom would have wanted, I think. Not perfection, but connection. Not the exact recipe, but the feeling it gave us—the sense that we were loved, we were fed, we were home.

The Year Finally Came

For as long as I can remember, being a Cubs fan was less about baseball and more about belief.

Not belief in winning—not really—but belief in the act of believing itself. The kind passed down by fathers and mothers and the grainy glow of a daytime WGN broadcast. I was born a Cubs fan, but my first memories of being a Cubs fan are from the 1970s, sitting cross-legged on my Granny's living room floor, watching Jack Brickhouse call day games from Wrigley Field. Hey-hey! The sun always seemed to shine a little brighter through those dusty windows, and for a few hours, the Cubs were everything. My mom, my grandparents—they all loved the Cubs. But it was my great-grandmother’s house where that love was sealed. That’s where I learned how to sit still for nine innings and how to hold onto hope even when the standings didn’t make any promises.

Cubs fandom wasn’t a hobby—it was a lineage. And it came with its fair share of heartbreak.

In 1984, I paid a lot of money for tickets to see the Cubs play in the National League Championship Series. They were up two games to none against San Diego—and then lost three in a row at Jack Murphy Stadium. I was there. I watched it slip away in real time. Five years later, in 1989, the Cubs were back in the NLCS—this time against the Giants. And after San Francisco won the series, I remember feeling something strange: guilt. Because when the Loma Prieta Earthquake hit just before the World Series, a small part of me wondered if it was a sign from God that the Cubs were supposed to win—that the world itself had tried to intervene.

But I kept watching. Always. Through the 1990s and early 2000s, WGN was still my summer companion, and Harry Caray's voice—raspy, joyful, half-in-the-bag by the seventh inning—was the soundtrack to my hope. "It might be... it could be... it is!" he’d shout, and for a few moments, you'd forget how many games back we were. Even in the losing seasons—and there were plenty—I’d find myself drifting back to that kid sitting on the floor at my great-grandmother’s house, watching day games and believing, simply because that’s what we did. We hoped. We waited. And Harry helped make that waiting feel like something close to joy.

Then came the Lou Piniella era, and for a little while, it felt like we were onto something real again. In 2007 and 2008, the Cubs looked like contenders—good ones. They won the division both years, the team was balanced, confident, and tough. I let myself believe, just a little more than usual. But then came the postseason, and with it, the gut punch. Swept out of the NLDS two years in a row—first by the Diamondbacks, then by the Dodgers. The hope I had carefully built was flattened. Not because we lost, but because of how we lost. Swiftly. Quietly. Like we didn’t belong there after all.

Then came 2003. The Bartman Ball. My son and I sat together and watched as the Cubs fell apart against the Marlins. It wasn’t just a loss—it felt like a family wound. I remember wondering, with real fear, if I was just another link in the chain—if generations of my family had lived and died without seeing the Cubs win it all, and if I was about to pass that legacy down to my own kids.

And yet—despite everything—I kept watching. I kept hoping.

The 2016 World Series itself was a gauntlet of emotion. The Cubs had finally made it—and after everything, that almost felt like enough. But of course, it wasn’t. Not now. Not when we were this close. Then came the Cleveland Indians, and a series that turned every inning into a cardiac event.

When the Cubs fell behind three games to one, it felt like fate had returned to finish the job. I told myself I’d seen this movie before. That maybe I should spare myself the heartbreak. But I couldn’t not watch. It was like waiting for a train wreck I couldn’t look away from—slow, inevitable, painful.

And then came Game 5 at Wrigley. Elimination night. Lester on the mound, the offense still tight, the crowd a knot of hope and fear. The Cubs scratched out a 3–2 win, barely holding off Cleveland, and you could feel the gears start to turn. Kris Bryant homered. David Ross caught the final out. It wasn’t dominance, but it was life. The kind of game that reminded you why we watch—because even in the darkest moments, there’s always a chance.

Then Game 6 in Cleveland. Arrieta was sharp, the bats came alive, and suddenly—suddenly—the Cubs looked like the team we’d watched dominate the regular season. Bryant went deep. Russell hit a grand slam. The Cubs scored early and often. It wasn’t close. A 9–3 win, the series tied, and all bets were off. They hadn’t just forced a Game 7—they’d swung the emotional pendulum completely. From dread to fire. From “here we go again” to “maybe this is the year.”

Somewhere deep down, I started to believe. Not with bravado. Not with certainty. But with that quiet, familiar flicker that’s carried Cubs fans through lifetimes.

So on November 2, 2016, when Game 7 of the World Series stretched into its tenth inning, it felt less like a baseball game and more like a reckoning. Rain had paused the world, the score was tied, and a century of ghosts seemed to lean in a little closer.

I watched that game from my living room, surrounded by people who weren’t nearly as emotionally invested in the Cubs as I was. They knew I cared—knew it mattered—but they didn’t feel it in their bones the way I did. Still, they watched with me, patiently riding the emotional roller coaster, quietly supportive while I paced, shouted, swore, and occasionally buried my face in my hands. I was alone in the depth of it, but I wasn’t alone—and somehow, that made the night feel even more intimate, more personal, like I was carrying the weight of generations all by myself in that room.

The highs and lows of that night were biblical. Fowler’s leadoff homer felt like a miracle. Baez going yard, Ross’s redemption. A 5–1 lead in the fifth. A 6–3 lead in the eighth. And then, suddenly, it started slipping.

Chapman came in—overworked, exhausted, human—and just like that, the ghosts showed up. Davis homered. The game was tied. The stadium in Cleveland thundered, and a familiar voice started whispering in my head: We blew it again.

It wasn’t a thought. It was a reflex. Nearly every ounce of my body was screaming that we’d seen this before, that we’d lived it before—Brant Brown, Bartman, black cats, Leon Durham, the curse of whoever you chose to blame. All of it suddenly alive again in the worst possible way.

But I didn’t turn away. I didn’t shut it off. I just sat there—tense, sick, silent—and kept watching. Somewhere beneath the dread, I still hoped. Not in a loud or defiant way. Just a flicker. A little pilot light that had never quite gone out, no matter how many times the wind had tried.

And then the rain came. And the Cubs gathered in the weight room. And something shifted. I don’t know if it was divine intervention or just resilience forged by a century of heartbreak—but when they came back out, they looked different. And then Zobrist. And then Montgomery. And then Bryant grinning as he fielded that final grounder, slipping ever so slightly on the throw—almost too perfectly Cubs—and Rizzo stuffing the ball into his back pocket like a secret he never wanted to let go.

The room erupted, but I just sat there. Not out of disbelief, but because I didn’t want the moment to move past me too quickly. After 108 years, I had learned how to wait.

The next morning, I found myself watching a 30-second Budweiser commercial that had somehow appeared overnight. It featured Harry Caray’s voice, layered over scenes from the night before—Bryant to Rizzo, the dogpile, the scoreboard, the roar. I watched it over and over again. Hearing Harry call the Cubs’ World Series victory nearly two decades after his passing—it broke something open in me. That voice was the soundtrack of my summers, of my childhood, of the long, slow decades of hope and heartbreak. And here he was again, calling it home, just like he always did.

That video was the connection I didn’t know I needed—to my past, to the generations before me, and to the version of myself who had waited so long for this. I could live inside those 30 seconds. And maybe I still do. The same way a song can pin you to a summer, or a smell can send you back to your childhood bedroom, that video takes me straight to that night. I remember how it felt. I remember how I knew—knew—that nothing in baseball would ever mean more than this.

I thought about Wrigley. About the bricks and ivy that had seen so much futility and hope and human comedy. About the way that ballpark holds onto memory like ivy clinging to stone. I thought about all the times I walked into that place and looked out at the field like it was a cathedral. Because for many of us, it was.

The Cubs didn’t just win a championship that night. They untied a knot that had lived in generations of stomachs. They let us feel joy not as an abstract idea or a stubborn hope, but as something real, tangible, earned. And in doing so, they reminded us why we believed in the first place—not because we thought they’d win, but because we knew what it meant to keep showing up anyway.

There are a million stories from that night, and they’re all true. Mine just happens to be one of them. But the magic of November 2, 2016, is that it belongs to all of us. Every fan who waited. Every parent who passed it down. Every kid who first heard, “Just wait ’til next year,” and somehow believed.

Well—next year came.

And it was everything we dreamed.

Trains, Presidents, and Baseball

A Cross-Country Road Trip with My Daughter

Earlier this month, Kailey and I packed up a rental Toyota Corolla and pointed it East—driving from La Crescenta, California, to Philadelphia, where she would begin medical school at Thomas Jefferson University. It was a practical trip on paper, but we planned to make use of the time to hit touristy things along the road. However, the trip soon became something more: a chance to share time, places, and stories with my oldest child in a way we hadn’t for years.

We set off under the California desert sun, bound not just for Philly, but for a series of mutual passions we’d charted together—natural wonders, national parks, presidential history, and baseball among them. First stop: the Grand Canyon. A classic detour. Entering the National Park, we were greeted by the sight of a family of Moose. We hurried to reach the South Rim of the canyon in time for the "Golden Hour," where I was able to snap a photo of her with the majestic vista of the canyon as the backdrop.  We continued our drive with the intent of seeing the Four Corners Monument, but we misjudged the distance and arrived too late to visit. We continued driving to our first overnight stop in Durango, Colorado, where I talked Kailey into indulging one of my more niche interests—the Durango & Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad Museum. She was a good sport, smiling as I nerded out over old locomotives and track gauges. She even asked a few questions, humoring me like I must have done with my own dad at some point.

The proprietors of the hotel we stayed at directed us on a scenic route through the high desert of the Colorado Plateau, driving through valleys flanked by Colorado's 14ers, we made our way to Salida for lunch beside the Arkansas River’s headwaters, at the Boathouse Cantina. As we enjoyed our lunch, we watched as tubers and a Black Labrador frolicked in the river's gentle rapids before making our way through Monarch Pass and over the Continental Divide, down the Front Range, and across the plains via Interstate 80 to Kansas for our second night on the road. The next morning, we detoured off of I-80 to Abilene. Here we really hit our stride—at the Eisenhower Presidential Library. This wasn’t just a dad stop. Kailey and I both have a deep respect for American presidents and the stories that shaped their legacies. We lingered over Ike’s leadership in WWII and the 1950s’ transformation of America, taking it all in like two history buffs on pilgrimage.

After a couple of hours at the library, we decided to push on to St. Louis. Arriving in the early evening, I bought us two tickets to ride the tram to the top of the Gateway Arch, where we caught a few innings of a Cardinals game far below. After a quick stop in the museum gift shop beneath the Arch, we rushed to our car to avoid a thunderstorm rolling in. As we crossed the Mississippi into Illinois, the heavens opened up with some of the heaviest rain and most intense thunder and lightning I have ever experienced. Slowly making our way, we realized we totally forgot about dinner.  Kailey found a Steak 'n Shake near our hotel outside Springfield, Illinois, and we enjoyed a meal of burgers and shakes before calling it a day.

The next morning, we made another joint stop: Abraham Lincoln’s Tomb in Oak Ridge Cemetery, the Lincoln Home Historic Site, and the Illinois State House. This was holy ground for both of us. Lincoln has always been my hero, and Kailey has always been thoughtful and intellectually curious, and watching her engage so seriously with Lincoln’s legacy reminded me of how much we truly share—values, interests, and a reverence for history that runs deep.

That afternoon, July 20, 2016, we reached Chicago for a highlight we’d been looking forward to since planning the trip: a Cubs game at Wrigley Field. Colon vs. Hendricks. The Mets vs. the Cubs during what would become their curse-breaking championship season. It was sweltering, the energy was electric, and we soaked it all in. Sharing that game with Kailey, shoulder to shoulder in the Friendly Confines, was one of those moments you don’t fully appreciate until much later.

After the game, we cruised through the University of Chicago campus, then headed east again, spending the night in Ohio. The next day, crossing the Ohio/Pennsylvania state line, we neared my last wishlist item: the East Broad Top Railroad in Rockhill Furnace, Pennsylvania. Sadly, however, it had been closed since 2011, something I hadn’t realized until we arrived. Ever the trooper, Kailey gamely followed me to the Friends of the East Broad Top Museum in Roberstdale—but it too was closed. We laughed off the failed detour and made our way to Duck Donuts in Mechanicsburg to regroup, ice cream and donuts lifting my spirits.

Eventually, we arrived in Philadelphia. Kailey was eager to move into her new apartment and begin this next chapter of her life. Thankfully, her grandparents lived nearby and had furniture to spare. We picked up a U-Haul, conquered IKEA, and even caught a glimpse of the SS United States docked along the Delaware River—a quiet, majestic piece of history just waiting to be remembered. One last fitting tribute.

It took a long day, but between her grandparents and me, we got her settled. I stuck around just long enough to see her begin her journey to becoming a doctor. Not quite ready to finish the trip and return home, I decided to take a walk through Washington Square, Independence Hall, and the Liberty Bell—sites I’d visited before, but which now carried a new emotional weight. They reminded me not just of America’s story, but of mine—and Kailey’s.

This trip didn’t just deliver my daughter to medical school. It delivered us back to each other. In between the national parks, presidential libraries, the baseball stadiums, and yes, even the train museums, I saw how deeply we were connected. Kailey may not share my passion for narrow-gauge railroads, but she shares so much else: a curiosity for history, a love of learning, and a reverence for the moments and people that shape our world.

Somewhere between the Grand Canyon and the Gateway Arch, Ike and Lincoln, Hendricks and Colon, I realized the rift that had opened between us during her teenage years had quietly begun to close. Not through a single conversation or dramatic reconciliation, but through something much simpler: miles on the road, shared passions, and time.

Magic Reindeer Feed: Our Christmas Tradition

"But how will Santa know where we are?" Faith's voice carried that particular mix of worry and wonder that only a child facing their first Christmas crisis can muster. We'd recently moved to Southern California—no snow, no chimney, no clue how Santa was supposed to make it work.

Hanging Santa's Magic Key, Christmas Eve 2004

"And how will he get in without a fireplace?" she added, her brow furrowed with the kind of serious concern that makes you realize your five-year-old has been thinking this through.

At the time, Teddy was still a true believer, full of wonder and ready to defend Santa's honor to anyone who dared question him. Kailey, on the other hand, had already been quietly inducted into the fraternity of elves—that knowing, magical role older siblings step into when they learn the truth but choose to protect the magic for the little ones. That Christmas became a turning point. The questions were real, but so was our response.

So, like any good parent backed into a magical corner, I improvised.

The Solution

Kailey, Faith, Madison, and Teddy making
Magic Reindeer Feed, Christmas Eve 2008

2004 marked the beginning of our tradition of Magic Reindeer Feed and Santa's Magic Key. Standing in our California kitchen, we gathered around the counter. The kids stirred the oats and sparkles, the gentle sound of ingredients hitting the mixing bowl creating its own kind of Christmas music. Faith added a healthy scoop of Christmas hope with each stir.

The mixture was festive and fun, but more than that, it was purposeful. I told the kids the reindeer would be able to see it glimmering from the sky, guiding Santa straight to our home. It was a homemade beacon—one part snack, two parts signal, and all heart.

And the key? Oh, the key. Growing up, my mom had her own ways of making Christmas magic work, no matter where we lived or what challenges we faced. She taught me that the best traditions aren't the ones you inherit perfectly—they're the ones you adapt with love. Our first Magic Key was humble and homemade—an old house key we weren't using anymore, decorated with a red yarn lanyard and absolutely smothered in as much glitter as we could glue on. It looked more like a kindergarten art project than a piece of North Pole tech, but it worked.

A few years later, one of Santa's "elves" (with an Amazon account) upgraded us to a more elegant skeleton key—something shiny and antique-looking, worthy of the North Pole. But I still keep that original glittery mess tucked away with our decorations. It was the key that started it all.

Magic Reindeer Feed Recipe

Ingredients:

• 1 cup rolled oats
• 1/4 cup red and green sugar sprinkles
• 1/4 cup edible glitter or colored sanding sugar
• A pinch of belief (the secret ingredient)

Instructions: Mix all dry ingredients in a large bowl until evenly distributed. The mixture can be stored in an airtight container for up to two weeks before Christmas Eve.

The kids spreading the feed, Christmas Eve 2006

On Christmas Eve, give each child a small handful to scatter on the lawn, porch, or even a balcony. If rain is in the forecast, place small piles under covered areas or on windowsills—reindeer have excellent eyesight.

Notes: Back then, we used regular craft glitter, thinking more about sparkle than sustainability. But over time, as the kids got older and more aware of the world around them, we made the switch to edible glitter—a small but meaningful change to make sure the reindeer (and the North Pole) stayed microplastic-free. Magic shouldn't come at the planet's expense.

The Ritual

The kids scattered the feed on our lawn with the gravity of an ancient ritual, whispering instructions to Dasher and Dancer and all the rest. Their voices carried across the California evening air, mixing with the sound of distant neighbors and the unfamiliar hum of our new neighborhood. I remember thinking how different this felt from the snowy Christmases of my childhood, yet somehow just right.

The next morning, we'd find the sparkles mostly gone (thanks to birds, wind, and morning dew), evidence enough that the reindeer had found us after all.

The Evolution

Now, years later, the kids are older. The questions have changed. Kailey is getting ready for medical school, Teddy is in college, Faith has taken her place as an elf, and all the kids know the secret. But the magic? It lingers.

However, I've learned something important about traditions—they're not museum pieces to be preserved exactly as created. They're living things that grow and adapt. Some years, we've added different colored sugars depending on what I had on hand. One year, we made extra bags so the kids’ friends could join in “our” ritual. The tradition became less about the exact recipe and more about the moment of connection—that Christmas Eve pause where we acknowledge wonder together.

Every Christmas Eve, I still see that first night through Faith's eyes—the worry, the wonder, and the moment I realized that magic isn't something that happens to you. It's something you create, one handful of sparkly oats at a time.

If Yes, Virginia was about believing in the unseen, this tradition was about doing something to make that belief real. And maybe that's the greatest kind of magic there is—the kind that starts with a parent's quick thinking and becomes a memory none of us will ever forget.

Merry Christmas, and may you always find just enough sparkle in your yard and your heart.