Decorating
Among the countless blessings Providence has bestowed upon me is the companionship of a woman who keeps Christmas well. Peering from my office window the other day, I spied the Lady of the Manor in the backyard spinning this wondrous holiday web, solo. She had poked her head into my office earlier, but I was “yelling” (how she describes the way I conduct business on the phone or video) at someone in a late afternoon meeting. It appeared that she determined that putting up this holiday tradition by herself was within her, so she plowed ahead. Upon the completion of my call—and with the full knowledge that this was CLEARLY a two-person job, I swanned out into the yard to lend a hand.
Folks on the river tend to put trees of some sort on their docks, a site of which I never tire. Our dock is in need of great repair, so Catherine came up with this approach a few yeas ago. Nothing—not the platoon of Santas,
The Christmas Morning scene
not even the Christmas dining table—
nothing that goes up around our house is as wonderful as that light tree in the back yard. You can see a past version through the back porch in the picture above.
I go off to sleep at night looking out at that simple adornment and it warms me inside and out. Catherine works herself silly getting this place ready every year, and in the past two years, our trips to be with Dash 2 for Thanksgiving have thrown a little bit of a scheduling wrinkle into things. But man—the second I turn the corner and see the lights in front of the house as I drive up, I know I’m walking into something very special.
It is Saturday afternoon as I write this, and in a short while, we’ll head to a party in St. Michaels. The girls both come home this week (while I’m in California), and it sounds like at least one is heading out on visits to friends before I get home, and the other is planning to shortly after. I think we are at full strength on Sunday the 23rd.
A New Substack
Keen-eyed readers will note that I have added a “recommendation” on the title page to this Substack, a new offering from an dear friend and shipmate, Tim Long. Entitled Discipleshipmate: Discipleship + Shipmate, Tim describes it thusly: “A portmanteau (combining of two words) comprising my [relatively] new life in Christ and my old profession as a Navy man. Christ, leadership, culture, thinking, and reading. To worship from warships.” Obviously, if matters of faith are not your bag, this may not be for you. But if you like a little faith in your everyday life (as I do!), Tim is a deeply contemplative man with insight and wisdom. I’m thrilled to see him take this on.
A Visit With In-Laws
My choice of automobiles—not the most practical decision I’ve made—means that the nearest service center is some 90 miles from me in Tyson’s Corner. Because there was a little issue with the “Frunk” (front trunk), I needed to bring it in for a repair, and things wrapped up pretty quickly. With some time on my hands, I thought about grabbing some (high protein, high fat) lunch whilst surrounded by the bounty of Northern Virginia civilization, when I remembered that my dear (former) in-laws only lived about five miles away. I decided to pay them a visit.
First though, I called their daughter, my ex-wife of 31 years duration, to 1) make sure they still lived there and 2) ask to see if they accepted drop in visitors. Julie (her name) did not pick up, so I figured “what the hell” and drove to the door I darkened for the first time in the autumn of 1985. I arrived at the door and saw a nondescript mini-van in the driveway, which threw me a bit, as I did not think Art and Marti (their names) the minivan type. I rang the doorbell, and could see into the living room where Marti was all snuggled up on her chair, paying no attention to the bell. After a bit, I wrapped on the door—which got her attention. Seeing some strange man hovering about on her stoop did not thrill her, and I could see her talking out of sight to someone, who I supposed to be (hoped) was Art. Moments later, Art came to the door and opened it.
I’m honestly not sure if he recognized me. I haven’t seen either of them since my last drop in ten or so years ago (I was attending a funeral close by), so when he opened the door I said “Hello, I am Bryan McGrath”—and the warmth of decades shone on his face immediately.
He ushered me into the living room, and I repeated the same words to Marti—not knowing if she recognized me either. Later, she said she recognized my voice when talking to Art, and I found that comforting.
Art and Marti were absolutely perfect parents of a girlfriend, fiancé, and wife. They were warm, loving, good friends with each other, and Art kept a keg on tap in the basement. I never tired of being in their company, and Marti’s infectious laugh remains a vivid memory. Julie had an older sister, a younger sister, and a younger brother, and I loved them all. The divorce all those years ago was a crushingly sad experience, both because of the ending of something that had once been so beautiful and because—as happens in these things—I lost a family I had grown to love.
I’ll never forget a letter I got from Julie’s younger brother, probably while we were separated if not already divorced. He was maybe ten years younger than she, and he and I had a special bond. Adam. I really loved watching him grow up over the eight years I was in his orbit. He wrote me the saddest letter; he simply couldn’t understand why we were divorcing/divorced. It broke my heart. I do remember the gist of my answer, and it hits me in the chest to this day. I told him that I had approached marriage completely wrong. I likened my approach to what we used to call a “solid state” television—one that you turned on and off a thousand times and had the expectation that it would perform as promised without any effort. I thought marriage should be effortless. We loved each other. What else was necessary.
Turns out, a good bit more was necessary. In that letter, I told him—for his benefit—not to think of marriage and relationships like I did. Think of them more like a fine, vintage automobile, one that DEMANDED that you tinker under the hood if you wanted performance. I wrote those words a long time ago, and there were a few relationships between that one and the one I’m in now where I likely didn’t tinker as assiduously as I should.
I do a lot of tinkering now. Wisdom has come slowly, and Catherine’s patience has been a blessing. But I think about that man who thought that marriage should be effortless and I want to shake him.
It was wonderful to see Art and Marti, both of whom look healthy, happy, and full of life. They brought me up to speed on all their kids, grandchildren, and soon to be great-grandchildren. I know of these people tangentially these days, from random Facebook posts mostly. They asked about my life and my family, and they were sorry to hear of my Dad’s death.
Television
I have become a big fan of the AppleTV series “Shrinking”. The show focuses on a recently widow(er?)ed psychologist left with a teen daughter and his struggle to move forward. Sounds pretty heavy, right? Well, like Ted Lasso (there is some staff overlap here), it can be, but it also can be hilarious. Putting in spectacular supporting roles are Harrison Ford and Ted McGinley, both of whom have been on our screens for decades, as we’ve watched them go from young hunky guy to older, lovable, irascible guy.
Harrison Ford’s character—the head psychologist at the practice that brings these characters together—is fantastic. He cuts out two or three one liners each episode that have me howling, not just because of what he says, but how he says it. I joked to Catherine the other day that he should have to pay ME royalties for stealing my grumpy old man schtick. She was not amused.