Tuesday, November 4, 2025 – Day 448

Tuesday, November 4, 2025

Good morning!

I received a text yesterday with a memory about my dad, and it pulled me right back to our dinner-table ritual.

Dad was a quiet, thoughtful man—never the loudest voice in the room, but always the one you leaned in to hear. At the dining room table, he could hold court any night of the week, no matter who joined us (and we had plenty of guests). Politics, faith, travel, daily life—his mind traveled widely, and we followed right along. Dinner was at 6:30 p.m. sharp. And I mean sharp. Assigned seats. Hands washed. Shoes on. No excuses, no exceptions. Structure disguised as routine.

Looking back, I see the intention behind it. My parents were trying to teach eight kids how to be part of something bigger than themselves. The dining room was formal, the table always properly set, the lights dimmed, and candles lit—tiny details that signaled, this matters.

Dad sat at the head of the table serving the meat; Mom was at the other end, dishing out the carbs and vegetables. My plate was always first—I sat to Dad’s right. He’d place the meat, pass it left, and the plate would begin its pilgrimage around the table to Mom, then return on the opposite side, finally landing back in front of me.

As a starving teenager, this felt like medieval torture. A perfectly assembled plate sitting right there in front of you…and you couldn’t touch it until everyone had been served. If you snuck a premature bite and thought you got away with it, you could count on a sibling proudly ratting you out. The rules were sacred—and believe me, the enforcement crew was enthusiastic.

At the time, we grumbled. Today, we’re grateful. Those dinners taught patience, manners, and the art of conversation. They gave Dad a nightly window into our lives, and gave all of us a daily reminder of what it meant to be a family.

As we grew older, the ritual evolved. Sunday dinners replaced weeknights, seats shifted to include spouses, and serving moved buffet-style. But when everyone was settled, Dad still guided the conversation—and we still followed his lead.

Then things changed. In his late seventies, Dad spoke less. The vibrant, thoughtful voice that once steered every discussion began to fade. Eventually, Alzheimer’s crept in—a cruel twist for a man whose body remained strong while his mind slowly slipped away. I don’t remember the exact day the diagnosis came, but I remember the feeling of watching him lose the ability to join the conversation he once led so effortlessly.

I share this because I’m walking my own journey—but in reverse. My mind remains sharp while my body slowly steps back. Life doesn’t always deal its endings fairly. We’d all like to go out on our own terms, fully present and in control. But life rarely honors that script.

So maybe the message today is simple: Live fully while you can. Sit at the table. Light the candles. Hold the conversations. Surround yourself with family and friends, and appreciate the ordinary moments—because they are the ones that eventually matter most.

Have a great Tuesday. Love you guys! ❤️

Photos of the dining room at 1922 (in Waukegan)