But before the tragedy, back when I was a kid, my parents would sometimes take us to the fanciest restaurant in town. It would only be when my dad was in a good mood, when he got a bonus and hadn’t blown it yet on booze or whatever. We’d dress up in our little suits and ties, and Mom would beam and tell us we were the most handsome men ever and then we’d drive to The Old Clock Tower restaurant. All the staff would dote over my brother and me. That’s where I had my first taste of perfectly prepared green beans, sliced thin and painted with a buttery mustard sauce. I remember the beans glistening in the light from the candle on the table. I can still taste that first bite, the smile it put on my face. Those beans weren’t anything like the ones we had at home.
Mia and I don’t have a family restaurant we take the boys to on a regular basis. Not one with flickering candles and crisp white tablecloths at least. We manage to sit down together fairly regularly at the kitchen table. Never at the dining room table, not yet. The boys are too messy to be dining above our fine Tabriz rug. A gift from Mia’s parents, a souvenir from one of their exotic vacations, of course. I checked online one day. The rug is worth almost $70,000. So we stick to the kitchen for family meals, though neither Mia nor I would be considered a good cook, not by any stretch.
Sometimes I’ll help throw something together, but usually Mia is in charge of meals, truth be told. Obviously this makes sense: she is the housewife. I’m uncertain why, then, after all of our years together, she hasn’t grown and developed her cooking expertise. I know she’s invested in cookbooks, and cooking classes even, but still, her best efforts can only be awarded a C. Barely edible, actually, when compared to fine dining. The boys and I struggle through “Momma Mia’s Lasagna” every week on Italian Tuesdays. Every week, it’s soggy and almost tasteless. It’s a shame, really.
On the rare occasions when I’m in charge of mealtime, I like taking the boys to Panera. It’s not quite like going to McDonald’s or Wendy’s for dinner—although I’ve been known to do that, of course. Please don’t tell Mia, though. No, Panera is almost a sit-down establishment, a step above, say, a pizza joint or fast food. Sometimes I try to talk the boys into eating green beans there, you know, for tradition’s sake. They don’t have the taste for them, though. Mikey actually grabs his throat and makes choking, gagging sounds at me. He doesn’t eat anything that’s the color green, Mia says. She says he’ll come around, his taste buds will mature. In my day, those taste buds wouldn’t really have a choice, thanks to dear old dad. You ate what was served to you. But I love my kids. Those little guys. Despite the family resemblance, sometimes I like to wonder aloud if they’re mine, they’re so perfect.
“Green beans,” Mia echoes, pulling me from thoughts of parents and offspring and crumbs on expensive rugs. Her back is to me; she seems fixated, fully focused on the farmland rolling by the window. Even though I cannot see her face, I detect a tone in her voice, something that sounds like the feeling you get when you can’t understand a joke. Like you are the joke, like you are an idiot. Only someone you love can make you feel that way. “I can ask Buck if that’s possible, over the summer.” I notice she’s nodding, the landscape is rolling and the overall effect is dizzying. I turn my eyes back to the road.
Since when do we consult with good old Buck on all things garden-related? I wonder. And what else do Buck and Mia discuss: The weather, the pros and cons of fertilizer, our marriage? Soon the road will narrow, and it will be down to one lane, each direction. That’s when I’ll really need to pay attention. That’s when it gets dangerous. If you make a mistake, there is no forgiveness on a two-lane country road.
10:30 a.m.
2
This monotonous stretch of highway, the section between Columbus and, say, the big Pilot Travel Center where we typically stop for gas, is boring: flat, semigreen farmlands, and few sights out the window to feed your imagination. Usually when we hit this point in the journey, I start daydreaming about the destination, thinking about that first moment when I’ll see the lake again.
I know what you may be thinking: Is this guy really daydreaming about Lake Erie? Yes, I am. If you’ve never been you’re probably envisioning the dead lake of the late 1960s fed by the burning Cuyahoga River. By that point, Lake Erie had become a toxic dump thanks to the heavy industries lining its shore, the sewage flowing into it from Cleveland and the fertilizer and pesticide runoffs from agriculture. Dead fish littered its banks. This poor lake was the impetus for the Clean Water Act in 1972, thank goodness.
Or, more recently, you may have heard of the toxic algae blooms that turn the lake water into green goo that looks like the slime they spray on people during that teen awards show the boys like to watch. But that doesn’t happen all the time. Sure, there are invasive mussels and some nasty, dead-fish smells in the air sometimes. But mostly I find, if I sit on a bench near the lake and just listen to the water playing with the boulders along the shore, I feel at peace. It’s hard to explain, I suppose, to someone who has never seen a Lake Erie sunset. But they’re beautiful. And, if you don’t turn your head too far left or right, you can almost imagine you’re at the ocean. It’s almost possible to believe that you could start your life over again, just as the sun drops into the water. And then everything would be simple, just like the little lakefront community where our lake house is nestled under a big oak tree. Sounds romantic, doesn’t it?
Our lake house is part of a special, gated community appropriately named Lakeside, a Chautauqua community started by Methodist preachers more than 140 years ago as a summer retreat for adult education and cultural enrichment, with a heavy dose of religion sprinkled in. Not that there’s anything wrong with religion, of course; it’s just that I didn’t grow up with it, and we’re not raising our kids in it. That doesn’t mean we don’t enjoy the amenities these fine Christian souls have blessed the community with. Even an atheist like me can appreciate its many glories.
At one point or another, Presidents Ulysses S. Grant and Rutherford B. Hayes stayed at Lakeside. My wife likes to note that Eleanor Roosevelt stayed here, too. Mia quotes that woman a lot. I don’t. I find her to be too ugly—I mean, that face of hers is hideous. I could never wake up every morning to a face like that. But Mia doesn’t care about that. Says Eleanor Roosevelt inspires her to do one thing every day that scares her. I’m paraphrasing but you get the idea. I tell her seeing that woman coming at me in a dark alley would have scared me and Mia doesn’t laugh.