troy’s cafe

My Dad’s Retirement

Work, for my dad, started early—in life and in the day. He grew up on a hog farm in Lewisburg, Ohio. He helped with the hard work of the farm, and my grandparents paid him and his siblings for the work that they did. He went to college, taught, got a master’s degree and taught some more. He was good at his work, but he never let it define him. Case in point: In 1982, he started working for McGraw-Hill Book Company. I have postcards from the early 80s from places like New York City—places my dad traveled for work. I remember going to the airport with him, getting on his plane and stepping into the cockpit. I remember a pilot giving me my own pilot wings. I remember watching his plane leave the airport and I remember the excitement of postcards in the mail. I don’t know if I simply associate Harry Chapin’s “The Cat’s in the Cradle” with my dad’s decision to leave his district manager job or if the song truly influenced him but he did leave it after three years. And most of his career, from 1985 to 2013, was spent with Great Oaks Institute of Technology and Career Development, most recently as Vice President of Business Operations. He did a lot of good there.

In June, he retired.

We attended a banquet for all the Great Oaks retirees late this spring. His speech made me teary.

And then in June, Kyle from San Francisco, and Katy, Tom and Colleen from North Carolina, came to town to celebrate.

These were some of the best summer days and nights.

We celebrated many things that week. We had dinner at A Tavola followed by cake and gifts at our house to celebrate Father’s Day and my mom’s birthday.

Our immediate family toasted and gifted my dad after dinner at Troy’s Cafe. My mom gave him two engraved bricks that both say “But it’s Baseball! Gary Gebhart”—one’s at home, the other, at Great American Ball Park.

For weeks beforehand my mom gathered one word from people who know my dad—one word that describes him. She then made The List.

The List
caring
major league
sincere
genuineness
animates
thoughtful
worker
lists
builder
fanatical
awesome
smiley
OBT
stupendous
committed
loyal
trustworthy
quick-witted
magnanimous
friendly
organized
considerate
realistic
smiling
farmer
finisher
comfortable
conscientious
industrious
tenacious
Kotter
nice
loving
egalitarian
friends
baseball
glasses
passionate
kind
right
quick
interesting
helpful
respectful
genuine
witty
cute
card-maker
dedicated
baseball guru
photographer
inspirational
detailed
pliable
humorous
high-fives
perspicacious
dependable
late
funny
brotherly
Xenia
generous
Carnac the Magnificent
courteous
kind-hearted
diligent
fun
sports guru
brilliant
hospitable
family
supportive
selfless
beloved

The next day family, friends and colleagues attended a party at my parents’ house.

My dad and brother-in-law spent days preparing Detling Field for a ballgame. We played a bit but then …

a downpour.

Still, an enjoyable day, complete with Eli’s BBQ sandwiches for all.

Now my parents are both retired. My dad still works, but it’s work of his choosing. He gardens. He works in the yard. He works out. He attends services at First Unitarian Church of Cincinnati. He volunteers at the Freestore Foodbank. He tutors a kindergartener once a week at South Avondale Elementary School. Every week he and my mom go on a date—Shaker Village of Pleasant Hill, Findley Market, a concert in a coffee shop. Next weekend they’re going to Colonial Williamsburg to see the Threads of Feeling exhibit with my grandma and my sister and her family. They went to Hawaii.

My dad stopped by the other day, after tutoring, just to hang out, to play tickle monster with the kids, to be beat in Bingo. This time for him is so incredibly well-deserved. And I’m just so thankful to be a part of it.

“Don’t simply retire from something; have something to retire to.” —Harry Emerson Fosdick

Changing Love

This weekend Andy and I had a night out to ourselves—Troy’s Cafe, a movie, 21c Museum Hotel Cocktail Terrace (with many thanks to my parents).

The day of I was upstairs, taking my time getting dressed. Sophie was in her bedroom, singing a song while moving her princess dolls around her room in serious play. Andy was downstairs with Owen and James.

The strappy blouse I chose to wear had a tiny, fabric-covered button that went through a tiny loop in the back. Because of its location, I’m unable to button it myself. I was just about to holler down to Andy for help when I heard Sophie attempt a high note in her song.

“Sophie?” I called.

She stopped singing. “Yes?”

“Can you help me with something?”

She came into my bedroom.

I explained to her what needed to be done, asked if she could help. I felt her fumbling through the pleats and ruffles of the blouse. I reached back, feeling for the impossibly small button.

“Here,” I said. “This is the button.”

I reached some more.

“And this is the loop it needs to go through.”

“OK,” she said.

She pulled the two sides together, tight. And then I felt them soften.

“Is that too tight?” she asked, with concern.

“No,” I said. “It’s supposed to be like that.”

She pulled again. I helped. I could feel her tiny, soft fingers on my bare back, grabbing for the button, reaching for the loop.

“There!” she said, pleased with herself. I expected the blouse to come slack again. I expected failure. But it remained tight. She accomplished the small task quicker than Andy ever had.

Sophie then took out a couple strands of my hair that had come caught underneath one of the straps. She fixed my bra straps on both sides, so the straps of my blouse covered them.

“There,” she said again. “That’s better.”

Changing love.

For five years I’ve been mothering this child. Her mothering me, if only for two minutes, was unexpected. She helped me do something I could not do alone. And then she threw in some acts of kindness, some brushes of love—she preened me and fretted over me, just like a mother often does.

For two minutes, our roles reversed.

Sometimes the smallest acts take up the largest amounts of time in my brain—during my early morning walks back from Sophie’s school, while stirring sauce in a pot, while in bed waiting for sleep to come.

This week I’ve found myself thinking about Sophie buttoning my date-night blouse often.

“And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We’re captive on the carousel of time
We can’t return we can only look
Behind from where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game.” —Joni Mitchell

Troy’s Cafe

In January we celebrated my grandma’s birthday …

with dinner at Troy’s Cafe. Part of me hesitates writing this, because it’s such a great suburbia secret. Situated at the end of a strip mall in West Chester, an area awash in chain restaurants, this little gem of a restaurant has delicious, reasonably priced food, good wine and desserts. Andy and I have celebrated an anniversary there. We’ve dragged all our friends up north to celebrate a birthday there. When family is in town, we often eat there—my parents could be considered regulars. It’s small, but I’ve never had to wait. When we have a large group, we make reservations. But still. I don’t understand why it’s not packed, all the time.

And they are so nice. I have taken many-a-crying child out to the parking lot only to be given extra crayons or a refill of milk upon our return. Two visits ago, Owen dropped his entire cupcake after only one bite. I think he got out only a couple tears before someone from Troy’s just appeared, new cupcake in hand at no cost.

They’re good people.

So there you go. If you live in Cincinnati—especially if you live in West Chester—check it out.

“Never trust the food in a restaurant on top of the tallest building in town that spends a lot of time folding napkins.” —Andy Rooney