NAVEL GAZING: excessive absorption in self-analysis or focus on a single issue

Colliding Worlds

I remember the words spoken by my oldest son Josh after he had met Nina for the first time. It was during a school break, and he had just returned home from a week-long vacation spent with a neighborhood friend's family. He knew that his mother was away on a business trip, brothers gone too, staying with family, and was surprised after he had entered the house to find his father in the company of an unknown woman.

That weekend had started with a planned visit from a close friend. Josh's nickname for Ethan was "Shack," a reference to Shaquille O'Neal, the infamous Lakers' former all-star center, and a label given to Ethan years earlier after he had easily overpowered Josh while the three of us played basketball in the front yard. It was a nickname that anyone knowing Ethan, who is a 6' tall white Jewish man, would have found comical.

Ethan and I belonged to the same group of friends during high school, from which a few of us regrouped years later to be college roommates. He and his wife Raya lived in Dover, and he stayed overnight at my house during the weekend visit. I love the comfort of having decades-long friendships that span the years back to when teenagers. No matter our current ages, when together, it's as if no time has passed.

That weekend was no different. During the afternoon, we took the road that led from the house and down to the Neponset River, where we rode along the miles of bike trail. That evening we dined at Jake n JOES  Sports Grille. We found it hard to hear over the noise made by the rowdy crowd that had gathered. They loudly cheered on their drunken friends as one after another each was thrown from the back of a mechanical bull. I assumed it was a gimmick that my friend Jake, the owner, was counting on to make a comeback like the trend that occurred after the release of the 1980s film "The Urban Cowboy," and featured back then much younger actors John Travolta and Debra Winger. 

We returned to the house and indulged in a favorite pastime from our youth, getting stoned. It was before State law had passed that made the personal use of marijuana legal. Ethan obtained it legally though, thanks to his recently acquired prescription, albeit for the treatment of a questionable ailment, and we smoked it from a bong that he had kept since college. We watched old reruns of the Dave Chappelle Show and enjoyed bouts of unhindered laughter that occurs when high and among friends. In the morning, we both suffered from hangovers, and Ethan nursed a pulled muscle that resulted from our chemically induced laughter the night before.

We showered and then left for the restaurant. Earlier that week, I had arranged accommodations for Sunday brunch. A fellow classmate of Nina's and mine worked at a local pub, where a standing invitation existed. Nina overheard the making of plans and expressed her interest. I invited her to join us, and she agreed to meet us there.

The awkwardness of the moment, as the three of us ate our meals, never completely subsided. We engaged in polite conversation, and Ethan exhausted his list of questions regarding the court reporting field. Nina answered the questions with a clarity that had likely been missing in earlier discussions between him and me. If Ethan had suspicions over the nature of Nina and my relationship, it remained unspoken during the twenty-minute drive back to the house. I invited Nina to follow us from the restaurant and nervously glanced from the rearview mirror to the traffic ahead. I was proud of our house and have to admit that I wanted to impress her.

We purchased the home in 1998, while Samantha was still pregnant with our second son. I fell in love with the hillside lot and beautiful view. The house sat perched atop a sloped property and from the back had a panoramic view of the wooded rolling hills of Westwood. Spread out along the property were Southern Live Oak trees and multiple levels of dark-red stained wooden decks. The cement patio that spanned the rear of the house was outlined by a narrow swath of lush-green grass and adorned with well-maintained beds of perennials. Blossom-filled vines of white Honeysuckle and purple Wisteria draped along the canopy overhead.

I remember perfect summer nights shared with my sons. We swayed gently on a large hammock, the fabric stretched taut under our combined weight. Between rounds of "I spy," we scanned the trees and underbrush below, flashlights in hand, searching for signs of life beyond the yard's perimeter. Occasionally, we were rewarded with the glowing eyes of raccoons, opossums, or deer, frozen in the beam of our lights. The nighttime air was alive with a symphony of chirping frogs and humming grasshoppers, which fell suddenly silent at the slightest noise. In the distance, the tennis court lights in the valley cast a faint glow over the greenbelt bordering our property.

Over the years, we transformed the house from a dark, cabin-like structure into the Mediterranean-style home it became. Fresh, light-colored paint brightened the dark-stained wood siding, breathing new life into the sun-worn stucco walls. Spanish-style terra cotta shingles replaced the warped shake roof, and Renewal by Andersen windows and sliding glass doors were installed throughout. The entryway, once dim and uninviting, became a bright, welcoming space after we added a glass-paneled double front door. For a playful touch, we installed a green brass door knocker shaped like a tree frog, a tribute to one of the property's most charming natural inhabitants. Selling our previous home once the market turned in our favor allowed us to fund these improvements.

I demolished the old, stained decks and hired contractors to replace the top two tiers with cement landings of exposed aggregate, framed by black wrought-iron railings. Large, half-moon-shaped stairs of the same material connected the levels. I replaced the rotted wood retaining walls with keystone blocks, painstakingly positioning each 60-pound brick by hand. To support the structure, I installed French drains and a grid of rebar beneath the newly poured landings.

The two lower-level decks, connected by stairs and railings, were built by my older brother Don and his engineer friend Marc, both unemployed at the time and happy for the work. They stayed with us for the two-week project, waiting out Connecticut's stagnant economy back home. Afterward, I hand-stained the redwood structures and installed low-voltage lights along the underside of the handrails and steps. We had pre-laid conduit beneath the cement, enabling us to pull wiring that powered the deck lights, watering stations, and oxidized brass fixtures that illuminated flower beds and oak trees at night.

Transforming the house was a labor of love. I cherished the childhood home where my mom still lives and felt proud to provide my own family with a home they could love just as much.

Not long after the three of us returned from our Sunday brunch, Ethan gathered his belongings, and we met at the front door to say goodbye. After a final wave, Nina paused, studying the shadow-box pictures hanging in the entryway. Taken years earlier at a birthday celebration, the photos captured the three oldest boys in sweet childhood poses.

Later, Nina and I reminisced about the day, but our memories diverged. She didn't recall any romantic undertones or signs of unhappiness in my marriage. She reminded me that we had talked about Samantha and the kids. I remembered the same conversation—centered on my family and the photos—but also long pauses between sentences, where she held my gaze, and I found myself staring into her eyes. It was hard to believe she felt nothing in those moments, as I've described them. Perhaps I saw what I wanted, or she avoided admitting her part in what led to our eventual relationship.

[Perception or reality, those moments left a strong impression on me.]

Ethan hadn't been gone more than thirty minutes when Josh returned. After a clumsy introduction and Nina's quick departure, Josh turned to me and accusingly asked, "Why'd she have to be so pretty, Dad?"