The woman in the light blue tracksuit looked to be in her late seventies. The man sitting beside her seemed to be in his early sixties.

“This is my husband,” she said, beaming as she introduced us. He gave a slight nod while looking off in the distance. He didn’t speak. She lifted his hand and placed it gently on her leg as my mother and I smiled, nodded, and walked off to see my dad.

“Seeing those two breaks my heart,” my mother said. “But it’s worse when the man’s actual wife visits. She has to watch her husband and this stranger holding hands. They don’t seem to know who she is or why she’s there.”

My father was waiting for us in a chair in his room and he was happy to see us. He didn’t know that he was in memory care. Or if he did, he didn’t let on.

His late-night wanderings and growing need for physical assistance had become too much for my mom to manage on her own, so she moved him from their apartment to this facility a few miles away. He thought that my mom lived in the room across the hall and went into her room at the end of the day when he went into his.

He wasn’t wrong. He was just a few miles off.

My dad knew who we all were and said he liked this “new apartment building” well enough. “But the food is inedible,” he said. “It tastes metallic.” I could see how skinny he was becoming, skeletal even.

One afternoon I brought him a chocolate milkshake from Homer’s Ice Cream. He sucked it down, nodding approvingly every few sips. I was happy to see him enjoying it through the extra-wide plastic straw.

My dad got sleepy after his milkshake, so I got up to go. The nurse said she would take him to his room in a few minutes, so I kissed his forehead goodbye and drove to Neiman Marcus to shop for a tuxedo. My son Alex was getting married in six weeks. My wife already had her dress and reminded me that tailoring a suit can take some time.

We knew it would likely be impossible for my father to attend the wedding, but I hoped he’d be able to come for at least some of the reception. In our family, the oldest male said the blessing over the bread before the meal, and I quizzed him a few times to see if he still remembered it, which he always did, rapidly in one breath.

“Baruch atah Adonoy, Eloheinu Melech haolam, haMotzi lechem min Haaretz. Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who brings forth bread from the earth.”

He pronounced the word Adonai as “Adonoy,” like his father before him and his father’s father before that. I don’t say it that way anymore.

“Amen. Great work dad. Six more weeks till showtime.”

I was sucking in my stomach while trying on a tight Tom Ford jacket in front of a Neiman Marcus three-way mirror when my phone rang.

“Your dad is in an ambulance being rushed to the hospital.”

The milkshake must have been too much for him. He passed out, and they said the shake shot out of him in every direction. By the time I got to the emergency room my mom was already there.

I went into his room. His face was contorted. I would have thought he was dead, but he was moaning. My mom gripped my hand tightly as we stood there, waiting.

That night I dreamt that he was fully recovered, walking, talking, and thanking me for the milkshake, which he said cured him. I woke up proud and happy for a minute.

My dad went back to the memory care unit the following day. On my last visit before leaving for California for a few weeks, I had him recite the blessing again, which he did in one breath, again with Adonoy.

“Baruch atah Adonoy, Eloheinu Melech haolam, haMotzi lechem min Haaretz. Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who brings forth bread from the earth.”

“Amen. Perfect, dad. Just four more weeks.”

I was sipping a bourbon old fashioned with a buddy in San Diego on my first night there when my brother Steve called, telling me to catch the next flight home. Dad was slipping.

There was a red-eye leaving in a few hours, around midnight, but it only had a few middle seats available near the back of the plane, so I booked a first-class seat on the first flight out in the morning, at 7:00 a.m.

I landed in Chicago at 1:00 p.m. There was a voice message from my brother. My father had died while I was in the air. Steve said the funeral home would wait for me to see my dad before taking him away.

I remember taxiing to the gate, rushing off the plane, and then somehow pulling up into the circular driveway in front of the entrance to my dad’s place. I got out of the car and walked in slow motion, knowing that the longer I took, the longer I would still have a father.

My dad was lying on his bed when I got to his room with my mother and brother sitting on either side. My mother was stroking his hand. I kissed her cheek and hugged my brother and looked at my dad for a bit. Dead, he looked healthier than he had in the hospital a few weeks back.

My brother asked, “How was the flight?” and my mother asked, “Doesn’t he look so peaceful?” I said “fine” and “yes” and we sat in silence after that, looking at my dad, at each other, at the furniture in the room. The funeral director came, and my brother and I helped wheel my father out. Some prayers were said, which I thought was a nice touch. My mom stuck around to pack up his things. I can’t recall if I stayed to help or not.

It took some convincing, but my mother came to Alex’s wedding a few weeks later. We had pictures of all the deceased relatives off to the side, and seeing photos of my dad caught her off guard. We stood together and looked at him for quite a while before moving into the reception, she in a beautiful black dress, me in a too tight tuxedo.

Before the meal, the bride’s grandfather was invited up to the microphone to say the blessing over the bread. He walked slowly to the mic, and I wondered if he was proud to do this mitzvah or if he was thinking, “Oy, now I’m the oldest?”

After her grandfather, the next in line was my brother. Then me.

He chanted the blessing slowly.

“Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech haolam, haMotzi lechem min Haaretz. Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who brings forth bread from the earth.”

Adonai rhymed with “I” now.

I had never cried during that prayer before.

Thanks for reading. If you have any thoughts on the essay, please share.

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Unrelated, I was recently interviewed by the funny and occasionally charming host of I Used to be Somebody, Carl Landau. I had a great time being on his show, and promised Carl I’d give him a shout out. Listen to our conversation here.

I’m stepping away from essays this week and offering a midrash, a made-up biblical scene, to coincide with the Yom Kippur holiday.

Aaron, Moses’ older brother, showed up late at synagogue on Yom Kippur and sat in the back. He saw Moses sitting in the front row. “Typical,” he thought.

The rabbi spoke: “For transgressions of one human against another, the Day of Atonement does not atone until they have made peace with one another.”

“Kill me,” Aaron thought. “Two minutes down, two hours to go.”

Moses looked around and felt like an idiot, again. Why does he always save a seat for Aaron when he knows his brother will never show? Never again, he thought.

Aaron counted the number of chandeliers hanging in the synagogue, the number of men in hats. He counted whenever he was bored or nervous. He once counted the number of times he was mentioned in the Torah—320, which was terrific until he saw how many times Moses was mentioned. 613.

“You counted how many times you were mentioned in the Torah?” Aaron’s wife Elisheba asked. “Are you crazy?”

Aaron didn’t think it was crazy. He was just keeping track. Someone had to.

She accused him of being jealous, but she didn’t get it. He wasn’t jealous of his big shot little brother.

It was the calf. The stupid golden calf. The calf that the Israelites prayed to while Moses was taking his sweet time up in the mountains. Moses and God threw a fit when they saw the people dancing around the calf.

Aaron knew Moses would never forgive him, but he blamed Moses for the whole thing. Moses left him alone with thousands of people who were incapable of entertaining themselves. They needed something to do. Giving them a golden calf to pray to was genius, really.

One little mistake and suddenly you’re an idol worshipper.

Moses tried to focus on the words the rabbi was saying but was lost in thought. Who questioned his authority? Aaron. Who criticized his wife Zipporah? Aaron again. Moses never had an unkind word to say about Aaron or Elisheba, though God knows he could.

He got up to go to the bathroom, angry.

The rabbi began the Al Chet confessional prayer. “We have all committed offenses and together we confess these human sins.” The congregation read the list in alphabetical order: “Arrogance and bigotry, cynicism and deceit—”

Aaron rolled his eyes and got up to stretch his legs.

“Egoism, flattery and greed—”

And he walked downstairs to the bathroom.

“Injustice and jealousy and keeping grudges—”

Aaron walked into the men’s room and saw Moses standing at the sink, looking at himself in the mirror. For a moment, neither brother said anything. Aaron searched for something to say. He instinctively started to count the sconces but stopped.

“Hey,” he managed.

“Hey,” Moses replied, turning on the faucet.

Aaron watched his little brother wash his hands, and suddenly he was three years old again, standing on the riverbank as their mother placed baby Moses in a basket and set him afloat. Aaron cried to his mother, “Don’t send him away. I’ll be good.” He cried for days.

Moses looked up at his brother. “Aaron, you know—”

Aaron smiled.

“I know, Moses. I know. Me too. Let’s go back up.”

“I saved you a seat.”

Aaron rolled his eyes.

“Terrific.”

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If you missed last month’s essay about my brother and me, you can find it here.

“What if I swapped out the silver-rimmed tires for the black-rimmed ones?” The salesperson asked, looking hopeful.

“I’d buy it,” I said. “How long to switch them out? I need to be out of here in an hour.”

“I can’t do it in an hour. How about if I throw the four extras in the back of your new Jeep? You’ll get four new tires for free.”

And that’s how I ended up with a new Jeep and four extra tires that have been sitting in my carport ever since. They’re an albatross hanging around the neck of my garage. How do you go about selling four tires? Is Craigslist still a thing? And would anyone even want them?

Now they just sit in silence, wrapped in plastic, hoping for my Wrangler’s wheels to fail so that they can get on with their lives. “Why did he even bring us here?” they must be asking themselves. “We’re supposed to be rolling over trails, not sitting in this hellhole.”

Normally I’m great at selling things. I’ve done it my whole life. In my teens I scalped concert tickets. In my twenties I was a talent agent, selling bands to bar owners for weeklong gigs. I’ve sold everything, from research projects to corporate training.

But somehow four tires tripped me up.

Selling my business was almost easier. The hardest part about that was the existential crisis that came along for the ride.

It’s been three years now and I’m only just coming to terms with it. During the first year after the sale, when people asked, ‘What do you do?” I’d say, “I’m the founder of an educational enrichment company.” I’d say it in the present tense, even though it was in the past.

Then there was a year when I said, “I’m on a bunch of boards, built a nonprofit, you know, there’s a lot going on.” God forbid people should think I had free time.

Now I say, “I write.” If I’m feeling insecure, I’ll stupidly add, “and my Substack has more than 30,000 subscribers,” as if that matters to anyone but me.

There’s one more thing in my life that I can’t sell though, at least not yet.

Our family home.

The kids are grown, and Trish and I travel a lot for work and pleasure. We’re hardly there and it makes no sense to keep the place. Maintaining it is absurd, from lawn cutting to snow shoveling to plumbing to roofing. The place is over a hundred years old but insists that we make it look thirty-nine.

No. Keeping the house makes no sense at all.

We bought our suburban Chicago house decades ago, and it’s seen so much. Not just the pencil marks on the door frames or the BB gun hole in the window. It’s been here for everything.

Yes, our dog Max died on the stairs in the middle of the night, and yes, my father’s last seder was in our dining room, where his once booming voice came out in wheezes and whispered blessings.

And yes it held our children’s first dates and kisses and hopefully not much more, and yes to a garden richer with squirrels and rabbits than tomatoes and lettuce. Yes to the tree house where the children played make-believe, then outgrew it, then smoked and drank in it up high in the air as if they were nowhere near watchful eyes.

Yes to the blue couch where Trish healed from the car accident and I recovered from heart surgery and where in different years Hannah held dolls to her heart and ice packs to her mouth and heating pads to her back and tissues to her eyes. And yes to the black piano where the boys protested and where Trish played and sang and filled our world with joy.

And yes to a kitchen table that saw dinosaur egg oatmeal and PBJs and spaghetti and burgers then vegan sandwiches and salads, only salad please, and pints of Graeter’s black raspberry chip ice cream and sourdough after sourdough after sourdough and yes to dinners for five turned to four turned to three turned to two, getting quieter and quieter until you could almost hear our longing as we ate carryout Thai with vintage fine wine.

Yes, I can sell almost anything. Music. Research. A company built from scratch.

I just don’t know how to sell the sacred.

Or tires.

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My brother’s hair is falling out. It’s the chemo.

“It just looks like a bad haircut,” I said. “Mom would believe that. She knows you’re cheap.”

Steve didn’t want to tell Mom he had cancer.

“I don’t want her to worry.”

“Just wear a hat when you see her next week.”

“I don’t wear hats,” he said. “And she knows when I’m lying.”

At brunch, Steve ordered chilaquiles and a mezcal-infused cinnamon coffee. We chatted about how to tell Mom. I said, “Tell her it’s a neoplasm. That sounds harmless.” When I told Mom that I had open-heart surgery last year, I called it a sternotomy.

“Or I could dodge her for a few months,” he said, which wasn’t a bad idea. We’re both accomplished avoiders. When he and his wife lived in Cleveland, they came to Chicago one weekend for a getaway without telling our parents they were in town. Their hotel caught fire, and the newspaper got a picture of him helping people out. When my parents saw his photo saving lives in the newspaper, they were equal parts proud and pissed off.

Steve told me about his cancer a few weeks before our brunch. He called me while I was in Australia. When I told him, he said, “Never mind, we can talk when you get back.” He never calls unannounced, so I knew something was up. I sat down on the balcony and stared out at the Tasman Sea, moving my glass of rosé to the side.

“What’s up?”

Steve and I don’t chat regularly. He’s seven years older than me. He was in high school when I peed in my pants during my first t-ball game. He was a medical school resident when I was partying my way across Europe.

When we both lived in Chicago fifteen years ago, we’d take Dad out for dinner once a month. We’d order martinis and brag about what we were up to. Dad would beam, saying he was pleased that we were such good brothers, that it meant so much to him to see his boys thrive. During his last few years, he mostly listened to us talk and smiled.

When I found out I had a leaking heart valve last year and needed surgery within a few weeks, Steve was one of the first people I told. I played it down, like it was no big thing. I remember exactly where I was when I called him, outside a hair salon where I was about to get a trim and some camo a few weeks before surgery. I wanted to look my best.

And now, halfway across the world, I was gutted by his news, and grateful that he wanted to tell me.

When we finished brunch we said goodbye and gave each other one of those two-pat man hugs. We’ve been doing those our whole lives. “Talk soon,” he said.

He told Mom about his diagnosis the following week, after he and his wife took her to the Milwaukee art museum. She accepted the news as well as any mother could, hopeful and afraid, stoic and saddened.

Steve and I have only gotten together once since then, at a downtown restaurant. It was early for dinner, and we were the only two in the place. He had trimmed his remaining hair tight, which looked much better. I ordered a smoky Manhattan; he had a mocktail.

I asked him how he was feeling. He asked me the same. We talked about work and the kids for a bit, then he got a work call, which went on longer than expected. Bored, I jotted down some thoughts. Writing about him felt like the right thing to do, but also selfish, like I was turning his pain into material.

We said goodbye on the street, gave each other a quick two-pat hug, but this time held on longer than we needed to.

After we let go, Steve said, “Let’s invite Josh and Adam to join us next time.” His son Josh had just moved back to town, and my son Adam lived nearby. They were a few years apart and hadn’t spent much time together. I said that sounded great, and we headed in opposite directions.

Tonight we were brothers, making up for lost time. Eating, bragging, doing a little work.

Next time, we’d bring the boys.

Who’s someone in your life you’d like to spend more time with?

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(An earlier version of this essay appeared six months ago, before I realized it wasn’t actually about hobbies.)

I used to know who I was.

Then I sold my company.

Now when people ask, “What do you do?” I don’t know what to say.

I can’t say, “I’m retired,” because I’m not. And saying, “I sit on a few boards,” sounds suspiciously retired.

When I tell people I write essays, they smile and say, “Good for you,” the way you’d encourage a child who announces he’s going to be an astronaut.

While writing takes up my work hours, I thought I should take up some new hobbies for my free time in this new chapter of my life. The problem is, I’ve never really had hobbies. I do stuff. I read, play tennis, travel, ride my bike, and drink bourbon. But those aren’t hobbies. They’re just shit I do.

Hobby people are different. They have forums. They attend conventions. They own specialty vests. They casually use words you’ve never heard before and seem disappointed you haven’t. If I took hobbies more seriously, I figured, I could say I was an ornithologist or a philatelist or anything with an “-ist.”

The internet listed more than seven hundred hobbies. I eliminated anything that could get me killed or required actual talent, which cut the list in half. Some sounded appealing, like crocheting, which I misread before deciding it wasn’t for me either. I ended up with three I decided to try: astronomy, infusion, and lomography.

First Stop: The Heavens Themselves

I kicked off my astronomy hobby by getting into a contrived argument with an actual astronomer about the space-watching binoculars he recommended in Astronomy Magazine. I emailed him that I disagreed with his choice, and he surprisingly wrote me back right away, explaining patiently and professionally that I was an idiot. But it was official: I was now an astronomer involved in meaningless scientific debates. I bought the pair of space binoculars he recommended, and they arrived two days later.

On my first night out, I learned that a blue moon isn’t blue, which felt like false advertising. It’s just an extra full moon in a month, which happens rarely, as in “once in a blue moon.” Who knew?

A week later I saw the International Space Station cross the sky, which was legitimately mind-blowing. An app told me exactly when and where to look for it, which seemed like an invasion of its privacy, but was handy for me.

Other things seemed silly. Constellations? What a scam. No group of stars looks like a man-horse archer. Comets? Forget it, you’ll never find them.

Standing alone in the dark looking for planets, I had a thought I didn’t love. I used to be somebody. If someone asked what I did, I had an answer before they finished the question. CEO. Founder. Educator. Those weren’t just jobs. They were shorthand.

Now I was a guy in flip-flops wondering where the hell Saturn went.

Still, there’s pleasure spending an hour outside at night, away from the sounds of everyday life. Looking up, I felt small and insignificant, but alive and in awe.

Want to buy a pair of used binoculars?

Second Stop: Infuse Me!

Next, I tried infusion.

I thought this could be hard because I hate recipes and can’t follow instructions, and infusing tends to have precise steps, measurements, and times. I was uniquely unqualified.

To document my journey toward becoming a person of refined sensibility and precision, I kept a diary:

Entry #1:

Yesterday I bought some small mason jars and tonight I’m sipping a delicious frozen rosemary infused gin. Maybe if astronomy led to an actual space voyage it could compare to infusion. This is a hobby that lets me learn and drink at the same time. I’m an infusionist!

Entry #4:

I made French spice-infused Earl Grey Tea. It’s delicious. Sweet and spicy. It’s like Paris and London had a baby, boiled it and poured it into my mug. I should start an infusion blog.

Entry #7:

This is getting old. Do I really need artichoke-infused gin made with a sous vide? Honestly, I’m getting sick of the flavored alcohol already. I need to find some other kinds of infusions. I’m off to the internet.

Entry #12:
I accidentally ended up on survivalist forums. These infusionists are preparing for the end-times using honey, garlic, and hatred of the federal government.

I’m out.

It was fun while it lasted. I’m glad I tried it.

Anyone want a free set of mason jars with the purchase of some binoculars?

Third Stop: Lomography

Lomography is a creative photography movement that values artistic expression over technical perfection. Blurry and overexposed mistakes are the point. I began by reading a lomography blog while drinking cardamom and ginger-infused vodka that I made while that was still a thing.

One of the best parts of this hobby for me was my camera. It was an Instamatic, so I could see results immediately. Every click delivered a tiny dopamine hit. Like mentoring someone, closing a sale, or teaching a room full of people, you’re rewarded right on the spot.

Driving around town looking for objects to photograph makes you look at everything more artistically. Should I capture this tree from a low angle? Should I shoot my cheese sandwich in black and white? Killing two hobbies with one shot, I took a blurry photo of my daughter standing in front of an orange moon. In fact, I took hundreds of candid photos of my family. Trish never said anything, but I’m sure she looked forward to this phase ending soon.

When I ran my company, I was often the subject of photographs. There were photos of me speaking in town hall meetings, at schools greeting children, giving speeches at conferences. Now I was on the other end, taking shots of others.

To be honest, I’m not sure which I like better, but I’ll hang on to the camera. No one has taken me up on the mason jars or binoculars anyway.

So what do I do?

I look for Saturn.

I infuse things that shouldn’t be infused.

I photograph blurry sandwiches.

I keep becoming.

How do you answer the question, "What do you do?" Has your answer changed over the years?

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