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Posts Tagged ‘family’

Family-first is Butterbee’s philosophy

In Food, Local News, Uncategorized on December 19, 2025 at 8:05 am

By Gery Deer

(Courtesy of our partners at the Xenia Daily Gazette.)

A notable and relative newcomer to Xenia’s dining scene is Butterbee’s American Grille, located at 217 Progress Drive, directly across from the Hampton Inn. The restaurant opened in August 2024, and while it may be new to the area, its management is anything but inexperienced.

Nabih David brings decades of family-owned restaurant expertise as CEO of the David Restaurant Group, which operates 13 locations throughout the Cincinnati and Mount Orab areas — including the Skyline Chili right next door.

Nabih David, general manager of Xenia’s “Butterbee’s American Grille” restaurant on Progress Dr.

Butterbee’s American Grille officially opened its Xenia doors in August 2024. Often referred to simply as Butterbee’s, the location is one of just four under the brand. Designed as a family-friendly restaurant, it also serves double duty as a sports bar and gathering place for parties and celebrations.

The David Restaurant Group was founded in 1986 by Nabih’s father, Nader David, and today employs roughly 600 full- and part-time workers. Seventy of those employees work at the Xenia Butterbee’s alone. David said the decision to open in Xenia was intentional, noting strong similarities to Mount Orab — a community known for its family-oriented values.

“We saw a lot of potential in Xenia, and we felt the area was underserved by our brands,” David said. “When we purchased the property, the original vision was always to have two restaurants here — Skyline and, eventually, Butterbee’s.”

From the atmosphere to the menu, David said the restaurant was designed with purpose. “We have a hand-scratch kitchen, and everything is made right here in the building,” he said. While quality is consistent across the menu, two items stand out as guest favorites.

“Our signature dishes are our hand-breaded chicken tenders and our fall-off-the-bone baby back ribs,” David said.

For those who may assume the restaurant is too crowded or difficult to access based on its front-facing appearance, David offered some reassurance. “Our building can seat more than 240 people,” he said. “We’re very party-friendly and cater to the masses, whether you’re coming in for a quick lunch, watching a game, or hosting a birthday celebration.”

David Restaurant Group CEO, David Nabih, with the crew at Xenia Butterbee’s American Grille.

He added that additional parking is available behind the building, and guests can always call ahead or order online at http://www.butterbeesgrille.com.

Looking ahead, the Xenia location is expected to play a key role in the future growth of the Butterbee’s brand throughout Greene County. Increasing awareness and foot traffic is a major part of that strategy, and the restaurant is currently offering a holiday gift card promotion to help drive that momentum.

“Right now, when you purchase $50 in gift cards, you receive $20 in bonus gift cards,” David said.

More than promotions or menu items, David emphasized what he hopes the community takes away most from Butterbee’s.

“From ownership to staff to the overall guest experience,” he said, “we put family first.”

Community STE[A]M Academy Hosting “Very Merry Open House” Dec. 18

In Local News on December 9, 2025 at 1:36 pm

Xenia, Ohio – The holiday season is getting a cheerful kickstart at the Community STE[A]M Academy, where families are invited to a “Very Merry Open House” on Wednesday, Dec. 18, from 5 to 7 p.m. at 855 Lower Bellbrook Rd. in Xenia.

The school promises a relaxed, family-friendly evening—complete with holiday fun and a special appearance from the big guy himself. Santa will be on hand to hear Christmas wishes and spread plenty of festive spirit.

But the event isn’t just about holiday magic. It’s also a chance for prospective families to get a closer look at what makes the Community STE[A]M Academy unique. Visitors can tour the building, chat with teachers and staff, and learn more about the school’s hands-on, project-based approach.

If you’re wondering about that extra “A” in STE[A]M, the academy is happy to explain. While STEM focuses on Science, Technology, Engineering, and Math, STEAM adds the Arts into the mix—recognizing creativity, design thinking, and expression as essential parts of problem-solving. At the Community STE[A]M Academy, students use both technical skills and artistic thinking to explore and innovate, whether they’re studying robotics, environmental science, or digital design.

That blend of creativity and science will be on display during the open house, as middle and high school students present their latest sustainability projects. Guests can also roll up their sleeves for some hands-on holiday fun, including cookie decorating and watercolor card making—starting with making the paint from scratch.

School leaders say the evening is meant to be fun, festive, and informative. Whether you’re exploring enrollment or just want to enjoy a little holiday cheer, everyone is welcome.

“It’s a night you won’t want to miss,” organizers said. “Bring the family, join the fun, and see what makes our STE[A]M community so special.” For more information, contact Kim Haines, Communications Coordinator at 937-800-2720.

The Hero Sandwich

In Opinion, Uncategorized on August 25, 2025 at 7:06 am

Deer In Headlines II

By Gery Deer

When I was a kid, we had an in-ground pool in our backyard. About the size of a two-car garage, my father, a skilled concrete worker and mason, built it himself. As spring gave way to summer, my dad would uncover, clean, and fill the pool for the season.

It was one of my favorite times of the year. The weather was still reasonably cool for early summer, and I was fascinated by the huge tanker truck that carried the water to our house. I grew up around trucks and other heavy equipment, so you’d think I would have little interest in such a thing. But when you’re five, everything is much bigger than life, and we didn’t have a water truck.

My brother and sister were pushing me around our pool in a plastic boat around 1969, a couple of years before the ham sandwich incident.

Although I could swim, my parents never learned. I always thought that was strange since my dad grew up on the banks of the Ohio River. So, unless my older brother or sister was in the pool too, I had to watch through the chain-link fence.

One particularly memorable pool opening day, when I was about 4 years old, the water truck arrived around lunchtime. I peered eagerly through the screen door. Mom stuck half of a boiled ham sandwich in my hand, told me to be patient, and she would take me outside when I’d finished my lunch.

I have an oddly specific memory of Mom commenting that this was the last of that particular lunch meat and not to waste it. I’m not sure why that stuck with me, but, at the time, it seemed pretty important.

At some point, I promised to finish the sandwich if she let me go outside, which did the trick. After all, Dad was out there, and I could stay by the fence. My case effectively pleaded, and the judge’s decision rendered, I happily toddled outside with my ham sandwich.

I think Dad was distracted. He chatted away with the water truck driver about whatever it is that truck drivers talk about when they’re waiting for gravity to do all their work for them. I adjusted the straw hat mom plopped onto my head on the way out the door, and clutched my sandwich as I stealthily made my way inside the enclosure and around to the opposite side of the pool.

I know – I wasn’t supposed to be there – and I knew it then too. But I was a handful back then and didn’t always do what I was supposed to do. Finally, I was near the filter vent – a favorite spot for me to sit and dangle my feet in the water.

This was the pool my father built for us – the fence I mentioned in the story has yet to be added. This is just after the construction was completed.

I tried my best to disappear behind a deck chair when Mom called for Dad to make sure I ate my sandwich. He relayed the orders, noticed where I was standing, but seemed unconcerned. I took a big bite of the sandwich, crept over to the edge, and peered into the water. A moment later – kerplop! There I was, like a fishing bobber, headfirst and feet sticking out of the shallow part of the pool. I can still recall the feeling of being swallowed by water.


As quickly as it happened, I was yanked out of the pool by my foot, now missing its sandal. My father was taken over by fear but never missed a beat. Worried I’d taken a lung full of water on the way in, he put me over his knee, face down, and started thumping on my back. “Spit,” he repeatedly shouted at me as the heel of his hand rapped on my back. I shook my head in defiance. “No.” After a minute or so, I complied. Out of my mouth spewed a wad of half-masticated ham and bread that hit the cement with a splat.

When I fell in, I had a mouthful of food, and I held my breath, which kept the water outside, where it belonged. Upon my rescue, I was reluctant to spit it out because I was afraid I’d get into trouble for wasting it. That ham sandwich and my father’s quick action saved my life. The moral? Do what your mom tells you – and hold onto your ham sandwich.

Go to your room

In Local News on August 15, 2025 at 10:01 am

Deer In Headlines II

By Gery Deer

A child’s bedroom represents much more than four walls, a bed, and a closet door that never quite closes right. Strip away the posters, the overflowing toy box, the rock tumbler they begged for but only used once — and what’s left is something quietly monumental: the first incarnation of personal identity, in its purest form.

To a child — especially one trying to decode their place in the world — their bedroom is personal. A place apart. Not because it’s off-limits to others, but because it feels like the only space in their universe that is truly, unquestionably, theirs. It’s one of the first places over which a young person has reasonably full control.

When I was a kid, my bedrooms weren’t luxurious or particularly large. From the age of 5, when I first got my own room, to about 25, when I left the farm for my first apartment, I had occupied four different rooms – in two houses. The one I had the longest was on the second floor of our small, Cape Cod farmhouse. Unlike the loft at the top of the stairs – which also once served as my bedroom – this one had a real door. Having a door offered independence and solitude — the kind you don’t realize is valuable until adulthood starts chipping away at your time and control like a sculptor with a new block of marble.

One corner of Gery’s bedroom at the farm in Jamestown, ca. 1988 – drafting table and work area while studying for his engineering degree.

Except for food, my room was outfitted with everything I needed to hole up. There was a pair of hand-me-down twin beds, a tiny black and white TV sitting on a corner step stool, plenty of art supplies and books, and a JC Penney stereo system perched on a wobbly stand. All of these things, and the room itself, helped chisel out the person I’d eventually become. I also had a desk that became far more important that I could have predicted, although somehow my mom knew.

Around 1981, predicting the computers that would eventually occupy so much of my time, my mother insisted on getting me a large, wrap-around desk. The epidemy of 1980s techno-furniture, its wood frame sported a black, slate top, with just one lonely shelf above. It wasn’t fancy, just functional. As it turned out, that old desk, as much as the room it occupied, became my launchpad. My mother seemed to believe in things before me, and now — 43 years later — I’m sitting at that very desk as I type this for you.

Those who were there have said that, in many important ways, my office and personal study echo that childhood haven. I think what they mean is that my work and home offices are more than just organized – they’re curated. Every object has meaning and purpose: typewriters that don’t just tap out words but inspire my writing, photos and nick-nacks that remind me of family and events and highlight why I write, and lots of blue — a color that, for reasons I can’t explain, always made me feel… like me. I think we all need someplace like that, even if we don’t realize it.

In my old room, even if everything outside felt like chaos, even if fitting in at school was like trying to breathe underwater, I could always retreat to a place where I made the rules. Ask any of the nieces I grew up with and they’ll complain, as they did to my mother when we were kids, that I would never let them come up there.

We seriously underestimate how foundational a child’s room can be as they grow up. Like so many other children, my room gave me solace, but it also provided a launchpad from which to craft my life’s narrative — one where my voice mattered. It wasn’t just any room in any farmhouse. It was my room, my Fortress of Solitude – maybe yours was too.

I’ve arranged other spaces in the image of that room but, try as I might, nothing will ever be like that again. Sometimes I would give anything to be back there, with so little responsibility and so much to live for. I’d hear the bustle of my family downstairs and, just once more, my mother calling up the stairs, “Gery, supper’s on.” 

TCN Celebrates 35 Years with Free Community Fun Day & Pancake Breakfast

In Local News on June 11, 2025 at 11:43 am

Fairborn, OH – TCN Behavioral Health is celebrating 35 years of caring for our communities, and we want you to be part of the celebration! Join us for a Community Fun Day & Free Pancake Breakfast on Saturday, July 12, from 9:00 a.m. to 1:00 p.m. at TCN’s headquarters, 1825 Commerce Center Blvd, Fairborn.

The morning will kick off with a free pancake breakfast featuring “We Flip ‘Em and You Catch ‘Em” with Katie’s Pancakes, followed by a variety of fun and family-friendly activities including:

• Bounce houses

• Sidewalk chalk art

• Face painting

• A live “Division Feud” game show

• Kids’ coloring contest

• Art drive

• “Fill the Bus” school supply donation drive

• And much more!

This event is open to everyone, and we invite the entire community to come out and celebrate this milestone with us. Whether you’ve been part of our journey or are just getting to know us, we’re excited to share this special day with you.

TCN CARES—and this celebration is just one way we’re showing our gratitude for 35 years of support, growth, and improving lives by providing clinically excellent and accessible behavioral health services to adults and youth service across our region.

For more information about supporting us through sponsorship, donation or volunteering please call (937)376-8700 or visit www.tcn.org

 

 

RC and Mr. Goodbar

In Children and Family, Local News, Opinion, psychology, Uncategorized on March 7, 2025 at 7:06 am

Deer In Headlines II

By Gery Deer

When I was 11, my uncle came to visit me during one of my many prolonged stays in the hospital. I had a reasonably significant surgical procedure and was confined to a wheelchair, so he sat in my room and regaled me with tales of life on the outside. He was my mother’s younger brother. His nickname was “Tuff,” though his real name was Gary – one of four in my immediate family. Since our families were close, nicknames were helpful, as you might imagine.

At one point during his visit, Uncle Tuff decided I’d been cooped up for too long and needed to escape for a bit. I wasn’t tethered to any wires or hoses at that point, so we made good our getaway. I’m not sure, but I don’t think I was supposed to leave the floor, and we were trying to be stealthy. I think he had given the nurses the heads-up and cleared it first, but I played along.

After a quick elevator ride, we arrived at a vending area, complete with snack tables and a microwave. He parked me at a table and dug into his pocket for change. A moment later, a Mr. Goodbar candy bar and a bottle of Royal Crown cola appeared in front of me.

Gary “Tuff” Sutton, Sr., his wife, my Aunt Phyllis, and their two kids, Pam and Gary, Jr. “Butch,” were fixtures in my home. My mother’s youngest sibling, he was the uncle I knew best. He taught me to play the piano, which, like the soda and chocolate, gave me a reprieve from the rigors of the hospital. I’ll forever be grateful.

In case you’re unfamiliar, the Mr. Goodbar is made by Hershey and is little more than your basic chocolate bar, but with peanuts. It’s not fancy, but after a week of hospital food, it was like someone had bestowed on me a feast fit for kings. For the next half hour, we knocked back our RCs and chocolate, and he did his best to take my mind off where I was – he was good at that.

Back in my room, he’d left me with an extra chocolate bar – plain Hershey’s this time – and gave the nurse another bottle of RC to keep cold for me. It was a good day, all things considered.

We lost my Uncle Tuff to lung cancer in 2005. Ironically, another memory associated with that day at the hospital was that he wasn’t allowed to smoke. It was one of the few times I remember seeing him without a smoldering Salem. He was around my life a great deal, and I miss him every day, especially when I sit at a piano – he taught me to play.

But of all the times we had later, playing music with our family band or just sitting around the kitchen table at the farm where I grew up listening to him and my dad tell stories, that one moment at the hospital will always stand out. That was when a little boy, uncertain of his future, forgot for a moment how badly he was feeling, all thanks to his uncle and a candy bar.

I guess the point of all this is that, as children, it’s incredible how things intertwine to create influential memories into adulthood. Then, when we’re grown, we often reflect on those moments, maybe to draw inspiration or clarity. Many events in our formative years leave an indelible imprint on our psyche to help shape our beliefs, behaviors, and aspirations.

Understanding the profound influence of these early experiences offers invaluable insights into how we relate to people and the world as adults. But I wouldn’t dig too deeply. As Sigmund Freud is fabled to have said, “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.” In this case, a chocolate bar and a bottle of soda are just a chocolate bar and a bottle of soda.

These moments, whether joyous or traumatic, become the defining chapters of our personal narratives. I don’t really know what long-term effect that single event had on my overall growth as an adult. I know it wasn’t the chocolate that made it special, but rather my uncle’s relationship with me. But, on the rare occasions that I might indulge in a Mr. Goodbar, I still smile and remember.

So, when life’s daily challenges become too much, maybe it would help to think back to one of those moments when a simple kindness, and perhaps a chocolate bar, could bring a smile to your face.

One Special Holiday

In Charities, Children and Family, Local News, Opinion on December 9, 2024 at 11:50 am

Deer In Headlines II

By Gery Deer

It is entirely possible that I spent too much time in this work writing about my parents. We have all had remarkable people in our lives, and my immediate family just happened to be some of the most extraordinary people in my life. With the holidays just around the corner, I wanted to relate a story that has almost become folklore.

The story begins in the late 1950s, sometime before I came along. My father was a machinist at National Cash Register, NCR, one of the largest employers in Ohio, if not the entire state. He also had what we would call side hustles. He would haul scrap metal to make ends meet, a good business when more efficient options were replacing the old cast-iron coal furnaces. Selling them for scrap was hard work but profitable. He also did concrete work and other odd jobs to help create a stable life for his family. To Dad, it was the kind of life he never had growing up in the foothills of the Appalachian and Southeastern Ohio.

While he was working, my mother raised her children, made a home for them all, and took care of the day-to-day operations of the household. She was one of the hardest working people I ever knew, even back then. But no matter how hard they worked, there were years when there just wasn’t enough money.

Around Christmas time, during a particularly lean year, the prospect of a happy Christmas looked grim. My brother was in Boy Scouts then, and my father was an assistant scoutmaster. Someone within the organization learned of my family’s financial difficulties. Shortly before Christmas, some people arrived at our house with food and gifts for all four. I remember my mother talking about it through tears as if someone had lifted them from a heavy darkness. She was eternally grateful, as was my father.

As the years went on, times got better for my family. Regardless of how little we had at any given time, I remember my parents always doing what they could to help those less fortunate. That brings me to Christmas of 1988.

That particular year, my dad learned of a nearby family that had fallen on hard times. The father had lost his industrial job, and the mother worked part-time while both did their best to raise their three small children. My mother immediately went into action.

Mobilizing the pre-Internet communications network within our family, she reorganized that year’s party into a relief event for the distressed family. With a little investigation and intuitive guesswork, my family collected information on the parents’ needs, clothing sizes, ages, and children’s interests. We even had people trying to find employment for the young father.

Our annual Christmas party, already a real show complete with music, songs, games, and dancing Santa, took on a whole new look. The price of admission was a donation. A list had been distributed informing everyone about what was needed and providing a way to let my mom know who was contributing what. With each person who arrived for the party came more toys, clothes, games, and food items. We even collected some cash.

On Christmas Eve, we loaded everything into a van, Santa riding shotgun, and headed for the family’s house. When we knocked on the door, we were greeted by a tiny three-year-old girl in a yellow onesie, a couple of toes poking out of the worn feet. She squealed away as she soaked in the sight of Santa Claus at her doorstep. To maintain the dignity of these hard-working people, there must be no clue where all this originated. My family were simply asked to deliver it to them.

My parents taught us by example. Kindness at the holidays should be the same throughout the year. Still, there is a gentleness during the Christmas season. We were under no illusions that a few gifts and boxes of mac and cheese would change the lives of this family. But at least, for one special holiday, they were together, safe, and they knew they mattered to someone. Sometimes, that’s enough to see you through the worst of times. Hopefully, we can all remember that year-round.

Author’s Note: A short story is based on my family’s charitable work. It’s called “A Special Place at a Special Time” and is available on Amazon. However, a revised version will be released shortly.

Gallery: The photos include pictures of the farm, the long lane that was decorated each year, Gary Deer Jr. as Santa and some of the later parties. Each one generated food, clothing, and other necessities for a local family. A few times, they were people in our own family – because that’s what you do.

Heirloom Emotions

In history, Media, Opinion, Senior Lifestyle, Uncategorized on June 15, 2024 at 8:55 am

Deer In Headlines II

By Gery Deer

It’s truly remarkable how we can develop such deep emotional bonds with family heirlooms. Whether it’s an antique jewelry box, a wax candle mold, or even a small piece of roof tile from a 19th-century courthouse, these objects hold a special place in our hearts as cherished remnants of days gone by.

I recently attended an event promoted as a kind of show-and-tell at the local historical society. Visitors were encouraged to bring an item that had some significance to them, the history of the community, or their family, and share the story behind each piece.

Upon my arrival, I was greeted by a sight that stirred a sense of nostalgia. The organizers had proudly arranged the evening’s offerings on tables at the front of the room. Soon, a representative of the organization initiated the event, and one by one, each presenter stepped forward, their faces beaming with pride as they shared the personal significance of their cherished items.

It was like watching a live edition of The Antiques Roadshow minus the frequent condescension of the hosts. You know, “I’m sorry, but this frog statue lamp with a clock in its belly isn’t worth squat.” I always hated that. Anyway, I doubt any of the artifacts would have been for sale. You’d likely have to pry each one out of its owner’s cold, dead hands.

Even more impressive than the reverence with which each person spoke about their property was the variety of items they brought. One man brought a wooden dynamite crate, which was once used to carry explosives for stump removal at his grandparents’ farm. Another showed off his own grade school pictures, some 65 years old.

Others exhibited familial artifacts ranging from a military bayonet to a small jewelry box, which we learned was the owner’s only connection with her great-grandmother. Though very plain to the eye, it was priceless and beautiful to her, and perspective is everything.

When it originated with the speaker, like the school photos, the speaker relayed a personal account of the object’s significance. If, on the other hand, the possession once belonged to a loved one or close friend, the connection is very different. Things left behind by those before us can be deeply meaningful. Heirlooms strengthen our memory of someone and remind us of the relationship.

You’re unlikely to forget a departed parent, spouse, or sibling. But seeing and touching something that belonged to them reaffirms that connection tactilely and creates an emotional response, good and bad.

As I absorbed each story, a profound realization dawned on me. The pride, honor, or reverence—whatever you may call it—was not about the possessions. It was about the people in the stories, whether they were related or not to the speaker. After all, what is human society without stories? Stories shared between family and tribal members are how we preserve our history. And physical remnants of that history, like these family heirlooms, make the stories more tangible, more real.

And it doesn’t have to be about people who have passed on. For those in the room who had attended the same school, the antique class photos had a more profound, more personal association. Someone who’d been a student at the same school as several of the audience, but a half-century earlier, bound two generations, brought together because someone shared a story about a picture.

Finally, there’s something to be said for legacy. I think we all want to be remembered. I sincerely hope to leave behind more than a half-used pencil and a broken typewriter. But if so, I also hope someone will come up with a compelling and meaningful story about them. I think the ancestors of those who shared family items would be very proud of their legacy.

My parents left behind a treasure trove of memories, from books and dolls to trucks and tractors. Among these, I hold dear my father’s wristwatch. He personally handed it to me, sharing the story of its origin. When I gaze upon it, I am transported back to that moment. It’s not about the watch itself, but the emotional bond it represents, the moments he spent with me that hold the true value.

Have A Nice Trip

In Local News, Opinion, Travel, Uncategorized on May 3, 2024 at 9:26 am

Deer In Headlines II

By Gery Deer

Spring has finally settled over the Ohio Valley, and summer will be here before you know it. I’ve already heard people talking about summer travel and vacation plans. I don’t really travel much anymore. When I was a kid, though, we always had a camping trailer or motor home, so early in my life, we took a road trip every summer. 

I remember visiting historic places like Gettysburg, Washington D.C., and Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. Once, when I was about four years old, we went to South Dakota and explored the Black Hills in a blue 1959 Cadillac, pulling a bulky travel trailer behind. I even met Fred Flintstone at the “Bedrock City” campground, where we stayed in Custer. I will always remember that. I guess they always wanted me to learn something about America wherever we went but keep it fun.

No matter how much you travel, even if the same destinations call you back again and again, there is always that one trip that holds the most significance in your memory. It could be because of a special occasion or the first time visiting a place that became a lifelong favorite. Whatever the reason, that one memorable trip can stick with you. The one that comes to my mind most often was in the summer of 1989. I had just graduated from college. I was 22, and though I didn’t know it then, it would be the last trip our entire family would take together.

Two campers and a motorhome carried the lot of us to Kentucky: my parents, my brother and sister, their spouses, and four grandkids. We were headed to the state park named after the song by Stephen Foster, “My Old Kentucky Home.” The park is nestled amongst the rolling hills of Bardstown, known as the “Bourbon Capital of the World” because of its many distilleries.

This is a photo from the Kentucky trip mentioned in this piece. In the foreground, GERY’s four nieces. In Back, his parents and sister-in-law.

Why Bardstown? Well, the history is remarkable, and the area is quite scenic, but that was only part of it. The truth is, Mom loved musicals. She took every opportunity to watch them on TV or go to a nearby dinner theatre to see live productions of shows like Oklahoma or Annie Get Your Gun. We would get all dressed up, pile everyone into one of Dad’s classic limousines (yep, you read that right), and immerse ourselves in musical dinner theatre. It wasn’t Broadway. In fact, sometimes it was terrible. Mom loved it, and I kind of did too. 

As it happened, my mother learned about a long-running outdoor musical that performed in Bardstown during the summer. “The Stephen Foster Story” showcased the songwriter’s life and work with an ensemble cast and set much of the action at his cousin’s Bardstown home, Federal Hill. That’s all it took. What seemed like moments later, the Deer crew was packed up and caravanning to Kentucky. However, at least one of us was, let’s just say, not as excited to go.

I’d just been unceremoniously dismissed from a long-term relationship and an emotional wreck. I spent most of my summer free time holed up in my bedroom, dumping my feelings into my old typewriter and blasting movie scores on my stereo.

Although I didn’t want to go, I will forever be grateful that Mom convinced me otherwise. I wrote, explored the historical sites of The Bluegrass State, healed, and got to know my family again after several years head-down in my schoolbooks. I may have grown up a little too.

It’s funny; the things I remember most about that trip are, in this order, my brother wearing Western boots on a skateboard, my nieces getting along nearly the whole time, and how happy my mother seemed to be because we were all in one place for a change.   We can never recreate experiences like that. They’re once in a lifetime. But at least I have that one precious experience safely tucked away in my memory. Whenever I need a reminder of what my family once was, I go back there with them in my mind. I close my eyes and I can hear the music and see Mom’s smile again. I guess, in a way, it was my Old Kentucky Home too.

This was a lovely comment about this story sent after it was published in print. Thank you!

Our Parents, Ourselves

In Children and Family, Opinion, psychology, Uncategorized on March 1, 2024 at 12:53 pm

Deer In Headlines II
By Gery Deer

They came to the open houses and sat in the freezing cold at Friday night football, watching me high step across the field with the marching band. They scrounged the money for chemistry lab fees and ensured I had a ride to my 4-H meetings. Somehow, no matter how difficult things might have been for them, Mom and Dad were always there for us.

My mother was a force of nature, a five-foot-four powerhouse of the gentlest nature imaginable. She was creative, brilliant, strong, and vulnerable but never mean or judgmental, even if she was mad at you. And if she was mad, you didn’t have to guess.

Gery’s parents, Lois and Gary Sr., around 1996.

Dad was a whole different story. He was resourceful, smart, and could do anything with a truck or tractor. On the outside, he was confident and controlled. But inside, he was conflicted. They’d been together since high school, and he was thoroughly dependent on my mother for his sense of self and family. As Alzheimer’s took her from us, I watched him slip away, too.

Although we had a good relationship, growing up with my parents wasn’t always easy. Raising good parents never is (as my brother likes to say). Sometimes, it was their job to tell me I was wrong, and they never held back. The resistance they met was inborn, however. Generations of stubbornness wound through my genes like a snake through tree branches. We argued, I stomped off, grousing like a teenager does, and then it was forgotten – usually. The irritating part was that most of the time, they were right.

Gery with his brother, Gary Jr. (left) in 1997.

If you have siblings, each experiences the parent in a slightly different light. My brother, 15 years my senior, constantly reminds me of how tough he had it from our father. Dad was strict with him, almost to a suffocating level. Our dad’s mother died when he was just three, and our grandfather left. Since he was raised largely in poverty by an aunt and grandmother, his upbringing was remarkably different from how he raised us. My guess is that he maintained tight control over his firstborn out of fear and inexperience.

As for me, because of our age differences, Dad held more of a grandfatherly position, and my brother did most of the fatherly stuff. He taught me what I needed to be independent and helped ensure Dad didn’t overprotect me. I think it all worked out for the best, even if my brother is still a little bitter. Clearly, even a sibling can take a parental position when there is such a perceived generational difference.

But regardless of the relationship, I think most of us have a singular and somewhat distorted image of our parents. Whether our relationship with them was close, distant, tumultuous, or nonexistent, I believe we can forget that our parents are just people. Like you and me, they have flaws, failings, dreams, regrets, all of it. But we likely still see them only through one kind of lens. What’s worse is that the incomplete picture can become more distorted as they age.

My siblings and I were there as my parents aged became ill, and finally passed away. As I helped to care for them, I learned much more about who they were along the way. Growing up, I never imagined I’d have to take on all you do for your elderly parents. Showers, medical care, managing the finances; there can be so much you never expected. The experience was simultaneously rewarding and painful. We also grow more protective of them as they get older.

But we must keep in mind that, barring dementia or some other kind of mental illness, they’re still the kings and queens of their castles. If they’re dealing with health issues, mobility, whatever, we can and should help and let them be who they are, even if, as adults, we still don’t understand it.

Parents also need to realize that such a myopic view of the individual can go both ways. Our kids are more than we see, just as we are to them. In the end, we are all just trying to take care of each other as best we know how.

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