2023 Layne Family Christmas Letter

Well, here we are again, fast approaching that festive season of peace on earth and goodwill toward men when we take time from our busy lives to remember the birth of Jesus and how much better we have it today than in Christmases past before free shipping.

It’s hard to imagine folks aren’t getting tired of hearing about the dull goings on of our small, ever shrinking clan, but if you're determined to read on, buckle up – it’s going to be a long and bumpy ride.

In early March, we lost another player from our roster when Gary succumbed to the rare non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma he’d been battling for over 9 years and in earnest for the prior 14 months. As all endings are new beginnings, we are pleased that Ann, the love of Gary’s life, agreed to join our family as an honorary Mayerhofer. The City of Crystal Lake made plans to honor their long-time city administrator and resident by constructing a memorial at the entrance to his prized Three Oaks Recreational area to be dedicated on June 9th along with the first annual memorial picnic/celebration of life to raise awareness and money for Leukemia & Lymphoma Society.

Saddled with the time-consuming task of settling her brother’s estate, Karen had to say goodbye to her job at the church and sixteen-foot-tall Jesus who provided meager comfort during her lonely year working in the sanctuary basement. Of late she spends her days wearing the various hats of medical transport driver, health care advocate, financial advisor, chamber maid, and Sparky’s emotional support human.

Speaking of the hounds, Sparky continues his tireless defense of our homestead, chasing away any leaves, wind, or Boeing 737’s that dare trespass upon our property or invade our airspace, along with Mark who he seems unable to recognize. When not Velcroed to Karen’s chest, he functions as a living, breathing Swiffer, collecting all the dirt from outside and bringing it indoors. He continues to baffle veterinary science, having the memory of a goldfish with Alzheimer’s and a daily fecal output equal to twice his food intake. Even after three plus years Maggie still isn’t quite sure what to make of her enigmatic roommate, often staring at him as if to say, “WTF, dude?”

One positive outcome of Gary’s passing is Amanda found her first boyfriend. (In truth, Karen and Eileen found Amanda her first boyfriend and by extension, Todd's first girlfriend.)

Get your pencils and scorecards ready… 

Eileen is Glen Benrus’ wife. Glen is the Mayerhofer’s former next-door neighbor and Gary’s best friend since childhood. Todd is their eldest son. As weddings and funerals have a way of bringing people together and rekindling old friendships, so did Gary’s untimely departure lead to a Benrus-Mayerhofer family reunion of sorts which eventually led to a garage sale at Gary’s townhome.

If you’re wondering what harm could come from leaving two conniving women unsupervised on a chilly spring morning with a shortage of shoppers, you’ve apparently never watched I Love Lucy. In keeping with the spirit of Season 2, Episode 27, "Lucy" and "Ethel" hatched a harebrained scheme to have their eldest children “accidentally” meet at a Cubs game that summer.

When Amanda caught wind of the subterfuge, the neighbors had to close their windows. To borrow a line from Gene Shepherd, she wove a tapestry of profanity which still hangs over our block to this day. Who (besides Ally & Mark) would have thought she might regard meddling in her personal affairs an act of high treason? Go figure.

As the fateful day of the game approached and Amanda’s anxiety mounted to dizzying heights, she took matters into her own hands intent on heading off the inevitable pre-first-pitch rather than waiting until the 7^th inning stretch. It began with a few innocent texts, progressed to an actual conversation, then on to an informal date, all prior to the contrived “cute meet” arranged by their mothers.

Against all odds and in contravention of most universal laws, Amanda discovered she liked Todd and he her. The two enjoy each other’s company and hang out regularly. As of this writing and at risk of violating HIPAA, Amanda recently learned firsthand what the second stanza of Dionne Warwick’s 1970 hit, “I’ll Never Fall in Love Again” is about. Nevertheless, we're all glad for Amanda, and our heartfelt condolences go out to Todd. 😔 

Ally continues to pursue her lifelong dream of singing backup for Taylor Swift. In the meantime, owing to some twists and turns in her academic trajectory, she took fall semester off from Iowa and has since been saving lives one vertebrae at a time as a trained chiropractic technician at Evolve Chiropractic. Able to administer certain chiropractic therapies to patients covered by the practice’s malpractice policy and Mark, she has become a trusted staff member, fill-in office manager, and favorite among certain patients who stop by just to see her. She will be sorely missed when she heads back to Iowa City in January. This November she was faced with her own Sophie’s Choice when her beloved Hawkeyes squared off against her even more beloved JJ McCarthy in the Big 10 Championship. She now eagerly awaits the outcome of “JJ vs Everybody” on Jan 1, and finding out who will replace Brian Ferentz this spring.

In May, having traveled either east or south for the past many years, we pointed our wagons west for what was almost our last family vacation. Inheritor of Karen’s planning gene, Amanda arranged the

whole affair which kicked off with an overnight in Anaheim where the girls spent 12 hours mingling with other humanoids, aliens, and droids at the Black Spire Outpost on planet Batuu. We then migrated to Palm Springs for a few days of rest, relaxation, and a brush with death before continuing to the Grand Canyon, finishing up several days later at Nevada’s depraved, adult version of Wally World.

Palm Springs is a winter resort community long favored by California’s rich and famous who have flocked there since the 1930’s to escape LA’s brutal winters where January temperatures can plummet into the low 50’s for days on end. Little did we realize that by May, the Hollywood elite flee back to the coast as daytime readings in the Coachella Valley creep up from the mid-90’s to over 300 degrees.

The most memorable experience from our stay in Palm Springs was hiking on the “short,” “family-friendly,” Victor Trail loop in Palm Canyons just south of the city proper. Although Amanda almost got us killed, everyone managed to make it out alive without the assistance of Palm Springs Search and Rescue. (Click here for a full recap of our Victor Trail ordeal.)

After a quick drive through Joshua Tree Nat’l Park to see more rocks and cacti, we followed in the footsteps of the Griswolds and drove east to Grand Canyon Nat’l Park. Having had our fill of the desert, the cooler, pine-scented higher elevation provided welcome relief to the heat and the threat of imminent death. One of the seven natural wonders of the world (currently ranked fourth according to a recent AP poll), words cannot accurately convey its splendor. We stayed at one of the four National Park Service lodges on the south rim, a significant downgrade from our luxury desert townhome but sufficiently small to discourage the girls from hosting a rave.

Pro traveler’s tip: if you plan to visit, grab the free shuttle from one of the lodges to take in a breathtaking sunset at Hopi Point. Better still, pack a picnic basket, bring the kiddies, and join the dozens of other young families on the canyon side of the safety fence where your little ones can romp about, toss a frisbee, play tag, or munch on a sandwich while dangling their feet over the unprotected edge of a 2,000-foot chasm.

Still stinging from our Victor Trail experience, we devoted our second day to a leisurely walk along the paved and level rim trail where, as Amanda discovered, the biggest danger is getting a 3^rd degree sunburn. From the visitors’ center, the trail follows the contours of the canyon past resorts and scenic overlooks, ending at the Bright Angel trailhead where several groups of exhausted and disoriented hikers who began their descent to the canyon floor in the fall of 1908, struggled to figure out what century they had returned to.

As many of life’s adventures do, ours ended in Vegas. Without question the most vile, abhorrent, detestable place on earth outside of Washington DC, Mark & Amanda spent their brief visit in the hotel room taking advantage of the all-you-can-breathe secondhand smoke while Karen and Ally braved the heat and crowds of intoxicated bachelor partygoers to experience the neon chaos of Sin City.

In August, one of Mark’s good friends convinced him to test his mettle at officiating high school football. It’s a thankless job where you’re always wrong – kind of like being married with two daughters. He did find it regrettable how the players failed to live up to the example set by their adult role models, electing to remain calm, polite, and respectful as opposed to the screaming, cursing, tantrum throwing and other demeaning, abusive, and otherwise reprehensible behaviors exhibited by their coaches, many of whom it seems could benefit from residential psychiatric care and/or Thorazine. With football season over, he now spends most of his uncommitted time as Sylvia’s private Geek Squad and personal shopper, minus the requisite expertise or interest.

Largely disinterested in the 300 channels and 2,000 streaming options for which Comcast exacts the equivalent of a mortgage payment each month, Karen much prefers the twenty free stations she can watch via the HD antenna connected to their bedroom TV when Mark is standing in just the right spot. Her current crushes are Little House on the Prairie, Laverne & Shirley, and Combat, but her far and away all-time favorite is The Andy Griffith Show.

That said, Amanda couldn't imagine a better way to celebrate her mother's 60^th birthday than to plan a surprise, mid-September weekend getaway to the Mayberry Days Festival in Andy Griffith's hometown of Mt. Airy, NC, at Mark and Ally's expense. She booked yet another delightful Airbnb featuring a three-level cabin with bathrooms-and-bedrooms-a-plenty perched on the edge of a hillside overlooking the Blue Ridge Mountains.

The day we arrived, Mark froze in his tracks upon encountering three yellow jackets each the size of a Gulfstream G280 lying dead on the cabin’s front stoop. Obviously placed there by the queen as a warning to any humans who might wander too close to her nest, Mark spent the weekend locked in the car.

Karen and the girls, meanwhile, traveled back in time to enjoy the homespun charm of idyllic "Mayberry" – a quaint black-and-white town cradled in the gentle embrace of simpler times. They had lots of fun exploring the many contrivances made to look like the Hollywood backlot where the show was filmed, including a replica courthouse, filling station, and several real-life town drunks.

Mere days after returning from the 1950’s, K & M set the Wayback Machine to 1970 and ventured out once again, this time to Branson, the Pidgeon Forge of Missouri, where they were held hostage and battered for three hours by a pertinacious timeshare salesman who, when they refused to submit to his arm twisting, was dragged outside and shot, all so Mark could cash in on two free nights at a soon to be condemned hotel. At least there were no lines at Silver Dollar City.

In other death-defying feats, Sylvia punched her ticket to 2024 after celebrating birthday #91 on December 10th. A raucous and spirited affair with balloons, a clown, and adult beverages, it was a shame Sylvia couldn’t attend. On a less festive note, she learned in October her cancer had returned. Bound and determined to avoid a tearful reunion with Don, she agreed to another two rounds of chemo. It seems she may be just ornery enough to add cancer to the list of items she’s chased out of her life over the course of the past 100 or so years.

In retrospect, the spirit of this year is perhaps best summed up by the words of former British statesman Benjamin Disraeli who said, “Like all great travelers, I have seen more than I remember, and remember more than I have seen.” 

As 2023 fades in the rearview mirror and the scars from the year’s adventures begin to heal, we will take with us a few fond memories and several lessons learned, none of which we would trade for all the sand still stuck in our shoes. As The Alchemist’s Paulo Coelho wrote, “If you think adventure is dangerous, try routine. It is lethal.”

Merry Christmas to All, and to All Good Grief,

Karen, Mark, Amanda, Ally, Maggie, and Scummy

 

Hail to the Victors!

Lifelong Chicagoans, we are ever on the lookout for warm-weather vacation destinations where we might thaw our bones from the seemingly interminable and frigid upper-Midwest winters. Tired of treading the well-worn trail of tears to Florida, this year we pointed our compass west and dropped a pin on Palm Springs, CA.

Palm Springs is in California’s Central Desert region where the Colorado and Mojave Deserts meet. If you go, it’s best to visit during the window of tolerable temperatures which occur roughly between December 27^th and January 3^rd.  

Given conflicting schedules, we were constrained to plan our trip during mid-May when daytime temperatures average 300 degrees and most sensible folks have fled to more hospitable climes.

We nevertheless booked a luxury Airbnb townhome with 3 bedrooms and 2 baths featuring a spacious courtyard and private pool which we could only enjoy before 8 am or after dark because any who dared take a dip during peak tanning hours would be boiled like a lobster.

Keen on seeing something of Palm Springs beyond the four walls of our townhome, we decided to head outside and explore the local geography. Heretofore fond of walks in nature, we followed the advice of our eldest daughter and settled upon a morning hike at a place called Indian Canyons on the nearby Agua Caliente Indian Reservation.  

Located just south of Palm Springs, Indian Canyons boasts two distinct ecosystems consisting of a lush, verdant valley surrounded by the arid and rocky terrain of the Agua Caliente mountains. Palm and West Palm Canyon Creeks wind through the parched hills supplying life-sustaining moisture to America’s largest growth of California Fan Palms along with the other living creatures who call this hot and unforgiving landscape home including several species of lizards, scorpions, toads, rattlesnakes, mountain lions, bobcats, and lost hikers.

Unaccustomed to desert hiking, we opted for the Victor Trail. Described in the visitor’s guide as a short, family-friendly, three-mile loop through diverse extremes, it begins in the cool shade of the towering palms shrouding meandering Palm Canyon Creek and ends in a fully exposed stretch of high desert terrain.

Locals recommend getting an early start to avoid the severe, life-threatening afternoon heat. Unless of course your older daughter wants to sleep-in, in which case you will arrive just before noon and have the whole place pretty much to yourselves.

Your adventure begins at the ranger station/trading post where most visitors stock up on drinks and snacks for the hike. We opted to travel light, toting a single backpack with one water bottle each, reserving the delights of the snack bar as a treat to look forward to upon our return.     

From the trading post, you will make an easy descent to the valley floor where you become enveloped in the cool shade of this oasis amidst the parched and unforgiving desert above. From here you will follow a wide, mostly level trail paralleling Palm Canyon Creek, enjoying the dappled sunlight sneaking between fronds of the palms lining both sides of the stream.

Passing other hikers headed back in the direction from which you came, in what seems like only minutes you will reach the abrupt end of the palm-shrouded outbound loop and find yourselves conspicuously alone at the start of the exposed 1.5-mile return trail.  

Lulled into a false sense of security by the relative comfort of the canyon trail and flush with anticipation over what awaits, your group will down a generous portion of their remaining water and eagerly step forward into a blazing crucible of heat and sunlight, the sign at the trail head warning of the dangers of sun and heat exposure now but a hazy memory.

This half of the trail is the antithesis of the first consisting of a scorched and barren landscape of scrub-encrusted hills bereft of vegetation or other humans all of whom heeded the posted admonition to avoid the midday sun.

The less sure-footed will do well to keep a steadying hand on the person in front as you navigate the narrow, rocky path which winds along a noticeable uphill grade toward the ridge above the creek.

Despite the mountain lion scat prevalent along the trail, fear not tangling with dangerous wildlife as the only living things you are likely to encounter are rocks and cacti as the local fauna is far too intelligent to venture out at this time of day.

Upon reaching the canyon’s summit which stretches skyward to within a few hundred feet of the sun, prepare to gaze in awe upon a spectacular desert panorama underscored by the green ribbon of Palm Canyon zig-zagging its way through the otherwise monotone landscape toward the Coachella Valley below. No words will escape your parched lips as the merciless sun and debilitating heat temporarily take a back seat to the unparalleled natural vista you witness before you.

As vultures circle lazily overhead, it is at this midway point on the back loop you will come to realize you’re immersed in an honest-to-goodness wilderness adventure which you probably won’t survive.

This is a good time to take a break so your older daughter, angry because she sat on a cactus, can coerce her younger sister into surrendering her remaining water in exchange for a “like” on her Snapchat story, all the while complaining how the lack of cell service is preventing her from uploading Tik Tok videos documenting her last hours on earth. 

This is also when your delirious, heat-stroked wife will look at her empty Dasani bottle and come to the panicked conclusion that the only way out is extraction by a search-and-rescue helicopter which she has no way of contacting, prompting her to crawl under a rock outcropping which affords the only shade within 200 miles that even a novice Cub Scout would recognize as an obvious nesting place for rattlesnakes.

But DO NOT WORRY!

In what seems like only four hours, the trail will descend once again into the palm-shaded valley where your molten family can lie in the cool stream in hopes of getting their body temperatures back below 190 degrees.

Meanwhile, you will climb back up and out of the canyon to the road leading to the trading post where you buy four bottles of ice-cold water emblazoned with desert hiking warnings from the Native American park ranger who shakes his head in wonder at how the white man managed to steal his people’s land.

See you on the trails! (Expect to find me alone.)

2022 Layne Family Christmas Letter

The holiday season is for many a time of pause when we curl up in front of a warm fire with a hot cup of cocoa and watch snowflakes drift gently past the window while reflecting upon the fond memories and happy events of the year just passed. 

While such maudlin sentimentality may have a place in Hallmark movies and plaque psoriasis commercials, we will instead do our best to recount in this small space the unprecedented misery which befell our family during the preceding year.

2022 began as many years do with winter.  Shortly after ringing in the new year, Sylvia embarked upon an epochal change not seen on Earth since the end of Pangea. 

It commenced with her decision to vacate the family homestead in exchange for an independent living situation in her beloved Addison.  Touted as a cruise on land, her new home came complete with a park view, one bedroom, one bath, a beautiful, fully equipped kitchen, three meals per day in the onsite restaurant, a lounge with Friday happy hours, free transportation, activities galore, and friendly neighbors many of whom she knew from her days as a village trustee.  Naturally, she was miserable (Mark’s fault).  Nevertheless, we moved her in on March 1^st.  The house hit the market a month later, receiving five offers above asking the first day, mice and all. 

Not long after settling into her new digs, she was diagnosed with stage-four ovarian cancer which had metastasized throughout her torso, thus beginning several months of chemotherapy (probably also Mark’s fault).  Days before her last chemo treatment, she contracted COVID which she unsuccessfully tried to give to Mark. 

Speaking of the dreaded “c” word, Karen’s brother’s rare non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma returned with a vengeance after seven years in remission.  Forced into retirement at the ripe age of 56, Gary spent the fall months in CA at Stanford University receiving T-cell transplants and is now back at Northwestern in Chicago receiving additional immunotherapy treatments.  We all pray daily that the latest round will succeed.

In February, Mark was informed by his long-time wireless industry benefactors that his services were no longer needed.  This news coincided conveniently with several brilliant policy decisions on the part of the current administration in Washington which brought the economy to a screeching halt and an end to the once flourishing real estate appraisal business.

In May, the world lost one of the greatest Chicago sports fans of all time.  Following in the footsteps of Don, Al succumbed to sepsis at the hospital and made his transition into the light ten days into his 88^th year.  He is no doubt hanging out with the likes of Harry Caray, Bronco Nagurski, Ron Santo, and Walter Payton, commiserating over the fortunes of his beloved Cubs and Bears.

Speaking of great losses, while helping Sylvia pack for her move, Karen discovered the cremated remains of Don and Rob hiding in a cabinet in her living room.  Mark eventually persuaded Syl that her wish to spread them on the front lawn probably wasn't the most appropriate (or legal) way to commemorate their lives.  Although determined at first, she eventually relented, allowing Mark to arrange for a formal military funeral and interment on July 5th at the Abraham Lincoln National Cemetery in Elwood, IL (an hour or so south of Chicago).  Leslie, Jayson, Carol, Mark, Karen, the girls, and two of Don's closest friends attended.

  

The gang kicked off summer break with a trip to Gulf Shores, AL, by way of New Orleans.  The Big Easy didn't disappoint, fully living up to its reputation as the sewer of the US replete with multigenerational filth and the nation's highest per capita population of degenerate alcoholics.  The bulk of the trip was spent at a lovely resort in Gulf Shores where the girls got 3rd degree sunburns the first day and temperatures averaged three million degrees F with 170% humidity, forcing everyone to remain indoors for most of their stay.  The high and low of Mark's experience was visiting the USS Alabama on their way through Mobile which was offset by reticence on the part of the Navy to lob a few 16" shells into the French Quarter in the hopes of clearing out the riffraff. 

During summer, Mark landed a new wireless gig working remote for T-Mobile in MN.  He ably surmounted the language barrier thanks in no small part to the year he spent at the University of North Dakota where he became fluent in low Canadian – the dialect spoken in our northern border states and throughout Canada made fun of by Bob & Doug McKenzie and the film Fargo.  He now spends his off hours removing cat-size hair clogs from the bathtub drain, picking up dog poop, and teaching the deaf to see and the blind to hear. 

In late summer, Karen developed a nervous tick from her many years doing data entry, so accepted a position as parish administrator at a nearby Episcopal church.  Not having set foot in a church since the Crusades, her experience began with a degree of discomfort.  Often there alone, hidden away in her basement office, she often feels creeped-out which Mark attributes to the sixteen-foot tall, crucified Jesus looming in the chapel on the floor above.  She is nevertheless worshiped by the pastor and parishioners who beg her weekly not to quit.  The spookiness notwithstanding, she seems to enjoy her new role in what is a far more wholesome environment than her last out-of-the-house job with the DuPage Senior Citizens Council where every hour was happy hour.  It not only offers a welcome respite from her obsessive domestic proclivities but a break from Sparky who follows her around like an obsequious Taylor Swift groupie.

Speaking of Sparky, determined to dispel our belief that white dogs can’t jump, all were shocked during a fall a visit to Iowa when, quite without warning, he leapt over a concrete knee wall into the lower level of a parking garage adjacent to the Iowa City Arby’s.  Fortunately, the clueless creature was attached to his leash which played-out to its full length before jerking to a halt, arresting his freefall a couple feet shy of the garage floor, and depositing him sans harness at the bottom of the 8’ abyss where we found the great white dope running in panicked circles looking for Karen.  But for the grace of God and a foot or so of cord, and Maggie would have been an only pet, prompting Mark to add “longer leash” to his Christmas list.

Amanda continues to suffer the slings and arrows of her outrageous good fortune.  She often threatens to move out, but the specter of paying rent and living without free cable and daily maid service has proved too powerful a deterrence.  Going on year two in the marketing department at Moraine Valley CC, she spends her 12 weeks of paid vacation crisscrossing the globe to follow Greta Van Fleet while ever looking forward to scraping the gum of Illinois off her thick-soled, patent-leather boots for a warmer, cheaper, and less politically liberal climate.

In what the family now refers to as “The Many Follies of Amanda,” after impassioned warnings from Mark and Ally who reminded all of her disastrous experience with bird ownership when she was eight, Amanda ignored all sense and applied her practiced skills of incessant begging and nagging to coerce her mother into letting her buy a parakeet.  Other than all the noise, noise, noise Ally endured from the adjacent room, the warm months passed uneventfully.  But as temperatures dropped and we closed the windows for winter, Amanda was beset by such severe allergies we threatened to stab her to death with her own EpiPen.  In a repeat of history, Sammy now lives with Grandma Carol where he will eventually expire along with the rest of Amanda’s failed pet experiments and Karen’s unwanted home décor items and furniture.

Ally keeps herself shrouded in mystery. While home, she remains sequestered in her room behind closed doors.  We suspect she may either be a spy on the payroll of some foreign government or Spiderman.  Though well suited to a career in law enforcement owing to her secretive nature and ability to subsist on a diet of donuts and Dunkin iced coffee, she continues to pursue nursing, impressing naysayers with her stellar GPA.  Having spent equivalent to the gross national product of Guam the past two years, it is unclear whether the University of Iowa will figure into her fall 2023 plans.  Nevertheless, living in her first apartment has proved an eye-opening experience fraught with domestic peril but enhanced by the positive benefit of her learning to cook more than Taquitos and macaroni and cheese.  Although we hear tell of the many delicious meals she makes at school, we haven’t yet convinced her to repeat them at home… or change her socks.

In November, Sylvia decided it was time to give up driving lest she add vehicular homicide to her resume’.  The day after Thanksgiving, she sadly waved goodbye to her Lexus 350 GS, no doubt recalling the many good times she had running into and over anything that crossed her path.  Although it didn’t take long for her to adjust to losing the ability to drive around town endangering the lives of pedestrians whilst shopping for items she had ten of in her pantry, being deprived of her ready access to fast food has proved devastating (definitely Mark’s fault).  The dawn of her 90^th year on December 10^th found her off the streets, fully recovered from COVID, effectively cancer free, and trying to learn Door Dash.  (If there was a positive side to Sylvia’s illness, it was that we saw Leslie more frequently which gave Syl someone to point her finger at besides Mark.)

As we at last drive a stake through the heart of 2022 and look ahead to a hopefully less cataclysmic 2023, we are reminded of Woody Allen’s observation in Annie Hall that, “Life [is] full of loneliness, and misery, and suffering, and unhappiness, and it's all over much too quickly.”

A Heartfelt "Howdy Ho!" to All, and to All Good Grief

Karen, Mark, Amanda, Ally, Maggie, and the DWB (Dirty White Boy)

2021 Layne Family Christmas Letter

Alas, this may well be the last of the Layne Family X-Mas letters as we have proven to be the most profoundly dull and painfully uninteresting people left on the planet, so much so that a reality series based on our lives would rate below a documentary on the growth rate of lichens.

The year began inauspiciously with the cancellation of Christmas.  In a gesture of appreciation for her staff’s dedication to ensuring that meal deliveries would continue to financially disadvantaged seniors, Karen’s boss gave all the employees of the DuPage Senior Citizen’s Council a year-end bonus of COVID which Karen unwittingly brought home and shared with the girls.  Not native to this planet, Mark remained immune and spent the holidays nursing the clan back to health while jabbing pins into a voodoo doll resembling Karen’s boss.  Karen never returned to her job in protest over the loss of Christmas and to avoid the temptation to commit homicide.

Poor Amanda continues to suffer horribly owing to her outrageous good fortune. How she managed to cope with the tragedy of walking in her ISU graduation ceremony in April, finishing her degree in July – a full year ahead of schedule even after taking a semester off and with zero college debt – then landing her first full time job at the Barrington Hills CC a month later is certainly a testament to her resilience and fortitude.  Sadly, finding herself underutilized and ill-suited for catering to the needs of the idle rich, she quickly secured a new job in her preferred field of higher education which featured a significant salary increase, a much shorter commute, and two bonus weeks of paid time-off at the holidays.  Truly, the many hardships attendant with her free room and board, the injustice of having to share the television, tolerate the complementary maid service, and eat food she doesn’t particularly care for are more than any normal person of her age should have to endure. Nonetheless, Karen and Mark are confident she will one day heal from the scars of her tragic adversity, meet a kindhearted and patient psychiatrist, and live happily ever after.

Speaking of graduations, Ally received her marching papers from Nazareth Academy this spring (the true alma mater of Ally’s former lab partner and Michigan freshman QB JJ McCarthy).  Determined to leave the snow and cold behind in exchange for palm trees and warm tropical breezes, Ally committed to the University of Tampa on May first.  In August, we moved her into a single room in a beautiful new dorm at the University of Iowa where she is studying nursing with a minor in astronomy as she pursues her lifelong dream of being a member of the first medical team deployed to NASA’s proposed lunar habitat. With a lovely view of the river and equipped with a workout room and unlimited meal plan, it’s no wonder she spends most of her nights sleeping on the floor of her friends’ dorm subsisting on coffee and toast.  Karen and Mark keep telling themselves it’s only money. Earning top marks thus far, it seems the classwork suits her, although perhaps not as much as her newfound pastime – tailgating. 

Speaking of football, nephew Jayson became the third member of the extended Layne family to set foot upon the college gridiron, albeit the only one with legitimate talent or any hope of success.  Sadly, the Samford Bulldogs were without the services of their newest offensive lineman when he broke his foot during summer workouts and was forced to spend his freshman season walking the sidelines making fun of the cheerleaders. 

After weeks of arguments and whining about where to travel over summer, Karen made the executive decision to visit Niagara Falls with a stop at Cuyahoga Valley National Park and the Christmas Story House in Cleveland.  The falls were a sight to behold. Mark was disappointed he forgot his barrel, and Ally expressed concern the US might run out of water.  The group quickly discovered all the decent accommodations were on the Canadian side of the border which was closed to foreigners, a feat the US has failed to replicate along its nether region.  The journey nevertheless provided many fruitful experiences the girls will be able to point back to and complain about for many years to come.

Speaking of travel, in October, Amanda wrangled Karen – and at the last minute, Mark – into accompanying her on a pilgrimage to Salem, MA, where in a previous life she was both hanged and burned at the stake.  Mark spent the 2,000-mile trek crammed in the back seat of their tiny rental car buried under all of Amanda’s worldly possessions and snacks.  He did enjoy several opportunities to stretch his legs during brief stops at the historic site of the Woodstock music festival in Bethel, NY, a rock in Plymouth, and eventually Boston where he was left to wonder how the colonial patriots who rallied a young nation against unfair taxation would react to paying $15.00 for a turkey
sandwich.

Back working from home, Karen devotes most of her energies these days to caring for her special needs dog, Sparky.  Never has there been a canine more lacking in dignity and self-respect, nor since man’s domestication of animals has nature produced such a mentally deficient aberration of genetics so desperately needy and dependent on humans that he remains Velcroed to Karen’s chest and panics whenever she leaves the room.  Even Maggie looks with disdain and malice upon her profoundly odd, obsequious cousin who, when not encrusting his silky white fur in filth or barking nonstop at things he imagines lurking outside, between the walls, or in the fireplace, scans the skies for commercial aircraft which he chases across the yard in an apoplectic rage, angrily scuffing his feet, dropping turds along the way.

Mark continues to become more unsightly and malodorous with each passing year as he consumes copious amounts of preservative-laden foods in an effort to prolong his life while he waits patiently for Led Zeppelin to release their next album. 

Speaking of dogs, it has been said that it’s dog’s life.  As defined by Ambrose Bierce: Dog, n. A kind of additional or subsidiary Deity designed to catch the overflow and surplus of the world’s worship. These Divine beings in some of their smaller and silkier incarnations take, in the affection of women, the place to which there is no human male aspirant.  Amen to that.

Merry Christmas to All, and to All Good Grief,

Karen, Mark, Amanda, Ally, Maggie, and Turdisaurus Rex

Corona Comes Calling

About a year or so ago, I enlisted in the worldwide movement to avoid contracting and/or spreading the Corona Virus (affectionately known as COVID-19).  A big fan of medical thriller author, Robin Cook, I had read Outbreak, Pandemic, The Andromeda Strain, and others, so I knew to take this sh_t seriously. 

As a self-anointed lay expert in the spread of disease, I adhered to every known CDC guideline, going so far as to make up a few of my own.  I avoided crowded places.  I wore a mask everywhere I went, even while driving alone, outdoors, and to bed.  I washed my hands raw.  I only touched my face with the inside of my own shirt or my elbows.  I did my best to keep six feet from other humans, including my wife.  I put hand sanitizer in each of our cars, in every room of the house, and all my pockets. I stopped short of burning our clothing upon returning from the dangerous and dirty world.  This virus didn’t stand a chance against my assiduous protocols and stalwart defenses.

Then one day my wife got a text that her stubborn, thick-headed, 72-year-old-boss – director of a public aid organization that provides meals to senior citizens, no less – tested positive for COVID-19.  My wife wasn’t surprised as the woman had been walking around the office coughing all week, blaming it on allergies.  Three days before Christmas, half the office staff was experiencing symptoms, including my wife. 

My now contaminated spouse blatantly refused to participate in our household COVID disaster plan which required anyone who tested positive to move into the garage and conduct all their toilet activities outside.  One day while I was at work, my kids unlocked the door and let her in.  This was my worst personal nightmare. 

I’m no stranger to illness.  Born without the good sense to know when I’m pushing myself too hard, whenever illness visited, I always seemed to not only catch whatever was going around, but the worst possible strain of it.  Since contracting bronchial pneumonia in college, I’ve made it my mission to remain healthy and to protect myself from contagions.  I became an unqualified success in this undertaking; until I had kids.

My wife gave birth to our first child when I was pushing 40 and our second when I was 43, putting us at the older end of the parent-age spectrum and on the downslope of the immunity bell curve.  I quickly discovered that children were a breeding ground of the most virulent microorganisms to be found in the universe.  I remember like yesterday that one Thanksgiving I spent on the couch with a raging fever while the rest of the family enjoyed my favorite meal of the year.  Or that particular Christmas night in the ER with my flu-ridden 6-month-old watching while doctors tried to start an IV in her tiny arm because she stopped drinking.  Then there was the time I shared a popsicle with my other daughter, afterward discovering she was ripe with norovirus, subjecting me to five days of such violent nausea I prayed for death to take me. 

Is it any surprise why I went to war against microorganisms?  Over time, I developed the ability to “see” germs as they spread from person to surface to hands of the next person.  I fashioned a duct tape holster with a can Lysol on one hip, Clorox wipes on the other.  I spent the cold weather months disinfecting, cleaning, and monitoring the kids’ hygiene.  “Don’t touch your face,” was my battle cry.  “Wash your hands!”  “Don’t hover over each other when you’re not feeling well!”  “Cover your cough!”  “Sneeze into your elbow!”  “Stay away from sick people!”  “Don’t eat that!”  “Do eat this!”  “Quit breathing near your sister!”  I was an anti-germ Nazi.

In my defense, our extended family is quite small, so we never had a reliable support system in times of emergency.  When it came to needing help with the kids, the buck stopped with me and my wife.  And because we’re self-employed, when we don’t work, we don’t earn, nor do we have sick days or paid time off.  Our financial solvency has always fallen to me while my wife attended to the children, which is why every illness that entered our home sent a shockwave through our little world.  It was bad when the kids got sick because my wife typically caught it.  It was even worse when I got sick because I was the last line of defense when it came to keeping our tiny enterprise afloat. 

When COVID invaded our sanctum, I instinctively launched into crisis mode, handing out N95 masks, cans of Lysol, and tasers.  I visualized the hideous viral spores attaching themselves to the microwave, toilet seats, TV remotes, couch cushions, and dogs.  I was at my wits end.  Nobody in my family shared my sense of urgency.  My kids were so cavalier as to appear to be going out of their way to get infected.  What was wrong with them?

It then occurred that perhaps something was wrong with me.  Could it be I was suffering from PTSD over of all those traumatic experiences from when the kids were small?  My kids blame me for making them germophobes, causing them to believe illness is wrong and unnatural.  My oldest tells me she feels guilty for getting sick; that when she catches a cold, she feels like she did something wrong or in some way failed me.  Back in the day, my wife scolded me numerous times, telling me that my way of reacting to illness wasn’t normal.  Were they right all along? 

Nah.  This is a pandemic, remember?  Our very government has sanctioned – even encouraged – my behaviors as they relate to protecting myself, my family, and others from this dreaded illness.  It is my duty to God and country, is it not?  Then again, it seems the government is every bit as despicable, untrustworthy, and imbued with evil as COVID-19. 

The father doth protect too much, methinks.

Maybe I do need to reconsider my approach to getting sick?  I remain unwilling to underestimate the importance of good physical health and mental wellbeing, because if we don’t feel good, we are rarely of much benefit to each other or society as a whole.  But when illness does strike, perhaps it is time I learned to embrace it as something normal and natural and human, as opposed to something to be feared or battled or disinfected? 

Going forward, I will continue to be smart about disease, taking reasonable steps to keep myself and my family well.  But when illness does come knocking despite my bold efforts, I vow to let go, let God, and allow the healing to begin.  Although I will miss the smell of Lysol.

2020 Layne Family Christmas Letter

2020 can be pretty much summed up in one word – WTF.

January kicked off with Mark and Amanda coming down with an odd respiratory infection bearing a number of what are now internationally famous symptoms.  The rest of the family remained healthy, and other than coughs which persisted a month, neither felt that bad, and both are currently alive.

It took until late February for the media to give Mark and Amanda’s disease a name, thus imbuing it with a conscious malevolence many believe is worse than the disease itself.  It wasn’t until March, however, that Governor Pritzker (aka Fat Bastard) placed everyone in Illinois on house arrest, inciting riots in the paper products aisle at Walmart.

Faced with long term incarceration, we found ourselves with a surfeit of uncommitted time, forcing us to find creative ways to fill the gaping hole left in our lives by our sudden inability to go out to eat, to school, graduations, the grocery store, weddings, church, the gym, movies, vacations, live sporting events, family gatherings, bear hunting, and just about every other thing that makes life tolerable. 

Although unsettling at first, it turns out we rather enjoyed the opportunity to slow our pace, hunker down, and get reacquainted as a family.  We spent much quality time cooking, playing games, taking walks, and watching Rosanne.  Truth be told, it was terrific experience.  For about two weeks, after which we were at each other’s throats like a pack of starved hyenas trapped in a Buick.  M & K are convinced the only thing that prevented an all-out civil war was the dogs’ antics which lightened the mood sufficiently to keep everyone’s mitts out of the knife drawer.

Earlier in the year and quite by accident, we became the custodians of a small white animal that we were told is a dog, but more resembles an overripe turnip.  Clueless as oatmeal, Sparky (also known as Spewy, Stinky, Lumpy, Spongefoot, Turd, and Nancy) was likely the product of a puppy mill as is evidenced by his pronounced abandonment issues and inability to differentiate between his human caregivers and furniture.

Blessed with useless eyes, inadequate ground clearance, and a brain the size of a Milk Dud, Sparky attached himself to Karen like a lamprey to a Coho.  Against Mark’s protests, Sparky was elevated to a permanent member of the family, both to give Maggie something alive to attack, and to protect us from our fence, the neighbor’s bird bath, Mark, and the other inanimate objects at which he constantly barks.  Owing to their compassion for the mentally and physically challenged, the Layne females adore Sparky.  Mark, conversely, finds him repulsive and irritating, not only because he Insists on being carried around like a breastfeeding infant, but when he isn’t rolling in excrement, he’s wandering about the yard randomly dropping his body weight in turds, thus prompting Mark to nickname him The Traveling Turdinator or Turdinator for short.  It is Mark’s hope that during one of their incessant play fights, Maggie will eat him. 

In response to the governor’s mandate to stay home and avoid visiting dangerous “hot states” which at the time included most of those south of Indiana, the family embarked upon a summer tour of AL, TN, SC, GA, IN, so Ally could see firsthand what a college campus might look like after nuclear holocaust.  It was a terrific opportunity for her to exercise her creativity by imagining the vacant buildings and deserted quads teeming with life.

After a mid-summer taste of liberation, the gov enacted a new initiative to avoid burdening the state’s economy with any sort of productivity by re-imposing "voluntary" confinement in the fall.  Part of his scheme to bolster the spirits of his constituents included pulling the plug on fall high school sports, thereby limiting our autumn entertainment options to televised replays of Olympics dressage competitions and political mudslinging.  Not so in Alabama, however, where freedom still rings, and Jayson was able to make his gridiron debut at left OT for the Spain Park Angry Antelopes (or is it Jaguars?)  We all knew hiding inside those BB trunks and tank top was the heart of a football player. Thanks to NFHS Network, we were able to watch him dominate his position despite bone spurs in his ankle, plantar fasciitis in both feet, and a color-blind quarterback. 

Notwithstanding her debilitating angst over which major to pursue, whether she made a mistake attending Illinois State, if she would ever find a job and become a productive member of society, and which shoes to wear on Wednesdays, Amanda landed herself a paid internship with the ISU marketing department and has excelled in her studies.  In spite of taking a semester off to explore the rich heritage and varied culture of Addison, IL, Amanda informed us she will be graduating this May, a full year ahead of schedule and absent any student loans, thereby cheating K & M out of paying another year’s rent for an apartment she visited twice.  Given all her good fortune, it seems Amanda’s main worry now is running out of things to worry about.

Apparently two kids attending school online at home – one in the kitchen and one in the dining room – a husband working in the office upstairs, and two dogs chasing each other around the house all day was the perfect incentive for Karen to accept a new job managing the office for a nearby charitable organization providing meals to seniors.  She now spends her days socially distancing from a cast of characters who make the staff of Dunder Mifflin look like a Harvard class reunion.   

Unencumbered by softball, classroom attendance, or anything resembling “normal” to a high school senior, Ally has rivaled her sister by landing at the top of the Nazareth Academy GPA heap. The scholarship offers continue to roll in, not as we might have expected for softball, but for her grades.  Her short list currently includes three schools in IA, one each in IL, WI, MI, KS, and TN, and all of them in Hawaii.  We look forward to attending her virtual softball games and online graduation this spring.

November marked 21 years of M & K listening to Amanda complain.  It had long been Amanda’s dream to celebrate her 21st birthday at Harry Potter World.  Amidst financial and travel related concerns, we opted instead for Wisconsin – which is a lot like Harry Potter World minus the attractions, magic shops, and medieval weirdos.  Karen, Mark, and Ally did their best to transform the condo where they stayed into a mini-Hogwarts, featuring a life size cardboard cutout of Harry, Hermione, and Ron which now resides in Ally’s room and still frightens us whenever we walk past.  Ally was disappointed we couldn’t find Amanda a real dragon or a working wand she could use to turn her sister into a Grindylow.

So as you stagger, limp, or crawl across the finish of line the year that wasn’t, looking ahead toward a more positive, enlightened 2021, let us recall the sage advice of George Bernard Shaw who said, “When our relatives are at home, we have to think of all their good points, or it would be impossible to endure them.”

Merry Christmas to All, and to All Good Grief,

Karen, Mark, Amanda, Ally, Maggie, and Spewy