I.

Red pines on a slope down to a rippling lake, a carpet of needles and fallen leaves, gentle hiss of the wind. Down at the dock a fisherman comes in, catch and release, cling to the moment while you can. Light glows out from the windows, loud laughs, clinking of glass. Cards dealt, happy hour announced, the Cubs or college football somewhere behind the scene. A venture up the winding drive to the field across the road, stars strewn across the sky. Now, ashes strewn here as well, here to join the few my mom and I scattered in our final visit before the place sold, guarded by a heart-shaped stone. The place is not ours now but it always will be, one final rest for some and now for others a reason for living, living to create that warm glow again and again.

II.

A sun-splashed morning in Irving Park. Sip the coffee or tea, come awake, run the streets or stroll the 606 or the lakefront, resplendent in the golden end of a false fall. At the end of each venture is a delectable meal, worth any slow crawl down big city grids or backup on the freeway. Back to the house. A satisfying creak to hardwood floors beneath feet, shelves filled with books and walls lined with Boteros and creepy doll heads, the vinyl crackling in the background. Baseball on the TV with Uncle Mike, chewing on the contradiction that is Chicago with Aunt Chris, tales of travels past and to come.

Return in winter and a fire crackles, cookie trays stocked and bottles up from the cellar. Halloween displays turned to Christmas lights, baseball replaced by the masochism that is the Chicago Bears. A dusting of snow, cold wind up grey blocks, a hot cider from Aunt Chris for the circuit of the neighborhood. Even in the bleakest season it sparkles, and this is the sort of place I want to make for myself someday, long a vague future that now starts to feel closer, within my reach.

III.

Thanksgiving in the suburbs. Adventure tales and political hot takes with Uncle Chuck, chatter over wine into the night with Aunt Monica. Carb-loading for the 5K, our runner ranks swelling as we jockey our way down the streets of Downers Grove. Temptation in the form of bacon and bloody marys, but once was enough for those mistakes mid-run. Fight across the finish line, collect the fellow runners, back to the house to see the splits from year to year. The chefs arrive, dinner down to an art; stand around, chip in where you can, inevitably end up in front of the kitchen implement they most need. More of us now gather here than anywhere. Dine, drink, lay about on a couch; perhaps euchre will break out. The late night crowd retreats to the basement but it is no longer a long party, just a gentle trickle until the lights go down.

The next night the rotunda at the Museum of Science and Industry is ours. A reception for Jim and Mo, fit for the couple, the groom in his element in the James Bond exhibits open for us to explore. Rob, Becca, and I scheme the next spring’s cousins weekend as we cruise down Lakeshore Drive, the towers of downtown lit up in that reassuring glow. We are all children of this city, even if we have never lived here.

IV.

Christmas on the South Side. The car takes a ding on the Dan Ryan but the precious cargo is safe, Quality Control can proceed as planned, Uncle Mike in command of his classroom as we sample this year’s lineup. Uncle John and Aunt Reen’s massive operation takes shape, trays of meat and jars of cookies, lights lining every meeting between wall and ceiling. A pause and then the burst: weave through the maze of humanity that pours in, a steady flow to capacity, some I’ve known since time immemorial and some rookies for this rite, and some faces I only see once a year but always reliably here. Stand in the wine room and you will be scolded but everyone will see you as they come by, great each, recommend a favorite or two. The dinner bell rings and Uncle John commands us to the tables. We toast to generations past as a new one runs around at our feet. Tony sits at the piano and Luke conducts the choir and the songbooks make their way around the house. Bibs and Merih master the Brandy Alexanders and the we rouse the whole neighborhood with “The Twelve Days of Christmas.”

The tenor of the night starts to shift. Big Steve holds court in the back room over port and stinky cheese, and now Frank takes requests on the guitar and Bibs is on vocals and the crowd slowly thins. Out come cigars and bourbon. For some this night will go deep but for me the car is here and I am headed back to Irving Park, into a wine-swaddled reverie, a ritual that is now the living embodiment of my own Christmas story.

V.

This time in Duluth. None of the 11 in my generation who descend this weekend have come as adults, to say nothing of their children. My worries about Duluth April fall away: of course the city shows out with a glorious weekend, casts its spell with sun-kissed ridgelines and whispers of green and the deep blue lake. We rent a labyrinthine Congdon beauty large enough to hold us, split among its little dollhouse rooms: a pack in the kitchen, always someone eating in the dining room, a few tucked into the lovers’ nook; John at the piano in the parlor as the next generation streaks through with lasers blaring. A crew slips down into the ravine where evergreens cling to red rock and Tischer Creek arcs its way down toward Superior below. Yes, this is what I have right outside my door, just one of many ribbons of beauty lain down this graceful ridge.

Finally I can return the favor to Rob, a night of bar-hopping and dips into a few of Duluth’s better gems, my pace turned up into that flow state where it reaches the performance zone of a distance athlete. A whole group bookstore invasion, a ridgetop stroll, some toodles about town and then a long drift into the night, musical roulette in the sunroom, a log on the fire and wine passed down the row and a ten-minute walk for me at one in the morning, a stop to gaze at stars as I head back home. Wake in the morning and Matt and Kathryn and Becca are in my living room, a little corner of quiet away from the din over on Hawthorne where we can spin a globe and tell of ventures outward, a new love and a renewed freedom, appreciation swelling at how much more these trips can mean when they come at the end of a long tunnel when they did not feel possible.

Each of us takes our turn, no one person ever central. Laura gets an education on Upper Midwest lingo while Molly and Katie are now fully part of the adult crew. David serves the wine and Paul runs the pizza operation and Megan blends worlds with an old friend two doors down. Liam takes a turn as the Zenith Bookstore social media star, Jack is in full sprint along Skyline at the end of the hike, Emma smashes the competition at the hook and ring game, and Luke, being raised right, can carry on a good conversation about baseball.

My dad, back in this picture for the first time in nearly two decades, joins us for an evening in Lakeside. We fill in the missing years, run through memories of our grandparents’ houses, weave our own corners of this great tapestry we share. Everything mixes here and the weekend unites two loves, my city and my sprawling family, dives into a past that was and steadily builds a certainty that we will keep this energy going year after year, pass it on into futures unknown. This thing we have built, it speaks to me, tells me of belonging on some deep, primal level beyond the reach of the rational mind. It is home.