The things we do for love

"Are you going to write about the spitmobile?"
Well, yes. Maybe I will.
I cast a casual glance when grandma and her two most favorite passengers pulled into the driveway the other day. I had expected them to get home quite a bit earlier, but there's nothing especially unusual about a late arrival on the part of that jolly troupe of wanderers.
"Where have you been?" I asked.
"The dentist called right before I left to pick them up from school," she answered. "They had a cancellation, so I got the boys in for a checkup a whole two weeks early."
Lucky boys.
As I walked towards the car, I noticed streaks of a white, paint-like substance spattered on both sides just behind the back windows.
"What's that stuff?" I queried
"I took along their toothbrushes and some toothpaste," she replied.
"So?"
My eyes were already beginning to roll.
"Well, they had to spit somewhere."
Ah, the things we do for love.
Now, I'm not one to complain.
Well, actually, I am.
But the fact is, our lives have been different ever since our youngest grandsons came to stay. And it's been nothing short of wonderful, especially for this old duffer, who, more than anything, needs the magic kind of medicine only they can provide.
But things have changed.
Like my so-called "man-cave," the set of rooms in the back of our big old house that was a garden apartment once upon a time. It's got a window-lined living room with a TV, a sectional couch and my beloved recliner; plus a bathroom, a teeny kitchen with no stove, but a fridge; and what was once a bedroom, which I gradually converted into a combination project area, computer room and music studio over the years.
Back when my own boys were small, I used it as a home office until they gradually encroached on the space when they entered their teenage years and needed room to eat, play video games and cards with their buddies, eat, drink every cold beverage in the house, eat, watch television and movies, eat, sleep all day every Saturday, and, uh. eat.
After they flew the nest, I cautiously moved back in, kind of like a hermit crab reclaiming a favorite shell.
When the little boys and their dad arrived on the scene, the grandma-lady quickly converted their Uncle Colin's old bedroom into a room the two youngsters could share. It's a large, high-ceilinged place, with windows facing the park across the street and plenty of space for a pair of beds, plus dressers, bookshelves, a desk for homework, and lots of play area.
"This will be perfect for them," she said, and we both blithely dreamed of a wholly unrealistic "Leave it to Beaver" kind of scenario, where quiet, well-mannered children stay and study and play in their rooms until called for mealtimes.
That, of course, was utter nonsense, as they installed their Wi and X-Box games, a foosball table, plus an amazing myriad of other kid-centric stuff into the erstwhile "man-cave" quicker than you can say, "hit the bricks, old man."
The things we do for love.
But fair enough. It's a big house.
The grandma-lady showed what a good sport she truly is when she agreed to celebrate Mothers' Day with a trip to Lou's, my favorite Peoria Drive Inn restaurant, thus giving me a chance to introduce the boys to the whole bot-to-be-missed experience of car hops, chili dogs and ice-cold root beer. From then, it was on to the zoo, where we wandered through a veritable wonderland of tigers, emus, rhinos and giraffes.
Not exactly up to the standards of the high tea I took her to a few years ago on her special day, I know.
But it's the things we do for love.
And she loved it.
Ordinary week days have changed, too, as I have transformed from a follower of a relaxed, robe-and-slippers-and-Charlie-Rose morning lifestyle into a breakfast-time short-order cook, homework-checker, shoe-finder and door-pusher-outer.
The things we do for love.
 But it's OK with me. Mornings are my best time anyway.
I've already whined about my trials as a freezing fan at early-season soccer.  I predicted I'd need to buy a cow, and our fridge and pantry are stocked with frozen waffles and pop tarts and colorful cereal boxes, instead of the grown-up stuff we used to buy. The park is now our main destination in the afternoons, and the movies I now watch before bedtime are likely to be both animated and G-rated.
The fact is, most of our nights have changed.
"Will you lie down with me, grandpa?"
Young John Patrick sleeps in a low, narrow bed that's just right for a six-year-old, but a little crowded for two. If they don't both cuddle in with their dad, it's usually the grandma-lady who gets the call from John, while I more often pile in with big brother Cyrus, who sleeps in a much bigger bed.
"Oh. All right," I said.
I figured I'd squeeze in and hope the little guy would fall asleep quick.
"Will you scratch my back, grandpa?"
"Oh brother," I thought.
I scratched for a minute or two, then gradually stopped. I slowly rolled onto my back and waited for him to settle down next to me. Quietly, in the bedroom darkness, I felt him turn toward me.
Without a word, he slid his warm little hand into mine.
Gently, sweetly, softly the little boy who lay next to me slipped into sleep.
The things we do for love.
Just for love.

The coldest days of all

I've always kind of liked winter sports. In my younger days, I was a dedicated ice skater, hockey player, snowball-maker and cross-country skier, while faithful readers of this column might remember a story I wrote a couple of seasons ago when I fulfilled a long-time dream and attended the U.P. 200, a long-distance dog sled race held in and around the cold, snowy forests of Michigan's Upper Peninsula. Others might recall a bit of nonsense I penned back in 2010 regarding my alleged desire to take up the sport of curling after watching it during the Vancouver Olympics, though folks who really know me would surely attest that large sheets of ice and brooms are both things I tend to avoid with great alacrity.
But the fact is, parents and grandparents in the know will quickly agree that the coldest sports of all take place during yet another season.
You know, the one called "spring."
It's a phenomenon I first experienced back in the day when my own kids were young and I had a hand in running the Galva Youth Soccer League. While some dads and moms volunteered to help line the fields, drag the goals into position, or help with the concession stand, I had the worst job of all. Because I was the poor schmo who had to take an early look at the weather on Saturday mornings and decide whether we were going to brave the elements and play that day or not. It was the ultimate lose-lose situation, as half of the parents in town thought I was an absolute idiot when I chose to go ahead and play on those drizzly, extra-chilly spring mornings that seemed to occur almost every Saturday, while the other half questioned my manhood on the days I decided to call things off.
I kind of forgot about those cold April and May days until years later, when I undertook a second career of sorts as a sportswriter for the Star-Courier. Football season saw me wisely waddling up and down the sidelines wearing countless layers of sweatshirts, heavy sweaters and hooded parkas, while the long winter months dedicated to basketball helped me re-discover the fact that a late-night walk across a frozen parking lot after a few hours in an over-heated high school gym is a long walk, indeed.
But it got worse.
Though he was too kind to do it openly, I'm sure editor and sports guru Mike Landis chuckled the first time I showed up to cover a track meet or ball game dressed like I was headed for a day on Waikiki Beach.  But the fact is, nothing changes faster than the weather on a springtime afternoon. A quick shift in the wind is all it takes to change a sunny spring day into a gusty, mid-40s goosebump-fest.
I always wondered why those spring days seemed so darn wintry. Maybe it was because the truly nice weather that occurred now and then was just enough to soften me up from my wintertime toughness. Maybe it was because there's a lot of standing around involved in covering and photographing both track meets and ball games, which made it easier to catch a chill when the breeze suddenly blew out of the north and the sun dipped behind a cloud.
Or maybe I was just too stupid or stubborn to put on a sweater.
Or a stocking cap. Or that parka I wore at football games.
In any case, it's been a few years since I last worked the sports beat, and I guess I just forgot.
Until now.
I'm not the only one who struggles with the need to dress for the conditions. The other night, while watching the extra-innings contest between the Cubs and Sox, my spouse and I both remarked on the mode of dress as seen in the stands.
She: Those people look like they're dressed for the arctic.
Me: They should be. It's Wrigley Field in May.
Now that my young grandsons are on the premises, I find myself, once again, out in the elements as a freezing fan. Soccer season is in full bloom, while baseball practice is just beginning. While the current pickle I'm in with crazy-cancer and its accompanying slow-down side effects has prevented me from attending every single event, I'm doing my best to be a good, supportive grandpa and haul my chilled, rickety bones to the sidelines whenever possible.  Ergo, I found myself at a morning soccer game a couple of weeks ago, shivering in the cold, sunless wind.
Out on the field, the shorts-clad players seemed oblivious to the weather as they darted up and down after the ball.
But I was cold. Darn cold.
"Who," I wondered, "was the idiot who decided to play on such a freezing day, anyway?"
Then I remembered.
Because once upon a time, that idiot was me.

Looking for Dr. Right

(from Western Illinois Family Magazine)

Things change.
Once upon a time, my doctor was a guy my parents took me to on those rare occasions they felt I was suffering from a malady too complex for their considerable skills as untrained, but highly experienced primary care physicians. No, mom and dad didn't actually go to med school, but her background as an elementary school teacher blended well with his training as a pharmacist. In short, she almost always knew when I was faking it to avoid the algebra test I hadn't studied for, and he had a veritable treasure trove of foul-tasting elixirs that would serve to propel me from my sickbed faster than you can say "castor oil."
Back in those thrifty, self-reliant days, an actual visit to the doctor was sort of a last resort. The practitioners in my hometown were, with a single exception, male and possessing of a certain dignity that was unique to their lofty profession. Ergo, it seemed important not to waste their time with minor bumps and bruises or commonplace ills.  So, for us, an actual trip to the doctor's was generally the result of something untoward, and involved stitches, plaster casts and other extreme measures. In addition, most docs delivered babies and wrassled with tonsils and the odd appendix here and there, plus actually made house calls from time to time.
They were wise, relaxed and self-assured.  What's more, they were genuinely good people who truly cared about the patients they saw.
It wasn't until I had kids of my own that I encountered an actual specialist. The 70s and early 80s were probably a good time to choose a career in obstetrics or pediatrics, as the giant generation known as the baby boomers began producing a generation of their own. They were, therefore, often so darn overbooked that making an appointment felt a bit like auditioning for a role in a Broadway play.
They were busy, smart and often more patient with the children they treated than their dumb-brained parents.
Fair enough.
When I battled my way through a bout of advanced prostate cancer a decade or so ago, the kind, generous local specialist I saw recommended I move on up the so-called physician food-chain by seeking help at one of the university teaching hospitals that dot the midwest. Thanks to the internet, I was able to investigate universities, hospitals and doctors alike before finding a person and a place that seemed appropriate to my situation. The docs I encountered there were, on the whole, nice enough, and pretty darn smart, as well. But I was a little surprised to discover they were also a bit over-involved with the politics and quest for funding that often rule such places.
They were capable, ambitious and driven to succeed.
So it goes, I guess.
When some stubborn back pain began keeping me up at night several months ago, I conferred with a young chiropractic physician, who gave me what was probably the best, most important medical advice of my life.
"Go get a thorough scan," he said. "Something's wrong."
He was right.
The resulting CT Scan showed CUPS, a mysterious Cancer of an Unknown Primary Source that had spread to my liver, lymph system and bones.
"Uh oh," I thought. "Now what?"
Here's what.
Yet another internet search led me to a famous Chicago hospital, which was rated as one of the best in the whole world when it comes to cancer and the ways to treat it. I was a little startled when I first met the doctor assigned to my case.
First off, she was drop-dead gorgeous, which is, I know, both unimportant and an unfortunate choice of words when used to describe an oncologist dealing with serious cases. As I got to know her better, I also came to realize that she was an astute physician who, while relatively young, had already began making a name for herself as both a clinician and a scientist.
She had brains, curiosity and determination.
And something more, too.
It was after she called me at home one Sunday afternoon just to see how I was feeling that I understood how much more.  Because, just like those family doctors I first met when I was a boy, she was a genuinely good person who truly cared about me and my family.
She had hope. She had a heart.
Sometimes nothing changes.
Lucky me.

A most memorable May Day memory

Happy May Day, Comrades.
I imagine all of us who have reached a certain age remember seeing those scary news photos of the annual May Day parades that used to take place in Moscow and other cities in the Eastern Bloc. In many countries, May Day has long been a focal point for demonstrations by various socialist, communist and anarchist groups.  It has been an important official holiday in countries such as the People's Republic of China, North Korea, Cuba and the former Soviet Union. May Day celebrations typically featured elaborate military parades in these countries, with giant tanks, huge missiles on trailers, and rows and rows of stern-looking soldiers.
But in many other parts of the world, the first Day of May simply celebrates the first days of spring, like in Germany, where it coincides with the annual spring festival called Walpurgisnacht.  Most of my thoughts of the day are quite happy ones. And even that one year when my little world nearly came crashing down around my ears is now a memory I can look back at with something resembling humor.
Sort of.
The May Day of my youth was celebrated with May Baskets, which were small, usually handmade vessels made of straw or paper and filled with flowers, sweets or both. We would laboriously craft them with construction paper, pipe cleaners, crayons and white school paste, then place them at a friend's door while shouting "May Basket" and running away. The running part was most necessary, indeed, as the recipient of the basket was supposed to chase you.
And if they caught you, they were suppose to kiss you, which was, of course, a fate worse than death when I was ten years old.
So, since very few of us actually wanted to either kiss or be kissed, it all quickly evolved into a pretty well-planned affair. If you were the recipient of a basket, you might sort of explode out of the door so as to make the first few yards of the chase kind of interesting. But chasers in the know knew enough to pace themselves just right so that the deliverer would make it to their mom or dad's car just in time to avoid any gooey physical contact whatsoever. Likewise, if you were the one running away, you knew that you were protected under the same unspoken agreement if you just maintained a reasonable jog on your way to the safety of the family Ford.
One year, I was sidelined by a sprained ankle suffered in a fall incurred during an illicit visit to a mile-high treehouse built by my older brother and his buddies. So I was forced to sit on the porch in the same rocking chair I used while watching the Grampa Happy cartoon show on Channel Four. The May Baskets were a mite hard to come by that year, as most of my friends took one look at me sitting on the porch and feared I had lost my mind and actually wanted to catch and kiss them.  Finally, my mother took pity on my plight and lettered a sign that she put on the top step.
"HE CAN'T RUN," it said, which was just enough to convince at least some of my more daring friends to leave a basket.
I finally met my most memorable May Day one year when Linda Sue came to call. Now, Linda Sue's name wasn't actually Linda Sue, though I'm betting quite a number of my grade school classmates can figure out her true identity without much trouble. She was a nice girl, and pretty good looking, to boot, though I could have cared less about that kind of nonsense when I was in the fourth grade. The problem wasn't with Linda Sue at all.
It was her dad.
Unlike most of our parents, who were a generally dour, no-nonsense bunch, Linda Sue's father actually had a sense of humor.
Or, at least he thought he did.
This, of course, would have normally had no bearing on me, as kids and adults rarely interacted in those days except when absolutely required, like in school, Cub Scouts, church and little league baseball. I don't know what drove Linda Sue's dad to do what he did on that fateful day. All I can do is tell the startling story.
After Linda Sue dropped off her goodies and shouted "May Basket," she played strictly by the rules and scampered towards her dad's waiting car. I burst out the door, then settled into a slow, steady lope that would give her plenty of time to reach the vehicle and hop in right before I caught her and planted a big, wet one on her, an unheard of occurrence that was just about a likely as me literally jumping over the moon. All was going exactly according to plan and the time-honored rules of the game right until the moment Linda Sue reached the car and grabbed the handle that opened the right front passenger door.
Nothing.
She tried again.
Nothing again.
Yes, the cruel fiend had locked the car doors.
What happened next remains sort of hazy some fifty or so years later. I remember seeing the shocked look on Linda Sue's face. I remember watching her dad laugh as she struggled with the door. The rest is still kind of a blur, though I know if I had actually kissed the winsome Linda Sue, I'd remember it still.
"You looked like you were going to faint," said my brother, who was watching from the window.
"I thought Linda Sue was going to throw up," he added.
It's many, many years later now, and I'm thinking that perhaps the old May Day holiday deserves to be resurrected. We have plenty of crayons and I've got a stack of construction paper somewhere. There ought to still be some Easter candy on sale, plus, I'm sure white paste glue and pipe cleaners are still available somewhere in my hometown. So maybe, just maybe you'll see my grandsons and me making the rounds later on today.
They know how to run, that's for sure.
And I absolutely, positively promise I won't lock the car doors.
Maybe.
After all, I do have a sense of humor.

In your Easter bonnet

Anybody who knows me also knows that "fashion" is not exactly my middle name.
Not even close.
But recently, I took a page from Star Courier column boss Rocky Stuffelbeam's book of fashion and adopted a certain look for those now-and-then days when I am most unreasonably expected to display  something besides the usual sweatshirts and khakis (fall and wintertime) or t-shirts and shorts (spring and summer) that pass for sartorial finery in my world.
I bought a bow tie.
It's not the first one I've owned. I made a couple of antique/junk shop purchases a few years ago and manfully worked to learn how to tie them. Then, more recently, when browsing through a european-based Michigan Avenue shop while in Chicago for a doctor visit, I saw a nice looking little on-sale number that was somewhere between the traditional tie-it-yourself models and those nifty clip-on jobs most guys mother's dolled them out in back when they were about three or so.
"Hmmm," I thought. "Maybe this would distract them from my head."
The noggin in question is the shockingly bald pate I've been displaying ever since chemotherapy left me as fuzzy as a Georgia peach. We had plans to attend a fun family wedding up in Wisconsin, and I was most anxious to look a little more dashing than Tooter Turtle, the 50s television star I most closely resemble currently.
Enter the bow tie.
I wore it to the wedding and felt pretty satisfied with the impression it made, as no one screamed or fainted or laughed or otherwise reacted in the ways I've become accustomed to ever since I dropped a cool 40 pounds or so and my hair went south.
My next "dress-up" occasion was Easter Sunday.
It appears that the custom of wearing new clothes at Easter is an old one. One explanation I liked noted that the newly baptized would wear white clothing throughout the entire Easter Week as a symbol that the waters of their baptism had cleansed them from all sin.  Other Christians would dress in new clothing to show that they, too, had risen to a new life in Christ.  This became an outward sign of one's faith and participation in the dying and rising of Our Lord.
But the old tradition of new clothing for Easter is one that seems to have faded away nowadays. I didn't see a single Easter Bonnet at Mass on Sunday morning.
Well, maybe one.
Or three, in fact.
Because besides the aforementioned bow tie that I sported, my two young grandsons had colorful ties of their own. They were the traditional stripy neckties that look so darn cute on little boys, though the combination of them and white shirts made the grandma-lady and me a little nervous as we tried to keep them away from the basketball court, the soccer ball and the half-burned leaf pile in the backyard while everyone else in the house was spiffing up for church. I was a lector for the morning Mass, and had to head in a little early to make sure the Old Testament reading didn't have any of those unpronounceable names--like Tilgathpilneser, Berodachbaladan or Chushanrishathaim--that are so tough for those of us who don't know scripture as well as we should. So it was determined that grandma and the boys would go with me in order to stay relatively clean, and to find a seat in what was bound to be a crowded church. Just before we headed for the door, I happened to glance at one of the bookcases in the little room off our front hall that serves as a combination office and den. Up on the very tippy-top of one of the cases were three straw hats of the style commonly called "pork pie," with jolly red, white and blue bands. My brother gave us those hats a couple of summers ago when we were all gathered together for a happy family gathering to celebrate my sister and her husband's birthdays and wedding anniversary. I've always liked them and wished I could find an excuse to wear them again.
Like Easter Sunday.
Quick as you can say "where'd you get that hat?" the two little fashion plates and I were suitably topped off as we headed down the front porch steps.
"Let me get a picture," said my shutterbug spouse.
Before I could protest, she aimed her iPhone at me and the natty duo, and captured the moment in time.
Now, I'm not especially crazy about any of the photos taken of me ever since I attained my current skinny, bare-headed state. But thanks to the outfits, and, especially, the two grinning little boys, I was adequately distracted from my own decrepit appearance.
In other words, even I liked it. And that's saying something.
Later, she posted the picture on Facebook, and based on the number of "likes" it gathered, it seems I'm not the only one who thinks the pic is O.K..
I think I know why.
The ties and the hats and the boys are pretty cute, and pretty cool, too.
But the memory is, well, darn near priceless.

You got me covered

Brrrr.
I'm cold.
I know, things are finally warming up outside. Or at least that's what the calendar indicates ought to be happening out there. But it's gonna take more than a few semi-sunny, 60-degree days to bake the chill from my bones.
Like nearly everything, from my faulty memory to my whirling stomach to my numb and tingly feet, I blame chemotherapy. Because thanks to a head that is suddenly more bare than the bottom half of a bouncing baby boy, and a body style that has gone from pleasing and plump to scary and skinny, I'm absolutely freezing most of the time.
Lucky for me, the chilly-willies, like almost every chemo-effect, have inspired a happy, gratifying display of kindness on the part of many folks around these parts. In other words, they've got me covered in a generous variety of warm, wondrous ways.
Like the hand-me-down I received from one dear friend; a one-of-a-kind electric lap robe that had belonged to her late father. It's the perfect sidekick to my recliner and the wool cap I wear when I'm really shivering. Just plug it in, turn it on, lean back and wait to be enveloped in a soft, soothing cloud of essential warmth.
Perfect.
That same friend was the angel who delivered a handmade prayer shawl from the ladies at the First United Methodist Church in Galva.  It's cool and cozy and remarkably masculine thanks to its unique knitted pattern:
It is, believe it or not, camouflage.
Or what I refer to as a "camo-chemo" blanket.
The FedEx man delivered a surprise gift from my oldest pal, a former childhood neighbor who has remained one of my closest friends through the years, despite the fact that she moved to California with her family way back in grade school. She turned her quilting skills into a thick, cozy blanket with a bright jungle theme that has been such a hit since its arrival that my grandkids and I battle over it nearly every evening.
My youngest grandson, John Patrick, was the bearer of the most recent fuzzy treasure when I received a big, billowy bundle from his class at Visitation School. Mrs. Fite's kindergartners each sent a sweet, special note, which accompanied a message from her explaining that the lovely shawl enclosed was the work of the talented ladies from Kewanee's First Methodist Church.
"Here, Grandpa!" he exclaimed as he thrust the package into my arms.
He watched carefully as I unwrapped it, and crawled into my lap as I looked at the first of the notes, then slowly held the shawl to my face. Like all the blankets that have come my way, it was wonderful and beautiful. I breathed deep and felt myself filled with the love and peace and prayers it contained.
In short, it was pretty well perfect.
Well, maybe just maybe a little damp around the edges.
I think you know what I mean.

Just like kids

Something startling happened the other day.
The sun came up.
The birds sang.
The grass turned green.
The flowers bloomed.
And spring sprung, just like that.
Well, maybe the wondrous transformation from the last stubborn days of winter to the first festive breaths of spring has been a little less instantaneous than all that.
But, by golly, it's happening.
It's happening now.
We've had a great time hanging out with our youngest grandsons in the big old house on the park.  As those final days of winter began to slowly unwind,  they were quick to learn just how great it is to live right across the street from playgrounds, a ball field, basketball courts and a seemingly endless field of greener-by-the-day grass, bushes and trees.
And then there's the kids.
And that's the biggest deal of all.
Our grandboys have always lived out in the country, so the idea of an in-town, residential neighborhood jam-packed with ready playmates is all new to them.
Until now.
Suddenly, they have the sweet freedom to go and do and run and play and have fun.
Just like kids. With other kids.
Doesn't get any better than that.
++++++++++
"Your columns seem a little shorter than they used to be."
I've had a couple of folks tell me this recently, and I'm pretty sure they're right. But, I think I've got a darn good excuse.
Or at least it's kind of interesting.
It's a well-known condition experienced by cancer patients that includes a whole host of enviable symptoms:
• Difficulty concentrating on a single task
• Problems with short-term memory
• Forgetting details of recent events
• Feeling mentally “slower” than usual
• Confusing dates and appointments
• Misplacing objects
• Fumbling for the right word or phrase
Now, if these all sound a trifle familiar, they should, for some of us, at least. But instead of being forced to chalk it up to "life" or "age" or some other convenient excuse, I've got an actual scientific condition to blame it on.
It's a real term used to describe thinking and memory problems that can occur after cancer treatment. It can be called chemotherapy-related cognitive impairment or cognitive dysfunction.  But the best name I've heard for the condition is my favorite, because it gets right down to the point.
Chemo Brain.
Heck, it could have been my nickname in high school.
++++++++++
Speaking of chemo and kids, my last trip to Northwestern Memorial Hospital in Chicago included an ample helping of both. With my normal Wednesday-afternoon appointment changed to Friday morning because of scheduling difficulties, we brought along the grandsons, who were out of school due to parent-teacher conferences. Suffice it to say, the presence of an eight-year-old and his six-year-old brother changed the entire scope of the visit, starting with a Thursday-night arrival and a visit to the Lego store at Water Tower Place, which is just up the street from the hospital and the hotel where we sleep when we need to stay over.  The grandma-lady also forced the recalcitrant duo to step into the dreaded American Girl store, though they were quick to dash back out into the hall, gasping for breath and mercy. The evening capped off with dinner at an entirely kid-centric bistro called the Rain Forest Cafe, where animatronic monkeys, snakes, leopards and gorillas stared at me all night, while fake thunder rumbled through the faux-jungle.
I draw the line at making my favorite little boys watch me sit through a slow six-hour chemo drip, so the next day, the boys got to meet the nice people at the 21st-floor cancer center at Northwestern before leaving for the Field Museum and its bountiful bevy of dinosaurs and other great exhibits.
Just like kids.