Post No. 225

and a recipe redux for the spring aspargus soup you should have on repeat

This is post number 225.

I didn’t plan it this way, but it feels right that this small milestone lands on a story I didn’t write, but one I return to again and again.

As I prepare for a long-anticipated trip to Paris with my sister—our first “sisters” trip since 2018—the week has filled up with lists, last-minute details, and the kind of anticipation that makes it hard to sit still. With less time than usual to capture my musings properly, I’m reaching into the archives to share something I’ve loved for years.

The piece below is by Michael Gartner, a lifelong journalist with a storied and sometimes controversial career. It always reminds me of what matters most. First published in USA Today in 2006, this is deeply personal, funny, and heartfelt writing that seems effortless in the way really good writing always is.

I present it here for your enjoyment.

A life without left turns

Michael Gartner

My father never drove a car.

Well, that's not quite right.

I should say I never saw him drive a car. He quit driving in 1927, when he was 25 years old, and the last car he drove was a 1926 Whippet.

"In those days," he told me when he was in his 90s, "to drive a car you had to do things with your hands, and do things with your feet, and look every which way, and I decided you could walk through life and enjoy it or drive through life and miss it."

At which point my mother, a sometimes salty Irishwoman, chimed in:

"Oh, bull——!" she said. "He hit a horse."

"Well," my father said, "there was that, too."

So my brother and I grew up in a household without a car. The neighbors all had cars — the Kollingses next door had a green 1941 Dodge, the VanLaninghams across the street a gray 1936 Plymouth, the Hopsons two doors down a black 1941 Ford — but we had none. My father, a newspaperman in Des Moines, would take the streetcar to work and, often as not, walk the 3 miles home. If he took the streetcar home, my mother and brother and I would walk the three blocks to the streetcar stop, meet him and walk home together.

Our 1950 Chevy

My brother, David, was born in 1935, and I was born in 1938, and sometimes, at dinner, we'd ask how come all the neighbors had cars but we had none. "No one in the family drives," my mother would explain, and that was that. But, sometimes, my father would say, "But as soon as one of you boys turns 16, we'll get one."

It was as if he wasn't sure which one of us would turn 16 first.

But, sure enough, my brother turned 16 before I did, so in 1951 my parents bought a used 1950 Chevrolet from a friend who ran the parts department at a Chevy dealership downtown. It was a four-door, white model, stick shift, fender skirts, loaded with everything, and, since my parents didn't drive, it more or less became my brother's car.

Having a car but not being able to drive didn't bother my father, but it didn't make sense to my mother. So in 1952, when she was 43 years old, she asked a friend to teach her to drive. She learned in a nearby cemetery, the place where I learned to drive the following year and where, a generation later, I took my two sons to practice driving. The cemetery probably was my father's idea. "Who can your mother hurt in the cemetery?" I remember him saying once.

For the next 45 years or so, until she was 90, my mother was the driver in the family. Neither she nor my father had any sense of direction, but he loaded up on maps — though they seldom left the city limits — and appointed himself navigator. It seemed to work.

The ritual walk to church

Still, they both continued to walk a lot. My mother was a devout Catholic, and my father an equally devout agnostic, an arrangement that didn't seem to bother either of them through their 75 years of marriage. (Yes, 75 years, and they were deeply in love the entire time.) He retired when he was 70, and nearly every morning for the next 20 years or so, he would walk with her the mile to St. Augustin's Church. She would walk down and sit in the front pew, and he would wait in the back until he saw which of the parish's two priests was on duty that morning. If it was the pastor, my father then would go out and take a 2-mile walk, meeting my mother at the end of the service and walking her home. If it was the assistant pastor, he'd take just a 1-mile walk and then head back to the church.

He called the priests "Father Fast" and "Father Slow."

After he retired, my father almost always accompanied my mother whenever she drove anywhere, even if he had no reason to go along. If she were going to the beauty parlor, he'd sit in the car and read, or go take a stroll or, if it was summer, have her keep the engine running so he could listen to the Cubs game on the radio. (In the evening, then, when I'd stop by, he'd explain: "The Cubs lost again. The millionaire on second base made a bad throw to the millionaire on first base, so the multimillionaire on third base scored.") If she were going to the grocery store, he would go along to carry the bags out — and to make sure she loaded up on ice cream.

As I said, he was always the navigator, and once, when he was 95 and she was 88 and still driving, he said to me, "Do you want to know the secret of a long life?" "I guess so," I said, knowing it probably would be something bizarre.

"No left turns," he said.

"What?" I asked.

"No left turns," he repeated. "Several years ago, your mother and I read an article that said most accidents that old people are in happen when they turn left in front of oncoming traffic. As you get older, your eyesight worsens, and you can lose your depth perception, it said. So your mother and I decided never again to make a left turn."

"What?" I said again. "No left turns," he said. "Think about it. Three rights are the same as a left, and that's a lot safer. So we always make three rights."

"You're kidding!" I said, and I turned to my mother for support. "No," she said, "your father is right. We make three rights. It works."

But then she added: "Except when your father loses count."

I was driving at the time, and I almost drove off the road as I started laughing. "Loses count?" I asked. "Yes," my father admitted, "that sometimes happens. But it's not a problem. You just make seven rights, and you're okay again."

I couldn't resist. "Do you ever go for 11?" I asked.

"No," he said. "If we miss it at seven, we just come home and call it a bad day. Besides, nothing in life is so important it can't be put off another day or another week."

My mother was never in an accident, but one evening she handed me her car keys and said she had decided to quit driving. That was in 1999, when she was 90. She lived four more years, until 2003. My father died the next year, at 102. They both died in the bungalow they had moved into in 1937 and bought a few years later for $3,000. (Sixty years later, my brother and I paid $8,000 to have a shower put in the tiny bathroom — the house had never had one. My father would have died then and there if he knew the shower cost nearly three times what he paid for the house). He continued to walk daily — he had me get him a treadmill when he was 101 because he was afraid he'd fall on the icy sidewalks but wanted to keep exercising — and he was of sound mind and sound body until the moment he died.

A happy life

One September afternoon in 2004, he and my son went with me when I had to give a talk in a neighboring town, and it was clear to all three of us that he was wearing out, though we had the usual wide-ranging conversation about politics and newspapers and things in the news. A few weeks earlier, he had told my son, "You know, Mike, the first hundred years are a lot easier than the second hundred." At one point in our drive that Saturday, he said, "You know, I'm probably not going to live much longer." "You're probably right," I said. "Why would you say that?" he countered, somewhat irritated. "Because you're 102 years old," I said. "Yes," he said, "you're right." He stayed in bed all the next day. That night, I suggested to my son and daughter that we sit up with him through the night. He appreciated it, he said, though at one point, apparently seeing us look gloomy, he said: "I would like to make an announcement. No one in this room is dead yet." An hour or so later, he spoke his last words:

"I want you to know," he said, clearly and lucidly, "that I am in no pain. I am very comfortable. And I have had as happy a life as anyone on this earth could ever have."

A short time later, he died.

I miss him a lot, and I think about him a lot. I've wondered now and then how it was that my family and I were so lucky that he lived so long.

I can't figure out if it was because he walked through life.

Or because he quit taking left turns.

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Asparagus soup

Adapted from Melissa Clark, New York Times
Serves six as a starter

It’s been a chilly start to summer. And while this asparagus soup is lovely served slightly cool—bright and green and full of spring's promise—today calls for something warmer. I needed a bowl of comfort, and maybe you do too.

This recipe, originally shared here last year and adapted from Melissa Clark in The New York Times, has been a staple in our kitchen for years. We make it weekly while asparagus is in season, and we freeze a few extra batches to bring a little green brightness to winter’s grayest days.

Summer is coming, but asparagus won’t wait. Don’t miss your moment.

Ingredients

2 large leeks, green tops separated from the pale green and white ends

2 pounds asparagus

½ teaspoon fine sea salt

1 quart chicken stock (or water if you want to make the recipe vegan-friendly)

1 bay leaf

2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

2 teaspoons chopped tarragon leaves

¼ teaspoon freshly ground white pepper

1 teaspoon lemon juice, more as needed

1. Trim the leeks by separating the dark green tops from the pale green and white parts. Cut the dark green tops in half lengthwise and rinse thoroughly to remove any dirt; set aside. Slice the pale green and white parts crosswise into thin rings, then rinse thoroughly to remove grit and reserve for cooking. You should have about 5 cups of sliced leeks/

2. Trim the woody ends from the asparagus and set them aside for making stock. Cut off the asparagus tips and set aside for garnish. Cut the remaining asparagus stalks and tips into 1-inch pieces and set aside for the soup.

3. In a stockpot, combine the leek tops, asparagus ends, stock, and bay leaf. Bring to a boil and then simmer and cook for 30 minutes. Strain the mixture, discarding the solids and reserving the infused stock. You should have about 6 cups of stock.

4. While the stock is simmering, in a medium pot, bring 2 cups of salted water to a boil. Add the reserved asparagus tips and cook until just tender, 3 to 4 minutes. Transfer to a bowl of ice water to cool. Drain and reserve for garnish.

5. Return empty pot to medium-low heat. Add olive oil and sliced leek. Cook, stirring frequently, until leeks are soft, about 7 minutes. Pour in 1 cup of the stock. Simmer for 10 minutes. Add remaining stock and asparagus. Bring to a boil and then simmer, partially covered, until asparagus is completely tender, 7 to 10 minutes.

6. Purée the soup in a blender until smooth. For a more refined texture, you can strain some or all of the soup through a coarse mesh sieve — I like to strain just a couple of ladlefuls to create a nice balance of silky and rustic textures. Stir in the tarragon, then season with salt, pepper, and lemon juice to taste.

7. Ladle soup into bowls and garnish with the asparagus tips. It can be served hot or cool.

This recipe doubles easily and freezes beautifully.