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Abstract

new memories with my kids. Sometimes we pulled our jackets tight as we tried to remain upright during our trek from our minivan to the front door, and laughed as the door slammed behind us, and we pushed matted hair from our faces.</p><p id="e6f9">Other times we slipped and slid carefully to the entrance and stomped snow from shoes we’d selected with the best tread. Once in a while, we’d appreciate a leisurely stroll and comment on the blooms overtaking hanging baskets on light posts along the way and be grateful for air conditioning, complete with Freon, once we walked inside.</p><h2 id="8371">What Uncle Nicolas meant to me</h2><p id="b6c0">Thinking about The Old Spaghetti Works recently permanently closing, an icon of downtown for generations, it felt like a bit of our past had been spirited away, too. In 2017, <a href="https://readmedium.com/2017-relive-and-relive-with-a-full-heart-every-time-334d8d3e8ca4">I traveled to Italy</a> with my mom, fiancé, and three kids. My older kids were close to the age I’d been when I was stationed in Sardinia while serving in the Navy.</p><p id="0c92">One of my go-to places during my three years was a restaurant on the waterfront called Zio Nicola, which translates to Uncle Nicholas. I knew the owner well in the early 90s because my fellow shipmates and I frequented his restaurant as often as we did our apartments.</p><figure id="450b"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/1*jw4bPeMAiIpoZrz2nXqdMw.jpeg"><figcaption>Zio Nicola, Palau, Sardinia, 2017. Photo credit: author</figcaption></figure><p id="995e">The name of the restaurant fit in my eyes. I never forgot the slender, high-energy man who always held an unfiltered cigarette as though it were part of one hand and had eyes that twinkled with laughter. Rivulets of a paler version of skin surrounding his eyes and mouth had deepened and widened since I was last here, looking more like creek beds.</p><p id="b41b">I was heartbroken to read some less-than-positive reviews about my beloved restaurant that had felt like an escape for me decades ago. The owner was devoted to his restaurant and poured himself into creating dishes unlike any I’ve ever had elsewhere. His restaurant was bustling with crowds back in the 90s, and there were days I’d wander there with sand that was unwilling to let go of my sun and salt-soaked skin and hair, and I knew that everything would be alright once I stepped through the front door of his restaurant.</p><figure id="3cec"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readm

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edium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/1*JEMHau4NGuryyvbJU52Lug.jpeg"><figcaption>My son, Neal at Zios. Photo credit: author</figcaption></figure><h2 id="62ae">Reinflating decades lost</h2><p id="c838">It felt like home, and he was like a favorite uncle. Maybe he was a bit of a curmudgeon, even back then, but I was a familiar face, a regular, and a local, so perhaps he treated me differently. When I brought my mom, fiancé, and three kids there a quarter century later, the place was nearly empty but still had inviting exterior lights and plants.</p><p id="641d">Everyone in our group agreed Zios lived up to every expectation I’d promised. Everything tasted just as I remembered it. The owner scowled at us initially until I told him who I was and began reminiscing about the days when my ship was stationed nearby in the early nineties, where I lived, and how often I came by.</p><figure id="8374"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/1*kdZF9IRTuONpcn--pWg7uw.jpeg"><figcaption>My daughter, Quinlynn, shows off her salmon pizza at Zio’s. Photo credit: author</figcaption></figure><p id="15d9">At first, he appeared more stern than I’d remembered him, his body more deflated. Once I shared my memories with him, he was re-energized. The man I remembered joined us at our table; his eyes, uneven smile, and raspy voice wrapped me in brine-covered ropes and parched skin from my sailing island days decades ago.</p><p id="d238">Time fell away, and there was something magical about sharing this with my family; slivers and fractions of moments, all of them joined him and me 25 years earlier, seated in the same place. It was as if I’d never left as we chatted and laughed. I couldn’t be happier we did that because his restaurant closed within a year after our trip.</p><h2 id="5d9e">Doorways</h2><p id="ddad">Three years ago today, we received an email notifying us that the restaurant where we’d had our first date and celebrated with a special anniversary dinner every year, in addition to other meals, was permanently closed.</p><p id="93bb">A restaurant or other place may hold special meaning in our lives. One day, that place may be gone. Like people, we forget they won’t be here forever.</p><p id="a719">Everyone there knows your name, and you expect to walk back in again anytime you want. When a meal ends and an evening filled with conversation, laughter, love, and life is complete, your bellies, hearts, and minds are full, and you and yours close the door behind you, close it gently.</p></article></body>

When We Close Doors Forever

Sometimes we leave places that feel like home

Downtown Des Moines near The Old Spaghetti Works, during The Farmers Market. Photo credit: author

A 45-year-old restaurant inside a two-story corner brick building with full-story windows that let in endless light was once a hat factory. A salad bar on a 1930s-style truck in the middle of the restaurant. Unlimited bowls of pasta with whatever kind of sauce you want.

Familiar to generations

Barn lights are used inside and jut out from the brick on the exterior for those who may choose to sit on the patio. Rich carved interior wood framing and arched doorways made a person feel like they’d stepped into the past. It’s ideally situated on Court Avenue downtown, amid the Farmer’s Market by day and within walking distance of high-end bars and restaurants, places with lots of live music and entertainment, theater, the river, and plenty of nightlife.

What brought us back time and again for several years, starting in 2006, was their kid’s-eat-free night, and my kids chose peanut butter and jelly pizza. Our lives had been upended in unimaginable ways. Because of violent acts, I moved my three young children from sunny Southern California, sailboats, vacations, and Disneyland to all four of us sharing a room in my mom’s leaky old brick house in tornado and blizzard-ridden Iowa.

Everything and everyone they’d ever known was no more, but we’d also left behind earthquakes and wildfires in California. I’d returned to the extreme frugality I’d known when our meals had come from dumpsters. Things weren’t that bad, but we were treading water with an expeditious dog paddle.

Free kid’s meals

For the occasional treat, I’d learned what night of the week offered a free kid’s meal all over town. One night of the week was The Old Spaghetti Works, which I remembered from when I lived in Des Moines growing up. The same red and white checkered tablecloths greeted us, and I don’t think the wall decor had changed, either. When you need to wrap yourself in familiar fabric, sticky floors, heavy dust, and subpar service aren’t important. We were having a meal out that I could afford since adults aren’t free.

I wanted to create unique new memories with my kids. Sometimes we pulled our jackets tight as we tried to remain upright during our trek from our minivan to the front door, and laughed as the door slammed behind us, and we pushed matted hair from our faces.

Other times we slipped and slid carefully to the entrance and stomped snow from shoes we’d selected with the best tread. Once in a while, we’d appreciate a leisurely stroll and comment on the blooms overtaking hanging baskets on light posts along the way and be grateful for air conditioning, complete with Freon, once we walked inside.

What Uncle Nicolas meant to me

Thinking about The Old Spaghetti Works recently permanently closing, an icon of downtown for generations, it felt like a bit of our past had been spirited away, too. In 2017, I traveled to Italy with my mom, fiancé, and three kids. My older kids were close to the age I’d been when I was stationed in Sardinia while serving in the Navy.

One of my go-to places during my three years was a restaurant on the waterfront called Zio Nicola, which translates to Uncle Nicholas. I knew the owner well in the early 90s because my fellow shipmates and I frequented his restaurant as often as we did our apartments.

Zio Nicola, Palau, Sardinia, 2017. Photo credit: author

The name of the restaurant fit in my eyes. I never forgot the slender, high-energy man who always held an unfiltered cigarette as though it were part of one hand and had eyes that twinkled with laughter. Rivulets of a paler version of skin surrounding his eyes and mouth had deepened and widened since I was last here, looking more like creek beds.

I was heartbroken to read some less-than-positive reviews about my beloved restaurant that had felt like an escape for me decades ago. The owner was devoted to his restaurant and poured himself into creating dishes unlike any I’ve ever had elsewhere. His restaurant was bustling with crowds back in the 90s, and there were days I’d wander there with sand that was unwilling to let go of my sun and salt-soaked skin and hair, and I knew that everything would be alright once I stepped through the front door of his restaurant.

My son, Neal at Zios. Photo credit: author

Reinflating decades lost

It felt like home, and he was like a favorite uncle. Maybe he was a bit of a curmudgeon, even back then, but I was a familiar face, a regular, and a local, so perhaps he treated me differently. When I brought my mom, fiancé, and three kids there a quarter century later, the place was nearly empty but still had inviting exterior lights and plants.

Everyone in our group agreed Zios lived up to every expectation I’d promised. Everything tasted just as I remembered it. The owner scowled at us initially until I told him who I was and began reminiscing about the days when my ship was stationed nearby in the early nineties, where I lived, and how often I came by.

My daughter, Quinlynn, shows off her salmon pizza at Zio’s. Photo credit: author

At first, he appeared more stern than I’d remembered him, his body more deflated. Once I shared my memories with him, he was re-energized. The man I remembered joined us at our table; his eyes, uneven smile, and raspy voice wrapped me in brine-covered ropes and parched skin from my sailing island days decades ago.

Time fell away, and there was something magical about sharing this with my family; slivers and fractions of moments, all of them joined him and me 25 years earlier, seated in the same place. It was as if I’d never left as we chatted and laughed. I couldn’t be happier we did that because his restaurant closed within a year after our trip.

Doorways

Three years ago today, we received an email notifying us that the restaurant where we’d had our first date and celebrated with a special anniversary dinner every year, in addition to other meals, was permanently closed.

A restaurant or other place may hold special meaning in our lives. One day, that place may be gone. Like people, we forget they won’t be here forever.

Everyone there knows your name, and you expect to walk back in again anytime you want. When a meal ends and an evening filled with conversation, laughter, love, and life is complete, your bellies, hearts, and minds are full, and you and yours close the door behind you, close it gently.