From JuJu with Love

When I was a kid, I thought my parents were the coolest people in the world. Truly.

We grew up with a loving home, a cottage on Lake Michigan, and parents who believed that family mattered. School vacations were sacred. Summers were meant to be shared. And our house was always open.

My mom flew planes. My dad ran marathons. We had dogs and cats and birds and bunnies as pets. We were always off on adventures, whether it was a family vacation or an afternoon at Cranbrook.

When I was little, my parents used to take us to concerts at Pine Knob. It was probably cheaper than getting a babysitter and going on their own, but to me it felt like the greatest adventure. They’d spread a blanket out on the hill, and my sisters and I would fall asleep under the stars, listening to the music drift across the lawn.

Most people can tell you exactly what the first concert they ever went to was. I have no idea. I started going to concerts when I was probably five years old. It might have been Chicago. Or Elton John. Or James Taylor. Or Neil Diamond. Or The Rolling Stones. I honestly don’t know. And somehow, that feels like the perfect answer.

One winter weekend, when it was cold and snowy in Michigan, my parents packed us all up and took us to the Michigan Inn Hotel in Southfield. We checked into a room and spent the entire day splashing around in the indoor pool like we were on vacation, even though we were only 15 minutes from home. That’s how my parents were. Everything was an adventure. They didn’t need plane tickets or passports to make childhood fun — just an idea, a car, and the belief that joy was something you created.

They didn’t just give us a place to live.

They created a life.

Take the car, for example. At one point my dad drove a mustard-colored Mustang Mach 1–the kind with the big back window and that wide ledge behind the backseat. My sisters and I fought over that ledge every single time we got in the car. And sometimes—somehow—we actually got to sit on it. No seatbelts. No rules. Just the thrill of winning the best seat and feeling like the ride itself was an adventure.

The radio was always on. And no matter what song was playing, they knew it.

“Who is this?” we’d ask.

They always had an answer. Instantly. Whether they truly knew or just said it with complete confidence, we’ll never know. But it made the world feel smaller, safer—like someone always had the answers.

When the built our house in 1977, they outdid themselves. They gave us the most incredible gift of all: a party-ready basement.

There was a giant projector TV and a huge sectional where everyone gathered. The colors alone felt like the seventies in full force—navy, magenta, and orange everywhere. The couch was navy blue and the carpet and walls were magenta and orange. If it was magenta, it was boldly magenta. Our last name was displayed on the wall in bright orange letters, like a proud family signature.

There was a pool table with orange felt. A pinball machine in another room. And then—because of course there was—a dance floor. A real one. Built for music, laughter, and people coming together.

We moved to Southfield when I was five years old and my parents insisted we take swimming lessons. I didn’t love it at the time, but they were firm. Safety first. Then, once we all knew how to swim, they built an inground swimming pool in our backyard.

There was already a neighborhood pool. We could have gone there. But that wasn’t the point.

They wanted a place where family and friends could gather all summer long. A place that was ours. A place filled with splashing, music, and people coming and going. Our backyard became another open door—just like the house, just like the basement, just like the life they created for us.

Looking back, I see how intentional it all was.

Togetherness mattered. Confidence mattered. Fun mattered.

And love—love was everywhere.

From Juju with love 💙💛