The Deadhead at the DMV

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‘A bureaucratic nightmare with a happy ending’ 

Have you heard about Enhanced Drivers Licenses? Or a Real ID? Basically, you need one or the other to board a plane starting in May. I keep getting the two mixed up, but, but decided to spring for the more expensive one “just in case” and also since I really really don’t want to go to the DMV again anytime soon. You will, no doubt, relate when you hear my sad story. 

Nothing sadder than Mom’s empty chair. Not even my DMV story

Of course, writing about a visit to the DMV is not nearly as sad as writing about the death of one’s parent, so there’s that. But it’s also not nearly as cheery as writing about Mr. Baby. So before I start, I’ll share a couple of recent adorable baby pics.

Adorable baby with Dad, AKA The SIL

Adorable baby with Mom, AKA The Child

Okay. That’s done. Now for the DMV.

I live partly in New York City and partly in Amagansett, so I have a choice of DMV experiences. I could take the subway to the DMV near Macy’s, which I used to do until a really mean DMV employee fixed me with an icy stare and refused to accept my the paperwork for my Vespa title-transfer because Dude Man’s signatures didn’t match. (Or didn’t match enough for her purposes.) At that point I had been waiting in three separate lines for hours, so I did the only reasonable thing: I burst into inconsolable tears and vowed never to darken that DMV door again.

Gazing at the country in the City

I took my non-matching paperwork instead to the DMV nearest Amagansett, which is in Riverhead. This is the same Riverhead of getting-lost fame, which inspired my story, “Okay, you know where the jail is, right?” Which is pretty hilarious, if I do say so myself.

Gazing at the country in the Country

Now, Riverhead may not be a simple subway ride away — it takes 50 minutes by car — but in Riverhead, at least in my experience, the people are nice. When I showed my City-disputed paperwork to the woman at the counter, she not only didn’t fix me with a mean icy stare, she smiled and wished me a good day. After accepting said paperwork.

A picture of some lines. Nice lines, on a sweater

There also were no crowds, no lines, no hassle whatsoever. But this time was different. I supposed I should have realized something was up when I tried to make an online appointment and all the dates in the calendar were grayed out — through June. Must be a computer glitch, I told myself before hopping in the car at 7:00 Monday morning. The office opened at 7:30, but I figured getting there at 8:00 would be fine.

Not so, it would seem. The place was jammed to its bureaucratic gills. They did accept walk-ins, thank the scheduling gods, so I took a number — WU016 — and settled down to wait. After about 15 minutes, it was called. Wow, I thought! I’ll be home by 9:00!

Hah. That was just the guy taking my picture. That done, he instructed me — nicely — to wait for my number to be called again.

A picture I took of The Dude. Not at the DMV. At the MET

Well. They had nineteen “service desks,” and numbers were being called mere seconds apart. I had brought a New Yorker for a distraction, but I couldn’t look at it for fear I would be so distracted I’d miss my number being called. So I just sat there, staring at the screen displaying the numbers like a zombie — and like everybody else there.

To complicate things, I felt the urge to visit the ladies’ room (or whatever it’s called in a DMV…”rest area?”… “parking spot?”) I gave myself till 10:00, and if my number wasn’t called, I’d risk it.

A really nice pic of three generations of girls. Because why not?

Sure enough, the clock registered 10:00 and good ole WU016 was called to Service Desk 11, where a young man with dreadlocks greeted me with a smile. Examining my paperwork, he admitted that my ConEd bill reminded him of a Dylan song. (“Joey”, I think he said it was called.) So we talked Dylan some. For a guy who was in his thirties he was remarkably well-informed. He even knew the scene in Don’t Look Back where Donovan is completely intimidated by Dylan’s playing.

He said that he had been to a Grateful Dead concert when he was three — his parents were Deadheads (!) He was also a fount of knowledge about Jim Morrison and Leonard Cohen, and commiserated when I told him I was not allowed to hitchhike with my boyfriend to Woodstock.

The boyfriend who hitchhiked to Woodstock. Read about him in “Larry and the Nose Holes”

I told him he was about the same age as The Child, but that The Child didn’t realize the significance of living in Haight-Ashbury. Which is where she, in fact, lives. He asked at one point if I wanted 5’6″ on my new license (I had put 5’4″ on the form) and told me his mom was having the same issue with shrinking. (See “Skirting the Issue” for more on that.)

Well. Crowds or no crowds, lines or no lines, that little dreadlocked deadhead baby sure made my DMV Day. He even knew where the ladies’ room was.

New York City. April 2025

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I can highly recommend my grief counselor

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‘AKA the Emotional Support Baby’

Well. We finally made it out to see The Child and the SIL and Mr. Baby. We tried to go visit them in Flagstaff a few weeks ago, but they got colds. Then we tried to visit them in San Francisco, and Dude Man caught a cold. (Actually, more like “the crud:” icky snorty sniffy symptoms that stuck around for what felt like forever — especially for The One Who Had to Keep Hearing About It.)

The Little Family in Flagstaff, before colds were caught

And boy, did we need this visit. Dude Man because he hadn’t seen His Babyness since Thanksgiving. And me because I lost my Mom not even a month ago. (Feel free to read my bittersweet little ode to her, “Beautiful Swan,” if you are so inclined — and have access to tissues.)

The Child was diligent with FaceTiming her Gramma. Here is a screenshot from one of their *sniff* last sessions

I have to say, even if this baby were not the most attractive baby ever to be born to any human, this trip would still have distracted us from fits of sadness and/or grief. What with all the activities we packed into three measly days, we were literally too busy to be sad.

Scott and Mr. Baby engage in a charm contest

We walked in Golden Gate Park, we went to Petaluma to play with Uncle Scott and Aunt Susan, we hiked on Mount Tam, we visited the Palace of the Legion of Honor.

Grampa and Mr. Baby resting along the Mt. Tram trail

Why, on Friday alone we spent three hours visiting Alcatraz, then marched from the pier up more than 1000 steps to reach Coit Tower. And after that, we prowled City Lights Bookstore. I’m exhausted just writing this paragraph!

The Child springs Mr. Baby from solitary confinement on Cell Block D. He was in the joint for stealing his Gramma’s heart

We still had lots of time to chill and engage in baby horseplay. These days, the Baby in Question is keen on chewing on his fist(s), grabbing anything orange, yellow or red, wriggling around while kicking mightily, and lighting up when he sees a person he likes. Which is practically everyone. I liked to glance to the rear as we were tooling about, to catch the gobsmacked expressions of the baby-spotters in our wake.

Mr. Baby appreciates a painting. But not nearly as much as the museum goers appreciated him

Grampa Wayne taught him to say “oooohhh” and Uncle Scott taught him the joys of peek-a-boo. And a splendidly good time was had by all.

Mom would have loved it.

Mom and I share a Baby FaceTime on my last visit

New York City. March 2025

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Beautiful Swan

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‘Remembering Mom. With a story or two’

Perhaps you’ve heard. Perhaps you’ve heard about it too much. But, in case you haven’t heard, my mother died. On February 16, to be exact. I posted an obituary on FaceBook just last week.

I can’t figure out how to share the darned FB story, but here’s what it looked like

If you’ve lost a parent — or even if you haven’t  — I’m pretty sure you’ll understand that it can take a while before you can attempt to be amusing again. So I haven’t posted a story since my last one a couple of weeks ago, which, ironically, was about my last visit to see her. The one where we force-watched some line dancing. (It was called  “My Mom Likes Line Dancing About as Much as She Likes Yodeling” in case you missed it.)

Our last *sigh* photo together on my last Mom Visit

That post was pretty well taken up with line dancing and yodeling, and I ran out of room before I could share some Mom stories. Which I have a million of, as you can imagine.

So I thought I’d take a crack at sharing some. First up is a story that Mom used to tell. It has to do with a hair bow and some roller skates. (Mom was somewhat of a hair-bow expert. She used to tape one to the top of my follically-challenged two-year-old pate so that people could tell that I was a girl. And check out her young fine self rocking a hair bow in the photo at the top of this post.)

I keep that photo on a shelf at the Ken & Barbie House with other prized possessions, like the tiara Laura gave me and drawing by The Child

But back to Mom’s story. It seems that one Christmas, young Mom yearned for some roller skates. I’m not sure if an actual letter was written to Santa, but she told one and all that she wanted roller skates more than anything. And, sure enough, come Christmas morning, there was a heavy rectangular gift-wrapped box under the tree with her name on it.

Mom and Laura admiring the last batch of Christmas fruitcake. Well, unless Laura and Dave keep making it, which they probably will, having had plenty of practice these last few years (!)

Her Uncle Warren happened to be over at Mom’s Grandma’s house with the other aunts and uncles and cousins. (I remember Uncle Warren. He was missing an arm — lost in a farm accident involving, I believe, a baler — and used to give us kids little cubes of Chiclets gum he would squeeze one-handed out of the package.)

Anyway. Uncle Warren saw Mom handling the package, testing its heft for roller-skate-content possibilities, and said, “Hey, I bet that’s the hair ribbon you’ve been wanting!”

Mom enjoys a laugh…perhaps at one of her own stories

Poor Little Mom. She believed her Uncle Warren — even though the box was waaay too heavy to contain something as insubstantial as a hair ribbon — and burst into inconsolable tears. But of course, the package did indeed contain her roller skates, so all’s well that ended well, Christmas-morning-wise.

A Christmas featuring large collars, but no hair bows

I bet about now you’re wondering what the title of this post means. “Beautiful Swan?!?” (Well, Angica knows. Hi, Angica!) As much as I’d like to tell you that “Beautiful Swan” refers to my mother and her childhood bow-bedecked loveliness, it is, in fact, a card game. A card game we played at Laura’s kitchen table on my last Mom Visit. The game involves bluffing about the contents of your hand and is actually called “BS.” Which, of course, stands for “Bullshit.” (And it’s an actual game. I just looked it up!)

Mom in a kitchen, but not playing cards. This is when she met the SIL

A player declares, for example, that he or she is discarding two threes, and the rest of the table has a chance to say “bullshit.” Which means you are calling their bluff. If you are correct, and the player was bluffing, they have to take all the cards piled in the middle of the table. If they weren’t bluffing (er, bullshitting) then you have to take them, the object being to get rid of all your cards.

Mom at Mo’s, enjoying some chowder. But not playing cards. Though she certainly looks like she’s just won a game

The game is called “Beautiful Swan” at my sister’s in homage to her friend Lori, who wanted to play the game with her young children without exposing them to bad language. (“Bradley and Kaitlin, I’m going to teach you a card game called ‘BS!'” “What does ‘BS’ mean, Mommy?” “Why, “Beautiful Swan! That’s what it means–Beautiful Swan!'”) 

And Mom was ruthless and competitive and very very good at it. Farewell, Beautiful Swan. I’ll be back with more Mom Stories as soon as I stock up on tissues.

Mom looking beautiful — and rather swanlike — at Nephew Phil’s wedding

New York City. February 2025

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My Mom likes line dancing about as much as she likes yodeling

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‘Which is to say, “not one bit”‘

Again with the excuses for not keeping up with my posts! But these days I have two unbeatable ones: 1) visiting my grandson, and 2) visiting my Mom.

Visiting grandson and mom at the same time via Facetime (!)

A couple of weeks ago, I got to do both in person. I’m finally settled down enough to write about these visits, so let’s start with the one to see Mom.

Mom recently moved to a new apartment at her senior living place, and this was the first time I got to check it out. I’m glad to report that it is as cozy as her former pad and even brighter and sunnier — and much more quiet, once I figured out how to get her heater to stop clanking. (Speaking of clanking, her old place overlooked the loading dock; it’s a good thing I like to wake early, since beefy guys were out there clanking and yelling every morning around 5:30.)

A view of Mom’s former building, with her room (second floor, corner) overlooking the loading dock

Anyway. New apartment = new friends. I got to meet a bunch of them at Mom’s breakfast table. (Hi Eugene! Hi Ann-Without-An-E! Hi Candy! When I mentioned to Candy that I had never met an actual person named “Candy,” she said that her mother wanted to name her Denise, but that her aunt said “there’s no way I’m going to have a niece named “Denise!” and that was that. Read that last phrase aloud with a Sopranos accent to see what Candy’s aunt meant.)

Mom may have changed rooms, but Snoopy and Woodstock were still on Christmas duty at this house on my morning walk

Anyway (again). This place is kind of like high school; Mom has “her” table in the dining room, and we sat with these new friends at Happy Hour on Thursday. Happy Hour starts at 2:30 in this joint (since dinner is from 4:30 to 6:00), and is very popular, with real booze (a popular cocktail is half Sprite, half “blush” wine) and live entertainment. This Happy Hour featured a singer attired in a fancy pearl-buttoned western shirt who played guitar and sang cowboy songs. (One of these was a chestnut called “I Am My Own Grandpa.”) My Mom rather enjoyed this one. But then Mr. Singer told a story about once having the great pleasure of hearing Eddie Albert sing — and yodel. Now, if you don’t know what yodeling is, you can, in my opinion, count yourself among the lucky. But if you are curious, you can watch this video with guys in cowboy outfits yodeling away.

I wonder if Mr. Baby is smiling because he just heard some yodeling?

And not only did this guy yodel, he invited us all to yodel along. Now, my Mom hates to be asked to sing along, so you can imagine how she reacted to being asked to yodel. Well. Not only did Singer Guy’s enthusiastic audience yodel along, but some of them got up and started line dancing. 

Now. My mother hates line dancing about as much as she hates Whoopi Goldberg. Which is right up there with her hate for Robin Williams. Or root canal. But line dance these folks did. While yodeling.

Now, I’m betting Mom would have loved the line dancing at The Child’s wedding (see photo at the top of this post, and the video, below). But then again, maybe not. At least they weren’t yodeling.

There was room at Mom’s table for a few more music-listeners, not just Mom’s pals. There was a couple seated to my right; the man was an enthusiastic yodeler. When the yodeling at last reached a screeching halt, I leaned around the woman and said to the guy, “Hey, that was pretty good!” After which the woman (I’m assuming it was his wife) looked me right in the eye and said, “Thanks a lot.”

Shortly after the line dancing/yodeling session at Mom’s, I was on my way south along the coast for the grandson half of my visit…to be continued!

Amagansett, New York. January 2025

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The Security Saint at JFK

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‘An airport story with a happy ending’

My plane leaves tonight at 7:59 (why don’t they just say 8:00?) so of course I’m getting ready to go to the airport. (It is now 1:12 PM.) As everyone in my family knows, I get super-stressed about getting to and from airports even under the best of circumstances. (That’s when Carmel Car Service picks me up, and on time.) Oh, the picture at the top of this post is of me trying to alleviate stress by walking around my snowy NYC courtyard.

Another stress-management technique: stomping around Central Park

But, for the Kids’ Thanksgiving visit, I dialed my stress level to the max — I offered to pick them up from JFK. Yes, in the car. Which I was driving. By myself. Well, at least until they got into it.

I cannot stress (see, there’s that word again) enough that People Who Live in New York do not pick people up from the airport. You tell them to get a cab for which you graciously offer to pay. Or, if it’s people you really like, you order a car service for them.

You really really don’t offer to pick them up. But the people in this case were The Child, the SIL, and — most important — Mr. Baby.

Who wouldn’t offer to pick up this adorable person — JFK or no JFK?

I thought about ordering them a car to drive them out to Amagansett, and it didn’t cost as much as I feared, but. I reasoned that Mr. Baby might need feeding or changing or whatnot, and, even with trusty Carmel, that could get a bit complicated. So, pick them up I did.

I’ll spare you much of the sturm und drang. Suffice it to say that the two hours I allotted to get to the cellphone lot were all used up by the time I got there and found said cellphone lot. (There is massive construction going on at JFK — “Building you a better airport experience!” signage cheers you up at every wrong turn. At least there were trailers outfitted as bathrooms at said cellphone lot. I think I was the only one who used the women’s. I know I was the only one in the lot not wearing a turban.

I knit most of this hat while waiting in the cellphone lot

Anyway. Pickup goes reasonably well. Me: “Where are you?” Child: “We’re outside Area C!” Me: “I don’t see you!” Child: “Oh, it’s Area D!”

And the visit? Extremely well. I wrote all about it last week, in “Joy to the World,” if you’d like to catch up and see some incredibly cute baby pics.

Here we are at dinner in the same Japanese place that was The Child’s first restaurant experience!

But, like most lovely visits, this one ended before I felt like it had even begun.

More Mr. Baby. Because, well, why not?

And the next thing I knew, I was driving them back to the airport. At least I had Other People in the car with me this time. The Child, in fact, was an excellent — and calm — navigator. Me: “Which exit is next?!?” Child: (in very soothing talking-to-a-suicide-jumper voice) “This next one, A42 South. Right there. See?”

So, we make it to the airport. Though we were routed round and round in an impossible circle to get to Terminal 4, we made it. Got Kids and baby gear off-loaded. Got good-bye hugs and kisses distributed.

Mr. Baby on the plane on their way home. Not stressed out, it would seem

But, dang it. It had been hours since we left, and even though I had carefully limited my fluid intake, I had to, well, pee. And of course, since this was right after a holiday weekend, there was a Security Guy motioning everyone dropping people off to move along, please. He was even motioning cars along with a thing that looked like a billy club (though I think it was really a flashlight.) Anyway, I was intimidated. But not intimidated enough not to go right up to him.

“Sir? Excuse me, Sir? Could you tell me the way to the cellphone lot? He gets a very confused look on his face, then shakes his head forlornly, admitting that it would be very complicated for me to get to the cellphone lot. “What do you need to go there for?” Well, I admitted that I had to, um, use the facilities.

So he says, “Oh! No problem! Just go right in to the terminal here. I’ll watch your car for you.”

So I did. And so he did. And when I came out I thanked him profusely. I almost gave him a hug, too. But decided not to push my luck.

Another shot of Mr. Baby not stressed out on the plane. Again, because why not?

Happy New Year, everyone! Now I really must restart my getting-ready-to-go-to-the-airport pacing.

Hmmm…when I get back, we could crack this open. Better than pacing!

New York City. January 2025

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Joy to the world!

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‘The Grandchild has come!’

I haven’t sent out Christmas cards in years. Not since The Child was an actual child and I could send a photo of her enclosed inside. (This was waaaay before you could incorporate a photo into a design of your very own.)

Her Christmassy Childness, in former Christmas Card times

But I always said that I would start the Card Thing up again if and when I got me a grandkid. And, lo and behold…this year I finally did. (Do you think my subtle hints had anything to do with it? Like when I would look The Child in the eye and say, “I don’t want to pressure you, but, since you are an only child, if you don’t have any kids I will never ever be a grandmother.“)

So hey. I sent cards this year. Lots of cards! (If you didn’t get one, I apologize. Consider this post your Christmas card, okay?)

Here’s what was on the back (!)

Anyway. This year had a whole heck of a lot of other cool stuff to commend it: weddings and parties and family visits galore, not to mention two trips to Brazil and one big honkin’ trip to Australia.

Dude Man and me relaxing in Australia, basking in the knowledge that we finally made “grandparent”

But, since it’s the last day I can write and still call this 2024, I’m going to stick with the GK and the heck with the rest. Till the dull days of Endless January, that is. Then I’ll catch up. Or not. Maybe I’ll just read a ton of books.

Or knit. I have this sweater to finish up. Its progress was interrupted by baby sweaters, natch

But back to Mr. Baby. (Gosh, I think I just invented his blogname. I was going to call him GK. But I’m thinking I like Mr. Baby. Even better than The Baby, since if he ever gets a sister, I can call her MIss Baby. If he gets a brother, I’ll deal with it then.)

I defy even those of you who, like W. C. Fields, prefers his or her babies well-done, to watch the video below and then not urge those of your acquaintance who are capable of procreating to do so immediately. This is one heck of a cute baby.

I can show you this video because The Child created a shared album in iPhoto where she plops new shots almost every day. If that sounds like Baby Photo Overload, then you are obviously not a grandparent. Not one who lives a whole continent away, anyway.

I’m only a continent away. His Dad’s family lives in Canada — where Mr. Baby is right now, get celebrated — and acclimatized

Okay, I’ve got to go soon. I’m going on a pan-generational visit next week — to see both my one-and-only mother and my one-and-only grandson — so I have a ton of obsessing to do.

Meanwhile, here’s another Happy Photo to close out a very Happy Year!

Amagansett, New York. The last day of the last month of 2024

 

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It’s a good thing this baby is so adorable

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‘Because he sure needs a lot of gear’

Poor UPS Guy. He and Amazon Man have run themselves ragged these past few weeks, delivering load after load of baby supplies to our house in Amagansett.

See, I’ve been getting ready for the much-anticipated Thanksgiving visit of The Child and SIL — and our brand spankin’ new GK.

Our GK getting ready for Thanksgiving

And I have to tell you, that kid needs a LOT of stuff. There’s diapers and wipes, sure. But also changing pads. Bottles and formula, natch. But also a sterilizer. Don’t get me wrong; I don’t mind. In fact, I volunteered to get supplies. They have to fly from San Francisco to get here. The least I can do is rustle up a baby bed.

The aforementioned sterilizer. I didn’t borrow one of these; they didn’t exist back then. Or at least I was unaware of them

After all, I figure the easier I make it for them to visit, the more often they’ll want to come. That baby bouncy chair is bait.

The bait, er, baby bouncy chair. It cleverly converts to a walker and a highchair for later use

The irony of all this acquisition is that I didn’t do any of this for my own baby. See, when I was expecting The Child, I was, well, a bit long in the tooth, motherhood-wise. When you’re pushing forty, it doesn’t make a lot of economical sense to buy a bunch of baby gear that you’ll probably only use for the one baby you’re apt to have.

The Child in her borrowed crib

So I borrowed stuff. Basically everything. I borrowed the crib, I borrowed the car seat. I borrowed the bouncy chair and the swing and, eventually, the highchair. I even borrowed baby clothes. They were hand-me-downs from boy cousins. What with her mostly-blue clothes and mostly-bald head, I got, “What’s his name?” a lot. 

Just for fun, here’s The Dude in his crib. Too bad we didn’t save that one. Or maybe it’s a good thing

Then, once The Child outgrew whatever it was, I gave it back to whomever I borrowed it from. Easy-peasy! Perhaps it would have been nice to have a crib or car seat in the attic to drag out for the GK’s visits, but the technology’s improved so much that we’d probably get arrested for using something so old — and so unsafe. I know that the crib we borrowed thirty years ago would definitely not pass muster. (Those wooden slats are head traps for sure. Yikes!)

GK in his own personal bouncy chair. Note warning labels. Though it says nothing about staying away from cats (Note: This cat stayed away from him)

So I got stuff. A lot of stuff. I drew the line at a Diaper Genie. (“Um, what’s wrong with garbage bags?”) And a changing table. (“Gee, when you were a baby, we, well, we laid you down on the bed.“) But I knuckled under on a lot of nice new baby gear.

Nice new bed all ready for nice new baby. Changing area (ie “bed,” in foreground)

And I did find some nice recycled things in the attic I think he’ll enjoy.

Some of The Child’s stuffed animals. Yup, these I saved

Happy Thanksgiving, one and all! “See” you next week.

My favorite photo (so far) of the amazing GK, here seen in a special bathtub. Nope, I didn’t get one of those. But I bet he won’t notice

Amagansett, New York. November 2024

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Forgive me for not posting in a while.

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‘I’ve been a bit, well, distracted.’

I was on the phone with a friend the other day (remember phone calls? remember friends?) when she said, “Gosh, you haven’t posted a story in a while!” Which is how I knew that A) She was, in fact, a friend, and a very good one at that, and B) that gosh, I haven’t posted a story in a while.

Well, I have a very good excuse. I mean, besides the fact that Dude Man and I were in Australia for five weeks. (That’s right, folks — five weeks. Four in Australia, plus one in Tasmania.)

Five weeks, people. Five weeks. But we sure covered a lot of ground. (And air)

My excuse? His name is Alexander Whitmore Leakos, and he was born on October 5, when we were roaming Little Desert National Park somewhere on the Southern half of the Australian continent. The New Parents were in San Francisco. (In spite of the time difference — it was 5:00 AM for us and noon the previous day for them — we were able to participate in a very satisfying Facetime call.)

The photo that greeted us at 5 AM

Needless to say, Dude Man and I are thrilled beyond measure to be grandparents. As I told The Child, “Now I can die; I have fulfilled my biological imperative. My genetic material (such as it is) has been passed on.”

My genetic material (or some of it, anyway) made flesh (fresh flesh, at that)

Of course, there isn’t much of my genetic material that’s discernible in this tiny person. This grandkid (shorthand for whom is to be GK) bears an uncanny resemblance to his father. It’s like someone took the SIL and put him in the dryer–on high.

I rest my case. All that baby needs is a teensy little beard

But who knows? Maybe he’s inherited my sparkling wit and/or engagingly hilarious personality. Heaven knows I’m glad he did not get my Swedish Head. (In case you don’t have one, and/or don’t know what the heck I’m talking about, read “What’s that in the road — a head?”.)

Baby doing his Thinker Thing. Note nicely-shaped noggin

Anyway. One of the first things The Child did (after our Facetime, that is) is invite us to join a shared photo album, where she’s been posting photos of our little GK practically every day. I’ll shut up and share a few:

Baby meets Grampa Wayne

Baby meets Uncle Scott (make that great-uncle) and Susan the Great

Baby meets Halloween. We weren’t there for this, but they still had the Mama, Papa and Baby Bear costumes

And one of the first things we did after we got back from Australia — well, actually it was the first thing we did — was visit all three of them in San Francisco. Quite literally it was the first thing. We got on a plane in Hobart, Tasmania, at 6:00 AM, then flew 14-some hours to SF, landing at 6:30 AM and Lyfting our way to their Haight-Ashbury pad in short order.

Baby goes out to dinner

More about our visit — oh, and some stuff about Australia too — when I can catch my breath. And when I can stop scrolling through that shared album.

Can’t resist sharing just this one more. Till next time!

Amagansett, New York. November 2024

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If peeky toes are clams, what are toma toes?

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‘How I scored a swell tee shirt.’

So. A friend and I were driving to a luncheon on Shelter Island (I know, I know. That sounds pretty fancy: a “luncheon.” And it was. Each summer that luncheon on Shelter Island is about as fancy as it gets. For me, anyway.)

No, this wasn’t served at that luncheon. This is a punchline sandwich

But back to that drive on Shelter Island.

My Sagaponack friend (Hi, Amy!) and I travel together to this shindig every summer. Sometimes she drives; sometimes I do. It’s actually fun to drive to Shelter Island — and even more fun if you have a friend along. You get to take a cute little ferry, for one thing.

Plus there are lots of clever signs for little oddball businesses. I used to take The Child up through Shelter Island to get to the Big Ferry at Orient Point, which was her jumping-off place to get to the train that took her back to Boston, and school. And every time I made that drive, I’d swear to stop off at this one tempting little antique/junk shop next time. (Of course, I never did. Maybe next year, hey, Amy?)

Amagansett has some pretty clever signs, too, like this one. Does this mean that farmers are surfers? Or that surfers are farmers? All I know is that their stuff is so $$$, it’s like eating wadded-up money

Anyway. This time, sure enough, clever signs. We passed one that said “Peeky Toe Clams.” Of course that sparked a few snarky remarks: “Peeky toe?!? What’s a “peeky toe?” Is it like your foot in a flip flop? Oh! I see. It’s a clam. That sort of thing. Cut us some slack. We’re two ladies driving, cracking each other up.

We didn’t need no stinkin’ farmstand when we were kids. We had Dad

Well. Right after the Peeky Toe Clam sign we see another one. This sign is white paint on a big ole piece of barn board, and it says “TOMA” on the top, and then, right below that, it says “TOES.”

So, I’m all like, “What on earth is a “toma toe?” If a “peeky toe” is a clam, I give up. What’s a “toma toe?”

And, there in the passenger seat, Amy is laughing so hard she practically activates her air bag. Finally, she gasps: “TOMATOES!!!” It’s “tomatoes!”

Oh.

A big ole platter of toma toes and mozzarella

So. Amy and I get to the luncheon, where I simply must tell this story. After all, if you can’t laugh at yourself, then you’re kind of a sorry sort, right? And besides, if I didn’t tell it, then Amy was bound to. She and I regale our table with the Toma Toe Tale. And, a few weeks later, I’m with a bunch of these same luncheon friends when I’m handed a little shopping bag with a red ribbon on the outside and a red-and-white surprise inside. (Thanks again for the tee shirt, Wendy!)

Here’s wishing all of you friends like mine — and the best end-of-season toma toes you can lay your hands on. I’m having some myself, tonight. With my ham burger.

My favorite new grilling outfit

Amagansett, New York. September 2024

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What I did this summer

Standard

‘A Seasonal Report from Lutheran Liar’

I’ve started seeing those end-of-summer posts on Facebook and Instagram. You know the ones. A fallen red maple leaf with a caption like “Finally!” or “Can’t happen soon enough!” And what’s with the pumpkin spice? They didn’t even wait for September.

Well, it is September. And this morning I woke up to a 60-degree morning so crisp I had to layer on a fleece for my bike ride. So okay, I get it. Fall is (ouch) here. But that doesn’t mean I’m happy about it. Nah, I like summer. Always have. And it always goes too fast for me. This year’s seemed even faster than usual, what with all the action packed into its sweaty little months.

The hammock got some use over Memorial Day, cradling our nephew Matt and wife Sharona. No time to use it since!

Memorial Day seems like a budding-green blur in the rearview; then it was June and our Dartmouth Reunion Adventure. (See “It’s Not Easy Being Big Green” for a madcap recap.)

With former roomie Sex (er, Lex) and wife Susan outside Dude Man’s dorm

Once we were over the excitement of being representatives of the 50th (gasp) Reunion Class, we were back to our usual Amagansett highjinks. Climbing up ladders and clipping things for The Dude. Knitting up garments large and small for me.

Dude scaling some heights to do some rope tying. Or something else equally precarious

On terra firma, doing something involving a rose bush my Dad got us. (Kite-board visible on top of Honda in the background; must not have been any wind at this moment)

People are always asking me, now that I’m retired, if I get bored. Actually, this is usually the question: “Aren’t you bored?” Well, actually, no. I divide my time into two blocks: Stuff I Have to Do, and Stuff I Want to Do. I try to do the “have to” stuff first, and by the time I do, it’s, like 3:00. And I haven’t even dipped into the “Want to” stuff yet (!)

So no. I’m not bored.

I mean, how could a person be bored with fascinating stuff like this to read?

Speaking of reading, my “subject” this summer was Alice Munro. For those of you who don’t already know this, each summer I pick an author I like (Edith Wharton, Virginia Woolf) or am curious about (Penelope Fitzgerald) or both (Larry McMurtry) and read a good biography while revisiting the writer’s works. This way, questions like “What the heck is with Ethan Frome?” get answered. It’s really fun; you should try it! The Alice project was, however, somewhat disappointing. The biography I read failed to mention that Alice’s second husband molested her daughter (!!!) And, hey, I don’t know about you, but I think that’s a pretty important piece of info to glean by accident from a Wikipedia entry instead of reading about at length in a biography.

I also read a lot of other stuff. This summer I dug into 70s fiction like Jaws and Stepford Wives and Diary of a Mad Housewife. The movies too! Delicious!!!

And there were more trips. I went to visit my Mom and Sister; the visit was enhanced by the surprise addition of The Child. Much fun was had by all generations. And dog.

Best place to be on a summer evening: Laura and Dave’s backyard

More backyard fun, with canine

After that, it was a coed baby shower to honor our Future Grandchild, placeholder name Zeus. San Franciscan Adventures ensued, including a brush with danger. (See “The Streets of San Francisco” for almost-gory details.)

How I picture The Child in my head

How The Child really looked at her baby shower. (Yes, that’s ecstatic me smack-dab next to her)

Oh, and somewhere in there this summer was a museum benefit featuring birds of prey, a visit from Dude Man’s sister and plenty of tomatoes and mozzarella. Not sure which of these was the most filling.

Fancy Hamptons party guest. With human

Fancy tomatoes for lunch. With cheese

Decidedly not fancy taco party. With Sister-in-Law. Somewhere in there (Or maybe she took the photo?)

Well. Time to wrap this up before this not-summer-but-feels-pretty-darned-spectacular day is over. I still have quite a bit of Fun Stuff to fit in.

I’ll leave you with this delightful photo of the Soon-to-Be-Parents, taken at their place in Flagstaff this past Labor Day Weekend. *sigh*

Amagansett, New York. September 2024

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