Grampa Redux

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‘Some big shoes are being filled.’

This past weekend we visited The Kids out in San Francisco, and I kept thinking of this old TV show, “The Real McCoys”, where Walter Brennan plays Grandpappy Amos, the patriarch of a large family. Theme song (from memory, mind you): “That’s Grandpappy Amos, he’s head of the clan. Roars like a lion but he’s gentle as a lamb…”

A very fresh baby meets his very own Senor Grampa

I’d see The Dude holding Junior Baby or playing with Alexander (AKA Mr. Baby) and what would play in my head (other than the afore-mentioned theme song, that is)? “Senor Grampa! Senor Grampa!” Which is what the Mexican farmhand would yell when something exciting happened.

(I don’t know about you, but if I were Grandpappy Amos, I’d much prefer being addressed as “Senor Grampa.”)

Senor Grampa! My dad lighting sparklers for some random youngster who’s not even one of his grandkids

But back to the two Grampas that figure in this story.

The Child measuring her Grampa’s head

The first is my own father, who died an astonishing seventeen years ago (in June 2009). He was an epic grampa to The Child and to seven other lucky grandkids.

Grampa initiating The Child into the secrets of the TV remote

He was a very hands-on grampa because not only did he genuinely enjoy kids, he was really a kid himself — just in grownup disguise.

Grampa sharing the delights of unwrapping presents

He had a real sense of fun, and The Child enjoyed visiting him even when she wasn’t under obligation to do so.

Pubescent Child flanked by both proud GPs on a strictly voluntary visit

The Child’s grampa’s shoes are mighty hard to fill. But I’m happy to say that The Dude has stepped up in a big way. I see him with Mr. Baby or his little brother Junior Baby, and what plays in my head? Yup. “Senor Grampa! Senor Grampa!”

Grampa Dude pushes strollers and carriages, totes babies in backpacks, makes silly faces galore and wields a baby bottle with aplomb. He’s even an expert burper. And I don’t mean his own burps, which can be prodigious, especially after a beer.

Learning the ins and outs of pool with Dad and Grampa (burps properly stifled)

Dude Man has strutted his Grampa Stuff from coast to coast — from the Hamptons to the Catskills, from Golden Gate Park to Central Park, from the streets of San Francisco to Park Avenue. And he never misses a beat.

Grampa doing the toting last fall in the Catskills

Best of all, nobody — but nobody — reads a book aloud better than he does. Just watch:

The Child’s Grampa would be proud.

The end.

New York, New York. June 2026.

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Pregnant pause

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‘A brief interlude when neither The Child nor any of her friends were expecting’

You may have read some alarming pieces lately saying that the birth rate is low and going lower, and blaming this decline on everything from the economy to iPhones.

Using our iPhones to FaceTime with both babies at once

Well, the people who are writing these stories must not know my daughter or her friends. She and her cohort, iPhone-users all, are busily working on a new demographic, popping out babies right and left.

Most of The Child’s buddies have at least one youngster and several of these, including Her Childness herself, have a second.

The SIL, AKA Dad, enjoying both first and second baby

Things seemed to be slowing down a bit, gestation-wise, when Dude-Man’s nephew and wife came for a New York visit. I had even stashed my baby-sweater patterns and teensy needles.

Second baby (and sweater-recipient) belonging to one of The Child’s friends

But not so fast. The young couple had just stepped through the little red door of the Ken and Barbie House for a pre-dinner cocktail when my eyes were drawn to the Young Missus’s midsection.

She noticed my gaze, nodded and gave me a beatific smile. Needless to say, The Dude and I were thrilled. I was also vastly relieved that I didn’t have to guess whether she was pregnant. I’ve been burned before — once with an Aunt (“But Mom! She looked like she was having a baby!”) and once when I asked a fellow elevator passenger when she was due. “I am NOT pregnant,” she huffed. It was a icily silent ride to the 22nd floor, where we both got off and proceeded to a conference room where we spent four tense days judging an advertising creative show together.

Pregnant or not? The Child was actually preggers in this photo. She just hadn’t told us yet

From that day on, I never ever ask if anyone is pregnant. The person could be howling and panting on the floor, and nope, my lips stay locked. Though I have to say, it’s harder to tell these days since there seems to be no real distinction between maternity clothes and regular clothes-clothes. The bathing suit in the photo at the top of this post is not a maternity suit per se. Though I suppose it has to be, since The Child is pregnant while wearing it. See? Confusing.

The Child wearing an actual dress repurposed as maternity clothes. And yes, that’s a Waymo

In my case, which I’ve written about before, in “Burn this, please”, I only owned one piece of actual maternity clothing, making due with oversized items in my own closet and borrowing from The Dude’s as well.

This is me, hugely pregnant and wearing the only thing that fit at the time — the soon-to-be-burned overall

I was somewhere in my eighth month — when nothing fit but that godawful stone-washed overall and when I could no longer shave my legs or tie my shoes — when I realized that any fear I may have had about the actual birth process was completely gone. I was so tired of being pregnant I would have gladly given birth through a nostril or even an enlarged pore. Anything to get that baby out.

And here she was.

Just hours old, The Child in all her stonewashed-stretching glory

New York City. June 2026

 

 

 

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Seeing red

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‘Sorry I haven’t posted in a while. But I have a couple of good reasons why.’

I’m sure you’ve all been on tenterhooks wondering where I’ve been and/or why I haven’t been regaling you with stories about memories and/or minutiae.

Nah. You have lives.

Well, me too. And, lately, my life has been heating up considerably.

Here’s JPWL. Or at least part of him. Only a few hours old, and he already gets a grip on the world

Say hello to John Ptolemy Whitmore Leakos, henceforth to be known as Junior Baby. (Mr. Baby is still “Mr. Baby”. I tried “Mr. Boy”, but it just didn’t stick. Maybe when he’s six. Or sixteen.)

Here’s Mr. Baby showing us his little brother:

So far, so good. We’ll see.

Speaking of seeing, I thought I was seeing double when I got a gander at the fresh baby. Not only do they both have red hair — which is remarkable because neither of their parents have red hair — but they resemble each other very much indeed. Even more than regular run-of-the-mill babies do.

That’s Mr. Baby in the photo — at the same age as Junior Baby, stage left

When I saw this picture, I said these two were “the Model T of babies”, to which my Oldest Younger Brother Scott replied, “with hair in any color. As long as it’s red.” I had to explain this cultural reference to The Child. If you too are young enough to need some splainin’, congratulations. And here you go: Henry Ford quote explained.

The source of the red hair? Nah. She’s not actually related to them. Though you sure can’t tell from this picture

Okay. Confession time. I said I had a “couple of good reasons” why I had not posted lately. One reason is, in fact, the new baby. The other is not, in fact, the extant baby. (Though he does take up a lot of mind space.)

The other reason is the French Open, otherwise known as Roland Garros. (It is played on red clay…so that’s another reason I’m “seeing red.”)

Seeing red, tennis-style

I won’t bore you with tennis trivia. Though, suffice it to say, I know a heck of a lot of it. And I don’t even play tennis. I just happen to adore it. Tennis is like physical chess — it takes brains plus brawn. It also takes a heck of a lot of time to watch.

Timing is perfect, though. The men’s final is this weekend, which means I will be able to devote full and absolute attention to those red-headed babies when we see them in person in a couple of weeks.

Till then, I’m feasting my eyes on scenes like this:

Kalinskya lost. But I won. I get tennis to watch and babies to squeeze

And yes, of course, like this.

Mr. Baby reading to Junior B

New York City. June 2026

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Playing medical Whack-A-Mole

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‘So many doctors, so little time.’

I just got back from The City, which is what people in New York call New York. (Note: No one ever calls it “The Big Apple.” So don’t. Just don’t. Also note: If you ask someone where they’re from and they say “New York,” they mean The City. If they’re from somewhere else in New York State, they say “Buffalo.”)

So. What was I doing in Not-The-Big-A? Window-shopping on Madison Avenue? Exhibit-hopping at the Museum of Natural History? Maybe hiking along the High Line? Nah. I was getting a mammogram. Also one of those icky pelvic sonograms.

Actually hiking the High Line. Highly recommend

Yes, I have reached that point in my life where visits to The City are planned around appointments with doctors. Sooooo many doctors.

No, I’m not going to show you pics of my doctors. Well, except in the photo at the top of this post. That’s my favorite doctor, the one I’m married to, taken inside the Met. This photo here was taken outside the Met. With no doctor

Now, there’s nothing particularly wrong with me. But every time I see a doctor, I need to see another doctor. Say I go to the dermatologist. He looks me over and sends me to a different dermatologist who specializes in whatever that skin thingie is on my leg. He takes said skin thingie off, but then I have to go to yet another doctor to get sewn up. See? Whack-A-Mole.

Another shot taken inside a museum with a favorite person, this time MoMA and The Child

And it doesn’t let up. The general guy sends you to the heart guy. The bone guy sends you to the pain guy. Or the eye guy (like Dr. Dude) sends you to the retina guy. I even have a hand guy who once saw me for arthritis. Lately it’s been acting up, but in my feet. So I guess I can’t go back to him. Though maybe that’s not a bad thing. When I asked what I could do about the arthritis, he said, “Get different parents.” 

Outside the Metropolitan Opera with The Child and the SIL

When I was a kid, our family had two doctors: a regular doctor and a dentist. When I grew to young adulthood, I still only had two doctors. But now they were a dentist and a gynecologist. I used to tease my dentist that he should invent a new specialty called “dentecology,” so that women like me could get both ends tended to in one visit. Easy-peasy. All he’d need was an exam chair that tilted both ways.

Strolling Fifth Avenue with the Louis Vuitton store as backdrop. I was probably on the way to the dentist

Now that I’m on the Far Side of Seventy, my doctors are legion. And, as I mentioned, there’s nothing alarming about my condition — nothing that a time machine couldn’t fix. I honestly can’t imagine what would happen to my doctor-studded schedule should I become certifiably ill.

The Central Park reservoir on a pretty day, no doctors in sight

Ironically enough, there is one doctor I never see. That’s my ophthalmologist, AKA Dr. Dude. Just like the shoemaker’s kids have no shoes, this eye doc’s wife never has an appointment. He tells me to “just stop by” and he’ll “squeeze me in.” Which, of course, never happens. Though, trust me, I see plenty of him nights and weekends.

The doctor I “see” most often — just not in his office

Amagansett, New York. April 2026

 

 

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“Is that…YOU?!?”

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‘On discovering a Fourth Age of Man.’

This very interesting New Yorker writer named Calvin Tompkins recently died. It wasn’t a sad, tragic death; after all, he made it to his 100th birthday last year. The reason I know about this is that he wrote a fascinating sort of “countdown to 100” journal that was published in the magazine a few months ago.

Here’s a link to the piece, which is well worth reading. But you need a New Yorker subscription to do so. Just in case you don’t, here’s the beginning:

“Old age is no joke, but it can feel like one. You look everywhere for your glasses, until your wife points out that you’re wearing them. I turn a hundred this year. People act as though this is an achievement, and I suppose it is, sort of. Nobody in my family has lived this long, and I’ve been lucky. I’m still in pretty good health, no wasting diseases or Alzheimer’s, and friends and strangers comment on how young I look, which cues me to cite the three ages of man: Youth, Maturity, and You Look Great.”

Me with my Mom. I had reached the “Sisters, right?” stage by the time this photo was taken

Now that’s the part I wanted you to see: Youth, Maturity, and You Look Great. I’m sorry to say that, even though I’m nowhere near 100, not only have I reached “You Look Great” … I think I’ve reached a whole new level.

Here’s the story.

Dude Man and I were hosting one of his nephews and his wife for the weekend. They haven’t been married all that long, and she expressed an interest in learning more about the Dude Family Line, which is, of course, her family line too.

Young Wife’s future husband is in this shot. And yes, that’s Dude Man behind The Child. But you knew that

So I obligingly got out some family photo albums. While paging through and pointing out Dude’s parents and sisters and brothers (including Miss Young Wife’s future in-laws), we came across this photo:

Dude Man and me on our wedding day. Note that Young Wife had no trouble recognizing His Dudeness

Young Wife took one look and said, pointing at my face, “Is that…YOU?!?” 

Now, let me give you a sec to absorb that. Try saying it out loud, remembering the dramatic pause and the emphasis on the word “you.”

She would most certainly not have recognized me here. Come to think of it, I’m not sure I do

I would argue that this remark totally tops “You look great.” And that it should henceforth be considered unutterable by anyone looking at a family photo. (You can think “Is that…YOU?!?”, but please please don’t say it.)

I give you permission to say it on gazing at this photo. After all, I am a toddler here

Since I adore this young woman, I cut her some slack. Though I did sweetly point out that she probably shouldn’t use this sentence again. I mean, unless the someone in the photo is in disguise or wearing a costume or in a scuba suit…well, you get the idea.

I’ll end with a very nice photo taken just a couple of weeks ago. In my humble opinion, all of us, admittedly, look pretty “great.” Though nowhere near Calvin Tompkins “great.”

Oldest Younger Bro Scott, Main Squeeze and me in the middle of Looking Great

New York City. April 2026

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Water Babies

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‘Born to love the beach.’

Recently, I had the good fortune to spend some time with The Child and the SIL and their growing family. (They are expecting another addition in May. Also a boy — so we’ll have a brand-new Mr. Baby; the current baby is hereby promoted to “Mr. Kid.”)

Mom and Kid testing the waters. New Mr. Baby is in the shot too…just not visible (yet)

We did lots of fun things in San Francisco, but right up there at the tippy-top on the fun scale was our afternoon at Ocean Beach. SF was suffering though an unprecedented heat wave. (87 degrees!) So the beach seemed like a fine idea — even though it was mid-March.

Also in March — but not in 87-degree weather — Mr. Kid takes to the waters of Lake Tahoe

The Child had just purchased a protective swim outfit for Mr. Kid, but once he saw the water, he wrestled himself free from her outfit-changing hands and charged right into a nearby tide pool. So what if he got his sweatpants wet — he was ecstatic!

Ecstatic toddler, now clad in swim gear, charging around the tide pool

The Child was just like that when she was his age. I clearly recall her very small diaper-clad form lighting out for the surf every chance she got. Luckily for her, both Dude Dad and Grampa Whit were water lovers.

Dad and Grampa introduce the Baby Child to the water

Me, I wasn’t born to love the beach. I grew up in the very midst of the Great Midwest, and didn’t clap my eyes on a beach till I was darn-near fully grown. To be clear, I’m not counting the “beaches” next to lakes. They can be sandy, true. But the water adjacent to them basically just sits there; one does not learn about waves or tides or eddies, nor does one learn to respect the sea puss.

Me, enjoying the bathwater-like waters of Lake Carlyle. (But learning absolutely nothing about how to deal with oceans)

It takes an ocean to learn to deal with the ocean. Thankfully, over the years I’ve more or less gotten the hang of it, though I did learn some lessons the hard way. On my first visit to an Atlantic Ocean beach I was waving gaily to my batch of Ogilvy friends on shore when they got all wide-eyed and put their hands to their mouths in dismay: a giant wave was coming. It knocked me over and spun me around like a rag doll in a washing machine. I lost my sunglasses, my bikini top and my dignity. But I learned never to turn my back on the waves.

Yes, The Child has been fully waterproofed and oceanized from a very early age. Why, she’s practically a fish.

The Child demonstrating her Fish Face while modeling a Fish Head she made in school

Knowing The Child and the SIL, I’m sure the new Mr. Baby will also be developing gills. In the meantime, I’m sending happy thoughts out to the Coast.

Happy Beach Day, All!

Amagansett, New York. March 2026

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A seat at the table

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‘Did you always sit in the same place at dinner?’

When I was a kid, my Dad had “his” place at the dinner table — and god help you if you sat in it. It was at the head, of course.

I honestly can’t recall where “my” place was — and I definitely don’t remember how our places were originally allotted — but I do know that each and every one of us five kids had a designated spot at the Henry dinner table.

Dad, at the head of the table, dispensing treats to Hermie and Roger. Roger had a “place;” Hermie didn’t. Unless it was under the table

Was this just a Midwestern Thing? Or a Midcentury Modern Thing? Do families still do this?

Dude Man and I had “our” places at our circa-1984 newlywed table

Even though my own personal nuclear family had just three members — Dude Man, me and The Child — we each had “our” spot at dinner. Our dining table was a rather large drop-leaf model. Our regular dinnertime default position was to sit along one side: Dude Man at one end, me at the other, with The Child smack-dab in the middle. (Breakfast was more casual; kitchen-counter catch-can. And lunch? Well, lunch was at work or school.)

Our dining table with flaps fully extended for a Tree Trim party (a festive tradition you can read about here)

Out in Amagansett, even though it’s usually just The Dude and me these days, we have “our” spots — which, coincidentally or not — are the same ones we started out with: two seats at one end across from each other.

The Amagansett table gets a workout at holidays, too. Pictured here: a post-Thanksgiving game of Schmeeg

Oddly enough, when Dude Man and I were on our recent Antarctic Adventure, people tended to sit in the same place at meals. The Dude and I liked the starboard dining room at breakfast with the self-contained Germans. At dinner, we liked the port side with the livelier East Asians. And yes, we usually sat not only in the same section, but in the same seats. If somebody else was sitting there, it felt…odd.

Some penguins dining ashore. That’s our ship, complete with two dining rooms, in the distance.

As far as I can tell, The Child and the SIL aren’t doing the Same Seat At Dinner Thing. Perhaps it’s a generational thing? Is having the same seat at dinner kind of like using a rotary phone?

For one thing, they eat out pretty often. Maybe they sit at the same table?

Because they have crazy schedules, there’s also quite a bit of grazing. Not worrisome (to them, anyway), since it’s supposed to be a good thing to eat when you’re hungry…not when it’s time. Sometimes, when visiting, I get odd looks when I ask what time they’d like dinner on the table. “Time? Table? I was going to go for a run later (!)”

Forget about sitting in the same seats — sometimes they don’t even sit

All of this, for me anyway, has taken a bit of getting used to. But I’m getting there. You know that old chestnut: “I don’t care what you call me, as long as you call me for dinner.” I guess you could amend that to: “I don’t care when I sit — or where I sit — as long as I’m somewhere near you.”

Relaxing our dining-table standards, one set of feet at a time

Amagansett, New York. March 2026

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Holidays on edge

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‘Teetering on the brink with no buffer.’

You know that your Spring Chickenhood has expired when you open the Times and see a piece titled “This is the Year Millennials Officially Got Old.” Especially if the “old” millennials of your acquaintance happen to be your daughter and her friends.

My Aging Millennial in my mind’s eye

Heavy sigh goes here.

It’s not that this is a depressing notion. It’s more like it’s surprising.

I’ve mentioned (well, moaned and whined) before that I don’t mind getting old so much. My late lamented Dad felt otherwise. When challenged in his later years to, say, get up out of a chair, Dad used to famously mutter, “Don’t get old.” To which one of us kids would usually reply, “Um, Dad, what’s my other choice?”

The Child making sure my Dad’s head is not too old to stay attached securely

Nope, for me it’s not the getting old part I mind so much. After all, Equally-Old Dude Man and I are still up for gallivanting around the world chasing birds and adventure. (See “Channeling My Inner Shackleton” or “New Guinea was a Once-in-a-Lifetime Experience” for examples of elderly derring-do.)

What I do mind is how much faster getting older is getting. It feels like I’ve just scoured out the Thanksgiving roasting pan and stowed it in the hard-to-get-to cabinet on top of the refrigerator when it’s time to climb on a chair and wrestle it down again. (When I can no longer do this is when I pass the Thanksgiving Baton on to someone younger and fitter.)

And when I can no longer do this, I’m hanging it up for good

But what’s been really getting to me lately is that, getting-older-wise, I no longer have a generational buffer. My grandparents, of course, are long gone. But also gone are oodles of aunts and uncles. My Dad was one of eight; my Mom was the oldest of five. All are gone. Even Aunt Marilyn, she of “A Very Marilyn Christmas” fame, is now up there in the Santa Land of the Sky.

Aunt Marilyn when she was a buffer in high school

 

Even Dude Man’s buffer has been wiped out. I have lovely memories of his grandmother, Elsie. But that’s all I have. Same with his parents. His much-beloved Aunt Eleanor, with whom we were both very close, (See “She Put the ‘Giving’ in Thanksgiving”) slipped this mortal coil a couple of years ago.

Eleanor celebrates the Big 9-0. She would celebrate eight more

But, even when everyone else was disappearing, there was always my mother. Until there wasn’t. (See “Beautiful Swan” for some bittersweet remembrances. Or “The One Time Families Get Together” for an account of her memorial weekend.)

Mom, surrounded by accolades at her Memorial

So now here I am. Teetering on the edge, and with absolutely no buffer. Good thing I’ve got this instead:

It’s rather nice being their buffer

Amagansett, New York. December 2025.

 

 

 

 

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If you see my sister tomorrow, please don’t wish her “Merry Christmas”

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‘Wish her “Happy Birthday” instead, and watch her face light up.’

It’s tough having a December birthday. Everyone’s so gosh-darned busy decorating and caroling and partying that they tend to forget that some people actually celebrate their natal day this month. People other than the Christ Child himself, I mean.

Like my sister. Her birthday not only falls in December, it’s on December 18. Which means it’s exactly one week before Christmas Day. Talk about atrocious timing.

Baby Laura. Not celebrating her birthday, but looking extremely cute

To her credit, our late great sainted mother would make an appropriate fuss on Laura’s birthday, as she did for all our birthdays. I remember that we kids used to say that “Christmas was for everybody, but birthdays were only for us.” Having a special day — with its attendant special fuss — is important in a big family.

A bit of our family hullabaloo on a random Christmas morning. And this isn’t even all of our family

We’d get to pick what we had for dinner on our birthday night — I can’t recall any of us choosing liver — and we also got to pick what kind of birthday cake we wanted. My Oldest Younger Brother Scott always specified a birthday pie because he was fonder of pie than cake. (Yes, his pie was adorned with candles.)

Laura and our sainted mom on her birthday last year

But back to my Favorite Only Sister. This year she celebrates not only an Important Big Milestone year-wise, but she is celebrating being a grandmother.

(I simply must digress here. It is nigh onto impossible for me to wrap my head around the fact that my baby sister who, in my mind’s eye is about eight years old, is now a grandmother.)

Favorite Only Sister Laura as she appears in my mind’s eye

Yes, Laura’s daughter Natalie has a freshly-produced bouncing baby girl, little Sydney. This girl is the spittin’ image of her mama and is already not only extremely adorable, but extraordinarily chatty:

I think she’s saying “Happy Birthday, Gramma!”

So. If you’re lucky enough to see my sister tomorrow — or any time this month — please do wish her a very happy birthday. She will love it. Just don’t add that you’re going to get her “one big present” for both her birthday and Christmas.

Amagansett, New York. December 2025

 

 

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We had a little turkey this Thanksgiving.

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‘But there was more than enough to go around’

Sigh. It’s been a little over a week since we bid good-bye to Thanksgiving and waved a reluctant hello to the Christmas season. Which, god help us, seems to be getting earlier every year. Not to get all Scrooge-like, but I like to polish off the turkey leftovers before decking my halls.

No, this wasn’t this year’s turkey, as famously introduced in “Flipping the Bird”. But. trust me, it looked much the same. As did my outfit

This year we didn’t actually have any leftovers. Even though this year’s turkey was a whopping 23 pounds — oddly enough, just about the same weight as Mr. Baby — by Saturday there was nothing left but bones. (Mr. Turkey’s, not Mr. Baby’s.)

Mr. Baby en route from SF, settling in with some inflight reading material

Speaking of Mr. Baby (um, which I do a lot), he and his parents were our special guests again this year, along with Grownup Besties Jim and Phyllis. (Yes, that Jim and Phyllis, of “Caterwauling in the Catskills” fame.)

Mr. Baby hangs with Jim and Grampa

We rounded out our festive table with some local relations varying in age from a few months to a few years over 70.

We had more than one little turkey at the table this year

We “did” the dinner and the pies and the games and, next day, the hiking and the demolishing of whatever meager leftovers were left. (No sweet potatoes or brussels sprouts; just a wee bit of stuffing and gravy and a few shreds of turkey.)

Though, this year, the hike was cut short by cold-baby-fussiness and a shortcut via railroad tracks almost ended in tragedy when a train unexpectedly rounded a curve and almost eliminated our branch of the Whitmore Clan in one fell swoop.

Walking off the pies on the beach. Where we did not run into any trains

Except for nearly getting wiped off the face of the earth, this Thanksgiving ranked right up there with the best. As I’ve said in many a post, in my humble opinion Thanksgiving beats Christmas by the gravy boatload. No cards, no gifts (well, maybe some wine), no decorations, and, best of all, no carols. (Who wants to hear “Little Drumstick Boy” on endless repeat?)

As for Christmas, we are somewhat resigned to the fact that Thanksgiving will be “ours”, while Christmas will be claimed by the the Saskatoon Clan. It seems only fair, since there are scads of them. The Other Grampa has two brothers and three sisters, which means, for Mr. Baby, many aunts and uncles to spoil him and many cousins with which to create mayhem.

In the meantime, speaking of Christmas, we’ve got this year’s card nailed:

Amagansett, New York. December 2025

 

 

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