Author: lutheranliar

This summer’s cornucopia

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‘We reaped a bumper crop of guests.’

I’m not quite sure how it happened, but this season our house virtually runneth over with friends and family.

Dude Man tour-guiding his College Roommate Ken. That’s the Montauk LIghthouse behind them

We had kids and grandkids and roommates from college and friends from work. Our own Child and Fam (two adults and two little boys under two) were in residence for — hold on to your Valium bottle — ten days and nine nights. 

This would have been on about Day Five

And those were just the peeps we had staying with us. Our day-tripper contingent included friends from the City, friends from down the street, a friend from Florida, and a whole passel of little kids at a pool party where I almost set the house on fire when my Weber flamed up.

Watermelon on the deck. Delicious — and not flammable

It’s not every year that we find ourselves hosting housefuls. Recent summers have been downright lonesome. I guess it’s kinda like Wedding Waves: you and your friends get married, then your younger cousins get married, then your nieces and nephews, than your own kids, and then, if you hang around long enough, your grandkids do. (I’ll be more than 100 when Mr. Baby reaches marryin’ age. All the more reason to enjoy him now, sticky little fingers and all.)

This year, prodigious as it was, houseguest-wise, we were lacking some guests that were former “regulars”. Like nieces and nephews. Our chocolate-factory owning relatives from the Boston area came every summer with their three daughters beginning when their now-15-year-old was in diapers. Alas, these adorable grand-nieces have turned into Busy Teens with Schedules and Jobs.

Wayne reads to one of the Adorable Grand-Nieces. This was — gasp — ten summers ago.

We also missed our siblings, a category that was a sure-fire staple in summers past. (Come back, Scott and Laura and Roger and Doug and Bill and Polly!) I get it, though. They all have grown kids and/or grandkids to visit in the summers.

Oh, and there for a while we had beaucoup de classmates of The Child’s who would come out to enjoy the beach and the pool. (There’s that Waves Theory again; the school friends graduate and relocate. *Sigh*)

A batch of The Child’s friends waiting for the Jitney after a summer weekend. They’re all married moms now

Whatever the reason, our Houseguest Wave this summer resumed its peak, and — aside from the mountains of towels and sheets to be laundered and the dozens of trips to the IGA and the dump to be endured — we were thrilled to bits to have the company. (For a story about guests we’ve been less than thrilled to host, see “The Houseguest Hall of Fame.”)

Equally thrilled to kick back a bit

What’s next? We’re taking our own turn at house-guesting. We’re imposing ourselves on The Child out in their new digs in the Bay Area, and then a couple of weeks later we’re inflicting ourselves on my Youngest Younger Brother and his wife up in Maine.

Better go pick out a couple of hostess gifts.

Amagansett, New York. August 2026

 

 

 

On the street where you live

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‘Going down Memory Lane. Literally.’

Their Haight-Ashbury dwelling bursting at the seams with the addition of another objectively adorable baby, The Child and the SIL recently moved house. Which means that, so far, as a couple, they have lived in four different places.

Not counting the almost-year during Covid when they lived in this camper van (!)

This got me thinking about all the different places I’ve lived. I’ll start at the very beginning — because, as we all know from The Sound of Music, it’s a very good place to start.

I was born in Champaign (I love saying that out loud) where my Dad was getting his engineering degree at the University of Illinois. I’m pretty sure that, at the time, they were living in a room above a garage. There is additional family lore that my bed was a dresser drawer. Alas, there is no photographic evidence. (And, *sigh*, there is no one left to ask. See “Holidays on Edge” for bittersweet deets.)

This could be at the dresser-drawer place or, more likely due to my size, at “Vine Grove, Tuckey” (which is how I adorably lisped it)

But I do have a picture of my next residence. That’s it at the top of this post. The photo was in a batch sent to me by my Favorite Only Sister; written on the back in Mom’s handwriting is “Vine Grove, Kentucky.” This is where we lived while my Dad was stationed at Fort Knox. (He was in the Air Force.)

Chilling on the porch at Gramma’s house during my full-time tenure there

I don’t remember anything about that place, but I do remember where I lived next, because it was my Gramma Peterson’s house. We stayed there while my Dad was stationed in Korea. (How he got sent there is a pretty good story — involving secret papers and handcuffs — you can check it out at “Kissing Daddy Goodnight.”)

Mom (stage right) and me with the whole Peterson Crew: Gramma, Grampa, and my Aunt Marilyn, who was in high school and, of course, still living at home

After my Dad got back (in one piece, thank goodness) we moved back to Champaign and lived in a little bungalow in sort of a compound where a bunch of other glamorous-looking young married people had bungalows too. Everybody had little kids. I remember running in a pack following this guy Casey on his great big riding lawn mower. Heady stuff when you’re, say, four.

Mom and some of her many equally-glam friends

My parents had just built a little house — I remember it was painted blue — when my Dad’s company transferred him to Memphis. My mother was so unhappy. She told me that, during this period, she had absolutely no friends. Sorry if you’re from Memphis, but she said people were “friendly, but not your real friends.” Also, she got mistaken for a stripper. (Which, BTW, is an excellent story: “My Mom, the ‘Party Girl.'”)

Me in Memphis with the Cat that Never Had a Proper Name. We just called him “Kitty.” Oh — I have never been mistaken for a stripper *sigh*

Actually, I rather enjoyed the Memphis Years. I started school there, which is always a big deal, and had some cool adventures. Like, Elvis Presley called me a “cute little girl.” (Yup. You can read about that, too, in “The King and I”.) We lived in three places in Memphis: the big house near the college where we had a couple of college-boy renters, a ranch house somewhere where one of the college boys continued to live with us .(He roomed with my Middle Brother Roger, explained in “That’s My Bob”.) And, finally, we lived in a rambling place ever-after known as The House on The Lake. This place was memorable. My Mom found a snake behind the washing machine and another time a mouse ran up my brother’s pant leg.

All three extant Henry Kids gussied up for Easter outside the House on the Lake

This takes us up to 1960, when we moved to Carlyle, Illinois. This is where my Favorite Younger Sister and Youngest Younger Brother were born and where my family lived for the next — gasp — 47 years. The Carlyle Years surely deserve a post all their own.

Soon.

Amagansett, New York. August 2026.

My Gramanxiety Attack

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‘I’ve got the pre-grandkids-visit jitters’

I woke up this morning at 4:30 and could not get back to sleep. I was having one of those dreams where you’re trying to do something impossible and/or scary and are thwarted (I just love the word “thwart”) at every turn. In my case it was trying to climb down from a really tall tower — on a horse. (I’m really scared of heights AND horses). It was too late to pop a pill, so I got up and made coffee.

Well, looks like somebody’s not afraid of horses

And fretted. No, not about heights, or even horses. (A fear of heights is self-evident; my equine fear stems from horses drooling and peeing on me in addition to not paying attention at ALL to my feeble commands and running amok with me clinging to their manes and/or reins.)

Our other adorable grandson, Baby Too, sporting his big brother’s outgrown beanie (or “toque” as they are known in Canada)

My fretting had to do with the fact that my two adorable grandsons are coming to visit and staying for a week and two days. (Their parents are coming as well, but that’s not a fact that lessens the anxiety.)

I’ve discovered that this pre-visit anxiety is more common than one would think. Why, my friend Amy, who is one of the coolest, calmest persons I know, admits to feeling stress when her granddaughters visit. It’s not that we don’t know what to do with kids — Amy raised three of them — but it’s that we feel discombobulated with all the new parenting mores and folkways. (I’ve written about one aspect of this before: See “It’s a Good Thing This Baby is so Adorable” for a piece about the abundance of gear these babies require.)

The Powers That Be would have me arrested if I tried to reuse The Child’s crib. No can do, since long ago I gave it back to the person I borrowed it from

To prepare for this upcoming visit, I’ve already ordered another Pack ‘n Play (a portable crib that simply everyone has; I wish I owned Graco stock), plus a highchair. I’m thinking about getting a pail and shovel for the beach. And maybe some toy trucks. The Child on our last FaceTime call, broadcast from their Canadian Family Visit, after I noticed Mr. Baby playing with a couple of trucks: “Aunt Susan has lots of toys.” (Note: Aunt Susan has no children.)

Who needs toys? Mr. Baby has room to roam visiting his Canadian family

As for me, I can’t recall owning much gear. I do remember tying Her Childness to a kitchen stool with a bathrobe sash. A high chair seemed like a bad investment at the time. After all, we had just the one kid.

Having fun bathing just the one kid in our just the one bathtub

And. even more disconcerting than all the gear, there’s the difference in the parenting folkways. Way back when, it was the grownups that ruled the roost — or so it seemed at the time. It was “time for bath” and “time for bed” and, so heavenly,  “naptime.” Now everything is sort of kid-driven. It’s “he might get tired in the jogging stroller” and “looks like he’s hungry.” Speaking of “looks like he’s hungry”, there’s a lot of running-around-while-eating. Maybe I can send the highchair back. Although he’s getting his kicks while seated in one, here:

Thank you all for the opportunity to vent. I feel so much better now. I’m ordering some shovels and trucks the second I post this. Meanwhile, I know that, when all else fails, there’s bathtime:

Amagansett, New York. July 2026

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.

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

 

 

 

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

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

 

 

“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

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

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