Family Nonsense

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

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

What I did this summer

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‘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

What’s not to like about a wedding?

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‘Even the bits that aren’t the actual wedding are fun.’

Yesterday was the second anniversary of The Child’s second wedding. Yes, she has been married twice — but to the same person. The first wedding took place on the rim of the Grand Canyon. This was in 2021, during the pandemic, so nobody could go. But you can read all about it — and gaze at some pretty awesome photos — in “Runaway Bride.”

Yes, folks, I have been known to exaggerate. But not this time. The Child and the SIL were actually married on this very spot. Sorry I couldn’t be there. Sort of

The second wedding, the one that took place August 13, 2022, is the one whereof I speak — and the one whereof I wrote, in “Two Weddings are Better than One”.

Wedding #2. You can see Dude Man and I happily — and safely — seated right there in the front row. *sigh*

This one took place in stunning Lake Louise in the Canadian Rockies, and was an incredibly entertaining event for one and all lucky enough to be asked and gracious enough to attend, including all my siblings and their better halves. You can see a sampling in the photo at the top of this post, enjoying one of the non-actual-wedding bits. (I think it was a hike.)

There’s our friend Huw, who travelled from afar for an excuse to wear his Dad’s cool dinner jacket. (Kidding! Thank you, Huw!)

Yes, this wedding was fun. Super-fun, in fact. But so was all the other stuff before and after. And not just at this wedding. I’ll shut up and show you some of my favorite parts of weddings.

Here’s the Dude Man escorting his Clone Child down the aisle

There’s the getting ready. I don’t usually get to participate in this, but I sure did at the Lake Louise “do,” actually getting a “do.” (I told the sweet makeup artist to make me look “like myself, only better.” Which she accomplished so well I didn’t wash my face or hair till the next day.)

A gaggle of gals getting ready before the wedding. You can’t check out my really nice hair and makeup because I was taking the picture. (Oh! We got to sip champagne while being “done.” Forgot to mention that superfine detail)

After the ceremony, there’s — of course! — the reception. What with the free drinks and the free food and the mingling and the toasting, I must admit that this is My Very Favorite Part of weddings. Sometimes — like if it’s a very long, very religious ceremony or in an unair-conditioned church with super-hard benches — I enjoy it even more than the wedding itself. I mean, who wouldn’t?

Also fun: the newly-married couple entering the reception. Here’s The Child and SIL

And here’s another freshly minted couple entering an admiring crowd: Dude Man’s cousin’s son and lovely new wife. You know you love weddings when you go to these (!) (But, incidentally, that cousin made a point of coming to The Child’s, so I guess it runs in the family)

At the reception, there is mingling! There are toasts! I’ve often said that the only time you get both sides of a family together is at weddings and at funerals. (Personally, I much prefer the mingling at a wedding.) And if you don’t think toasts are fun, just watch Four Weddings and a Funeral.

Mingling at Lake Louise at the wedding in 2022

Mingling at the Yale Club at our most recent wedding in March

After that, there’s the dancing. Even though my dancing days are over, I still get a big kick out of watching the young’ns boogie down. (I’m sure you’ll agree that someone who uses the term “boogie down” has no business dancing.)

I wouldn’t call this ‘boogie-ing down,” necessarily, but it was lovely to watch these young’ns

Now this is what I call “boogie-ing down.” And no, I wasn’t participating. I wasn’t even there

I could go on and on, listing fun stuff like silly picture-taking and skinny dipping. One activity I participate in, the other not. I will leave you to guess which.

Most excellent silly picture, after the Yale Club wedding

But the one thing you know I will always enjoy: any wedding, anywhere, any time, any place. Be sure to invite me to yours. I  give excellent gifts.

August 13, 2022. Happy Anniversary, Child and SIL! It was a super fun wedding, with all the super fun trimmings as well

Amagansett, New York. August 2024.

 

 

That Seventies Summer

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‘Revisiting sizzling hits from 50 years ago’

Maybe it has something to do with going to Dude Man’s 50th college reunion (Class of ’74) back in June. Or maybe it’s just because those summers in the seventies produced such revisitable stuff.

Starting the summer with a seventies bang: with old college cronies at Dude Man’s 50th reunion

Whatever the reason, I’ve pushed Alice Munro to the side for the time being and am devoting myself to art of a somewhat more accessible type. (Not that Alice isn’t eminently accessible; she even wrote some of her best stuff in the seventies; dip into “Something I’ve Been Meaning to Tell You, her book from 1974 and see what I mean.) Alice is my Summer Project, where I read a good biography of a writer I like and read (or re-read) his/her works as they are mentioned. (Trust me, Folks. This is the only way to make sense of Edith Wharton writing Ethan Frome.)

Iris was a good subject, tho she wrote waaaaay too many books to reread them all

But nothing Alice wrote featured marauding sharks. I’m talking Jaws here, folks. Both the book and the movie. The book came out 50 years ago, and the movie the year after. I’ve seen the movie regularly every summer for, well, ages. (Note: there is nothing more satisfying than introducing a new person to Jaws. Kristy and Spencer, I’m talking to you!) But I can’t remember reading the book (?!) so I ordered it and started on it a few minutes ago, tearing myself away just long enough to write this summery piece. (It won’t be a long piece; Chrissy’s body has just been discovered — or part of it anyway — tangled in seaweed.)

I couldn’t find my old paperback of Jaws. Which makes me wonder if I ever did read it (?) Anyway. I got this 50th Anniversary Edition. Goodie

This Seventies blockbuster fixation started earlier this week when I was tidying a guest room. There on top of a stack of guestroom-worthy paperbacks was “The Stepford Wives.” It was a copy that was getting a bit smelly and shopworn as paperbacks near the ocean tend to do. (I know I know. Braggety-brag brag brag. I’m by the ocean!) I almost threw it out, but instead sat down and started to read. A few hours later I came up for air. Then that night I watched the movie, which was the nineties version. And I am so sorry, Nicole and Glenn and Bette, that movie was so awful I immediately watched the good version. Which was from 1975 (!) and featured Katharine Ross and Paula Prentiss. I am telling you, this movie is good. So good that when it was over I had to crunch down half a valium in order to calm down enough to go to sleep.

This book was not too stinky to reread. So I did. The 2004 movie was stinky enough

Well. And last night it was “Diary of a Mad Housewife,” with Richard How-About-A-Roll-in-the-Hay Benjamin and the late lamented Carrie Snodgress. A hot young Frank Langella is in it too. What’s not to like? I was dying to read the book, too, but the paperback was waaay too smelly. So, yup, I ordered a new one.

Good thing this photo isn’t scratch ‘n sniff

Oh — and after I watched “Diary,” I watched “American Graffiti.” Which is a movie made in the seventies about kids in the sixties. And why not? It’s summer. Oh! Before I forget. That photo at the top of this post? Another sizzling seventies memory (Southern Illinois in August!): a shot from my first wedding in 1972. 

Enjoy these summer days no matter what you’re up to — I’ll be back next week, unless I’m gobbled up by a shark (unlikely) or suffocated by a smelly paperback (much more likely).

Amagansett, New York. July 2024

 

 

Chili today, hot tamale

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‘Laura and Dave’s 40-year fiesta’

You haven’t heard anything till you’ve heard my mother snort with derision. Even over the phone, the sound is, well, distinctive.

What prompted this snort? I was pulling together a photo book for my Favorite Only Sister and her Favorite Only Husband to commemorate their (gasp) forty years of marriage, and was doing a little fact-checking.

Forgive me for choosing this wedding photo to share, but you simply must see me in my one and only turn as a bridesmaid

I had heard from a friend of theirs from Carlyle, where we grew up, that he was the one who had introduced the Happy Couple to each other. “It was at the Lake,” this guy maintained, meaning Carlyle Lake, the large flood-control project that was part of our Dad’s legacy as an engineer and a recreational — and employment, in Laura’s case — focus of our youth.

Happy Family Dip in said Lake. That’s Phil, Mom, Natalie and Dave bobbing about. Oh, say 25 years ago

I’d already heard a story — a different one — about how Laura and Dave got together, romantically, that is. I’d heard that the flames of their passion were kindled when Dave drove her to college her freshman year. (My Mom and Dad were “too busy,” they said. And perhaps they were. Or perhaps the excitement of delivering a freshman to college had worn off by the time this, their fourth freshman, needed to be driven.)

I don’t have a photo of this car ride, so I’ll use this cute cake-cutting shot instead. From 40 years ago. And yup, it’s in the book

Well, when I fact-checked that story, my Mom gave a snort, then said, “Hah! Laura and Dave were dating all through high school.”

But that snort was nothing to the one I got when I mentioned the story of the friend allegedly introducing them at the Lake. “Hah! Laura and Dave have known each other all their lives.”

Another shot from the book. This one shows Dave and Laura with Mom and Dad’s stuffed deer head, the one Mom wouldn’t let him keep in the house so he built a porch to put it in

Well, sorry Friend From Carlyle. Our mother has snorted. But the truth is, it doesn’t really matter how they met or even how long they’ve known each other. What matters is that they have been a truly amazing couple for many years — the last forty of them married to each other.

I love this photo of Dave and Laura. Almost as much as I love the one with the sombreros at the top of this post

And, as I said in the book I gave them — punctuated with many nostalgically fantastic photos contributed by my sibs (thanks to all!) — “wherever you found Laura and Dave, you found fun. And still do.”

Happy Anniversary! Keep the fun — and the fiesta — fired up. Ole!

The Happy Couple on their actual anniversary: June 30, 2024

Amagansett, New York. July 2024

Vancouver, I miss you already

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‘And my Mom and Sister too, of course’

Guess what? This plane has WiFi (!) And I’m stuck here for upwards (hah) of four hours with a choice of watching a movie or writing this post. Heck, the flight is so long I’ll probably have time for both.

Anyway. I wrote last week about how lucky I was to get to go visit my Mom. I’m lucky because A) I actually have a Mom, and B) she’s very nice to visit. Time spent with her at her senior living place in Vancouver, Washington, is very mellow.

Mellow random shot of Gary Cooper from Instagram. Just because *sigh*

So mellow that, when Oldest Younger Brother Scott phoned to tip us off to the presence of a great basketball playoff game on TV, Mom and I ended the call with, “Thanks! Now we need to get back to doing nothing.”

The school still hasn’t hired a proofreader. I’m available

We did watch that game. Forgive me, for I am not a dyed-in-the-wool hoops fan like Mom and Scott (and Laura, for that matter). I believe it was the Timberwolves and the Nuggets. The Wolves basically gnawed those Nuggets to shreds. Must’ve hurt their teeth something fierce.

Hit “Guide” a couple of times, and a whole TV World reveals itself

We also watched the Kentucky Derby. Which I found by discovering a cool trick on Mom’s remote. If you hit “guide” twice, you get a menu of little icons for stuff like movies and game shows and news. Then, if you choose the “sports” one — it looks like a little football — you can find any sport you like. Even horse-racing. (I know, I know. This is super-boring. Sorry. But it made our day, which should give you an inkling of what our days were like.)

First three-way Derby photo finish ever. Or practically ever; forget which. Mom picked the winner!

My days started with my walk through Mom’s nabe. If it was raining, I waited for “the window.” You’d be surprised how many people do the same thing. I said “hello” to a nice mailman one otherwise-raining morning, who merrily said, “Gotta take advantage of the window!” right back at me.

Blossoms and trash bins adorn this Vancouver street during a “window”

We didn’t get around to Scrabble this visit. Too many sports events to watch. Lots of Happy Hours too. There were two regularly-scheduled ones during my visit, plus one Mexican Fiesta in honor of Cinco de Mayo. They have entertainment (besides wine and cheese, and margaritas for the Fiesta) at these hoedowns. You know you’re getting old when they play “All The Leaves Are Brown” and “Downtown” at your Mom’s senior living facility.

I’d love to know the story here. Or maybe not

There is a hardcore group of line-dancers who never fail to get up and do their line-dancing thing at Happy Hour. I swear they’d line dance to the Star-Spangled Banner. They kinda drive my Mom crazy; we have to position our chairs so as not to see them.

Other than the line-dancers and the bossy woman who planted my mother’s paper whites outside in the January cold and who Mom has sworn to never speak to again, everyone is terrific chez Mom. At this point, I’d like to give a special bye-bye shoutout to Jeff and Leonard and Carole and Betty and Renee and all the various Shirleys: Shirley with the dog, Shirley with the purse, short Shirley, Shirley who lives down the hall, and Shirlee with the two “ees.”

I miss you all already!

Bye bye, Mt. Hood and Mt. Whatsits. I also saw Mt. St. Helens

En route from Vancouver to New York. May 2024

“Lucky”

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‘I have a mom and I get to go visit her today’

Whenever somebody in our family does something that my Middle Younger Brother Roger wishes he could do, he says, “Lucky.”

So I’m crediting him with the comment before making it myself. But this time I get to do the lucky thing, not just hear about it: I get to go visit my mother.

Me, hanging around JFK prepping for a previous Mom Visit

I’m getting on a plane in a few hours — writing this post is one way to keep from pacing around the very small Ken & Barbie House and wearing a path in the tile — so I may have to cut this post short. But maybe not, especially if I keep it short.

I should take this card along with me. Or maybe get a “keep calm” tee shirt. Or maybe just get a manhattan in the Delta Lounge

Basically, what I do when I visit my mother is sit around with her, drinking coffee and/or wine and reading and knitting. Talking a lot too, of course. Reminiscing. Gossiping. Solving the world’s problems.

Oh, there’s also walk-taking. Since I get up super-early (I’m on Eastern Time but even at home I’m up irrationally early), I go for a long walk through Mom’s nabe while she’s still sleeping. Then later, fueled up by coffee, we go on walks together. I do a lot of walking on these trips.

I can hardly wait to walk by this school again so I can check the grammar on their sign

Sometimes, if we’re feeling really frisky, we play Scrabble. (That’s me celebrating a seven-letter word in the photo at the top of this story. Talk about lucky.) But Scrabble is more fun with more players, so we usually skip it and do more reading.

My lucky necklace. I wear it every time I fly. Guess who gave it to me? No, not Mom. But close: my one and only Sister

Oh, did I mention that I sleep on Mom’s pullout couch? Actually, it’s much bigger than my bed at the Ken & Barbie House. But it is in rather close proximity to Mom’s fridge, which rumbles off and on through the night.

But hey. Those are not problems. Not at all. I have a Mom — and I get to go see her. Nyah nyah nyah.

Added bonus: A Sister Sighting! Here’s Mom and me with Laura

New York City (but not for long). May 2024

 

 

“You’re not made of sugar; you won’t melt.”

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‘Or so my mother assures me.’

It was so wet out in Vancouver this last trip. So wet that if I had been made of sugar, I would have melted into a Wicked-Witch-style puddle.

Now, you may be thinking, “Gosh, what did you expect? Vancouver, Washington, is in the Pacific Northwest, for heaven’s sakes.” I mean, they have businesses that specialize in moss removal out there.

Who ya gonna call? Moss Busters!

Well, believe it or not, this is really the first time I’ve encountered classic Pacific Northwest wet  — at least the kind of rainy wetness that the area is famous for: steady, unrelenting, unvarying, and mostly sideways.

Wet out? Stay inside and finish another hat!

On most of my other trips, I’ve seen sunny skies. Honest. My Beloved Only Sister has lived out here for more than thirty years, and you can practically bet your bottom dollar that when I visit the sun will come out. I like to think I’m the cause of all this solar energy, but it’s no doubt just dumb luck. Whatever it is, we’ll take it.

Most of my trips require sunglasses and hats — and not the rain-hat kind

But the usual state of weather affairs out there is so consistently wet that everyone pretty much gets used to it. Why, my nieces famously squinted and shrieked, “Too bright, Mommy, too bright!” one sunny spring morning and begged for the curtains to be drawn.

People who live there, my sister included, just kind of walk around in the mist and/or rain with their shoulders shrugged up to their ears. I have yet to see an umbrella. A major concession to the universal damp is to pull one’s hoodie hood to the upward position.

Me with my hoodie hood up. Note: Peanuts characters in the background are not carrying umbrellas

That’s how I’d see the pods of kids in the mornings waiting for the school bus: shrugged into their hoodies, staring at the phones cradled under the “awnings” of their chins. Of course, I had options for my walks. I’d check the weather, then look for a “window” of clear weather. (Or at least a window of not-so-much rain.) Then I’d scamper out for my walk. One day, though, my window closed before I could get back and, if I had indeed been made of sugar, I would have dissolved right down to a nub.

Turns out that everyone in the Pacific Northwest waits for a “window,” then they dash about doing their grocery shopping, dog-walking and whatnot. Of course, at Mom’s place, the population being older, they just stay inside. Mom and I got our exercise by walking the hallways inside instead of the walkways outside. Hey, it was better than nothing — and we got to admire the various and sundry Christmasy-decorated doorways.

Mixed messages decorate a doorway in Mom’s building

To end on one last precipitation-soaked note, I got a surprise the last day I was there. I got up early, as is my wont, and peered out the window to assess the degree of wetness. But hey! There was snow!

The view out my Mom’s bedroom that last morning. Most of the snow had, alas, melted by the time I got this shot. Then, of course, it started raining again

But, my feelings of delight (fresh tracks! flinging snowballs!) rapidly turned into forebodings of danger (flight delays! falling!) I guess that’s how you know you’re officially old.

New York City. January 2024

What do you call the father of your daughter’s husband?

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‘Other than a really nice guy, I mean.’

So, okay. It’s been ages since I checked in with you lovely readers (hi Sally!) and I’d better get a wiggle on before this year runs its course too.

“Enough already” you’ll be thinking if I start whining about how fast time has been whizzing by, so I won’t go there this time. Suffice it to say that I just put my Christmas-tree-scented candle away — and I didn’t get around to lighting it even once this season.

No need to put up a Christmas Tree; there’s one right outside our window. Have to go outside to sniff it though

So what was I doing instead of sniffing fake evergreen? Well, Dude Man and I got a snootfull of the real thing out in Flagstaff, Arizona, where The Child and her hub The SIL have put down roots.

Dude Man strolling around Flagstaff. That’s the giant pine cone hanging from that building across the street. On New Year’s Eve, they “drop” it

It’s a really fun town (cool shops! hot restaurants! wine bars! more wine bars!) and in the middle of a lot of Natural Wonders. The last time we were there (Christmas 2021, which, yes, feels like two weeks ago, not two years) we climbed down a mile into the Grand Canyon. (And yes, climbed back up.)

Me, looking determined but mighty relieved, climbing out of the Grand Canyon

This time, we “did” the Painted Desert, the Petrified Forest and the Meteor Crater. After all that we were just too goldarned tired to make it to the Lowell Observatory. Next time.

We also did a bit of Christmas shopping. Here we check out the display of Cheap Plastic Shit (Note Child decked out in non-plastic Mom-knit hat)

We also hung out around the house, where I continued my Hat Attack by knitting one for The Guy Who Is My SIL’s Dad, otherwise known as The Child’s Father-in-Law. I love this guy; I really do. No sooner had I whipped it off my needles, revealing that it was for him, when he grabbed it and put it on his head. “I love this hat,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. (Conversely, my SIL, whom I adore in spite of this, took one look at his hat, thanked me, then dropped it into a basket of many many hats. Sigh.)

Mark and his son James (my SIL) not wearing their handknit hats, but looking extremely cute anyway

Which brings me to the ostensible subject of this piece: what to call this guy. “The Child’s Father-in-Law” is accurate, but not very snappy, though I suppose it could be shortened to “The Child’s FIL.” Nah, no one will get it. Then, as noted above, there’s “The Guy Who Is My SIL’s Dad.” Still no good.

Huge petrified log — and Co-Father-In-Law, Dude

I googled, and here’s the best I could find: “A father-in-law is the father of a person’s spouse. Two men who are fathers-in-law to each other’s children may be called co-fathers-in-law, or, if there are grandchildren, co-grandfathers.” For mothers-in-law, same deal.

They used to train astronauts at the Meteor Crater, hence the spacecraft

But google as hard as I could, I could find no citing for the relationship between me (a mother-in-law) and him (a father-in-law). “Parents in law?” Blech. I guess I’ll just call him Mark. (And yes, speaking of the name “Mark,” I did tell him the one about the guy at Starbucks who told the barrista he was “Marc with a ‘C'” and got a cup labeled “Cark.”) He laughed, which is yet another reason (other than wearing the handknit hat) that I like him.

Painted Desert and Mother-in-Law, Moi

Oh, he’s not perfect, by any means. He leans Libertarian (which endears him to The Dude), and, at one point, he regaled the occupants of the Ford 350 with the entire history of the iPhone which he read from the screen of (yes) his iPhone.

Christmas Hike: The Child and Me, flanked by two Co-Fathers-In-Law

But he’s sweet and funny and a great cook who cleans up after himself (see top photo for proof) so he’s aces in my book. I doubt if he really cares what you call him. As long as you call him for dinner. Or a new knit hat.

Mark’s hat during a rare moment not on his head (It’s topping a teapot)

Amagansett, New York. January 2024