Random Stuff

“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

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.

 

 

 

 

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

“If you’re cold, put on a sweater.”

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‘And keep your paws off that thermostat.’

The other day I rushed home from an event and found myself stripping off layers as I strode through the door, said event having taken place at a particularly overheated venue. Every stitch I was wearing had to go in the laundry or the (ka-ching) dry cleaning pile. (The Child, on her last visit home: “Mom! Do you know what they charge at that dry cleaner’s on Lex?”)

Honestly. I swear I don’t know what’s happened this winter. Every place I go — restaurants, museums, busses, the subway, the opera even — has the heat cranked up to the absolute max. Could it be that people are cold from all those outdoor activities during Covid? (I must admit I did not take part in these, at least not voluntarily. Oh, there was the occasional outdoor restaurant date with Concerned Covid-Avoiders, but few in my cohort really got into Outdoor Covid Stuff — unless it was something that usually happens outdoors anyway. Like, say, a picnic. In summer.)

Here’s someone who looks really cold. An not because I turned down the heat, but because it was, like -29 up there in Canada

While I can’t control the heat in public places, I like to think I can do so at home. But there’s the indisputable fact that I do not have exclusive control of the thermostat.

Nope. Dude Man lives here too. And, as I like to say, our marriage runs hot and cold. As in I’m always hot, and he’s always cold.

(And before you get all kinds of snarky ideas about the state of my hormones, my overheatedness has nothing to do with that.)

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Time to undeck those halls

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‘Christmas is a wrap.’

No, I didn’t have to go to the City last week.

There I was, comfortably ensconced on our well-worn Amagansett couch — pile of knitting on my left, stack of New Yorkers on my right — when I realized that I had not seen the Metropolitan Museum Christmas tree.

That’s me, making like a Medieval ornament at the Met

I had nary a doctor’s appointment or lunch date or party invitation. My calendar was clean. But I knew that if I didn’t get myself back to the City and up to the Met, I would miss seeing the Christmas tree. Because, like almost every other Christmassy Thing in New York City, it would disappear after January 6.

January 6, you see, is Epiphany. Or Three Kings Day. Or the Twelfth Day of Christmas. Whatever you call it — well, except for the Day The “Patriots” Stormed the Capitol — it is more or less the end of Christmas. (Hmmm, I guess the Day They Stormed the Capitol was kinda the end of Christmas, too.)

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Governor’s Pen Is Busy

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‘A funny story about…editing.’

Editing is kind of like housekeeping. When you’re doing a good job, nobody notices your work. But put that comma in the wrong place or flub up on “it’s vs. its,” and it’s like you left dirty dishes in the sink, the laundry unfolded or the bed unmade.

There were many comments on this recent Facebook post. Mine was: “No, it means you don’t know the difference between ‘your’ and ‘you’re'”

There was a book that came out a few years ago called Eats, Shoots & Leaves: Why, commas really do make a difference that showed how misplaced punctuation can not only feel untidy but can cause some pretty funny misunderstandings. To illustrate, just take the comma out of that title, (or the subtitle, for that matter) — completely different meaning.

Does this mean that “Live alligators stay on boardwalks”? (In which case that’s the last place I’d want to be) or that I should stay on boardwalks?

Another example from the book: a sign saying “Eat here and get gas” instead of “Eat here, and get gas” could make you drive right on by, even with an almost-empty tank. 

I was chatting just the other day with the Only Person I Have Met in New York Who Also Went to The University of Missouri Journalism School (hi Kim!). We were reminiscing about those Golden Olden Days and about how we both worked at the Columbia Missourian, which was an actual daily newspaper — not a campus paper — where J-School students were required to work in order to graduate. Kind of a cool trade: free labor for the paper in exchange for real-world work experience.

Rare photo of me while attending the U of Mo. That’s my BF Larry, he of “Larry and the Nose Holes” fame

We talked about our professors — Kim: “Mr. D was a terrible teacher.” Me: “U of Mo J-School advertising professors were the living definition of the adage ‘Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.'” (nice comma workout, that.)

I don’t really have a quibble about this sign or its comma placement. I just get a kick out of it — and wonder what the heck the “etc” snakes are. Anaconda? Vipers? Spitting cobra?

But I completely forgot to tell Kim my editing story. Like I mentioned, we all had jobs on the good ole Columbia Missourian. For we students with hopes for an advertising career, this work was pretty grim. Because it was a newspaper, there wasn’t much chance to flex our creative muscles. Nope, we worked in Ad Sales, which was kind of the college equivalent of selling Girl Scout Cookies. I was terrible at this. “You wouldn’t want to buy any cookies today, would you?” didn’t translate very well to selling ads to shoe stores.

Me, in my dorm room, having a blast between bouts of (not) selling ads

But it sure looked like the kids who worked as editors had fun. There on the wall of the newsroom was a framed front page of a bygone issue. Featured there, above the fold, was a story about a flurry of legislative activity — Columbia was the state capital as well as the site of the university. The headline? Governor’s Pen Is Busy.

Only the editor left out the space between “pen” and ‘”is.”

Amagansett, New York. March 2022

 

 

It’s been an Apocalypto kind of day

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‘On watching movies more than once’

I know I know. I’m not the only person who watches the same movie more than once. For instance, many people have special Christmas movies. “It’s a Wonderful Life.” “Love Actually.” “A Christmas Carol” in one of its many variations. (I like the Muppet One best. Those rat muppets in the hula skirts singing “We’re Havin’ A Heat Wave” after Michael Caine’s Scrooge threatens to fire them for asking for more coal are eminently re-watchable.)

When we were at The Child’s for the holidays, she insisted on watching “White Christmas.” She even sang along to “Snow.” Which warmed the cockles of my tradition-loving motherly heart– see “Taking Motherhood to a Whole New Level” for non-movie-watching activities involving scary heights–since we used to watch this every Christmas when she was an Actual Child. She sang along to “Snow” then, too.

She also insisted that the new James Bond film was a Christmas movie. And who am I to argue? I think Die Hard is a Christmas movie

And I know a lot of people–besides myself, I mean–who have watched really good, really classic movies more than one time. I’m talking “The Godfather” here, folks. Which, in my humble opinion–plus a lot of other not-so-humble people’s–is The Best Movie Ever Made. Seriously. If you haven’t seen it, stop reading this stupid blog post and load ‘er up. There’s a restored 50th anniversary version (gasp! fifty years!) but any ole version will do. I just watched it again for the umpteenth time on my iPad because I couldn’t figure out how to use the “universal control” on the Big New TV that basically ate the den in Amagansett. Sigh.

Anyway. Back to movies. In this really good, really classic category I also include “All About Eve” and “Fargo.” And hey, “Jaws.” Seriously. Just because “Jaws” has sharks and such doesn’t mean it isn’t a classic. I just wish Spielberg had dispensed already with the mechanical shark. It was silly and he didn’t need it. Boys with their toys. (Another big sigh goes here.)

Marge “SunofaGunderson” in “Fargo.” Hey. It’s a beautiful day. And is that your buddy there? In the chipper?

I love these movies so much I could “do” them for you. By which I mean I could quote huge chunks of dialog while mimicking the actions too. All it takes is a cocktail. One cocktail.

No, what I am talking about in the title of this piece is the kind of movie that really doesn’t have any rhyme nor reason to be repeatable. Like, it isn’t a “classic,” in the sense of having film-school classes organized around it. (See anything Orson Welles.) And it isn’t inextricably linked to a Major Holiday. (See “Bad Santa.” Or not.)

No. This kind of movie is the antidote to a mood. Like, today I had one of those kinds of days where little irksome things kept happening. Blinky warning lights on devices. Pieces published on websites with question marks in odd places. Not being able to locate a record locator. That kind of stuff.

So. I had an irresistible urge to watch “Apocalypto.” Now, this is a movie I had never heard of until I happened to be visiting Second Oldest Younger Brother Roger one time and he happened to have it on hand. “Want to watch Apocalypto?” he asked. “Not my kind of movie,” I replied.

The DVD case for Apocalypto doesn’t exactly make a case for watching it

“Not your kind of movie, eh? We’ll just see about that,” Middle Younger Bro wisely said, slipping the DVD into the little slidey thingie.

Of course he was right. From the opening scene where a huge boar gets trapped and gobbled up raw by extremely attractive scantily-clad men (Jaguar Paw is, well, grrrr!) to the wild treks through the jungle and the Mayan rip-their-hearts-out (literally) sacrifice scene to the really ironic ending, it’s a keeper. And, oddly enough, an antidote to whatever nonsense is happening in your life. It puts being on interminable hold in proper perspective for sure. (See “A Life on Hold.” Or not. Maybe just watch “Apocalypto.”)

My fairly routine need for an “Apocalypto Fix” has even entered the Henry Family Lexicon. When we are on our Sunday Night Family FaceTime calls, if I happen to look a little downcast, one of my bros will say something like, “Looks like you could use a little Apocalypto.”

The weekly gathering of the Henry Clan. “Apocalypto” may be mentioned

Incidentally, The Dude claims not to understand how I can want to watch a movie more than once. He says you don’t need to because “you already know what happens.” But then, this is the same guy who once watched “Four Weddings and a Funeral” twice–in one session. (He was having a particularly bad day.)

But did I watch “Apocalypto” last night? Nope. I went to the opera to see Rodelinda. Which is a rarely performed Handel opera. With two count-’em-two countertenors. I hadn’t seen it when I took the rather grim selfie at the top of this post. And now? Those Handel-y rhythms soothed this savage breast so well that it pushed “Apocalypto” right out of my head.

Well, until tonight anyway.

New York City. March 2022

If you can’t take the heat, stay out of the hardware store

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‘Shopping local means lots of local color’

It’s been really hot here in Amagansett, though not as hot as it was the last time my Middle Younger Brother Roger was here.

That time it was so hot that you couldn’t walk on the sand without burning your feet. My poor wilted sister in law, the amazing Nobody-Doesn’t-Like-Jenn, was loath to leave the library, the one air-conditioned room in the house. (The AC is for the books, you see. To keep them from molding. People, at least most of them, don’t mold. So the rest of the house doesn’t need it.)

Before Roger and Jenn melted down into viscous puddles like the Wicked Witch of the West, they did manage an outing. Roger: “Where can I get an Amagansett hat?” Me: “Herb has Amagansett hats. Go see Herb. At the hardware store. Herb’ll fix you up.” (Now, I don’t have a photo of Herb’s hardware store — inside or out — but the shot at the top of this story shows The Child and me standing out front a few years ago.)

Everyone knows you can’t wear your Amagansett hat in Amagansett. Here Dude Man is seen wearing his on a plane to Borneo

Now, my Brother Roger is the kind of guy you could drop into the middle of the Sahara Desert and he’d make ten new friends in the first ten minutes. And Herb? Well, suffice it to say that Herb is a Local Character who defies easy description.

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The one where my life is like a Friends episode

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‘Art imitates Life. Or is it the other way ’round?’

After I wrote last week’s smoke-alarm story — “Things That Go Shriek In The Night,” in case you missed it — I got a message from my pal Nancy (hi Nancy!) who said it reminded her of the Friends episode where Phoebe tried to bash and smother her crazy smoke alarm into submission. Here’s a taste:

So who came up with this bit first, Friends — or me? My friend Terril (hi Terril!) remembers that she was a houseguest back in the nineties when my bashing-with-the-broom incident occurred. She said, “I woke up in middle of the night and through a window I could see you downstairs — standing on a chair while wearing just a t-shirt and swatting at a screaming smoke alarm with a broom. I thought it best not to get in the middle of the warfare. Might have gotten clobbered with a broom handle if I’d gone downstairs and said ‘So, Alice…what’s up?'” Good call, Terril. Good call.

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And now for something completely different

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‘Trying desperately to distract myself from thinking of tomorrow’s (gulp) shot’

Last week I promised to come up with something fun today, in spite of the fact that it is Injection Eve. (For those of you who didn’t read last week’s post, here it is, but basically it’s me whining about having to get a steroid shot to help me deal with herniated discs. To say that I am “nervous” would be like saying Trump is “unpleasant.”)

“Please fill out one form per body part” Um, okay

Other than filling out forms and sweating bullets, there’s nothing more to be done to prepare myself for this procedure. So I’m just going to try to distract myself by thinking of nice and/or silly things. Like being at my Mom’s 90th birthday celebration last year, which was both silly and nice.

Two of my very favorite women: my Mom and my Personal Child

Speaking of nice things to think about, just try not to smile and/or “awwww” over these little guys. (Yes, I made those sweaters. And already posted pictures of them. But now you can see how much better they look with cute babies filling them out.)

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