Child

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

Boy O Boy!

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‘I am ever so excited to be a Grandma!’

Feel free to confide in me–even your deepest, darkest secrets–because if there is anything the last few months proves, it’s that I can keep my lip zipped.

It was in May that The Child called us on a Sunday, as is her wont. But this time, after her usual “hello,” she added, “James is on the line too.” Then: “We have something to tell you.”

A photo from our visit to my Mom that I couldn’t use before now

Of course we were thinking this might be Baby News. But did we say anything? Not on your life. What if the news was that they were getting a dog? I have a couple of friends who were called by their children to announce the getting of a dog. These dogs are now known as (and I am not kidding) their granddogs.

So. All Dude Man and I said was, “Oh my! What is your news?!” And they told us. They were having a baby. A boy. Due October 13.

Three and a half generations a couple of weeks ago

After we were done squealing (me), hugging (both of us) and happy-dancing around the room (me again), we asked the usual questions. Feeling? Fine. Happy? Yes. Names? Perhaps something Greek. (The SIL has Greek forbears.)

At this point I threw in a couple of reassuring points. No, we were not going to suggest any names. “You can call him Poindexter or Mud for all I care,” I said. And I know some people do this, but no, I wasn’t going to be present in the delivery room. “I didn’t want to be there when you were born!”

Celebrating at Laura and Dave’s

Speaking of names, I reminded her that her Grampa Henry referred to her as “Wal-Mart” before she was born. As in, “Has Wal-Mart been doing a lot of kicking?” Or “Do you have a bed for Wal-Mart yet?” And even “Have you finally thought of a name for Wal-Mart? (Other than “Wal-Mart,” that is.) The naming took us forever. Even though we knew she was a girl. See “What’s in a name?” for deets. For one thing, you’ll see that Dude Man wanted to call her “Zeus.” Which I think is a perfectly lovely name — for a dog. (Incidentally, one of her Childness’s friends has a dog named Zeus. This friend also has a baby not named Zeus. Perfect!)

The Child, flanked by Fem Friends, at a party thrown in her (and her hub’s, they do it that way now) honor in SF. The friend on the left has the dog named Zeus. And the baby not named Zeus.

So where does the keeping a secret come in? I was asked not to mention her impending motherhood on social media. At least not until the cat (er, baby) was out of the bag.

Baby Goldfish are in that bag. Thanks, Aunt Laura!

It was really hard, but I did manage to keep her secret safe. Though some blog posts took a bit of crafty editing.

But my secret-holding is nothing compared to hers. Once she told us the news, I did a little math and realized that she had been pregnant back in March when we all went to this fantastic wedding. She was so clever I didn’t even realize she wasn’t drinking — and there was a martini bar!

Child at wedding holding a secret — but no martini

More next week. I feel the need to happy-dance around the room some more.

Amagansett, New York. August 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.

 

 

The Streets of San Francisco

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‘Where’s Karl Malden when you need him?’

Well, actually I know where Karl is. And I’m thinking it’s not Heaven.

Those of you who follow my blog (thank you!) know that I had rather an unfortunate experience with Karl back in my Ad World days. But, in spite of his rampant sexism and all-around unpleasantness, it would have been comforting to have him — in character as Lt. Mike Stone, that is — out there on San Francisco’s streets last weekend.

Dude Man adorning the streets of SF, specifically the street outside the Pacific Union Club on Nob Hill

See, Dude Man and I were out there in the City by the Bay visiting The Child last weekend. She and her hub, the SIL, have been spending most of their time there because of work. So much time that they have rented an apartment. This new apartment is located near the Panhandle, which they were surprised to hear used to be a pretty dicey area. So dicey that the term “panhandler” comes from there, back when that part of Golden Gate Park was populated with less-than-savory denizens who did a lot of well, panhandling.

Child and Child’s pal admiring views of Golden Gate Park from the tower at the de Young Museum

Their new place is in Haight-Ashbury, which they now call “The Haight.” (I wonder if Her Childness knows hippies used to live there. Actually, I wonder if Her Childness knows what a “hippie” is?)

But this story isn’t about hippies, or even about panhandlers (though close) — it’s about a stalker. A stalker who was stalking us Saturday morning as we strolled (or rolled?) our way down Nob Hill. (Quick note: I do mean roll. Those streets are steep. I guess we can’t plan on retiring there to be near the Kids; no way you could maneuver a walker. Though we did see several scooters chained to lampposts. None in use, however. Just chained. Securely.)

Anyway. About our stalker. Dude Man and I, being on East Coast time, awakened at an ungodly hour and decided to take a walk. Our goal: Coit Tower, where Dude Man wanted to “check out the birds.”

Dr. Dude recording the call of the hummingbirds in the trees around Coit Tower

So, armed with binoculars, we set out, stopping first, tourist-style, to take photos of each other. Dude Man was in the midst of pointing out the building where Kim Novak’s character lives in Vertigo when we noticed a rather seedy-looking character loitering in the entryway.

The touristy photo Dude Man took of me. You can see a slice of Seedy Stalker’s blue windbreaker to the right in the background

Now, being from New York City, where seedy-looking characters are the norm, we weren’t too alarmed. Though we did keep an eye on him, and noticed that yes, he was following us. He kept to the other side of the street, and a block or so back. But when we stopped to look in the window of the Cable Car Museum, we noticed he stopped, too. It was rather amusing, until it was not.

Yes, we reached Coit Tower safely

We decided that he pegged us for well-to-do tourists (taking snapshots: check) who had good stuff to snatch (carrying binoculars: check). We figured he was waiting to catch us in a lonely stretch and demand our valuables. If he didn’t go away, our plan was to wait until there were more people around, then whirl around and confront him. “You’re creeping us out, Fella!” was my planned address while brandishing my phone. “Stop following us or I’m calling Karl Malden (er, 911)!”

There were plenty of people loitering at Coit Tower, but our stalker wasn’t one of them. Maybe it was just too steep a climb

Well, I guess there were too many people around because, by the time we reached Washington Square Park, he had disappeared. By then I was kinda fired up, so I was a little disappointed. Well, maybe not. Oh! Washington Square is in North Beach, which is where we were dining at an Italian restaurant that time The Child had the epic tantrum and had to be carried screaming down the street, a tale I told in “Let Me Go! I Want My Mommy!”

We made it to Coit Tower without further incident, and even managed to secure a table outside an Italian bakery in North Beach on our way back to the PU (the affectionate nickname of the Pacific Union Club). We needed a snack; we had to fuel ourselves for the hike back up.

Though, once we’d earned our steps, we learned our lesson. And Uber’d and Lyfted and Waymo‘d the rest of the visit.

Back home in Amagansett. August 2024

 

Hooray for the red, white — and you!

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‘We get a gift on our nation’s birthday.’

The Child does not read my posts. Perhaps that’s because she’s heard my stories already. More than once. In fact, it was her idea, back in (gasp) 2014, that I start writing this blog.

“I’ve heard that story about the guys switching the hats and driving that account guy crazy!” and “I know it’s a cute story, but you’ve already told me about how you and Dad met!” and even “No, not again with the kangaroo and the martini!”“You should write them down and put them in a blog.” Me: “What’s a blog?”

The Child on the East End during a previous 4th celebration. In those days, she had no choice but to be here. Or, by the looks of it, to have those headphones on

So Her Childness won’t get embarrassed if I write about how pleased we were that she dropped everything and flew out to see us for the 4th of July. As you know, it’s not exactly the easiest time to travel. It’s hot and crowded. And crowded and hot. I read in the Times that the 4th has surpassed Thanksgiving as the busiest travel week — at least until this Thanksgiving, when she’ll probably get her fine self on a plane again, bless her heart.

Yet another cute 4th Foto. Because why not? (Note continuation of red, white and blue thematic dressing)

At any rate, The Child came, she saw, she conquered our hearts all over again. Sadly, her hub The SIL, could not get away, a fact which I must have subconsciously ignored when grocery shopping since I bought waaaay too much food. I ended up donating a pound of sliced roast beef to Wayne’s niece and nephew. “Here’s a hostess gift!” I chirped, handing over the ziploc. “You probably already have enough Yankee Candles!”

Yes, the thematic dressing continued. Judging by the lack of fading on my jeans (and relative lack of wrinkles on my face), I’m thinking this was 5 to 10 years ago

Other than dressing in red, white and blue (sadly, no photos exist of this year’s thematic outfits), we took it pretty easy. When asked, (at the one party we attended, a festive Taco Tuesday which was switched to Friday in our honor — Thanks, C and C!), “What have you guys been doing?” We answered, “Well, we sit on the deck, then we get up and get a snack, then go sit on the deck.”

Child’s Eye View from the deck

We did walk into Town (Child and Me) and hike in the woods (Child and Dad) and go on an adventure to Hicks Island (All Three of Us).

Child’s Eye View of her Dad on their hike

The last time I walked into town was a couple of summers ago, so the surf shop was now an outpost of The Row. I regaled the salesgirl with stories of shopping for wetsuits there back in the day while she complimented me on my “sense of style.” (I was wearing a white tee shirt, ripped army pants and Converse sneakers at the time.)

Child’s Eye View of Hicks Island. (Before we got lost in those marshes to the right)

I call our joint foray to Hicks Island an “adventure” because it sure turned out to be one. What was intended as an early-before-it-gets-too-hot walk morphed into a marathon trek (literally; it took us 3 1/2 hours) through reedy swamps, clouds of mosquitoes and brambly brush laden with ticks. Dude Man and The Child each kept consulting both AllTrails (an app with trail maps) and GPS satellite views of the terrain. We would start toward what looked like a trail, only to end up in a swamp. We found ourselves wishing for James. Not for his trail-finding skills (which are finely honed), but for his drone.

Hooray for the red, white and green: tomatoes, mozzarella and spinach

Well, we did make it out. Or you wouldn’t be reading this. And rewarded ourselves with a fantastic lunch. And some silliness (see below). Shucks. I might just have to send this post to Her Childness. She hasn’t heard this story. Yet.

Amagansett, New York. July 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

 

She put the “giving” in Thanksgiving.

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‘Thank you for everything, dear Aunt Eleanor’

It’s blowing a gale here in Amagansett. The bird feeders are down, the grill’s been knocked cattywompus and the windows that Dude Man painstakingly washed on Sunday? Well, let’s just say they’re clean.

I say all this because I can’t possibly go for a walk, much less a bike ride. And it’s too early to start baking the pies. (My SIL, who arrived late last night from San Fran, is still jet-laggedly sleeping.)

So I have no excuse to postpone (yet again) writing about Aunt Eleanor.

Aunt Eleanor died almost two weeks ago. And, though she was 98 years old, I still can’t believe she’s gone. I’ll spare you all the cliches. But suffice it to say that even when a person is very very old, it can still be a shock when they die. Maybe even more of a shock, since you’re so used to them being around. (And note that I say “die,” because that’s what she did. I know this may be an unpopular view, but I bristle at the use of the term “pass” when you really mean “die.” Please say “die” when I do it. Please.)

The last time I clapped eyes on Eleanor. Last summer, at a family cookout, holding court, as usual, glass of champagne at hand

Anyway. You can read her obituary in The East Hampton Star right here for the public details of Eleanor’s extraordinary life. How she didn’t just read to kids, she founded a day care center. How she didn’t just bake, she baked cookies to lure kids to Sunday School. And how, at the age of 45, she set out to “do everything I’ve always wanted to do.”

Eleanor with her daughter Christine at her 90th birthday party. By this point, she had accomplished most of “everything I always wanted to do”

I’ve been putting off writing about her because it’s so hard to sift through all the memories I have of her. See, she was more than “just” an aunt. Dude Man’s parents died quite a while ago; his mom in 1985 and his dad in 1995. Eleanor’s house was just a couple of blocks away, so she and Uncle Buddy became like surrogate parents to us. Especially since mine were so far away.

Speaking of my mom, she and Eleanor got to know one another rather well. We got together when Mom came to visit. And there was the memorable occasion of The Child’s college graduation, when we experienced the nightmare of an out-of-control GPS system (it directed us on the “shortest route,” which meant navigating downtown Providence, RI, an experience which, trust me, you do not want to replicate) and sharing an Airbnb in Inman Square which was supposed to be “conveniently located” to the Harvard campus but which was most decidedly not. If they hadn’t bonded before then, well, they were now effectively joined at the hip.

The scene at The Child’s graduation. Eleanor and Mom are in there. Somewhere

The Dude has some particularly good Eleanor stories, since he spent many summers at her house when he was small. He recalls her dropping him and his two cousins off at Reed Pond with nothing but sleeping bags, fishing poles and a couple of cans of beans and picking them up the next day. She’d honk the car horn and they’d emerge from the woods. They were seven, eight and nine at the time.

Dude Child practicing his snake-handling as his Bro Bill and Cousin Charlie look on

My memories are more recent ones, of course. She and I bonded over books. I’d ride over on my bike to drop one off, and she’d invite me to sit with her on the screened-in porch and dish. “He can’t marry that woman,” being one of her more famous observations on the fiancee of a shirt-tail relation. And we’d speak on the phone fairly regularly. She didn’t dish out sentimental remarks, but I treasured the time she ended a call by saying that she “loved talking to me” and “wished we lived closer.” Me too, Eleanor, me too.

Eleanor with her niece Amy and her pseudo-niece Me, at her house a couple of blocks away

Oh, and even after Eleanor sold her house nearby, we would get together in the summers at her son Charlie’s and wife Chini’s infamous Taco Tuesdays out on Lazy Point. At one of these, one of Chini’s incredibly hunky sons walked by after a surfing session, his wetsuit stripped down to the waist revealing his perfectly-toned vee-shaped torso (these are casual affairs, these Taco Tuesdays), when Eleanor remarked, “He has a nice figure, doesn’t he?”

Eleanor and me at a Taco Tuesday. (So sorry the wetsuit-suited son isn’t also in the picture)

Well, as they say on TV, there’s “much much more.” But I can’t handle any more.

Besides, there are pies to bake.

Pies from a Thanksgiving repast, past

Happy Thanksgiving, Aunt Eleanor. You gave us a whole hell of a lot to be thankful for.

Amagansett, New York. November 2023

 

East is East. And West is San Francisco

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‘Gamboling around the Golden City’

Some wag once said that when you get tired of walking in San Francisco you can always just lean against it. Which I am here to attest is entirely true.

Dr. Dude and I were on our third day of his AAO meeting when he decided it would be a good idea to “drop my bag off at the room before we go to the museum.” The bag in question being the one where he was stowing exhibitor swag — Starbucks gift cards! Eye drop samples! More Starbucks gift cards! — as well as toting meeting materials like schedules and maps. I must admit that it was looking a bit on the heavy side.

To be sure, the meeting venue, Moscone Center, wasn’t all that far from the Pacific Union Club, where we were staying. And we both had strolled on down from the tippy-top of Nob Hill where the Club, affectionately known by one and all as “the PU,” is perched to get to our activities each day. But, thanks to Uber and accommodating relations with cars, we hadn’t strolled back up.

Me, almost blocking the view of the PU. I’m waiting for Scott and Susan to pick me up for an outing to SFMOMA

Trust me when I say that walking up Nob Hill is not for the faint of heart or the high of heel. All I can say is that it’s a good thing they don’t get snow. No wonder there are so many Ubers. And driverless cars. One of our Uber drivers, after picking us up at 1000 California Street, said that he “thought the place looked familiar. I’m starting a new job there tomorrow!” He said he was going to be a waiter and that he’d spent an afternoon learning how to fold the napkins so the “PU” shows.

Susan and I join our friend Frida at SFMOMA

Another of our drivers expressed dismay and consternation that we lived in New York. “You actually live in New York?!” I hauled out my stock answer (the same one I gave Mom’s new pal Bill a couple of weeks ago): “Well, yes. A lot of people do.”

I found this particularly interesting since I got a parallel reaction from my New York friends when I told them I was going to San Francisco. “You’re going to San Francisco?!? Gosh! Be careful!”

Scott exercising caution — and shooting some “sculpture” — at SFMOMA

Well, I’m happy to report that San Francisco is alive and well and is still a pretty peachy place to spend some time. Other than go to the Moscone meeting (yes, I went too; it was pretty sociologically interesting watching the doctors and the exhibitors interact), we ate at some pretty great restaurants: a pizza place with a gorgeous and gorgeously-accented Italian waitress, an Argentinian grill and, best of all, a place called State Bird where people start lining up at 5:15 to snag an unreserved table. (We were first in line; we scored.)

Digging the vittles at State Bird. (Yes, we had some quail — the “state bird” — too)

Sadly, we could not get into Lazy Bear, which is one of The Child and The Hub’s faves. (We had told Her Childness that we didn’t want to go to any of the Academy’s suggested restaurants where we’d be eating with a bunch of old doctors, and she lived up to her brief, and then some.)

But back to stowing the bag and (thank god after that uphill walk) Ubering to the museum. The museum that I intended to go to was the one up high on a hill where they shot some of Vertigo. Instead, we pulled up to one in Golden Gate Park. I had gotten the names confused, and, instead of the Palace of the Legion of Honor, we were at the de Young. No matter. We toured the de Young — especially loving the 8-story tower — then headed up to the Palace of the Legion of H. They are both part of the Fine Arts Museum of SF, and one admission covers both. Score!

Dude and I face off with camera phones in the Palace of the Legion of Honor

But there was more confusion to come. When we told The Child we were on our way to the Palace of the L of H, she thought we said we were going to the Palace of Fine Arts. Which is neither of these places, and has no art at all inside.

The Child points out a point of interest on our post-Legion of Honor walk

We polished off the afternoon hiking down a (moderate, compared to Nob Hill) hillside with spectacular views of Golden Gate Bridge. All in all, we worked up quite an appetite. Lining up like early birds at State Bird was definitely the way to go.

Dude Man makes like Rodin’s The Thinker at the Palace of the Legion of Honor

Back in New York City. November 2023

Grad School

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‘What I learned by going to reunions’

Last weekend The Child wasn’t here to help celebrate The Dude’s birthday. Which wasn’t too big a deal, because A) it wasn’t a Big Birthday (just one of those annoying all-too-frequently occurring regular ones) and B) she’s here now, so we’re celebrating the birthday this weekend instead.

Celebrating not one but two birthdays last weekend. With not one but two cakes!

So, where was Her Childness last weekend? Celebrating her ten-year college reunion, that’s where. And if you think all-too-frequent birthdays give one pause, chew on that.

The Child and I at her college graduation ten years ago. Neither one of us looks one iota different. Well, not to me, anyway

I know, I know. You’ve heard me whine enough already about how quickly time passes. But seriously? Little Sammie Jane has been out of college for ten years?

Dude Man takes the measure of The Child. Then puts a brick on her head

Oddly enough, she did not invite me to go to her reunion with her. Though there is precedent for Mom-As-Reunion Date. My mother attended my ten-year high-school reunion with me. And, yes, she was a splendid date indeed.

Gosh, I don’t know why The Child didn’t invite me to her reunion. I got to go to this graduation party, didn’t I?

I also went to my 20-year and 40-year high-school reunions, though sans Mom. And I went to Dude Man’s 15-year and his 50th reunion, too. It was supposed to be in 2020, Dude having graduated in 1970. But, thanks to Mr. Virus, 2020 was not a year for reunions–or any gatherings, for that matter. And whomever was in charge of rescheduling sort of dropped the ball.

A couple of weeks ago Dude Man and I were happily ensconced in Amagansett with a major rainstorm of the deluge variety raging outside, when he plays a message left on his phone. Something about a 50th Reunion Bash being held that very night. “Did I want to go?” I motioned out the window. “Are you kidding?”

Well, one look at his little classmate-craving face and I caved. Soon we were hydroplaning our way on the Long Island Expressway back to Manhasset. Where 25 or so of his almost-200-strong Class of ’70 were gathered, damp but happy, clutching cocktails and peering intently at each other’s nametags.

The nametags, helpfully, were emblazoned with each attendee’s high-school yearbook photo. Although, sadly, this was not the one on The Dude’s. (hubba hubba)

So here’s where I go out on a limb and share what I’ve learned after going to so many high-school reunions. At the ten-year reunion, the men look better than the women. That’s because the women have tenaciously clung to the look they had in high school. Same hair style, same makeup techniques. But ten years have passed; maybe that flip needs to flop. They’ve also gained a few pounds. The men are still rocking high-school style too, but somehow it doesn’t matter, men’s styles not being quite so, well, changeable.

That’s Stanley rocking men’s style circa 1968. Still works, doesn’t it?

At the 20-year reunion, it’s the opposite. The women have figured it out. They’ve ditched the bouffants and (mostly) the pounds and look pretty darned terrific. Bonus discovery: the wallflowers have blossomed. So much so that (at my own 20-year bash) I heard more than one man exclaim to a formerly-invisible girl, “Sally (not her real name, of course) is that you?!?”

Meanwhile, the men have lost their hair and gained some paunch. Oh well. It pretty much all evens out at the (gasp) 50.

Oh. Before I forget — and before you ask. What about my college reunions? Didn’t I go to any of them? Well, actually, no. And not because I didn’t want to. No, as far as I know, good ole University of Missouri isn’t big on reunions. At least I’ve never heard tell of one. Gosh, maybe the rest of my class has been having incredible bashes every ten years since 1973 — and I just haven’t been asked.

Me, in college. Wouldn’t you want to get together with such a fun-looking girl at a reunion? One would think so.

I’ve been to Dude Man’s college reunions, though. The ten and the twenty. Here’s what I learned. The men at the ten (this was an all-guy’s school) were handsome and successful and showed off their wives and cars. At the twenty, they were (mostly) still handsome, and they were in the same cars — but they had new wives. I can hardly wait to see what they’re all up to at the 50th next year.

Dude and a bunch of Dartmouth Dudes at a reunion. Not sure which one, since The Dude, darn him, never ever changes

Oh, if, unlike me (I’m talking to you, Kim!) you’ve been to a Mizzou reunion, please keep it to yourself. Meanwhile, I’ll just keep going to any ole random reunion that’ll have me. Oh, and birthday parties.

Amagansett, New York. June 2023

 

 

Sifting through a big ole flour sack full of feelings

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‘Emotionally ambushed by a humble household gadget’

So I’m unloading the dishwasher and putting the clean dishes away when the cutting board hits a jumble of Tupperware lids in the back of a cabinet and refuses to slide all the way in.

(Incidentally, I read somewhere about somebody who has two dishwashers in their kitchen — one for clean and one for dirty — so they never have to put the dishes away. Also regarding dishwashers — and this is something that really happened, not something I read about — one time my sister-in-law, in a fit of misguided helpfulness, unloaded the dirty dishes and put them all away, a fact I only discovered when I grabbed a “clean” plate to find it gravy-glued to the one beneath. It was weeks before I found all the sticky ice cream bowls, egg-crusted forks and coffee-besmirched mugs hidden in my cabinets like Easter eggs.)

An Easter egg decorated by Her Childness lo these many years ago

Anyway. This being a below-counter cabinet, I got down on my hands and knees to untangle the Tupperware jumble and happened to spot the flour sifter jammed way in the back.

Well. It wasn’t Memory Lane that flour sifter triggered — it was a whole Four-Lane Memory Highway. A virtual Long Island Expressway of memories.

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