family reunions

“Burn this, please.”

Standard

‘Remembering my one and only maternity outfit.’

Forgive me for the, um, pregnant pause in posting. So many projects, so little time! I swear that I’ve never been busier since I stopped working. I get up, settle in with a cup of coffee and Spelling Bee, and before you know it it’s time for a Manhattan and Wordle.

One of the Antarctic books I recommend if you’re not going to the Antarctic. Or even if you are (!)

In between, there are things that need fixing (this week it was the nuker and the coffee machine), books that need reading (some Shackleton stuff in preparation for Antarctica in a couple of weeks) and — lately — a book I’m Shutterflying to commemorate my mother’s memorial weekend in late August.

Some Mom memorabilia at her Celebration of Life. Including a book I made to commemorate her 90th birthday

Whew.

Oh, and there are sweaters to knit. These days, I can hardly crank one out for myself in between the ones for the babies of my nearest and dearest.

My latest sweater not for a baby: the Field Sweater by Camilla Vad

Yes, don’t let statistics of a declining birth rate throw you. The Child and her cohort are making up for everyone else. Seems like every single member of this particular batch of Thirtysomethings has at least one little Bundle of Joy. And some are working on siblings.

Handsome little hoodie for handsome little Julian

Right now I’m working on a rustic mini-hoodie (tweed with “leather” buttons) for Leon, and already planning something sweet for a soon-to-appear Baby Girl Grand-Niece.

Speaking of Mom’s Memorial, Baby Girl Grand-Niece was there, though not outwardly visible (yet).

Seeing this fashionable young Mom-to-Be got me to thinking about my own pregnancy and, to a lesser extent, my own maternity wardrobe. Which consisted of exactly one item: those awful stone-washed-denim overalls you see me wearing in the photo at the top of this post.

Here’s my sister and her two girls. All looking waaay more stylish than tee-shirt-and-shorts-clad me. Pregnant — or not

I swear to the pregnancy gods, these overalls were literally the only thing I wore during the last couple of months of carrying — and I do mean “carrying” — The Child. I wore them with tee shirts and sneakers. I wore them with turtlenecks and boots. And, bless me, I even wore them with silk blouses and low heels for dress up. They were the only thing that fit. Because they were the only piece of Actual Maternity Wear that I owned.

Quel contrast: Here is Her Childness, also attired in maternity denim. But managing, somehow, not to look like a hillbilly. Maybe it’s the antlers

See, I was 39, and figured that maternity clothes were a bad investment. At the time — 1990/1991 — clothes made specially for expectant mothers were not only very expensive, they made you look either like a nun (severe, black, trying for invisibility) or like a baby yourself (ruffles, poufs, bows). I got away with wardrobe murder — mainly by stealing Dude Man’s duds — until my seventh month when I blew up like a balloon for a not-so-fun party. My mother, bless her, is the one who saved me from bathrobe-only dressing by buying me that overall.

Maternity dressing, the olden-days way. That’s me, leaning against my elegantly-dressed Mom’s pregnant tummy, which contained Oldest Younger Brother Scott

But, trust me, after I wrestled my way into my hospital gown before being escorted into the labor room, I handed that overall — worn that day with a white tee and blue high-tops — to a nurse and said, “Burn this.”

Amagansett, New York. September 2025

 

What’s not to like about a wedding?

Standard

‘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.

 

 

My Brother’s Living Wake

Standard

‘Scott Henry turns seventy in style’

You know you’re getting long in the tooth when your brother turns seventy — and he’s your younger brother. Scott’s birthday is in August, and mine is in November, so, for a few months he’s only one year younger than me instead of two. Every year when his birthday rolls around, I like to think that he’s catching up to me.

On another of Scott’s 70 birthdays (this was his first) his Big Sister had to have a cake too

But hey, Scott’s not only younger than me, he’s funnier too. He pitched his birthday party as a Living Wake. He said he got the idea after attending one of those big sendoffs — the kind with a slideshow of the life of the Dearly Departed, tribute speeches from family and friends, and, of course, tons of food and gallons of booze — and hearing people say, “Gosh, he would have really loved this.”

So Scott’s like, “Hey, if someone’s gonna throw me a wake, well, I want to be there to enjoy it.” And so his bestie, Susan, did just that. With some help from family and friends:

And it was a doozie. Yup, there was a slideshow, plus plenty of tribute speeches, and you wouldn’t believe the spread. There were even tears.

The only thing that was different from a traditional wake — well, except for the fact that the body was still breathing — was the presence of a birthday cake. At least I haven’t heard of a birthday cake at a wake before, but nothing much surprises me these days.

And Scott thought THIS was a lot of candles (!) I couldn’t count them, so not sure which of his 70 years this cake was for

But the most appreciated presence was that of our mother. After all, there wouldn’t be a birthday party — or a Birthday Boy — without her.

Mom holds court, Wakeside. That’s one of her courtiers, Youngest Younger Brother Doug, doing a bit of photobombing

I’ll close this story with a little video — thank you, Favorite Sister! — to give you a taste of the party, if not of the cake itself. (Which, like the setting, was as wonderful as it looks.)

Happy Birthday, dear Little Brother. Maybe one of these days you’ll catch up to me. In years, I mean.

Amagansett, New York. August 2023

Grad School

Standard

‘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

 

 

Hands on clocks, hands on hips

Standard

‘All right; assume the position’

Until that glorious day when I get some of my own (hint hint hint, O Child), I borrow my bro-in-law’s grandchildren.

He has three; all extremely adorable girls. This Memorial Day was the tenth anniversary (gulp!) of their coming to Amagansett for an action-packed visit.

Since they’re not my grandchildren, I won’t show the little girls’ faces. But, as you can see, they have pretty adorable backs. And their Grampa, seen giving them fond good-bye hugs, is pretty cute too

While hanging out on the deck one morning perusing the paper, my also extremely-adorable (and extremely perceptive) niece-in-law pointed something out to me.

Watch faces in ads always have the time set to 10:08. Sometimes 10:09 or 10:11. But always thereabouts — she told me

I’m ashamed to say that I’d never noticed this. Have you? Extremely perceptive N-I-L had a few theories about why this is so. 10:10, she said, whether it’s AM or PM is a kind of hopeful, nonstressful time. You’re not rushing to work or school or hurrying to get dinner on.

Here’s another, from a magazine this time. Note uplifting, positive hand position

Of course Dude Man had his own theory. “They do it that way so the hands don’t cover up the name of the watch,” he pointed out in his oh-so-practical way. “Okay,” countered N-I-L, “then why don’t they use 7:20?”

She was still thinking about this on their way home. As for 3:10, I told her I thought that was a very discouraging time: too late for coffee and too early for cocktails

Thinking about the position of hands sparked another thought of mine. “Stand up and put your hands on your hips,” I said to her.

Dude Man standing with hands on hips. Notice anything different from the photo of me doing the same thing at the top of this post?

“What?!”

“Go on,” I encouraged. “Don’t think about it. Just stand up and put your hands on your hips.”

So she did, and her pose looked pretty much like mine up there at the top of this story. Except that she is oodles younger and prettier.

I don’t have a photo of Bill doing this, but here’s another one of The Dude demonstrating what I mean

See, Whitmores always put their hands sort of backwards on their hips. To demonstrate, I got her husband (Dude Man’s nephew and son of bro-in-law Bill, the Grampa of the adorable girls) to do it too. Yup. Same deal.

Here’s the first person I noticed doing this: Grampa Whit, the father of Grampa Bill. And yes, that’s The Child frolicking in the surf with him

It’s kind of like that Asparagus Pee Thing. Or that Rolling Your Tongue Thing. Hereditary. Go ahead; try it. Are you a Frontwards or a Backwards?

There’s my dad, far right in the back row, demonstrating the Frontwards. Henrys are all Frontwards. Note one of my cousins, Frontwards in the front row, striped shirt

Once I started searching, I found tons of photographic evidence of both Frontwards and Backwards — and of how consistently people did one or the other.

Honestly, I couldn’t find anybody who switched around — or at least any pictures as proof that they did. The best I could do was to find some people (like me at the top of this post) who sometimes mixed things up by balling their fists in Frontwards position, a pose I like to think shows determination and power.

Here’s The Child, showing her Whitmoreness in a crowd of Petersons and Henrys

And here she is again, demonstrating that you don’t grow out of your hands-on-hips position

I could go on and on. But I have to get my act together to drive back to the Very Hot City, where I have places to go and people to see. You can bet I’ll be keeping an eye on where everybody puts their hands.

Sometimes it’s fun to put your hands on somebody else’s hips (!)

Amagansett, New York. May 2022

Nesting Instinct

Standard

‘At long last, bicoastal birdies come home to roost’

It had been 599 days since I had last hugged my Mom. And, gosh-darn it, I wasn’t going to let another momless, hugless day go by. I zoomed one last time — in an airplane instead of on a screen — and got myself out to Vancouver, Washington, where my Mom was settling into her new nest.

Mom shows off her nest, including her new Smart TV

The newly-hitched Child dragged herself away from her (sounds so weird to say it) husband to join us. And, bless her, she handled everything: Air bnb, car rental, the works. Once we got there, she even did an InstaCart. All I had to do was be where she said to be at the time she said to be there.

One of many beautiful trees adorning the grounds at Mom’s place. Anybody know what it is?

Our visit did not disappoint. In addition to multiple sessions of much-anticipated hugging, it was packed with Scrabble (I managed to win a game!), Cubs games, gabfests and even some Corner Gas (Canada’s answer to Seinfeld).

It was lovely enough for a walk along the Columbia River

Continue reading

Narrowing the Generation Gap

Standard

‘Daughter, Mom/Daughter, Mom get together again’

Pictured above are a daughter, a mom (who is also a daughter) — and her mom. Three generations of a family who, like many others, loves nothing more than to get together but hasn’t been able to in ever so long.

Same trio, same positions — Daughter, Mom/Daughter, Mom — on another visit long ago. Which doesn’t actually feel that long ago

The last time this threesome was in the same room at the same time — not to mention the same positions — was in October of 2019. When the extended Henry Clan gathered to celebrate our matriarch’s ninetieth.

Same room, same time, some celebration (!)

That was some shebang. (You can read all about it in “So far, so good.”) There was cake, there was wine, there was dancing and joking and all-around foolishness and hijinks.

Dancing in pjs. A must at any Henry party

One can only wonder what we would have done differently had we known it would be the last time we’d see each other for more than a year. I certainly can’t think how we could possibly have enjoyed ourselves more.

Continue reading

Small place, big personalities

Standard

‘The Colorful Characters of Clinton County’

I was watching a clip of Donald Trump slip-sliding his way down that ramp at West Point and immediately thought of Dennis Rose. “Gription,” Dennis would have said. “Trump’s shoes ain’t got enough gription.”

Well, if “gription” isn’t a word, it oughta be. Dennis used it to describe what was wrong with his own sneakers during a basketball practice one afternoon long ago in the Carlyle High School gym. (I didn’t witness this word coinage myself, those being pre-Title IX days, when the sportiest we girls could get was playing dodge-ball in that same high school gym. While wearing bloomers. Honest. Bloomers.)

Dennis’ locution was colorful, but, trust me, there were other Clinton County denizens who made him seem pasty-pale in comparison.

There was the guy named Bill who rode his bike everywhere. Sure, no one bats an eye at an adult on a bike now (even sealed in Spandex), but back then a grownup riding a bike caused, well, comment. Indeed, we kids were told to “stay away from that man.”

Kids riding bikes was another kettle of handlebars entirely. We went everywhere on bikes. Well, except not to school. Bike riding to school–even on a swell banana bike like Rog’s–was considered very uncool and just was not done

Continue reading

The Zoom Zoom Room

Standard

‘Connecting in the Time of Corona’

I don’t know about you, but my head is spinning these days. No, it’s not from the craziness of the News Cycle — though the suggestion of ingesting bleach or zapping the inside of my body with “light” is rather mind-boggling — no, my noggin is spinning from all that Zooming.

I’ve been Zooming (or FaceTiming or Facebook Messengering) with West Coast Cousins of The Dude, members of my New York City Ladies’ Club, the Curator of the Frick Museum, and even Stephen Colbert and Trevor Noah. (I’ve already written, in “Apocalypse Now,” about Zooming with John Krasinski.

Why, the whole Earth is zooming! (Thanks, New Yorker)

And that was just this week. It’s kind of funny, actually (if anything about this Corona Crisis can be funny), but I’ve been feeling more connected than ever during these weeks of isolation.

Somehow I thought that isolation would be more, well, isolating. But, as it turns out, I’ve got my coffee with the ladies on Mondays, my art lecture on Tuesdays, my Family FaceTime on Wednesdays. And this week, I’ve added a Cocktail Hour with my Bridge Buddies on Thursday. I hardly have time for those endless hours of curled-up-in-a-big-chair-under-an-afghan reading I’d pictured myself doing.

Continue reading

Yep, there is a place called Yap

Standard

‘But can you find it on a map?’

Please forgive the Green Eggs and Ham cadence; I couldn’t help myself. Everyone’s been so crabby lately. We’ve got the Secretary of State yelling at NPR reporters while waving maps — “Go on, Missy! Find Ukraine! I double-dog dare ya!” (She does, then tells on him. What did he think she’d do — she’s a reporter.)

Then we’ve got Our President congratulating the Kansas City Chiefs — from the Great State of Kansas — on their Super Bowl win. This time Claire McCaskill got a little testy:

I’ll let that one slide since she was pretty hilarious, and also because she used to be a senator from, ahem, Missouri. Which is where the Chiefs are actually from. (I used to be from Missouri, too, having spent my formative post-grad new-to-advertising years there. But those are whole ‘nother stories. Which you can find under the “Adland Lore” tab in the sidebar if you are bored and it’s raining like it is here.)

Me, doing something Important as Creative Director of a fair-to-middlin’ size ad agency in Kansas City, Missouri

Continue reading