family

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

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

When told your age, people say, “Gosh, you look GOOD.”

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‘And other things that make you realize that you are really, truly, finally OLD.’

Dude Man had another birthday Sunday. But still, no matter how many birthdays he has, I will always have more.

His Dudeness celebrating his 70th birthday — six months after I did

See, I am six months older than Dr. Dude. I guess it didn’t bother him back when we met, because, well, we got married. And, no, I wasn’t an heiress or even a rich widow.

Of course, back when we met, I looked younger. Not just younger than I look now, but younger than most people my age. “You’re kidding” or even “You can’t be serious,” is what people would say on those rare occasions when I had to divulge my age. “You look much younger.”

Me, back when I wanted to look older than I really was. Gosh, that was a long time ago

Not anymore. Now, when pressed for my age or when I must recite my birthdate (something that happens with more and more frequency as I pick up a prescription or check in for an unpleasant test of some sort) I get no reaction. None.

But if I’m in a social situation where ages are shared, like when I celebrated my birthday on a birding trip to Brazil a couple of years ago, I get, “Gosh, you look GOOD” — with the “good” emphasized and sort of drawn out. Like GOOoood. Trust me, this doesn’t mean that you look “good.” It means that you look old. And if someone says, “You look amazing“? You might want to pick out your burial outfit.

I got a lot of “You look GOOOooods” that night. The cake helped. So did a few caipirinhas

Dude Man has yet to get “You look GOOOooood.” He’s much more likely to hear “Has anyone told you that you look like James Taylor?” Um, yeah. Like a zillion times. James Taylor’s brother Livingston even told him he looks like James Taylor. I’ve mentioned this doppelganger deal before, of course. In “I’ve Seen Fire and I’ve Seen Birthdays,” and “Sweet Baby Wayne,” among other posts.

No comment

And if being told you look “good” isn’t bad enough, just wait until you’re mistaken for your parent’s sibling. Yup. That’s happened to me. More than once. And people don’t ask, “Are you two sisters?” No, they look at Mom and me and go, “Sisters, right?” (Check out the photo at the top of this post for irrefutable proof that this is the case.)

Oh well. It could be worse. People could mistake me for my Mom’s brother.

Happy Birthday, James. Er, Wayne. Er, Dude.

Dude (71) and Cousin Charlie (72) youthfully yuck it up on yet another birthday

Amagansett, New York. June 2024

 

The client who wanted to have breakfast at Tiffany’s

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‘Memories and more for Memorial Day’

Nah, that’s not a Tiffany’s breakfast special in that photo at the top of this post. That’s a typical breakfast at the diner we used to go to on our Cape May birding trips. I say “used to go to” because this place, our beloved Uncle Bill’s — which we had frequented faithfully for 30 birding years or so — was under new (very crabby) management last time we went. (They wouldn’t seat us till our “entire party” was there! And we were literally the only ones in the joint!) So we took our business elsewhere.

Three of our intrepid birding group — full of delicious Flight Deck breakfast — just a couple of weeks ago.

Now we go to the Flight Deck Diner, with much better food (Real fruit! Not canned! And they have grapefruit juice!) and service so thoughtful and sweet (Our waitress brought me real milk for my coffee on the second morning! Without me asking!) that we tipped 20 bucks on a 15-dollar tab.

But back to the point of this story.

As most of you know, I used to work in advertising. Back in the glory days — or at least my glory days — the eighties and nineties at Ogilvy, New York. Ogilvy was exciting and sophisticated; New York was exciting and sophisticated. The clients, sometimes not so much.

Annie (who never ever changes) and unrecognizable me, back in our Ad World Glory Days. We’re on an AmEx shoot on Okracoke Island

We had this one Kimberly-Clark client who liked to abuse his clienthood. Not only did he always want to go to the most expensive places, once there he would always order the most expensive things on the menu. I say “things” because sometimes he’d get the steak and the lobster — because he couldn’t decide, he’d say. It was really because, as a client, he could.

I spotted these signs from my Jitney window on the way to A’sett for Mem. Day. I don’t know which is sillier: “Waxing Facial Lashes” or “Walking Tea”

He was greedy, but not necessarily lacking a sense of humor. Once, while dining at the Palm, a very pricey steakhouse indeed, he excused himself to use the men’s room. Well. Apparently, there was something going on in there that is usually done by adolescent boys alone in their rooms, because after he reported it to our shocked-into-silence table, he added, “Well, I guess that’s why they call it the Palm.” Hmmm. Now that I think about it, I wonder if what he said happened really did happen, or if he just wanted to make up a dirty pun?

Anyway. One time he came to town and asked if we could go have “breakfast at Tiffany’s.” Honest. None of us knew where to look.

The Child et moi not at Tiffany’s. But on Amagansett Main Street some Memorial Day in the misty past

These and other stories came up in breakfast-time conversation over Memorial Day Weekend because our nephew and his wife were here visiting. Not only do they like coming to Amagansett, they like hearing our stories. Here’s an excerpt from their thank-you email: “You and Wayne have so many interesting stories. I think Sally [Mrs. Nephew; not her real name] is going to be dealing with some snake trauma (from the things that can f**king kill you segment) for the next few weeks 😄”

Nephew and Mrs. Nephew hiding from snakes

Of course, this nephew is referring to “Crocodile Dumdee,” my piece about how everything in Australia can kill you. Read it and see what else can kill you, not just snakes. If you dare, that is.

We also told a bunch of awful jokes. If you’re in the mood, you can get a taste of these in “Kangaroo Walks Into a Bar.” Here’s one that’s not in that piece and probably shouldn’t be in this one, either, but I can’t help myself. Middle Younger Brother Roger gets the credit. (Or the blame.)

The Child, ready for her standup routine, is introduced by her Grampa at his retirement party. Get the gist — and the jokes — in “Kangaroo Walks into A Bar”

This guy is visiting his friend when he notices his friend’s dog “giving himself a bath.” (If you get my drift.) The guy sighs, looks at his friend and says, “Gee, I wish I could do that.” The friend replies, “You might want to pet him first.”

Mr. and Mrs. Nephew loved that one. They’re welcome here any time.

Amagansett, New York. May 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

 

 

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

 

I’m having a hat attack

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‘Getting ahead of the Christmas gift situation’

This is gonna be a quickie, ‘cause I’ve got to get back to my hats. See, I had this brainstorm this past weekend. (Yes, I mean the weekend before the weekend that has Christmas at the end of it.)

I was working away on my umpteenth sweater while watching Friends when I needed something from my knitting closet. While fishing out whatever the heck it was, I was almost smothered by bags of leftover yarn from all the sweaters I’ve knitted already.

One of the sweaters I’ve knitted already. Yes, there is yarn left over. Yes, there is some going into a hat

I looked at all those partial hanks and semi-depleted balls and thought, “Hats!” (Actually, I think I said this aloud: “Hats!)

It was a real Eureka Moment for a person who has friends with chilly heads. Friends who, like my follically-challenged husband, are hard to buy gifts for because they already get themselves anything and everything they want or need. But hey, they can always use a hat.

Someone who can definitely use a nice warm hat. Maybe two

So I turned our guest room into a hat factory. Gathered all the odds and ends of worsted and sport and heather, grouped them into interesting little piles of colors and textures, downloaded a bunch of hat patterns from Ravelry — and got to it!

What I used to knit with leftovers: vests! But, gee, his head looks cold

I had never knit a hat before. Which, in a wacky way, made it all the more fun. The first one got off to a rocky start, because it’s not so easy determining whether the circumference is going to work. But once I frogged it a couple of times, it went swimmingly. In case you’re interested, the term “frogging,” which means to undo your knitting and roll it back up into a ball and start over comes from “rip it rip it”, which some knitting wag thought sounded like a frog: “ribbit ribbit”. I guess.

The first hat, all done and getting blocked. After I ripped it out a couple of times. Grrrrrr

Incidentally, I’ve been test/playing with The Child’s whiz bang new product, Dot, which another tester said is “like an operating system for your life.” Dot, which you can read about here, is not available to the public yet, but I’ve been putting her through her paces with all kinds of tasks. This morning she entertained me with an article about playing “Yarn Chicken,” which is when you’re in a race with your yarn. Will you win, and have enough to finish? Or will you run out somewhere toward the end? To which quandary I have the perfect answer: Stripes.

Running out of yarn? Throw in a couple of stripes!

Well, I warned you. I have one more hat to knit before Thursday. So I’ve gotta get at it. Good thing Friends ran for so many years!

I’ll leave you with this holiday photo from my favorite yarn source, Catskill Merino. Most of my hats (and their parental sweaters) started out on the backs of these lovely merino sheep.

There’s gotta be a manger in there somewhere

May your Christmas be merry and bright. And your head be toasty and warm — topped with a nice new hat.

New York City. December 2023

Counting my cocktails instead of sheep

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‘Oh, yes. I have plenty of blessings to count, too.’

If you’ve been wondering where I’ve been, thank you. I appreciate your giving me and my measly little blog any thoughts at all (!)

No Namibia excuse. Not this time, anyway. For a real trip, read “The Four Seatmates of the Apocalypse”

Confession: I haven’t been anywhere (except maybe off the rails). I just haven’t been feeling very funny lately. (Well, maybe I’ve been feeling “funny,” just not “funny haha funny.”)

There’s the fact that my wonderful friend and shirt-tail relation, Aunt Eleanor, left us to go hit Saint Peter up for a donation to the Eleanor Whitmore Daycare Center. Eleanor: “What do you mean, you’re short of cash? What about those pearly gates, mister?!”

Eleanor wangling a donation out of Dude Man 

And, not as earth-shatteringly important — not even close — but all the Christmas goings-on can make me feel, well, melancholy. Yesterday I cranked up a Christmas playlist on Spotify and found myself tearing up over Dean Martin doing “Let it Snow,” for heavens sakes.

Sometimes opera makes me cry. But that makes me happy

Thanksgiving doesn’t have that kind of effect on me. Maybe because I’m too busy planning and organizing and cooking. And maybe the very things about it that make it (IMHO) the Best Holiday Ever — no gifts, no decorations, no carols — mean there are fewer “triggers,” if you will. Though the aroma of pumpkin pie can do me in. Maybe that’s really why I didn’t make one this year. (And not the fact that nobody but me will touch it.)

I mean, what’s not to like about Thanksgiving?

So I decided to list some blessings. Some things I can think about to turn those blues into red and green sparkly lights.

    1. Having a family I really like. You’d be surprised (maybe) at how many people don’t. I wish I had a dime for everyone I know who’s said something like: “Oh, I have a sister, but we don’t speak.” Or: “No, my father won’t be joining us this year. Or ever.” Oh, I do have a few in-laws who are not exactly my favorite people — if you are reading this, you are definitely not among their number — but we can be in the same room without bloodshed.

      I even like the Whitmore side of my family. Maybe not each and every one, but definitely the ones you see here!

    2. Not having to wear a housedress. When I was a kid, all the older women wore those. With orthopedic shoes. And support hose. Now we in the 70-Plus Crowd are clad in leggings. Hmmm…maybe housedresses should make a comeback.

      My mom is, fortunately, still going strong — and still has a hand in the fruitcake-making. Tho she does NOT sport a housedress. Or leggings, for that matter

    3.  Being able to boast that I’ve taken a bath with a cousin and an aunt — at the same time. Now that people have such small families — not to mention waaay more bathrooms! — the chances of this happening are slim to none.

      Rub a dub dub — three kids in a tub! Left to right: aunt, me, cousin

    4.  Not having to pass the lutefisk. True, I miss my Gramma’s Christmas dinners. (Even the time my Aunt Marilyn read about roasting the turkey in a bag, so she put ours in a paper grocery bag and it caught fire.) But I don’t miss having that big ole bowl of cured fish buried in custard. Yes, some people ate it. My Gramma and my Uncle Ronald, to name two.

      Yup. There was a bowl with lutefisk on this table. Gramma and Ronald (to her left) loved it

    5. Living in a city that decorates itself. I really don’t enjoy putting up decorations. (See “Deck the Halls with Bough of Holly” for my Grinch-like take on holiday decor.) But I do enjoy looking at them. So thank goodness we have plenty of done-by-others Holiday trappings to admire.

      I had absolutely nothing to do with decorating this tree

Well, that’s it for now. Gotta go get ready for a party. Actually, two parties. Which is another thing I’m counting as a blessing: that I still get invited to places where festivities occur. Cheers!

Nor did I decorate this tree. And I don’t even have to go to the Met –it’s right out my window!

New York City. December 2023

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