family

My Brother’s Living Wake

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‘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

Boats? Dad had yachts of them

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‘And not all of them were in the water’

Okay, okay. I’ll apologize for the terrible “yachts” pun. Sorta. I did win a contest with it, though, back in the Olden Days.

See, New York Magazine used to run a contest in every issue that involved wordplay, something I enjoy very much indeed, as evidenced these days with my compulsive playing of both Spelling Bee (every morning with coffee) and Wordle (every cocktail hour with, well, a cocktail).

Mom shucking corn. Which has nothing to do with this story. Except that I always enjoy a cocktail as part of my perfect corn cooking method (here you go)

This particular contest was to come up with funny definitions for words beginning with “y.” My winner? Yachts: many many boats. (Which is also a title of one of my pieces you can check out after this one, if you’re not too tired of being amused.)

Enough about me and my love of word games. Let’s talk about my Dad and his love of boats. I’ve written about his famous houseboat, the Sir-Launch-A-Lot. (He, ahem, loved puns too.) Today I’m going to talk about his landlubbing boats — his cars.

I’ve used this photo before, but I can’t resist. It shows Dad (courtesy of Scott, the camera’s owner) operating a remote shutter to take an early selfie.

See, Dad didn’t like just any ole cars — he liked really big cars. Cars so big that they were like boats. He favored Chrysler New Yorkers and Lincoln Town Cars — cars so big and boatlike they were like piloting the Queen Mary. I swear you’d turn the wheel on one of those babies and it would take several seconds for the car to actually turn.

And how was the ride? If you were seated in one of these, you not only couldn’t hear any outside noise, you couldn’t feel anything on the outside either. No bumps, no potholes, no speed bumps — even those wakey-uppy grids they put before you come to a big intersection just felt like you rolled over some sandpaper.

Here’s a car we actually owned. (It was a Ford; I remember going to the showroom.) That’s me in the back having a tantrum and refusing to participate in the Peterson family photo

Speaking of Town Cars, once Dad and Mom were visiting me in New York and Dad noticed many big black cars tooling around.  “Look! New Yorkers love a nice big Town Car too!” Little did he realize that these Town Cars belonged to car services, not to Actual New Yorkers.

To be fair, Dad didn’t actually own his Town Cars. (Nor his Chrysler New Yorkers). He leased them as part of his business. Of course I never paid any attention to this — until I was a freshman in college and Dad told me he’d get me a car if I got straight A’s. I did, and he did. I got a cute little Chevy Vega. Bright blue. But, after a year I had to give it back. No, my grades didn’t plummet. I didn’t realize Dad had leased it. (My Oldest Younger Brother Scott was a wiser bargainer; when he got his straight A’s from Northwestern, he made Dad buy his Datsun. It was orange, I think. But it was his, I know.)

“My” Chevy Vega, getting accessorized with cans and such on the occasion of my first wedding. (Yes, I was married before the Days of the Dude. Read about it here.)

So, how big were Dad’s boats. Er, cars? They were so big that Dad hung a tennis ball (at least I think it was a tennis ball; it might have been a golf ball) from the ceiling of the garage, placed so that it bonked gently on the windshield when the boat (er, car) was pulled in enough to close the garage door without crunching any fenders.

Sadly, I have no photographic evidence of the inside of the ball-bedecked garage. But here’s what was outside: a nice comfy swing

They were also so big that once we lost a child in one. True story. A big ole batch of Henrys was visiting — maybe for Dad’s retirement party. At any rate, it was back when we sibs all had little kids in tow. We were rounding everyone up and someone had told my nephew Leo to go get in Grampa’s car, then neglected to see him sitting in the back seat. Everyone left (in other cars, no one wanting to drive the boat), and it was hours before anyone remembered about Leo. Yup. He was still in the back seat, waiting. Gosh. Maybe he’s still there. I know I haven’t seen him in a while.

This time it’s Doug having a tantrum. And who could blame him? Yikes. At least we weren’t in old-timey costumes

Amagansett, New York. August 2023

 

 

Do you speak “Peterson?”

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‘Every family has its own language.’

Well, I guess I owe you all an apology again. I played hooky last week, and I don’t even have a fun reason. Last time I blog-skipped it was because I was out West playing with my Mom. Not this time.

Me, out West having a high old time speaking “Peterson” with Mom and Sis

Nope. This week I blame my goofoffedness on the fact that I had to travel unexpectedly into the City to deal with a sudden onset of flashing lights in my left eye. Those of you who are equally ancient will recognize the danger of a detached retina here. One would think, being married to an ophthalmologist and all, that I could just hop up on the kitchen table and have Dr. Dude sort it out. But no. One needs special gear to peer into the depths of an eyeball. Also, he’s not a retina specialist. So there’s that.

Non-retina specialist Dr. Dude admiring the view from the Great Lawn earlier this week when I convinced him to go with me on my morning walk

I’ll spare you the sturm und drang and back and forth, but suffice it to say that my eye is fine. Or as fine as a 72-year-old eye can be. I swear, once I turned 70 (See “Skirting the Issue” for a breathless account of my fab birthday bash), everything started to fall apart. I’ve started to identify with our ’98 4Runner or even our ’91 Honda — ’cause I’m always in the shop.

There I was, happily ensconced with Whitmore Family members in Amagansett when my eye started flashing

But back to the subject of the week, the Language of Families. My theory being that every family has words or catchphrases that they use with each other — sometimes to communicate, but more often just to crack each other up — that Outsiders simply don’t get.

Like, my Aunt Shirley used to call the soft tissue holding your teeth in your mouth your “gooms” (rhymes with “goons”) because she thought a medicalesque part of your anatomy simply couldn’t be just “gums.” My Mom and her sister Marilyn (both nurses) thought this was hilarious, and started calling the darned things “gooms” every chance they got, even when Aunt Shirley wasn’t around. Especially when Aunt Shirley wasn’t around.

That’s Aunt Shirley on the far left (also on the far left in the photo at the top of this post), hanging out with the Henry Family for a change. Maybe because they didn’t make fun of her for saying “gooms”

So “gooms” entered the Peterson Family Lexicon, along with “grocerots,” which was what my Aunt M. called “groceries.” Not sure why, but she always did. And then the rest of us of the Peterson Persuasion did, too. (Cousin Marcia, I bet you say “grocerots,” yes?)

The Petersons were Swedish (duh), like practically everybody else in their neck of the Northern Illinois woods (er, farmland). Once, when my Great-Aunt Florence had been chatting away to a neighbor for a while, her Swedish must have gotten “stuck,” because she remarked to someone that she was very tired and needed to go get “rosted ooop.” (Go on, say this out loud. Which we Peterson descendants do. A lot.)

I don’t have a photo of Aunt Florence, darn it. But this is my half-Peterson family hanging out at her house with her sister, Aunt Net*

Aunt Florence is the source of another bit of lingo that became a family catchphrase. Want to get a Peterson to snort milk out their nose? Just go “baw baw baw” in a really harsh, strident tone. That was how one of Aunt Flo’s neighbors used to rock her baby to sleep. I wonder if it was the same baby who, when asked its name, its mother replied, “Oh, for now we’re just calling him Squacky.” This is true. I swear on a stack of gooms.

Another shot of Aunt Annette (Net), this time with my Gramma, her other sister besides Florence. *We kids thought she was called Aunt “Net” because she wore a hairnet

How about your family? Do you speak your own language? Even if you don’t, I sure hope you take time out every day to crack each other up. Then you can go get “rosted ooop.”

Amagansett, New York. June 2023

 

Don’t leave home without it.

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‘The one travel essential that never appears on a list’

A couple of weeks ago Dude Man and I had dinner with the kind of couple I love to do things with in the City. They’re up for just about anything and, if weeks — or even months — go by between dinners or whatever, it doesn’t matter one whit. We just take up where we left off and have a jolly good time.

I knew the woman from a zillion years ago at Ogilvy, but our friendship got rekindled when she and her husband were on a plane to Bonaire and happened to sit next to Dr. Dude. One thing led to another and, next thing you know, we were sharing a pizza on the island and cracking each other up.

Anyway, that was years ago, and we still get together every once in a while to share a pizza on an island (Manhattan now) — and, yes, crack each other up. This last time they were telling us an air travel horror story. Trust me, even air travel horror stories can be pretty darned funny well after the fact. (You know the famous saying, right? “Comedy equals Tragedy plus Time.” True, so true. For anecdotal evidence, try out “The Gate Nazi at JFK.” Horrible and hilarious.)

On the same trip (of Gate Nazi fame) our flights were delayed for so long we went back to the hotel for more birding. (See “Birders Gotta Bird”)

This particular air travel horror story did not involve authoritarian gate agents demanding the singing of Christmas carols. No, this time the horror involved a delay — the kind of dreadful delay that drags on and on and on, and, adding to the drag, no food or water or refreshments of any kind.

Me, warily contemplating my fate at a gate at JFK

Were our friends daunted by this delay? Well, they weren’t pleased, but they weren’t starving either. Because, with tremendous foresight, my friend had packed a peanut butter sandwich. (Well, actually, two peanut butter sandwiches. One for each of them.)

This, O Reader, is the Travel Trick that I never see on even the most comprehensive lists. I see packing cubes, I see headphones, I see phone chargers, I see collapsible pillows. But do I see “peanut butter sandwich?”

Oh, once in a while, I see a suggestion to bring “snacks.” But what do they mean? Fruit gets mushy. Cheese gets rubbery. And god forbid you bring something aromatic. I once was on a flight where my seatmate whipped out a carton of chinese food. And don’t get me started on the guy who brought some McDonald’s (!)

Yes, this was The Child’s travel snack. No, she did not try to bring it on the plane

True, a peanut-butter sandwich can exude a somewhat nutty aroma. But, other than that, and the fact that it might get a bit smooshed — a problem that can be mitigated by making it foldover style — a PB&J is portable, palatable and non-confrontational.

If you find yourself saying, right about now, “Oh, but I’m going to be on an international flight and they have to serve me food” or “But I’m going to be in first class and the food will be terrific” — listen up. Your Emergency PB&J won’t take up a lot of room, and, like a spare phone charger, you might be awfully glad you’ve got it with you. (See my friend’s photo of her international-flight dinner — cup of water plus weird cracker/cookie thingie — at the top of this post. That sandwich on the left? That’s her presciently provided-by-herself PB&J.)

Dude enjoying First Class on our flight to Ecuador. (The food was good)

And if you end up not needing your PB&J after all? Eat it when you get where you’re going. Then you won’t need to go out for pizza. Though you’re going to want to go out for pizza if you’re with friends like ours.

Amagansett, New York. June 2023

Mr. Malaprop

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‘”But that’s what I’ve always called it,” and other Dudeisms.’

I flew home from my Mom’s yesterday, and boy are my arms tired. Almost too tired to peck away at my keyboard. But I already missed last week’s missive — because I was at Mom’s — and I daren’t let too many postless weeks go by or I will lose my thousands of subscribers. Kidding.

Three Mom Amigos at a lilac garden

So. Mom’s visit. It was super satisfying, what with outings to lilac gardens and riverfront eating establishments and such, plus plenty of Sister Sightings, which are always my favorite part. Sigh.

Hanging out at Laura’s. Even more fun than a lilac garden

But back to the topic of today: Dude Man’s somewhat trying and definitely hilarious habit of peppering conversations with words or phrases that are, well, somewhat off. Not quite wrong, like insisting that “night” is called “day” or “black” is called “white.” But pretty close. And, what’s even more Dudelike, insisting, when gently corrected, that his usage is correct.

For example (speaking of “night” and “day”). The Dude and I have been trying to incorporate morning walks into our daily routine. Since his office hours start around 7:30 — he is a doctor, as you may recall — these walks have to start early. Like around 5:30. AM.

Which means we get to see the sun rise over Central Park. (Gorgeous, BTW.) Invariably, His Dudeness will look out over the Lake as we’re crossing Bow Bridge and say, “Ah, look at the lovely twilight.” Then, when I point out that the appearance of first light is called “dawn,” and that “twilight” refers to the fading of light in the evening, he insists that “twilight” works just fine — because “that’s what I’ve always called it.”

I don’t have a photo of us in Central Park at dawn (er, “twilight”) but I do have this one (and the one at the top of this post), showing twilight in Brazil

Another example. As you may recall, I’m sort of never not knitting something. Baby sweaters, usually. Because they’re little and fun and fast, but mainly because I’m hoping somebody out there will take the hint, already. The last one I did was a cardigan.

One of my latest sweaters. Definitely not Dude-sized. And definitely not a “button-down.” It’s called a “cardigan”

Dude Man duly admired it, then asked if I could knit him one too. (Larger, for sure. And probably not pink.) Since he never wears the many sweaters I have already knit for him — which have lived in a lonely stack in his closet ever since he discovered Polarfleece — I asked what would qualify this hypothetical sweater for actual wearing.

Oh, it would be a vest. So it would fit under jackets. (He has vests, I point out. Vests he never wears. Under jackets or anything else.) Oh, I’d like one that buttons down the front. You know, a button-down.

One of the many vests I have knit him. It does have buttons, but only part way down the front

A “button-down?” I say. “A button-down” is a shirt. A shirt with buttons that hold the collar down.

No it’s not. A “button-down” is anything that buttons down the front. Like a shirt. Or a sweater, he insists.

A cardigan is a sweater that buttons down the front, I insist right back. If you go in a store and ask for a “button-down,” they’re going to bring you a shirt with those little buttons on the collar. They are most definitely not going to bring you a sweater that buttons down the front.

Well, he huffs. That’s what I’ve always called sweaters like that.

Another sweater that Dude would call a button-down. And that everyone else calls a cardigan. This one wasn’t for him either

Okay. I give up. (Big sigh goes here.)

This post is reminding me of one of my father’s favorite jokes — one that he taught The Child to tell at family gatherings. Here goes:

A woman is walking down a country lane carrying a duck. A man walks by and asks, “What are you doing with that pig?” The woman replies, “That’s not a pig — that’s a duck.” Man: “I was talking to the duck.”

New York City. May 2023

The Grammy Awards

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‘And the winner is…’

Last weekend I had the pleasure of greeting a new grandchild. No, this was not my new grandchild (fingers — and toes — are firmly crossed hoping for that Blessed Event) but a very fine grandchild indeed. I mean, just look at this baby.

Even if you are not usually fond of babies, you must admit this one is a dandy

No, the latest winners of the Grandparent Lottery happen to be Dude Man’s cousin and his wife. They had us over last weekend to meet little Elouise. There was eating and drinking and laughing plus funny-face-making, high-pitched cooing and, of course, much cuddling. I swear that baby got passed around more than the wine bottle(s).

The latest winners of the Grandparent Lottery

I say “latest winners” because little Zachs and Esmes and Orens and Sophias and Madeleines and Francescos seem to be popping out everywhere like flowers after the rain. And, since I knit baby sweaters for the progeny of people I am related to and/or like a lot, my fingers have been getting a workout. (Which, of course, makes it harder to keep them wishfully crossed.)

Oh, and Elouise got this little number. It has pockets. You know, for her pacifier. Or car keys

But enough about teensy knitwear. All these new grandchildren got me thinking about my own grandmothers. How wonderful they were, but how different.

A rare occasion when both Grammas were in the same room at the same time: Gramma H on the left (with undyed hair!), Just Plain Gramma to the right, also undyed (as usual)

One was wiry and skinny, wore slacks, worked in a factory and — most fascinating to us kids — dyed her hair. Why was this fascinating? Well, we kids didn’t know from hair dye. We just knew that Gramma Henry’s hair was a different color every time we saw her: sometimes brown, sometimes reddish, sometimes almost black. (We kids also didn’t know about false teeth. There was a scary lady in my home town who used to push her partial plate out at us to keep us out of her yard.)

Gramma Henry (with Laura and Mom) aboard the Sir Launch-A-Lot. Gosh, she has undyed hair — and is wearing a dress

My other gramma — my mom’s mom — was kinda plump, always wore a housedress, worked on a farm and most certainly didn’t dye her hair. She even wore an apron. Pretty much all the time.

Classic Gramma (Peterson) at right. Housedress: check, apron: check

Incidentally, my mom’s mother was known as “Gramma,” while my dad’s mom was called “Gramma Henry.” True, we saw my Peterson gramma more often than the Henry one, and my mom and I even lived with her while my dad was off serving in Korea. But, still, I bet that stung.

Our Korean Conflict family unit: Gramma and Grampa in the middle, Aunt Marilyn on the left, Mom on the right. Oh, and me on the lap. Read about what happened when my Dad returned in “Kissing Daddy Good-night”

(Back then, no grandmothers — at least no grandmothers that I knew — were called anything but “Gramma.” Well, maybe “Grandmother,” but that was only in books. I certainly hadn’t heard any parent of a parent referred to as “Nana” or “Gigi” or “MomMom” or even “G-Ma.” Yes, I wrote a piece about this.

Gramma beating Aunt Shirley, Mom and me at Scrabble

Yes, they were different. One played poker and one played Scrabble. One drank plum wine, and the other something she called “silver tea,” which was a cup of hot water.

But both of them deserve a Grammy Award for being so wonderful. Thanks for jogging some fine memories, Miss Elouise.

It’s exhausting being a baby. And a parent (!)

New York City. May 2023

“All I have is prickly heat”

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‘Fun facts about Youngest Younger Brother Doug on his birthday’

Okay. I am officially Older Than Dirt. A person whose diapers I used to change has just turned sixty. Gosh. It was shocking enough when I turned sixty.

Me as a B-Team Mom. That’s Baby Bro Doug fidgeting in my lap

The person in question is my Youngest Younger Brother Doug; the diaper-changing happened during my B-Team Mom years, which, if so inclined, you can read about here.

This brother is so much younger than me that, for all intents and purposes, we grew up in entirely different families. “Confessions of a B-Team Mom” talks about that too. Heraclitus is mentioned. (A name I still find rather, well, unsettling.)

Me, the year I left home for college. Doug was four

But enough with stuff I’ve already written about. Today I’d like to tell you about this Marvelous Man who was once the object of my babysitting attention. My Baby Brother Doug.

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Let them eat Bunny Cake

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‘An Easter treat that’s hard to beat’

I just realized that I really should have posted this story before Easter. That way you all could have whipped out your cake pans and created a bunny to dig into after your ham or lamb. (Note: we never had lamb at Easter; my mother swears it smells like “hot wet sweaters.”)

Speaking of sweaters, here’s my latest. I haven’t gotten it hot or wet, so I don’t know if it smells like lamb

Oh well, you still could “do” a bunny cake. They’re awfully fun to make, and, what with the coconut frosting and the jellybean whiskers, tasty too.

Besides, bunnies don’t really have anything to do with Easter. Not really. Bunnies and eggs were pagan fertility symbols that the early Christians appropriated; they decided they were symbols of the resurrection of Jesus. Though I have a suspicion that the real reason for “stealing” those heathen bunnies and eggs was to cheer up an inherently downer holiday. (Crown of thorns? Dying on a cross? I mean, even rising from the dead isn’t exactly cheerful.)

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The Emotional Support Rock

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‘When it comes to The Kidlet, no stone is left unturned.’

I know I wrote about The Child (AKA “The Kidlet,”) just last week. About how she can recite pi to like a googillion places. (Cool word, googillion. Thanks, Spelling Bee!) But tomorrow’s her birthday. And besides, I thought of a cute story about her Kidletness that I don’t think I’ve told yet.

This is about how, when she was small, The Child would carry a rock around with her pretty much all the time. This would not be a big rock — more like a pebble. (See the photo at the top of this post for a great example sitting right there on the picnic table.) Fortunately, she was attached to just one rock at a time, sort of like mineral serial monogamy. But she had to have that rock on or near her person at all times, usually in a pocket. (Yes, I’d have to check before doing the laundry; we almost destroyed a dryer once when I forgot. You never heard such clunking.)

Look closely and you’ll see a rock clutched firmly in that little toddler paw

It wasn’t just rocks she liked. She was into stuffed animals, too, and had a whole menagerie of plushy friends. There was Lion and Penguin and Bear and Squirrel. Also Cow and Lamb. Their names? Lion and Penguin and Bear and Squirrel and Cow. The Lamb was the only animal with a more namelike name. She called him (her?) “Lammie.”

The Child wasn’t the only one in our house who liked stuffed animals

When we’d go on a trip, she would select an animal to accompany us. “Squirrel got to go to Gramma’s last time; now it’s Penguin’s turn.”

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“My tongue just threw a party for my mouth.”

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‘Lunchtime at the Cameo Cafe’

First: Thank you, Mel Brooks, for the title of this piece. Mel had a million funny lines — no doubt still does — but this one’s my favorite. If (gasp) you have no idea who I am talking about, here you go.

Second: Sorry, everyone, for skipping a couple of weeks of pieces. (Assuming, that is, you noticed I skipped a couple of weeks of pieces.) At least I had a good excuse. It was my turn to visit Mom in our sibs’ “Kid of the Month Club” rotation. And, well, what with sitting around drinking coffee and reading books and sitting around drinking wine and watching movies, I couldn’t find the time.

We also sat around drinking wine and playing Scrabble

We did some culinary exploration, too. Which is pretty exciting for me. Not the culinary part; the exploration part. See, I absolutely hate to drive when I’m someplace “away.” Part of the reason is that I have terrible night vision. But even during the day, I freak out when I have to navigate an unfamiliar route in an unfamiliar car. My dear sister always makes sure wheels are provided when I visit, just in case. But that case hardly ever comes up, and said car sits in the parking lot in the same spot day after day after day.

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