Holidays

Holidays on edge

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‘Teetering on the brink with no buffer.’

You know that your Spring Chickenhood has expired when you open the Times and see a piece titled “This is the Year Millennials Officially Got Old.” Especially if the “old” millennials of your acquaintance happen to be your daughter and her friends.

My Aging Millennial in my mind’s eye

Heavy sigh goes here.

It’s not that this is a depressing notion. It’s more like it’s surprising.

I’ve mentioned (well, moaned and whined) before that I don’t mind getting old so much. My late lamented Dad felt otherwise. When challenged in his later years to, say, get up out of a chair, Dad used to famously mutter, “Don’t get old.” To which one of us kids would usually reply, “Um, Dad, what’s my other choice?”

The Child making sure my Dad’s head is not too old to stay attached securely

Nope, for me it’s not the getting old part I mind so much. After all, Equally-Old Dude Man and I are still up for gallivanting around the world chasing birds and adventure. (See “Channeling My Inner Shackleton” or “New Guinea was a Once-in-a-Lifetime Experience” for examples of elderly derring-do.)

What I do mind is how much faster getting older is getting. It feels like I’ve just scoured out the Thanksgiving roasting pan and stowed it in the hard-to-get-to cabinet on top of the refrigerator when it’s time to climb on a chair and wrestle it down again. (When I can no longer do this is when I pass the Thanksgiving Baton on to someone younger and fitter.)

And when I can no longer do this, I’m hanging it up for good

But what’s been really getting to me lately is that, getting-older-wise, I no longer have a generational buffer. My grandparents, of course, are long gone. But also gone are oodles of aunts and uncles. My Dad was one of eight; my Mom was the oldest of five. All are gone. Even Aunt Marilyn, she of “A Very Marilyn Christmas” fame, is now up there in the Santa Land of the Sky.

Aunt Marilyn when she was a buffer in high school

 

Even Dude Man’s buffer has been wiped out. I have lovely memories of his grandmother, Elsie. But that’s all I have. Same with his parents. His much-beloved Aunt Eleanor, with whom we were both very close, (See “She Put the ‘Giving’ in Thanksgiving”) slipped this mortal coil a couple of years ago.

Eleanor celebrates the Big 9-0. She would celebrate eight more

But, even when everyone else was disappearing, there was always my mother. Until there wasn’t. (See “Beautiful Swan” for some bittersweet remembrances. Or “The One Time Families Get Together” for an account of her memorial weekend.)

Mom, surrounded by accolades at her Memorial

So now here I am. Teetering on the edge, and with absolutely no buffer. Good thing I’ve got this instead:

It’s rather nice being their buffer

Amagansett, New York. December 2025.

 

 

 

 

If you see my sister tomorrow, please don’t wish her “Merry Christmas”

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‘Wish her “Happy Birthday” instead, and watch her face light up.’

It’s tough having a December birthday. Everyone’s so gosh-darned busy decorating and caroling and partying that they tend to forget that some people actually celebrate their natal day this month. People other than the Christ Child himself, I mean.

Like my sister. Her birthday not only falls in December, it’s on December 18. Which means it’s exactly one week before Christmas Day. Talk about atrocious timing.

Baby Laura. Not celebrating her birthday, but looking extremely cute

To her credit, our late great sainted mother would make an appropriate fuss on Laura’s birthday, as she did for all our birthdays. I remember that we kids used to say that “Christmas was for everybody, but birthdays were only for us.” Having a special day — with its attendant special fuss — is important in a big family.

A bit of our family hullabaloo on a random Christmas morning. And this isn’t even all of our family

We’d get to pick what we had for dinner on our birthday night — I can’t recall any of us choosing liver — and we also got to pick what kind of birthday cake we wanted. My Oldest Younger Brother Scott always specified a birthday pie because he was fonder of pie than cake. (Yes, his pie was adorned with candles.)

Laura and our sainted mom on her birthday last year

But back to my Favorite Only Sister. This year she celebrates not only an Important Big Milestone year-wise, but she is celebrating being a grandmother.

(I simply must digress here. It is nigh onto impossible for me to wrap my head around the fact that my baby sister who, in my mind’s eye is about eight years old, is now a grandmother.)

Favorite Only Sister Laura as she appears in my mind’s eye

Yes, Laura’s daughter Natalie has a freshly-produced bouncing baby girl, little Sydney. This girl is the spittin’ image of her mama and is already not only extremely adorable, but extraordinarily chatty:

I think she’s saying “Happy Birthday, Gramma!”

So. If you’re lucky enough to see my sister tomorrow — or any time this month — please do wish her a very happy birthday. She will love it. Just don’t add that you’re going to get her “one big present” for both her birthday and Christmas.

Amagansett, New York. December 2025

 

 

We had a little turkey this Thanksgiving.

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‘But there was more than enough to go around’

Sigh. It’s been a little over a week since we bid good-bye to Thanksgiving and waved a reluctant hello to the Christmas season. Which, god help us, seems to be getting earlier every year. Not to get all Scrooge-like, but I like to polish off the turkey leftovers before decking my halls.

No, this wasn’t this year’s turkey, as famously introduced in “Flipping the Bird”. But. trust me, it looked much the same. As did my outfit

This year we didn’t actually have any leftovers. Even though this year’s turkey was a whopping 23 pounds — oddly enough, just about the same weight as Mr. Baby — by Saturday there was nothing left but bones. (Mr. Turkey’s, not Mr. Baby’s.)

Mr. Baby en route from SF, settling in with some inflight reading material

Speaking of Mr. Baby (um, which I do a lot), he and his parents were our special guests again this year, along with Grownup Besties Jim and Phyllis. (Yes, that Jim and Phyllis, of “Caterwauling in the Catskills” fame.)

Mr. Baby hangs with Jim and Grampa

We rounded out our festive table with some local relations varying in age from a few months to a few years over 70.

We had more than one little turkey at the table this year

We “did” the dinner and the pies and the games and, next day, the hiking and the demolishing of whatever meager leftovers were left. (No sweet potatoes or brussels sprouts; just a wee bit of stuffing and gravy and a few shreds of turkey.)

Though, this year, the hike was cut short by cold-baby-fussiness and a shortcut via railroad tracks almost ended in tragedy when a train unexpectedly rounded a curve and almost eliminated our branch of the Whitmore Clan in one fell swoop.

Walking off the pies on the beach. Where we did not run into any trains

Except for nearly getting wiped off the face of the earth, this Thanksgiving ranked right up there with the best. As I’ve said in many a post, in my humble opinion Thanksgiving beats Christmas by the gravy boatload. No cards, no gifts (well, maybe some wine), no decorations, and, best of all, no carols. (Who wants to hear “Little Drumstick Boy” on endless repeat?)

As for Christmas, we are somewhat resigned to the fact that Thanksgiving will be “ours”, while Christmas will be claimed by the the Saskatoon Clan. It seems only fair, since there are scads of them. The Other Grampa has two brothers and three sisters, which means, for Mr. Baby, many aunts and uncles to spoil him and many cousins with which to create mayhem.

In the meantime, speaking of Christmas, we’ve got this year’s card nailed:

Amagansett, New York. December 2025

 

 

Channeling my inner Shackleton

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‘I didn’t think I wanted to go there. Until I did.’

It’s been so long since I’ve posted a story, you Lovely Readers probably thought I’d been to the ends of the earth and back.

Well. You’re not wrong.

Dude Man and I just got back from Antarctica. Yes, that Antarctica, the one I said (in my post “The (South) Polar Express”) I’d rather be drawn and quartered than go to.

As I explained in that ten-year-old post — excuse me; the fact that I’ve been writing this darned blog for ten whole years is more amazing than a trip to Antarctica — I have always been fascinated by polar exploration. I now have three bookshelves devoted to books like this, my latest:

The story of the Mawson Expedition. Mawson was an Australian; this is written by him and it’s actually funny. If freezing your keister off can be funny

So, when an email from Field Guides, our bird-trip specialists of choice, popped up in my inbox, I was like, “Hey, why not?” As Dude Man would say (and did), we need to do trips like this “while we still can.” (I got him a tee shirt with that printed on it for Christmas last year; he’s pretty much worn it out.)

Avoiding icebergs (and shooting penguins) in a crowded little Zodiac

Oddly enough — or maybe not so oddly? — Antarctica is a very popular destination these days. I was at a fancy-lady luncheon about a month before leaving, and the woman next to me asked if I had any trips coming up. When I mentioned going there, she piped up, “I just got back from Antarctica!”…then the woman on my other side said, “And I’m going next month!”

Enjoying myself, gosh darn it! (That’s our ship anchored in the background)

And then a good friend of mine said her soon-to-be-son-in-law was going — and he happened to be on “my” ship (!) Sheesh. Is there anywhere I could go that isn’t, well, crowded? (I just answered my own question. Papua New Guinea. Definitely not crowded. And for good reason. See “New Guinea was a Once-in-a-Lifetime Experience” for gory deets.)

Me with new coincidental buddy Dave, leaving our ship, the Ortelius,  at Ushuaia

But enough about making new friends. Did we see any penguins, you probably want to know. Well, duh. We saw penguins on rocks, penguins on nests, penguins jumping on and off icebergs. We even saw penguins bringing gifts to their girlfriends — perfect little pebbles for their nests:

It got kind of ridiculous because we weren’t supposed to get close to the penguins — but they kept getting close to us.

Another new friend, Barry, makes a connection with a King Penguin chick

There were also many seals and whales and icebergs and floes. But, best of all, lots and lots of Shackletonia. There were lecturers on the ship who knew even more about Sir Ernest than I did. And we got to visit the waterfall the scooted down and the whaling station he stumbled into. We even toasted him at his gravesite! And, unprecedentedly, we got to see Point Wild, which figures greatly in the Shackleton Saga. (Read a short version here; but I highly recommend digging into The Endurance, by Alfred Lansing. Total page-turner.)

Totally inappropriate expression at a gravesite, but I was so darned happy to be there

Speaking of happy, guess who’s going to be here for Thanksgiving? And just look at what he learned while we were cruising around the icebergs. Things are going to be exciting!

Of course I brought him a whale of a gift:

A little right whale. Stuffed — perfect for Thanksgiving!

But here’s the best gift — and I got it even before they left for the airport this morning:

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Amagansett, New York. November 2025

The Security Saint at JFK

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‘An airport story with a happy ending’

My plane leaves tonight at 7:59 (why don’t they just say 8:00?) so of course I’m getting ready to go to the airport. (It is now 1:12 PM.) As everyone in my family knows, I get super-stressed about getting to and from airports even under the best of circumstances. (That’s when Carmel Car Service picks me up, and on time.) Oh, the picture at the top of this post is of me trying to alleviate stress by walking around my snowy NYC courtyard.

Another stress-management technique: stomping around Central Park

But, for the Kids’ Thanksgiving visit, I dialed my stress level to the max — I offered to pick them up from JFK. Yes, in the car. Which I was driving. By myself. Well, at least until they got into it.

I cannot stress (see, there’s that word again) enough that People Who Live in New York do not pick people up from the airport. You tell them to get a cab for which you graciously offer to pay. Or, if it’s people you really like, you order a car service for them.

You really really don’t offer to pick them up. But the people in this case were The Child, the SIL, and — most important — Mr. Baby.

Who wouldn’t offer to pick up this adorable person — JFK or no JFK?

I thought about ordering them a car to drive them out to Amagansett, and it didn’t cost as much as I feared, but. I reasoned that Mr. Baby might need feeding or changing or whatnot, and, even with trusty Carmel, that could get a bit complicated. So, pick them up I did.

I’ll spare you much of the sturm und drang. Suffice it to say that the two hours I allotted to get to the cellphone lot were all used up by the time I got there and found said cellphone lot. (There is massive construction going on at JFK — “Building you a better airport experience!” signage cheers you up at every wrong turn. At least there were trailers outfitted as bathrooms at said cellphone lot. I think I was the only one who used the women’s. I know I was the only one in the lot not wearing a turban.

I knit most of this hat while waiting in the cellphone lot

Anyway. Pickup goes reasonably well. Me: “Where are you?” Child: “We’re outside Area C!” Me: “I don’t see you!” Child: “Oh, it’s Area D!”

And the visit? Extremely well. I wrote all about it last week, in “Joy to the World,” if you’d like to catch up and see some incredibly cute baby pics.

Here we are at dinner in the same Japanese place that was The Child’s first restaurant experience!

But, like most lovely visits, this one ended before I felt like it had even begun.

More Mr. Baby. Because, well, why not?

And the next thing I knew, I was driving them back to the airport. At least I had Other People in the car with me this time. The Child, in fact, was an excellent — and calm — navigator. Me: “Which exit is next?!?” Child: (in very soothing talking-to-a-suicide-jumper voice) “This next one, A42 South. Right there. See?”

So, we make it to the airport. Though we were routed round and round in an impossible circle to get to Terminal 4, we made it. Got Kids and baby gear off-loaded. Got good-bye hugs and kisses distributed.

Mr. Baby on the plane on their way home. Not stressed out, it would seem

But, dang it. It had been hours since we left, and even though I had carefully limited my fluid intake, I had to, well, pee. And of course, since this was right after a holiday weekend, there was a Security Guy motioning everyone dropping people off to move along, please. He was even motioning cars along with a thing that looked like a billy club (though I think it was really a flashlight.) Anyway, I was intimidated. But not intimidated enough not to go right up to him.

“Sir? Excuse me, Sir? Could you tell me the way to the cellphone lot? He gets a very confused look on his face, then shakes his head forlornly, admitting that it would be very complicated for me to get to the cellphone lot. “What do you need to go there for?” Well, I admitted that I had to, um, use the facilities.

So he says, “Oh! No problem! Just go right in to the terminal here. I’ll watch your car for you.”

So I did. And so he did. And when I came out I thanked him profusely. I almost gave him a hug, too. But decided not to push my luck.

Another shot of Mr. Baby not stressed out on the plane. Again, because why not?

Happy New Year, everyone! Now I really must restart my getting-ready-to-go-to-the-airport pacing.

Hmmm…when I get back, we could crack this open. Better than pacing!

New York City. January 2025

Joy to the world!

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‘The Grandchild has come!’

I haven’t sent out Christmas cards in years. Not since The Child was an actual child and I could send a photo of her enclosed inside. (This was waaaay before you could incorporate a photo into a design of your very own.)

Her Christmassy Childness, in former Christmas Card times

But I always said that I would start the Card Thing up again if and when I got me a grandkid. And, lo and behold…this year I finally did. (Do you think my subtle hints had anything to do with it? Like when I would look The Child in the eye and say, “I don’t want to pressure you, but, since you are an only child, if you don’t have any kids I will never ever be a grandmother.“)

So hey. I sent cards this year. Lots of cards! (If you didn’t get one, I apologize. Consider this post your Christmas card, okay?)

Here’s what was on the back (!)

Anyway. This year had a whole heck of a lot of other cool stuff to commend it: weddings and parties and family visits galore, not to mention two trips to Brazil and one big honkin’ trip to Australia.

Dude Man and me relaxing in Australia, basking in the knowledge that we finally made “grandparent”

But, since it’s the last day I can write and still call this 2024, I’m going to stick with the GK and the heck with the rest. Till the dull days of Endless January, that is. Then I’ll catch up. Or not. Maybe I’ll just read a ton of books.

Or knit. I have this sweater to finish up. Its progress was interrupted by baby sweaters, natch

But back to Mr. Baby. (Gosh, I think I just invented his blogname. I was going to call him GK. But I’m thinking I like Mr. Baby. Even better than The Baby, since if he ever gets a sister, I can call her MIss Baby. If he gets a brother, I’ll deal with it then.)

I defy even those of you who, like W. C. Fields, prefers his or her babies well-done, to watch the video below and then not urge those of your acquaintance who are capable of procreating to do so immediately. This is one heck of a cute baby.

I can show you this video because The Child created a shared album in iPhoto where she plops new shots almost every day. If that sounds like Baby Photo Overload, then you are obviously not a grandparent. Not one who lives a whole continent away, anyway.

I’m only a continent away. His Dad’s family lives in Canada — where Mr. Baby is right now, get celebrated — and acclimatized

Okay, I’ve got to go soon. I’m going on a pan-generational visit next week — to see both my one-and-only mother and my one-and-only grandson — so I have a ton of obsessing to do.

Meanwhile, here’s another Happy Photo to close out a very Happy Year!

Amagansett, New York. The last day of the last month of 2024

 

It’s a good thing this baby is so adorable

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‘Because he sure needs a lot of gear’

Poor UPS Guy. He and Amazon Man have run themselves ragged these past few weeks, delivering load after load of baby supplies to our house in Amagansett.

See, I’ve been getting ready for the much-anticipated Thanksgiving visit of The Child and SIL — and our brand spankin’ new GK.

Our GK getting ready for Thanksgiving

And I have to tell you, that kid needs a LOT of stuff. There’s diapers and wipes, sure. But also changing pads. Bottles and formula, natch. But also a sterilizer. Don’t get me wrong; I don’t mind. In fact, I volunteered to get supplies. They have to fly from San Francisco to get here. The least I can do is rustle up a baby bed.

The aforementioned sterilizer. I didn’t borrow one of these; they didn’t exist back then. Or at least I was unaware of them

After all, I figure the easier I make it for them to visit, the more often they’ll want to come. That baby bouncy chair is bait.

The bait, er, baby bouncy chair. It cleverly converts to a walker and a highchair for later use

The irony of all this acquisition is that I didn’t do any of this for my own baby. See, when I was expecting The Child, I was, well, a bit long in the tooth, motherhood-wise. When you’re pushing forty, it doesn’t make a lot of economical sense to buy a bunch of baby gear that you’ll probably only use for the one baby you’re apt to have.

The Child in her borrowed crib

So I borrowed stuff. Basically everything. I borrowed the crib, I borrowed the car seat. I borrowed the bouncy chair and the swing and, eventually, the highchair. I even borrowed baby clothes. They were hand-me-downs from boy cousins. What with her mostly-blue clothes and mostly-bald head, I got, “What’s his name?” a lot. 

Just for fun, here’s The Dude in his crib. Too bad we didn’t save that one. Or maybe it’s a good thing

Then, once The Child outgrew whatever it was, I gave it back to whomever I borrowed it from. Easy-peasy! Perhaps it would have been nice to have a crib or car seat in the attic to drag out for the GK’s visits, but the technology’s improved so much that we’d probably get arrested for using something so old — and so unsafe. I know that the crib we borrowed thirty years ago would definitely not pass muster. (Those wooden slats are head traps for sure. Yikes!)

GK in his own personal bouncy chair. Note warning labels. Though it says nothing about staying away from cats (Note: This cat stayed away from him)

So I got stuff. A lot of stuff. I drew the line at a Diaper Genie. (“Um, what’s wrong with garbage bags?”) And a changing table. (“Gee, when you were a baby, we, well, we laid you down on the bed.“) But I knuckled under on a lot of nice new baby gear.

Nice new bed all ready for nice new baby. Changing area (ie “bed,” in foreground)

And I did find some nice recycled things in the attic I think he’ll enjoy.

Some of The Child’s stuffed animals. Yup, these I saved

Happy Thanksgiving, one and all! “See” you next week.

My favorite photo (so far) of the amazing GK, here seen in a special bathtub. Nope, I didn’t get one of those. But I bet he won’t notice

Amagansett, New York. November 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

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

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