stories

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

 

 

Caterwauling in the Catskills

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‘Even perfect babies have their moments.’

“I haven’t ever really been around any babies,” admitted our BF Jim. We were up in the Catskills for our annual leafy weekend. But this time we were joined by The Child, the SIL — and Mr. Baby.

Mr. Baby holding court

Now, those of you who are at all acquainted with babies know that, scattered in with the awwwww-darned-he’s-so-cute moments, there can be periods that try one’s patience.

Hanging by the firepit with Grampa. A definite he’s-so-cute moment. The baby was adorable too.

Unfortunately for Jim, Mr. Baby had contracted a bit of a bug that only appeared once we had arrived Upstate. Nothing serious (The Child and The SIL contacted their pediatrician) but enough to cause His Babyness to go from cute to contrary in mere seconds — with absolutely no warning.

I know. He looks pretty cute here. But note that diabolical smirk

One minute he’d be delighting us with his attempts at language. (“DogDog” for any cute animal, real or stuffed.) And the next, he’d be screaming and thrashing about. (He now weighs about 25 pounds, so his thrashing is not to be taken lightly. Literally.)

Mr. Baby and his dad enjoying a spectacular view of the Hudson River

Fortunately, Jim’s has plenty of distractions. We hiked like crazy — on Jim’s property and up and down Catskills trails.

Hiking around Jim’s property

We went to Olana, the amazing home of Frederick Church, for a house and garden tour. (Mr. Baby made it through about a third of the indoor portion before demanding to be put down — a definite no-no in a place abounding with historically significant knick-knacks — which meant his mom had to escort him back outside.) But that’s okay. He loves being outside.

Mr. Baby after being banished from Olana. (Yes, that day was his first birthday! He celebrated with one meatball!)

We even went to Opus 40, which is a very cool outdoor artwork that took this one kooky guy 40 years to build from rocks. (Actually, he was in, like, Year 38 when he died, so it’s unfinished. Not that you can tell.

Exploring Opus 40

Aside from the occasional demonic possession episode, the weekend was a hit. Which is fortunate, since we’ve been going to Jim’s on or around Columbus Day for more than 30 years now. In return, all these years the Jims have come to our Amagansett Thanksgiving. Fingers crossed we get asked back next year. Or I’ll hold the Thanksgiving turkey hostage.

Meanwhile, here’s a video of Mr. Baby having fun playing Juggle the DogDog with Gramma:

Amagansett, New York. October 2025

“Burn this, please.”

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‘Remembering my one and only maternity outfit.’

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

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

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

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

Whew.

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

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

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

Handsome little hoodie for handsome little Julian

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amagansett, New York. September 2025

 

In case you didn’t know it already, I love weddings.

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‘Even weddings I don’t get to go to.’

This weekend I’m flying to St. Louis to not go to a wedding. Yup, The Kids are invited to a nuptial event in the Gateway City and asked me to come along to watch Mr. Baby while they throw rice, sip champagne and join conga lines.

What I’ll be doing instead of eating wedding cake

I’m really looking forward to it, even though I just checked and it’s gonna be 95 degrees. (Fun Fact: Members of the British diplomatic corps get hazardous duty pay if and when they are stationed in St. Louis; the climate is that harsh.) Well, at least I don’t have to stress out about sweaty pantyhose. Heck, I’m not even packing a dress. Just plenty of carrot-proof clothing.

The only wedding hotter than a St. Louis wedding? A Carlyle wedding. This sweaty event was one of Roger’s

Oh, before I forget. The picture at the top of this post is of another wedding I didn’t get to go to. It was The Child’s first wedding; the one at the Grand Canyon. I didn’t feel bad about not going — it was during the pandemic and nobody could go. (Though of course I wrote about it: see “Runaway Bride” for details and amazing height-defying photos.)

Whooping it up with The Bride and my Favorite Sister at Wedding #2

The Kids had another wedding a year later that people could actually go to. I’ve written about that one too, in “Two Weddings Are Better Than One.” In fact, I’ve probably written about weddings more than any other topic, except maybe His Dudeness, who has been a treasure trove of good material.

And, of course, there’s this guy. I’m just getting started on him.

But back to weddings. Like I say, I love them. All of them. The hot ones. The cold ones. The wet ones. Even the really really looong religious ones. Why, I even went to the wedding of two FBI agents. The bride was, of course, beautifully begowned in white — and packing heat. (Another Fun Fact: FBI agents are always armed, even when they are off-duty and reciting wedding vows.)

No, this wasn’t the wedding where the bride and groom were packing heat. In fact, it was rather chilly

I can honestly say that I’ve never regretted going to a wedding. Though I have regretted not going to them. I’m still kicking myself for not going to My Oldest Younger Brother’s, and not just because it was in Vegas. After all, weddings should trump trips — even trips with Dr. Dude.

I’ll end by saying that this weekend I’m sure I’ll not regret not going to that wedding in St. Louis. I will be otherwise engaged.

Amagansett, New York. June 2025

Somebody needs a nap.

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‘There’s a reason people have babies when they’re young.’

Well, except for Yours Truly. I wasn’t all that young when I had The Child. I was pushing forty. An age which now, in my grandmotherly dotage, seems positively dewy.

Her Childness, when she was about Mr. Baby’s age, and I was relatively young(ish)

I haven’t posted for a while because, well, I’m exhausted. Pleasantly exhausted, but still. The Child and Mr. Baby and, eventually, the SIL, and, a bit later, our nephew’s family (including three little girls) were all here for an extended visit that began in mid-May and lasted till after Memorial Day.

Mr. Baby as the cousins’ Center of Attention

The Child, bless her brave little heart, came all on her own with Mr. Baby. Of course, back in the day I flew solo with her too, clutching a baby carrier and a diaper bag when she was three months old to visit her Grandma and Grandpa. But that’s all I carried. These days, babies need gear. Lots of gear. When I met The Child/Mom at her digs (no surprise we couldn’t put them up in the Ken & Barbie House) she was toting — in addition to His Babyness — a duffel about the size of a Volkswagen and a backpack as tall as me, which is two inches shorter than I used to be, but still. (See my thoughts on babies and gear here.)

Mr. Baby birdwatching from the comfort of his bouncy chair, which was supplied by Yours Truly, though it could have fit in that backpack

During the time in New York, we went to the Central Park Zoo, the Museum of Natural History and a baby shower. We dined out several times and even dodged a parade.

Saturday in the park with doting grandparents

Digging the gems at the Museum of NH

In between bouts of Family Fun, I was able to brush up on my babysitting skills, dealing with (in ascending order of difficulty) squirmy limbs while jammie-dressing, teething squalls and poopy diapers too numerous to mention. (Well, I will mention the poopy diaper I managed mid-poop, for which I deserve extra credit.)

Checking out the ocean for the first time. (He thought it was too cold; he was right) The pool, however, was a big hit. (See video, below)

Shooting pool with Grampa and Cousin Alex

I must have passed muster with my babysitting skills because I’ve been asked to provide them again in a couple of weeks. I am going to watch Mr. Baby while The Kids go to a wedding. St. Louis, here I come!

How we “visit” in between visits. (Yes, that’s a big ole crumb stuck between Dude Man’s front teeth)

I could go on and on — I’ve got ten days’ worth of oversharing I could subject you to (!) but I have to wrap things up and get back to Normal Life, such that it is. I got so distracted by the visit that I forgot to do Wordle and broke a 99-day streak. *Sigh* Now that’s exhaustion.

New York City. June 2025

Babies like balloons about as much as they like clowns.

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‘Which is to say, not much.’

There’s a reason that Stephen King puts balloons in his stories. Balloons are scary. They bob around in your face, they squeak,  they pop. If you rub them, they’ll even pull on your hair. 

Sometimes the balloons in the stories are being held by a clown. Which is, like, doubling down on the scariness. Why, even before Mr. King wrote It, I thought clowns were scary. Circus clowns, TV kid-show clowns, even McDonald’s clowns. All of them: scary. I honestly can’t think of a clown I find amusing. And I’m 73 years old.

Check out the expression on that girl right behind this clown. Maybe she’s hungry for a Big Mac, but does she look amused?

Being over 70 means I remember John Wayne Gacy. He was a suburban serial killer guy who liked to dress up as a clown and lure young boys to their deaths. I’m not sure how this worked, since, if I saw a clown as a child, I was the opposite of “lured.” At the very least, I would shrink away, if not outright run for the hills. (Fun trivia note: Lots of serial killers have “Wayne” as a middle name. You can read more about that right here in my story, “I’ve Seen Fire and I’ve Seen Wayne.”)

My childhood reaction to balloons was pretty much the same: a definite shrinking away, sometimes in tears. As I recall, The Child had a similar childhood balloon aversion.

I don’t have a photo of The Child being scared by a balloon, but I do have this one of her wearing a fish hat. Enjoy

So, imagine my surprise when Her Childness told me about an outing she and the SIL took last weekend. They went — with Mr. Baby — to an exhibition at the Palace of Fine Arts that featured balloons. It was called “EmotionAir,” and featured many examples of what they call “Inflatable Art.” (Which, ahem, I call “balloons.”) Balloons you could blow up. Games with balloons. Rooms filled with balloons that you waded into and frolicked among. I can honestly say the photo they took of Mr. Baby surrounded by “Inflatable Art” is the only one I can recall seeing that features him not smiling.

See? Not crying…but most definitely not smiling

Well, so much for balloons. As far as I know, they haven’t exposed Mr. Baby to clowns yet. Well, except for one. As you can see from the video below, she was pretty funny. And she wasn’t even wearing a wig or makeup.

New York City. May 2025

The Deadhead at the DMV

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‘A bureaucratic nightmare with a happy ending’ 

Have you heard about Enhanced Drivers Licenses? Or a Real ID? Basically, you need one or the other to board a plane starting in May. I keep getting the two mixed up, but, but decided to spring for the more expensive one “just in case” and also since I really really don’t want to go to the DMV again anytime soon. You will, no doubt, relate when you hear my sad story. 

Nothing sadder than Mom’s empty chair. Not even my DMV story

Of course, writing about a visit to the DMV is not nearly as sad as writing about the death of one’s parent, so there’s that. But it’s also not nearly as cheery as writing about Mr. Baby. So before I start, I’ll share a couple of recent adorable baby pics.

Adorable baby with Dad, AKA The SIL

Adorable baby with Mom, AKA The Child

Okay. That’s done. Now for the DMV.

I live partly in New York City and partly in Amagansett, so I have a choice of DMV experiences. I could take the subway to the DMV near Macy’s, which I used to do until a really mean DMV employee fixed me with an icy stare and refused to accept my the paperwork for my Vespa title-transfer because Dude Man’s signatures didn’t match. (Or didn’t match enough for her purposes.) At that point I had been waiting in three separate lines for hours, so I did the only reasonable thing: I burst into inconsolable tears and vowed never to darken that DMV door again.

Gazing at the country in the City

I took my non-matching paperwork instead to the DMV nearest Amagansett, which is in Riverhead. This is the same Riverhead of getting-lost fame, which inspired my story, “Okay, you know where the jail is, right?” Which is pretty hilarious, if I do say so myself.

Gazing at the country in the Country

Now, Riverhead may not be a simple subway ride away — it takes 50 minutes by car — but in Riverhead, at least in my experience, the people are nice. When I showed my City-disputed paperwork to the woman at the counter, she not only didn’t fix me with a mean icy stare, she smiled and wished me a good day. After accepting said paperwork.

A picture of some lines. Nice lines, on a sweater

There also were no crowds, no lines, no hassle whatsoever. But this time was different. I supposed I should have realized something was up when I tried to make an online appointment and all the dates in the calendar were grayed out — through June. Must be a computer glitch, I told myself before hopping in the car at 7:00 Monday morning. The office opened at 7:30, but I figured getting there at 8:00 would be fine.

Not so, it would seem. The place was jammed to its bureaucratic gills. They did accept walk-ins, thank the scheduling gods, so I took a number — WU016 — and settled down to wait. After about 15 minutes, it was called. Wow, I thought! I’ll be home by 9:00!

Hah. That was just the guy taking my picture. That done, he instructed me — nicely — to wait for my number to be called again.

A picture I took of The Dude. Not at the DMV. At the MET

Well. They had nineteen “service desks,” and numbers were being called mere seconds apart. I had brought a New Yorker for a distraction, but I couldn’t look at it for fear I would be so distracted I’d miss my number being called. So I just sat there, staring at the screen displaying the numbers like a zombie — and like everybody else there.

To complicate things, I felt the urge to visit the ladies’ room (or whatever it’s called in a DMV…”rest area?”… “parking spot?”) I gave myself till 10:00, and if my number wasn’t called, I’d risk it.

A really nice pic of three generations of girls. Because why not?

Sure enough, the clock registered 10:00 and good ole WU016 was called to Service Desk 11, where a young man with dreadlocks greeted me with a smile. Examining my paperwork, he admitted that my ConEd bill reminded him of a Dylan song. (“Joey”, I think he said it was called.) So we talked Dylan some. For a guy who was in his thirties he was remarkably well-informed. He even knew the scene in Don’t Look Back where Donovan is completely intimidated by Dylan’s playing.

He said that he had been to a Grateful Dead concert when he was three — his parents were Deadheads (!) He was also a fount of knowledge about Jim Morrison and Leonard Cohen, and commiserated when I told him I was not allowed to hitchhike with my boyfriend to Woodstock.

The boyfriend who hitchhiked to Woodstock. Read about him in “Larry and the Nose Holes”

I told him he was about the same age as The Child, but that The Child didn’t realize the significance of living in Haight-Ashbury. Which is where she, in fact, lives. He asked at one point if I wanted 5’6″ on my new license (I had put 5’4″ on the form) and told me his mom was having the same issue with shrinking. (See “Skirting the Issue” for more on that.)

Well. Crowds or no crowds, lines or no lines, that little dreadlocked deadhead baby sure made my DMV Day. He even knew where the ladies’ room was.

New York City. April 2025

Beautiful Swan

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‘Remembering Mom. With a story or two’

Perhaps you’ve heard. Perhaps you’ve heard about it too much. But, in case you haven’t heard, my mother died. On February 16, to be exact. I posted an obituary on FaceBook just last week.

I can’t figure out how to share the darned FB story, but here’s what it looked like

If you’ve lost a parent — or even if you haven’t  — I’m pretty sure you’ll understand that it can take a while before you can attempt to be amusing again. So I haven’t posted a story since my last one a couple of weeks ago, which, ironically, was about my last visit to see her. The one where we force-watched some line dancing. (It was called  “My Mom Likes Line Dancing About as Much as She Likes Yodeling” in case you missed it.)

Our last *sigh* photo together on my last Mom Visit

That post was pretty well taken up with line dancing and yodeling, and I ran out of room before I could share some Mom stories. Which I have a million of, as you can imagine.

So I thought I’d take a crack at sharing some. First up is a story that Mom used to tell. It has to do with a hair bow and some roller skates. (Mom was somewhat of a hair-bow expert. She used to tape one to the top of my follically-challenged two-year-old pate so that people could tell that I was a girl. And check out her young fine self rocking a hair bow in the photo at the top of this post.)

I keep that photo on a shelf at the Ken & Barbie House with other prized possessions, like the tiara Laura gave me and drawing by The Child

But back to Mom’s story. It seems that one Christmas, young Mom yearned for some roller skates. I’m not sure if an actual letter was written to Santa, but she told one and all that she wanted roller skates more than anything. And, sure enough, come Christmas morning, there was a heavy rectangular gift-wrapped box under the tree with her name on it.

Mom and Laura admiring the last batch of Christmas fruitcake. Well, unless Laura and Dave keep making it, which they probably will, having had plenty of practice these last few years (!)

Her Uncle Warren happened to be over at Mom’s Grandma’s house with the other aunts and uncles and cousins. (I remember Uncle Warren. He was missing an arm — lost in a farm accident involving, I believe, a baler — and used to give us kids little cubes of Chiclets gum he would squeeze one-handed out of the package.)

Anyway. Uncle Warren saw Mom handling the package, testing its heft for roller-skate-content possibilities, and said, “Hey, I bet that’s the hair ribbon you’ve been wanting!”

Mom enjoys a laugh…perhaps at one of her own stories

Poor Little Mom. She believed her Uncle Warren — even though the box was waaay too heavy to contain something as insubstantial as a hair ribbon — and burst into inconsolable tears. But of course, the package did indeed contain her roller skates, so all’s well that ended well, Christmas-morning-wise.

A Christmas featuring large collars, but no hair bows

I bet about now you’re wondering what the title of this post means. “Beautiful Swan?!?” (Well, Angica knows. Hi, Angica!) As much as I’d like to tell you that “Beautiful Swan” refers to my mother and her childhood bow-bedecked loveliness, it is, in fact, a card game. A card game we played at Laura’s kitchen table on my last Mom Visit. The game involves bluffing about the contents of your hand and is actually called “BS.” Which, of course, stands for “Bullshit.” (And it’s an actual game. I just looked it up!)

Mom in a kitchen, but not playing cards. This is when she met the SIL

A player declares, for example, that he or she is discarding two threes, and the rest of the table has a chance to say “bullshit.” Which means you are calling their bluff. If you are correct, and the player was bluffing, they have to take all the cards piled in the middle of the table. If they weren’t bluffing (er, bullshitting) then you have to take them, the object being to get rid of all your cards.

Mom at Mo’s, enjoying some chowder. But not playing cards. Though she certainly looks like she’s just won a game

The game is called “Beautiful Swan” at my sister’s in homage to her friend Lori, who wanted to play the game with her young children without exposing them to bad language. (“Bradley and Kaitlin, I’m going to teach you a card game called ‘BS!'” “What does ‘BS’ mean, Mommy?” “Why, “Beautiful Swan! That’s what it means–Beautiful Swan!'”) 

And Mom was ruthless and competitive and very very good at it. Farewell, Beautiful Swan. I’ll be back with more Mom Stories as soon as I stock up on tissues.

Mom looking beautiful — and rather swanlike — at Nephew Phil’s wedding

New York City. February 2025