We were doing some end-of-summer reorganizing in the garage as beach chairs and umbrellas and towels were moved out of the car into their accustomed autumn and winter positions.
We also did some minor purging of accumulated grandkid stuff — a remarkable arsenal of water guns was pared down to a sensible level, meaning every family member would have two such weapons should an all-out war break out next summer. (more…)
BEVERLEA WALZ PHOTO
Elliot, a chickadee
Reginald, a cardinal
Gus, a grackle
Maude, a mourning dove
Rusty, a squirrel
Jim, a human
Elliot: There is much to like about humans and bird feeders, but with weekend people it can get pretty spotty. Jim is not nearly as regular a feeder as he was when they first bought the place. But credit is due for he has paid real money over the years for the seed. Ninety percent of Islanders never think about getting engaged in feeding.
Reginald: As everyone knows, I’m a big consumer of seed, but truth be told, I find it incredibly bland stuff. It’s like eating saltines all day. I’d much rather chomp on a wet, fat bug, but nailing bugs, that’s work. I’d rather fight for feeder perches with you guys, although I am struck by the laziness implied in that confession. (more…)
Back when I was working as a consultant at the Ford Foundation, I had an easy four-stop subway commute down the 6 train to Grand Central Station.
Perhaps too fastidiously, I would position myself on the platform so that, upon arriving at my destination, I would be at the proper up-stairway leading to the shortest route to the foundation. Yes, too fastidious. (more…)
I spent Memorial Day weekend on Cape Cod for two reasons. It’s always a kick to hang out with my brother’s family in their nice lakeside home in Orleans. Making it better, the radiant blonde niece was flying in from Sun Valley and would stoke the shenanigans of her on-site vaudevillian brother.
And it was my mother’s 102nd birthday. (more…)
Z: The music is on and I cannot resist. Family members are on the perimeter of the living room. The floor is mine. I must dance. And I start whirling and turning and waving my arms in a sinuous fashion, much to the approval of the onlookers. I get abundant applause for my better moves, and particularly when I lip-sync some of the more dramatic lyrics. I shrug and look crestfallen when the music calls for such emoting. When the song ends I evoke Callas at her most tragic. Then the next song begins, a kind of calypso number, and I’m back at it, throwing in some new jukes that are met with murmurs of praise. I’m not sure I have ever been this good before. I am the music. The music is me. (more…)