The bathroom scale started sending unusual messages as soon as the unusually pleasant and warm fall weather began to turn. I have a pretty small frame, and I’ve kept fairly slim in recent years due to a regular yoga practice, so when my weight varied by a whole 10 pounds on the digital screen one day a few weeks ago, I was more befuddled than alarmed.
Was the scale broken? Or had I really been, unconsciously, fattening up for a cold winter like a prize goose?
I counted the number of players who had their shirts off following American Samoa’s first-ever World Cup soccer win the other day, a singular victory reported on in The New York Times, and there were six. All happy fellows in good shape. Nothing to offend as far as I could tell, though if partial disrobing becomes the norm one shudders to think what will happen should it extend to boccie, bowling, shuffleboard, and bridge.
In one sense, my basement flood couldn’t have happened at a better time. With Christmas approaching, the drive to accumulate (or should I say, more generously, “to give”) more worldly possessions grows ever stronger. The wanting is magnified. Consumerism calls. The pent-up demand begs for release.
Something fell from the ceiling in the Star building’s front office Tuesday morning, nearly striking Russell Bennett in the head.
Things coming from above in the Star office take on more than a metaphorical significance when you consider that the first-floor lobby, if you will, has a ceiling made of glass panels held in place with a criss-crossing lattice of wooden slats. The ceiling presumably dates to when the building was put up by Everett J. Edwards, who was my great-grandfather. E.J., as he was known, opened the East Hampton Pharmacy here in 1901.
Because I don’t pay much attention to fashion, I didn’t know who Tomas Maier was until the other day when, thumbing through an August edition of Vogue magazine, I learned he had designed a velvet-on-python satchel (read great big handbag) for Bottega Veneta.
Maybe it’s me, but I can’t imagine curling up with a Kindle on a cold winter’s night. Its slick, hard surface has no cuddle factor and just doesn’t appeal to me, not like a much-loved, well-thumbed book, and it never will. I’m a bookworm, a lover of books — printed, bound and glued, paper-covered books.
Well, I’ve gone and done it — joined Facebook — though I have an eerie feeling it won’t end well.
Talking with Kenny Mann, whose film “Beautiful Tree, Severed Roots,” about her ancestral past, will be shown at Bay Street on Sunday, got me thinking about identity and, of course, how it relates to me.
But after I suffered from a weekend of tryptophan-induced writer’s block, my husband, the beautiful Eric Johnson, suggested that I get in touch with Who I Am by describing the stickers on my car. And you know what? As his suggestions go, which usually include all sorts of naughty stuff not fit for print, it’s not half bad.
Traffic between East Hampton and Bridgehampton just after 4 one afternoon this week was heavy west of the Stephen Hand’s Path intersection with Montauk Highway. At this time of year, when it gets dark so early, the roads fill up at dusk, the day over for those who work outdoors, while others are rushing home or to the market.
My late dear friend Joanne, who was always with us for Thanksgiving, wouldn’t let anyone else supervise the mashed potatoes, back in the days when we had as many as 30 people, big and small, sitting for dinner. You weren’t allowed to cut the potatoes into small pieces to hurry the boiling along, because they would get watery, you had to cook them to her exacting standard of doneness, and you had to use old-fashioned mashers. I can still see her, hard at work, in the corner of our kitchen between the stove and sink.
Thanksgiving time is a powerful season — so powerful that it inspires in me a Will to Grow Up, which in turn has the superpower to vanquish my usual non-cook stance. My non-cook stance is a no-confidence, can’t-style configuration that includes a lot of cooking avoidance and a lot of apologizing for the food when I do have to cook. But every Thanksgiving, I give it up.
I’m sorry, of course, that Steve Jobs died, though, perhaps unlike many, I can’t say he’s improved my life. Well, maybe some, for I do like going onto Google when in need of a trenchant quote or some such. And Wikipedia can be fun, whether the articles are peer-reviewed or not.
We are a nation of gullible fools. We swallow everything advertisers tell us to. Not only are they telling us to shop tomorrow on “Black Friday,” but they also want us to participate in “Cyber Monday” by shopping online. I say we ignore the mind-control tactics they use and spend the day eating leftovers instead of shopping. We could call it “Fat Friday” instead.
At about midday on Monday, I took a walk into the East Hampton Village business district just to get a little air before changing gears at the office. There was the beginning of an east wind, a bit of chill in the air. The elms lining Main Street were almost entirely denuded of their leaves.
Downstreet, as the old-timers call the downtown area, was bare in spots as well. As everyone knows, many shops are closed and the ones that remain open, with only a handful of exceptions, seem to be selling things of no particular interest or usefulness to ordinary people.
My memory for numbers has always been good. I know the phone number at the house we lived in for most of my childhood. Just now, I discovered that it is a working number in the 631 area code. I rang up to see who would answer, but the call was “forwarded to an automatic voice message system” and the number was “not available.”
It wasn’t long ago that my old friend Kitty Monell came up to visit me in our old family blockhouse in Indian Field. “Daniel,” she said as she sat down on the living room couch, “we’ve gotten old.”
My eldest daughter, Emily, who is a 10, celebrated her 11-11-11 birthday this weekend with a dinner in D.C. where we were dressed to the nines, slapped high-fives, and thanked our GPS systems that we weren’t at sixes and sevens.
Champagne flowed, and all of that, which is by way of saying that this resurrected column — of 11 years ago! — will have to do this week:
This is the time of year when many of us who live around here can actually get things done. Just why summer and early fall seem so jam-packed that little things like paying bills, keeping up with repairs around the house, and socializing with friends become so difficult is hard to say. But when the clocks change and the days get dark before 5 p.m., once again we find a chance for dealing with it all. It is a paradox that the shorter the days, the more time we seem to have for what needs to be done.
Everybody loses things, right? And we all misplace objects only to have them reappear when we stop looking for them. As you get older, you begin to wonder if such commonplace occurrences are due to age. But last weekend, when my pocketbook went missing, it seemed to be a different story.
A magical name — Zihuatanejo. The one-word message left in a hiding place at the end of the film “The Shawshank Redemption,” creating an image of Mexican fishing boats, palm trees, turquoise water, and tropical weather.
Given the snowstorms and frigid temperatures last winter in East Hampton, Zihuatanejo seemed a paradise found — sunshine, sandy beaches, sea breezes, fish dinners of just-caught dorado, sailfish, mahimahi, and tuna.
When I read what people occupying Zuccotti Park are saying I tend to nod my head in agreement, except when it comes to those who would — with the help of dei ex machina, presumably — overthrow the entire system, which, I’m afraid, we’re stuck with.
No doubt, capitalism can be exploitative, which is why, though not in a union myself, I’ve always supported them. If there had been no unions — and thus no middle class — this country would have seemed like a third world one insofar as income inequality is concerned far, far sooner.
A couple of weeks ago, I scheduled an appointment for an eye exam, my first in about 10 years. A decade ago an optometrist told me that there really wasn’t any need for me to get a prescription. This year, after plowing through the mountain of letters to the editor, staring at a computer screen for days on end, I thought the outcome would be different.
Though last week I wrote that the number of letters we ran in last week’s Star was a record, what I meant to say was a record for the time that I have been responsible for sifting through them each week.
I recently flew to Fort Worth, Tex., to attend a dinner in honor of Dr. Temple Grandin, a professor of animal science.
My sister said the other night that she was feeling a bit low, and attributed the feeling to “the changing seasons.”
I commiserated, saying I too felt a certain sadness this time of year, what with everything that had once been green and flourishing falling into the sere, the yellow leaf. And then, adding to the atmospherics, I began to hum a few bars of “Autumn Leaves.”
There are 78 letters to the editor in this week’s edition of The Star, which is a record as far as I know. Who says print is dead?
The occasion for the verbosity is, of course, Tuesday’s election in East Hampton, in which control of the town board is in play. A digest of the letters might go as follows.
Even if Larry Penny, The Star’s resident expert on flora and fauna, hadn’t said so last week, I had already noticed that, as he put it, “In deer culture, learning to avoid cars and trucks is a trend that is gathering momentum.”
My own observation does not come from data, of the police or wildlife-society sort, but from my interaction with the family of four-footed ungulates that hang out in my neighborhood.
On a crisp October day in the 1960s, with the sky azure and Kennedy’s New Frontier just emerging, Dad said to us, “It’s Columbus Day weekend, where’ll we go? Amagansett — remember there’s no heat in the house — or the mountains of Vermont?” We’d never been to the mountains . . .
The following morning we headed for foliage country in our dependable silver ’61 Rambler — brisk golden leaves flying, purple heather, maple trees, and ski slopes, albeit green ones.
Putting my money where my mouth was I redistributed a chunk of my wealth this past weekend in the city, living large, as it were, and tipping lavishly, though remaining all the while humble and thankful for my good fortune — a pluralist despite exceptionalist tendencies.
At the Oyster Bar, and having ordered six Blue Points and six round ones from Maine, I knew that while I was no Diamond Jim Brady, I was blessed — all the more so because Mary, who I had thought would be sharing, contented herself with shrimp.