Category Archives: Family

A promise made in this post about the latest Suzie Ko Fashion Show finds fulfillment in this fun entry, which shows Suzie in her unnatural habitat, posing and preening as if to the manor born. Or is it to the manner born? Either way, this girl never met a mirror she didn’t immediately hog for herself. The pictures speak for themselves, but I’ll give you a little backstory too. 

On this particular day, Suzie was wearing a pair of pants that range in description from canary and mustard to banana and urine. I believe her explanation for choosing them was due to their ugliness and cheap cost. (She has a very different idea of fashion than the rest of us humans, despite the wondrous John Fluevog vintage shoes she dug out for this excursion.)

When we drove by a Pendleton outlet, she shrieked with an excitement that was totally lacking when I pulled into the Armani outlet just a few minutes prior. Upon entering, I could see that this was some sort of high-end L.L.Bean/Orvis/Eddie Bauer bullshit, where plaid and wool mated like rabbits and you couldn’t easily tell the difference between a blanket and a coat. That said, I did find a few beautiful pieces that somehow squeaked upward of the $500 mark which seems obscene for a Vermont outlet, but I guess Pendleton is fancy that way. And then Suzie came upon This Coat. 

It was the precise shade of her pants, and in a heavy but supple wool. She simply had to try it on, and pose and pose and pose in the mirror. Since she’d been so good as to accompany me to Vermont for a fall excursion, I was feeling generous and let her have this excessive moment, content to document it for the disbelieving folks who would sooner buy me prancing around in an Armani sequin pant suit. 

If it had been a little closer to her size (she was basically doing the backstroke in this men’s large) I might have insisted on her getting it, but alas, it was not to be. We’ll come back next year and see if we can find something more fitting. 

And may this also dispel the myth that I’m the one who can’t pass a mirror without admiring myself. The truth is finally out. 

Every birthday after 80 or so feels like a big deal, so when Dad turned 91 on September 11 we celebrated with a dinner of Filipino food and looking through a photo album of Mom and Dad’s trip to the Philippines. We served pancit, adobo, and embutido as the main entree, with some rice and veggies for the side. Mom made Dad’s favorite lemon pie, and we loaded him up with some minor gifts and a major load of scratch offs. All in all, it was not a bad day to turn 91, and now I’ll let the pictures speak for themselves. 

Since the inception of this website in 2003, it’s always gone dark on 9/11 – which also happens to be my Dad’s birthday, so I’m posting an early Happy Birthday to him now. He turns 91 this year, and while he’s begun to show his age, we’ve come to appreciate each day he’s here. There were some worrisome stretches last fall, but for 91 years he’s doing pretty well, and I’m extremely grateful he’s got my Mom to help keep him on track. Any birthday appreciation for him must include an equal amount of gratitude for her.

I’ve taken to heart the messages from friends who have lost loved ones, imploring me to make the most of the time we have with our parents, and in that spirit have spent as much time as possible with them. COVID actually impelled us closer, with weekly check-ins and more text communication, and once we got vaccinated we started making weekly visits for dinner. I also got to spend a few overnights with Dad earlier this summer, when Mom went to Boston – all a welcome embrace of the man who raised me. Tomorrow, I’m having him and the family over for a Filipino dinner so today is all about cooking – the same way he used to cook for us as kids.

Happy birthday, Dad! I love you.

Having the twins over for an overnight is not really what I’d consider babysitting anymore. First of all, they’re no longer remotely close to babies – at eleven years old they are quickly turning into young adults, the way children get way older way too quickly these days. It goes by even faster when you don’t get to see them very often, so what may seem like an eternity to them feels like a split second to me. Second, babysitting indicates a great deal of hand-holding and watching, and both Emi and Noah are old enough to largely take care of themselves, which is rather nice. I’m much better at relating to a self-sufficient person than one who needs constant pampering and care. 

So it was that I invited them over to our home for some end-of-summer swimming and an overnight in the attic loft. They’d seen the room when it was first revamped and were excited to stay there on their own. Spending a late summer night there would hopefully imbue it with a happy memory from the beginning. Before that, however, there was pool – outside and inside. The former allowed some childhood energy and exertions to be spent before bedtime, and the latter afforded them the opportunity to hone their pool-playing skills in the basement. 

They’d been itching to go swimming at night with the pool light on since we re-did the pool last year, and the wait was worth it. I went in with them and played their games (they’re big on pretending that one of us was dead and needed rescuing, and who am I to psychoanalyze that kind of crazy-ass shit?) Once that was done, we went back up to the attic for an impromptu fragrance testing and rating. They each got to try a selection of scents while blindfolded at their insistence so they couldn’t tell which was which, and decide their favorite. Noah had the most expensive taste, selecting a Tom Ford as his favored cologne -‘Beau de Jour’ – while Emi went for the exquisitely floral ‘Mimosa & Cardamom’ by Jo Malone.)  Then it was time for popcorn and the movie. 

Deciding on a movie to watch is an ordeal that usually ends in an argument, so I set up a bracket of sorts, where the three of us would vote on which movies we wanted to see advance, until we had one clear winner. Uncle Al was actually less of a deciding vote than I expected (or may have wanted) so for the most part they were in agreement on what they wanted to see. From a pool of sixteen candidates, we whittled it down to the ultimate winner – ‘Stardust’ – which was way longer than I realized – a lesson for the next time we do this, when I will keep run-times in the forefront of the available offerings. 

I read them a quick bedtime story – really for this photo op only, as you may sense from the foolishness seen here. Tucked in around midnight, they were on their own, and once my head hit the pillow I was out. Kids are exhausting in the best possible way. The next day Emi and I went out for cider doughnuts while Noah opted to stay home with Andy and practice his billiard skills. It was the perfect summer sleepover, marking the last moments of freedom before school began. Next up will be the annual Treasure Hunt, when October arrives…

When Mom asked if I would stay with Dad while she went to Boston with my niece, I was a little apprehensive. At the age of 90, my Dad has slowed down considerably, and often has trouble sleeping through the night, so I wasn’t sure I could handle it safely. So great was my concern that I enlisted the help of my brother to spend the two nights, figuring between the two of us, we could monitor Dad and keep things running until Mom returned. And so it was early on a Monday morning, before my telecommuting work day began, I arrived in Amsterdam and saw Mom and Emi off, then settled into Dad care, which would turn out to be better than anyone, especially myself, had imagined. 

For once, the weather cooperated – and the three days we spent together found summer at a comfortable high – sunny but not overbearingly hot or humid. The gardens were in bloom – hydrangeas and lilies and coreopsis and butterfly bushes. Bushels of tomatoes spilled fruit over their buckets while pots of impatiens and geraniums lit up every corner of the patio. 

Dad was in good spirits, and sharper than he’d been in recent months. I’d made a big batch of pancit for our stay, and plated some up for our first lunch together. Together with some apple juice, he ate pretty well, and I relaxed into the day. When work was done, I began the power-washing of their pool deck, which hadn’t seen such a cleaning in three decades. Noah arrived then, and I showed him how to do it. He did a small corner and called it a day. 

At regular intervals, I’d set Dad up with his exercise machine – a foot pedal thing that allows him to pedal as if on a stationary bike, but from the comfy seat of his couch. The older we get, the more important it is to stay in motion, to keep the exercise up, and to remain as mobile and flexible as possible. Dad taught me that as a young child, when I’d tumble into their bed early in the morning – he’d go through a set of leg exercises while still in bed to limber his body up for the day ahead. Such stretches seemed silly and rudimentary at the time, but they’ve led to 90 years of walking, so I hope he remembers to continue. 

We had some adobo that Mom had left for dinner, and I made sure Dad got this pills for the evening before setting up his outfit for the next day. A man of ritual and tradition, and a Virgo like myself, he does best when there is structure and organization to the day. I did my best to make sure his habits were in place with the list of instructions from Mom. 

That first night, we kept him up past 8 PM, which is late for him, and I’d hoped it would allow him to sleep through the night. We cajoled him into watching some of the Olympics, then he headed up to bed. An hour or so later, I went upstairs to my childhood bedroom and settled uneasily into the bottom of a bunk bed that seemed to be missing a slat or two, where I spent a restless night worried and waking to the slightest noise. It turned out to be worry for naught. Dad slept through until about 6:30 AM, when he opened the door to check on me and I said I’d be down to get breakfast in a minute. 

The next day passed in similar fashion, and when 4 PM arrived I shut down the work computer, finished the power washing of the pool deck, and took a dip in the pool with Noah. (I promised if he did a little more power-washing I would join him.) I gave Dad his dinner, and set him up with his evening pills, and he repeated his regular question and confirmation of where Mom was and when she was returning. If the worst that happened was some repetition and confusion, I could consider it a success. That these few days offered some precious quality time with my father was a bonus that I didn’t expect, or understand how much I needed. 

Being under the same roof with my Dad, my brother, and my nephew was something that hadn’t happened in years, and it felt as wonderful and strange as it did happy and right. 

Keeping things low-key, our 4th of July celebration consisted solely in the company of Mom and Dad, as Andy and I dropped by Amsterdam for a simple family dinner – and it was probably the nicest 4th of July we’ve had in decades. 

Many floral memories are connected to my grandmother. She loved the fragrance of lily-of-the-valley. Her last apartment in Hoosick Falls had a patch of cosmos in the front. On one visit with my Great Aunt May, a bouquet of peonies stood in our living room and I still remember that day whenever I smell a peony. And zinnias – which were also part of that little garden in Hoosick Falls – remind me of her, even if there’s no other specific connection, and even if I don’t know for sure whether she noticed or liked them. In my mind, they bring me instantly back to a hot summer stretch of days in which I was visiting Gram. It was just as summer was cresting – the heat had gotten into the earth and stayed there, but the nights were starting to cool down a bit. We opened the windows then and aired out her one bedroom apartment. I slept on a tufted velvet couch in a gorgeous shade of green – a couch that now sits splendidly in my basement and reminds me of her every day. 

When the day began, I would slowly awake to Gram’s maneuvers in her impossibly-small kitchen. It had barely enough room for one person to turn around, and two were an impossibility. Not that my twelve-year-old self had any inclination to help in the kitchen. The sweet smell of cinnamon toast, and sometimes pancakes, would wafter through the parlor and I’d disassemble the sheets and blanket from the make-shift bed. The daytime talk shows and game shows would play on the television, and we’d sit and watch for a bit before making whatever the daily excursion was. 

Sometimes it was the longer walk to the Grand Union across town, and sometimes it was just down the street and around the corner to church. But on those days when the heat was stultifying, and no breeze rustled the quiet little town, the simplest walks felt like worthy exertions. Gram never seemed to mind, nor did she complain. I also never saw her break a sweat. She was made of sturdier stock than me, having worked in a factory during the war, and taking care of others for most of her life. If she spoiled and doted on me as her first grandson, I wasn’t complaining, but I didn’t need her gifts or devotion – I just wanted to be near her, to feel that kind of unconditional love. 

Returning from a walk one day, we paused at the start of the sidewalk that led to her apartment. I noticed the cosmos and zinnias then – radiant sparks of color in what felt like a dull and dusty summer world. She spoke with the landlord in the shaded hallway as I lingered near the flowers. Her sunglasses lent her an air of faded and obscure glamour – echoes of the starlets she’d tell stories about – Greta Garbo and such – and the occasional night out of her own. She wasn’t wild in any way, and there only seemed to be one or two nights where she actually went out to a party, but she held them close to her heart and for my 12-year-old self they were all the golden glamour I needed to settle into her velvet couch and dream of my future and her past. 

In the early evening, we’d watch ‘Wheel of Fortune’ and then read or crochet a bit. Even in the un-air-conditioned heat of her apartment, she managed to cook up dinner – spaghetti or kielbasa – and we ate at a little white table with wicker-seated chairs. Colorful glass goblets held my soda and her beer, and though her cooking was simple and lacking in any punch of spice, it always tasted good to me. Neither of us could do very much wrong in the eyes of the other, and so we existed peaceably and happily together. 

In another year or two, my carefree childhood state would cease to exist, and as other concerns occupied my days, and I felt further and further from Hoosick Falls, I realized I was growing up. But the love between Gram and me would endure and last until her final days, and during certain hot stretches of summer, she’s still here with me, in the happy countenance of a zinnia.

At 90 years old, my Dad has good and bad days. If he doesn’t get enough rest, or hasn’t eaten well, or taken enough liquids, he can be a bit off. Luckily, he was in good shape for Father’s Day, engaging with the twins as he opened their gifts, and talking with us when we went outside on the porch after dinner. Summer days are ideal for wearing out the twins’ energy, and Dad’s too, which sometimes makes for more restful nights. 

Mom made a feast of Filipino dishes – Asado and a sweet and sour fish that my Aunt Luz taught her to cook many years ago. I think she may have surpassed my Aunt in the preparation of this one dish, and it remains a favorite for bringing back happy family memories. 

As for the twins, I joined them briefly before we left as they took their evening swim. We spoke of setting up a sleepover/swim meet at our house since their school year ends this week. They also indulged me by doing some Olympic dives, then insisted we play a few rounds of Truth or Dare. It seems they have some of my Madonna-loving blood in them too. 

The family that plays together stays together. 

Keep it together.

“This is ridiculous. It’s crazy. I feel like I’m babysitting, except I’m not getting paid.” – The Goonies

The last time I was able to properly hang out with the Ilagan twins was in the fall of 2020, and then we were bound by six feet of distance and masks, while also relegated to the outside yard and garage. It was perfect for a treasure hunt as the seasons tipped into the cozy realm, but like all things in the age of COVID, far less than desirable. 

Luckily, with the restrictions lifting, and the twins more staunchly entrenched in the mask-wearing than most adults I know, it was finally all right for us to see a movie and go to lunch together, so I picked them up from Amsterdam for an afternoon of fun. 

We took the back roads, the way I used to go to oboe lessons every Wednesday for most of my high school years. I still recalled the winding path that led through Galway and on into Saratoga, and we ended up making it to Broadway without the need of GPS. A lovely lunch at The Mercantile was followed by an ice cream treat down the street, and then it was time for the movie.

The first time my brother and I saw ‘The Goonies’ was when it opened and my Dad took us on a rare father-sons excursion. We thrilled at the company and the movie on the big screen, and now I felt a similar thrill taking my niece and nephew to see it. Life moves in such circles sometimes, and I’m not sorry that it does. 

As these kids grow older, I feel the passing of time, especially int he last year and a half that we have all lost because of COVID, and if I indulged in too much ice cream or M&Ms on the popcorn, I’m not sorry about that either. We have some catching up to do.