Category Archives: Family

Such was the refrain that my brother and I recorded over and over on a ‘Stop Smoking’ audio tape we made for our Uncle when we were just kids. It was our attempt at getting him to do something healthy, and we made it as much for our amusement as for our underlying fear that he’d die from all those cigarettes. We didn’t know any better then – we thought people could change that quickly and easily. I think that’s the part of childhood I miss the most – that sense of infinite possibility, and the ability to believe in anything. We need more of that now.

As for smoking, I never really got into it. I dabbled over the years – trying cloves and bidis before Marlboro lights – but for some reason I was lucky enough never to get hooked. It was a social thing at first, to get an extra break at work when my friends were going out, or a photo prop, done for effect and accessory over any real enjoyment or addiction.

It’s strange – part of me wanted to get addicted to something, playing up the attraction to a darker side – but it was never really true. Why I felt the need to appear as such, I’ll never know, but that’s another post for the denouement of the Delusional Grandeur Tour.

Light ’em up.

Rustic elegance.

Woodsy sophistication.

If you’re looking for something couture and personally customized for your home, look no further than Dead Wood Field & Furniture. (Damn, I should do this for a living.) This is a promotional post for my brother, because in addition to hooking him up with a magnificent webmaster and taking some decent photos of his goods and wares, I’m now pimping out prime space here to direct you to his new website. (Most of which is populated by my photos.) I’m still waiting for him to me help out with some brick work, but I digress… (And I’m not actually waiting anymore as I finally had to do it myself. He can owe me another time.)

As for Dead Wood Field & Furniture, it’s a pretty impressive endeavor, and based on the early popularity of his pieces, my brother can craft and sell an item that places like Restoration Hardware could only dream of. Since much of his work is customized, it has an artisanal slant that’s all the rage right now. If you’re looking for something specific, or something out of the ordinary that you envision (or have seen elsewhere), get in touch with him.

He’s done pieces as small as miniature coat racks for kids all the way to dining room tables that could fit about a dozen. His style is rustic and wood-heavy, substantial and unpretentious. It’s not my style, but it has its own sort of beauty. (My style has never been popular with the mainstream anyway.)

In addition to the furniture work, he offers a number of fun “field” accessories to accent the forest-inspired motif, and they’re available at his Ballston Spa location. Rustic metallic fixtures, leather-bound books, and even baseball caps with the Dead Wood logo come together to create an atmosphere of kindred coziness. His store on Front Street brackets a bustling little bit of Ballston Spa that was a revelation to me when I first visited. Stores and restaurants lined the throwback-to-another-era, and there was even a spa and hotel nearby. Definitely worth a weekend trip to check it out.

{Dead Wood Field & Furniture has its own website as well as a FaceBook page. The store is open most weekends, but call ahead to confirm hours – (518) 605-1276.}

A late-in-the-day post dedicated to my Mom on this special day. We’ll be belatedly celebrating on our semi-somewhat-annual Broadway trip to New York in a couple of weeks, but for now a bookmark of thanks for being such a great Mom and grandmother.

In many ways, I am who I am today because of her. She’s the one who first taught me how to put together an outfit, the one who showed me the fun and joy in shopping, and the one who instilled a love of traveling, with her impeccably-planned summer vacations. She kept the family together when three men were consistently at odds with one another, and formed the pillar of our home when my brother’s and my growing pains threatened to tear it all down. Because of her, our family remains a family to this day. Throughout it all, she maintained a sense of style and class that inspired me to carry myself a certain way, no matter how I might be feeling on the inside, a grace that is a continual reminder to keep going whenever I feel like giving up.

Happy Mother’s Day to the greatest Mom in the world – and to all the Moms out there. It’s the hardest job anyone can do, but it’s never gone unnoticed.

Today marks the 6^th Birthday for my niece and my nephew. I still remember the rainy day on which they came into this world, and how tiny and cute they were. They’re still a little of both, and they are just beginning to come into their own and develop their own personality quirks. We celebrated with a gathering at the Saratoga Children’s Museum (after which I insisted on a dinner at Sperry’s – because we all need a little light at the end of the kids’ party tunnel.)

I’d been told by friends who have children that this was a great spot. I guess they were talking about the children, as I found nothing of interest here. However, with those who have retained a child-like imagination, who remain entranced by a bit of make-believe, I can see the allure and the fun in the space. In fact, if I were six again, I’d have loved this place, so watching them run around and play their little games was amusing, and made me glad they were still kids.

The birthday boy and girl enjoyed the various rooms and set-ups, stocking up in the pantry…

And answering the phone at the reception desk.

As always, Andy enjoyed playing with the balls and surveying transportation replicas.

There were farm animals on hand too, in plastic form so as not to make a mess of things.

My favorite part, however, may have been in capturing the following series of shots wherein the twins are enjoying their birthday pizza and cake, with my brother unintentionally mugging in the background.

This group of photos is crying out for captions beyond which I’m willing to give – so I’ll let them speak for themselves.

As I’ve seen at many of these things, much of the time finds the men (and women) standing around awkwardly, which is about all a supportive Dad can do. (And a supportive pair of Uncles.) Our work finished, we headed to Sperry’s. We’ll catch up with the twins to give them our gifts at a quieter time. For now, we wish them a Happy 6^th Birthday!

Our Easter Holiday was spent with the Ilagan family, such as we are these days, but one of the tribe – Noah – was out sick and spent the majority of the day napping. (Until he woke up and started running around immediately, at which point it was time for us to go.)

Noah’s sister Emi, however, was very much awake and in (thankfully) rare form – as evidenced by the photos below (which are the best ones of the lot, so you can imagine.)

As is most often the case, the day was all about the food for me, and the traditional ham-centered dinner was served with some delicious glazed carrots and creamy potatoes as made by my Mom.

I’m just glad that the time for bunnies is over for another year.

The family-friendly trend of posts that started over Easter weekend continues with this one about my brother’s birthday. It was belated when it happened, and belated to be posted, but it’s here now and that’s all that matters. One of his gifts, the one that he’s trying on in the photo below, is a re-gifting of a coat he’d given me way back in 1995. I wore it to the infamous New Year’s Eve gathering in which one of my so-called-friends berated me for the crazy things I wore. As such, it holds a special place in my heart.

Anyway, my brother had given it to me because he didn’t like or want it, and it quickly became a favorite for its warm furry lining and cold-blocking hood. I hadn’t thought much about it until this past winter when he asked if I still had it because he wanted it back. Not to be outdone in dickery, I gave it back. As a birthday present. Happy happy!!

When you reach a certain age, you need a little help in blowing out all the candles.

The more help, the merrier, as demonstrated by Noah and Milo.

There’s only one Easter egg hunt that I recall with some detail. It was at the old Nichols store on Route 30 in Amsterdam. In a storage area with high unfinished ceilings, and a cement floor strewn with straw, a bunch of kids were let loose to find a golden egg. The one who found said egg would win a prize – in this case an enormous chocolate rabbit from Fariello’s. My lactose-intolerant ass was largely uninterested in that much chocolate, but it would be nice to find such a special egg among all the cheap plastic pastel bullshit that kept turning up as I waded through the smelly straw. I was in it to win it, and I scrambled with the rest of the kids, including my brother, as we searched and sought out the elusive golden egg.

Our baskets filled with the colorful also-rans, and I soon grew anxious that others were going to find it first. Part of me also slowed, not wanting to accept the notoriety and attention in which finding that golden egg would result. My shyness was almost crippling as a child. I hesitated and paused, going through the motions but not actively pursuing paths others hadn’t yet taken. Luckily, someone else found it first, which ended any dilemma of stumbling upon the pretty oblong object and dealing with all that attention. And it just happened to be my brother.

The prize was almost as tall as he was (though it ended up being hollow, much to our collective disappointment) and I think the local newspaper took a photo of him beside it. We ended up eating chocolate for months, even if it upset my stomach. One doesn’t look a gift bunny in the mouth.

In a few weeks (give or take, as there doesn’t seem to be a set schedule or hard opening), my brother will set up shop for his furniture-making business: Dead Wood Field & Furniture. He does rustic pieces, made from raw and sometimes reclaimed wood, with occasional metal accents and a vaguely country/barn slant that was the style of his first house. It’s a popular style, lending itself to industrial spaces that need an injection of warmth, or a more traditional home in need of something raw and hefty and grounded in wood.

Pictured as the featured shot (and below) is a birthday gift from him – it’s a shelf stand that will hold a few plants for our outside patio. This is his style, and it’s simple, substantial, strong and clean. There’s a shabby-chic raw edge to it as well, but it works well in the right setting. He’s also open to creating pieces per the customer’s specifications and requests. Check out the Dead Wood Field & Furniture FaceBook page here (and while there wish my baby bro a happy birthday). Store details forthcoming…

It was a fall day, but it must have been warm enough to ride our bikes, because my brother and I were speeding down Lincoln and turning onto Romeyn as the wind whipped more leaves from the trees. The once-green canopy of maples and oaks littered the streets, sidewalks and lawns. Shiny black garbage bags lined the curbs and the cutting scent of wood smoke filled the air. Soon, it would be impossible to ride our bikes anywhere until after the winter thawed. We pedaled harder to outrun the advance of time. As we neared the bottom of Pershing Road, we skidded to a stop in the leaves. I remember the feel of their crunchy points, and the asphalt hidden beneath them.

A large log – the carcass of some decayed and fallen tree – rested at the bottom of the street. Intriguingly hollowed out by time and circumstance, it was like some fairy-tale object from the forest, incongruously dropped at the edge of the street. We moved closer to it and examined its soft, mossy exterior. As I peered into the dark hole, looking for some chipmunk or other woodland denizen to be asleep in its shelter, my brother kicked the other end of the log. A swarm (okay, maybe five or six) hornets or bees flew into my face. I got stung near my eye, which promptly began to swell itself shut, and the pain was horrendous. “Why did you do that?!” I screamed as I began pedaling furiously home. Such is the stuff of brothers – and it goes both ways.

Two babies could not have been born further apart in the calendar year. The most distant dates possible (February 25 and August 24) marked when my brother and I came into the world. Following such a pre-destined journey of diametrically opposed lives, we have lived up to those dates and are as different as two brothers could possibly be. Yet through it all, there was a closeness forged in the first part of our formative years, when some of us have our happiest memories, that can never be altered or taken away, no matter what paths we make and take.

Brothers know each other’s weak spots, their sensitive issues, their strengths, and their merits. They know how to get under each other’s skin like no one else, and they have the weapons of a shared childhood and history to wage the dirtiest wars imaginable. As such, I marvel that some of us maintain such good relationships. Ours is far from perfect, but the love at its core has seen us through the argumentative periods. He’s the only brother I have, and that’s something that neither of us has taken for granted.

On this day, I wish him a very happy birthday, and I count myself the luckier of us both because I get to have him as my brother.

{Background note: the featured photo here was taken on a summer vacation at, you guessed it, Disneyworld in Florida. Check out the matching t-shirts. I tucked. He didn’t. Opposites in every way.}

They wheeled her into the room during a tense time. I can’t put my finger on what was wrong, and this was, after all, just a dream, but even in dreams the ominous can be felt. The atmosphere just felt worrisome, the way you feel when you’ve forgotten something but don’t yet realize what it is. She looked tiny, much smaller than the childhood memories I have of this grand woman, who always seemed larger than life. Now, in my dream, her hair was shrunken like the rest of her, and her legs were so diminutive that at first I thought they were gone.

My grandmother, gone from this earth for a few years, now visiting my dreams, and looking, despite her size and wheelchair, full of color and life. Her skin was no longer pale or addled with veins. It glowed a healthy color. Around her head an aura glistened like sun on the sea. Yet it was her eyes that transfixed me most: they sparkled.

Then the dream was done, and the uneasiness that has plagued my nights of late returned in the dark and empty room.