I’m sad about Rob Reiner and Michele Singer being murdered by their drug-addicted son.
I mostly feel badly for their other three adult children.
I have no idea what went on in this family, but I can relate to the situation of having a sibling for whom life is considered “more difficult” and is therefore indulged and supported endlessly—especially financially.
In my opinion, parents of adult children should keep careful track of how much money they give to each adult child. They should also consider the huge and selfless undertaking of raising children (aka their grandchildren) when sharing their resources.
If one adult child is allowed to act like a teenager into adulthood (aka Peter Pan Syndrome), you’re going to have problems.
Equity matters. Sometimes tough love is required. Never ask a healthy, functioning adult child to get involved in their sibling’s problems. (That’s up to them, if they want to do that.)
Having multiple children is a choice. Siblings may or may not get along later in life. One way you can increase your chances of family harmony is to expect adult behavior from adults. And keep track of how much financial support you provide each adult child. This may sound cold and calculating, but it can help you see things more clearly, when needed.
27-year old orphan Romy Reiner with her late father Rob. This poor girl found her parents’ bodies and had to name her brother as the killer. How did it get to that point? What choices were made?
I’m afraid the 2025 holiday season will be forever remembered as the “Year of the Knee.” Arthroplasty is rough, people. My husband is doing OK, but the pain is quite brutal. Thank goodness for opioids. I honestly don’t know how anyone gets through this without a partner. (I know they can and do, but it would be really hard.) Outpatient PT has started and now I get why folks call the PTs “Physical Terrorists.”
But on to happier things…
I have been enjoying looking at the lovely, happy holiday posts and photos from Scillagrace and others.
Last year was such a special Christmas because we had my brand new baby granddaughter—so perfect in every way. After the sting of the horrible election in November 2024, she gave me so much hope. She was—and is—a miracle. All babies are. I thank my wonderful daughter for the greatest gift of all last Christmas. Infants are pure love, pure light, pure joy.
My granddaughter and me last December Our tree last year The new mom managed to decorate—and even bake—last year. Hand-dipped and decorated Oreo cookie ballsWhite roses for Christmas last yearI got Christmas “crackers” from the British imports store and did special napkin folding last year.
I hope everyone can find some way to enjoy the season this year, despite whatever pain or hardships burden you. I recommend watching Sweden’s National Santa Lucia Day broadcast this Saturday, December 13. It’s always such a beautiful celebration of light in the darkness, with gorgeous choral music—including young children singing in tune. It’s typically available on YouTube the same day.
December Rx:
Music, lights, babies (if you can’t get your hands on a baby, watching young children sing is a good substitute)
This is the pic that came up today when I searched the ginormous folder on my computer for a “door.”
There was no geographic info in the file name or photo data. All I know is that it was taken with my old Canon PowerShot camera in June 2011 and that the two kids on the balcony are mine.
I had no recollection of this moment, but Google Lens figured out the location (amazing). It’s downtown Winchester, Massachusetts (my husband’s hometown). My father-in-law was alive and still living there at the time, so it makes sense.
It’s an area now called “Winchester Terrace.” AI found this photo on Apartments.com that shows the exact spot:
At the top of the staircase on the right is the spot I posed my kids in 2011.
This discovery sparked a memory of my very dear father-in-law—“Nonno” to my kids.
He was most the wonderful man who enjoyed life’s small moments like no other. Martini time, a beautiful operatic aria, an excellent meal, a grandchild’s kiss (he called it a “buzz”), a friendly joke with a stranger (especially waitresses!), and random bits of foreign languages sprinkled into any conversation. He always made me feel like the most amazing, interesting, gorgeous woman who ever lived. A true charmer. He lived well into his 90s.
Yesterday was the last week of my 8-week class called “Loosen up with Watercolors” at our local (amazing) community arts center.
Against advice from the teacher, I attempted to paint a portrait of someone I know and love: my granddaughter. The reference photo (taken by my daughter) was from last summer when my granddaughter was 9 months old. (She’s walking now!)
I had the idea to use wine bottle webbing in the background for her playpen siding.
I had fun doing this, but I get why the teacher said not to paint family members as a total beginner. You’re too attached to the subject!
I want to learn how to make smooth skin tones, but I was too afraid to experiment on her adorable little face. I will try a stranger again next time, like that random chef from a magazine, which was my first ever watercolor portrait.
I read this article about a woman’s harrowing coming-of-age in Franco’s Spain and it triggered memories of a trip to Madrid I took with my parents in 1984 or 85—less than a decade after the end of the authoritarian Franco regime, which had lasted 36 years.
I cannot find a SINGLE photo from that trip, but I know it really happened. (Someday, if I find photos in my parents’ house, I will add them to this post.)
Here’s what I remember:
My father was in the process of selling his small company to a British company and had to go to London on business, so he took my mother and me with him. This was my first trip to Europe, so they wanted to visit one other city while we were over there and they randomly chose post-Franco Madrid. (For some reason, my sister did not come. She stayed home with the family dog who fell into the foundation of an unbuilt house and died while we were away.)
Of London, I remember only some heinously spicy Indian food, other bad food, and cream being poured on everything.
Here’s my very hazy memory of Madrid.
It was dark and dirty. We ate extremely late in the evening in smoke-filled restaurants. My parents spoke no Spanish, but still rented a car and drove up a one-way street the wrong way. A cop pulled us over and somehow it was communicated that he would take cash in lieu of giving my father a ticket.
We went to The Prado Museum and I looked at lots of dark paintings.
“David With The Head of Goliath” by Caravaggio (c1600) has been in The Prado forever. I feel like I remember seeing it there. So gruesome.
We visited Toledo, which is outside of Madrid, and I got a piece of their signature jewelry, which is also dark. They make it with black steel. I no longer have the piece, but it looked something like this.
And that’s it. That’s all I remember. The lack of photos doesn’t help.
Back to the BBC article about that poor young woman whose parents turned her over to the authorities and suffered the cruelest treatment imaginable during the Franco regime. I can’t imagine how she (or her daughter) carried on any type of relationship with her ultra conservative Catholic parents after that. The gall of that 90-year old grandfather saying “we suffered a lot too” is outrageous. I noticed the word “forgiveness” is not used.
Thursday will mark 50 years since Franco’s death. Spain has since seen a revolution in women’s rights – but survivors of the Patronato are still waiting for answers and are now demanding an inquiry.
A tiny silver turtle, a fish, a bird, a duck and a frog—60-year old birthday candle holders.
A gift from a dear friend of my mother—a 3x “boy mom” who so loved little girls—on the occasion of my first birthday (we think).
Passed by my mother to me, I used them when I remembered. (The candle holes are narrow, so candles must be shaved to fit.)
Now they are polished and ready to go to my daughter.
We pass things on.
They use what they wish.
I first took a picture of them on a silver coaster, but they were hard to see. Lesson learned: use a contrasting background when photographing still objects.
Another commonly held belief seems to be that older generations are somehow tougher than younger ones. That life was harder for them and people have gotten progressively more comfortable.
I beg to differ.
Although the tremendous sacrifices and bravery of the so-called “Greatest Generation” can never be overestimated (they literally risked everything to defeat the Nazis), I would argue that non-marginalized groups in the following generation (my parents cohort) have had it pretty good. Many went from lower class (aka poor) to highly comfortable and secure in a single lifetime. And although we benefited from our parents’ prosperity, the following generation (mine) has had it harder in many ways. And our kids are going to have it even harder.
Not to be a Debbie Downer, but there are reasons the birthrate is historically low in 2025. We all know millennials who are choosing not to have children (or GenXers & Boomers who are sad that they will never be grandparents).
I asked ChatGPT to compare the lives of someone born in the mid 1930s, mid 1960s, and mid 1990s.
Facts:
1. Income & Jobs
Born mid-1930s (entered workforce ~1950s): Median household income in 1955: ~$5,000 (≈ $58,000 in today’s dollars). A single income (often the father’s) could support a family, home, and college savings. Job security was higher; pensions were common. Born mid-1960s (entered workforce ~1980s): Median household income in 1985: ~$23,600 (≈ $66,000 today). Both parents often worked, butwages grew more slowly compared to the cost of living. 401(k)s replaced pensions, shifting retirement risk to individuals. Born mid-1990s (entered workforce ~2015–2020): Median household income in 2019: ~$68,700. In real terms, wages for young workers have stagnated since the 1970s, while housing, education, and healthcare rose sharply. Gig economy and contract jobs more common, less stability/benefits.
2. Cost of College (Public University, In-State Tuition)
1930scohort (college in 1950s): $200/year tuition ($2,400 today). College was affordable even with part-time work; no significant debt. 1960scohort (college in 1980s): $1,500/year tuition ($4,000–$5,000 today). Still affordable with summer jobs; modest debt possible. 1990scohort (college in 2010s): ~$10,000/year tuition (public); $35,000–$50,000/year (private). Widespread reliance on loans; average borrower debt: $30,000+.
3. Healthcare Costs
1930s cohort: Out-of-pocket affordable; many employers covered full family insurance. Doctor visits and hospital stays far cheaper relative to income. 1960s cohort: Insurance became tied to employment. Costs rose, but still manageable. Deductibles/co-pays introduced. 1990s cohort: Healthcare costs skyrocketed (family premiums ~$24,000/year by 2025, often split with employer). Medical debt is a leading cause of bankruptcy.
4. Cost of Raising a Child (to age 18, middle-class family), not including college
1930s cohort (raising kids in 1960s): ~$25,000 total (≈ $240,000 today). 1960s cohort (raising kids in 1990s): ~$150,000 (≈ $280,000 today). 1990s cohort (raising kids in 2020s): ~$310,000. Housing, childcare, healthcare, and college costs exploded. Childcare alone can rival college tuition.
5. Retirement
1930s cohort: Retired with pensions, Social Security, mortgage-free home. Comfortable retirement was realistic for average workers. 1960s cohort: Retirement savings depended on 401(k)s and IRAs; investment risk shifted to individuals. Some still had pensions, but they were fading. 1990s cohort: Retirement is much more uncertain. Pensions rare; Social Security’s future questioned. Rising housing and healthcare costs make saving harder. Many expect to work past 65.
A final note: When my friend Carla was dying in 2022 at age 57 from brain cancer, she commented that at least she wasn’t going to have to worry about paying bills anymore. She felt that one upside of an early death would be a release from financial concerns. Carla had an advanced degree in nursing and worked (very hard) as a hospice medical director. She was married with two adult children that she’d been able to send to college.
And I’m sure she walked to school in the snow plenty of times.
It’s painful to go back and read this post from about a year ago—the day after Kamala Harris accepted the Democratic nomination for President of the United States. I had cried during her acceptance speech.
After so many months of dread and fear, I finally let myself feel hope and optimism for the future. My little granddaughter would be coming into a world where a woman of color was President, women’s rights to their own bodies would be restored, protecting our planet would be an international mission, and hate and racism would recede.
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