I have just one sibling, a younger sister, and my mother loved to put us in matching outfits, many of which she sewed herself.
I’m giving my mother an A++ for the extraordinary effort it took to not only make some of our clothing, but to have the two outfits clean on the same day and get us both to agree to wear them. You must admit, we looked very cute and were a big hit when out in public.
Unless you had hippie parents, this was a common thing for girls in the late 60s and early 70s. Sisters matched. I don’t remember boys being put in matching outfits, but maybe some were.
To be honest, my sister and I are not close and have not been for many years. We are extremely different people. I don’t know if being seen as a “set” of girls from a young age had a negative impact or not. I know there was a certain expectation that I would set an example for her. And as you may have heard, oldest daughters tend towards perfectionism, which probably isn’t fun for the ones who come after.
But darn it, we were cute.
Christmas 1969
June 1971 (these may have been dance recital costumes)
November 1972 (sometimes our outfits were similar, but not identical)
Here we are with our close family friends who happened to have boys. They were never in matching outfits.
These California wildfires (and the mass evacuations) have really got me thinking about what I would grab if I were forced to leave my home with very little notice. I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s the photos and the mementos that you just can’t get back.
Now I don’t know about you, but I’ve got a giant basement closet (plus a bin in the attic) full of old photo albums. I’m talking 30+ photo albums plus shoe boxes of old photos. There’s no way I’d be able to grab all of them in an emergency situation.
So, I think what I’m going to do is start selectively scanning them. I’m using the PhotoScan by Google app on my phone.
As a result of my first scanning session, I’ve discovered the root of my fascination with brides.
I always loved brides, bride dolls, veils, bouquets, etc. I remember sitting in my driveway as a kid watching in awe as my former babysitter emerged from her home across the street in her wedding gown. To this day, I will drop everything if I see a bride in the wild to gawk and take a photo.
Apparently it all started with my mother’s brother’s wedding. My Uncle Pete married Aunt Betsy around 1968 and I was the adorable toddler in attendance. My baby sister was too young to go (haha). They clearly made a big deal out of me.
Helping Uncle Pete with his bow tie
My nana lifting me up to see beautiful Aunt Betsy in her spectacular veil
Planting a kiss on some little thumb-sucker at the wedding (I think a photographer set this up—I was not that assertive!)
Having some ice cream with my stylish Nana, who was probably about the same age that I am now
There are so many photos of me “playing bride” after that wedding. I could turn anything into a veil, including mosquito netting. And later, I had a bride doll with a tulle dress and veil that became a favorite toy.
It was an inauspicious start for a feminist-in-the making, but I chalk it up to the tulle. I loved spinning around in fluffy white tulle. And when it came time for my own wedding, you guessed it—tulle.
Sometimes your little life overlaps with historic events.
I’ve already written about the nation’s bicentennial and how I was there to see President Ford speak at the Old North Bridge in Concord in April 1976. I was ten.
I was reminded of another historic event while watching President Carter’s funeral this week—the Iranian hostage crisis (1979-81). American GenXers will remember this because it was such a BIG deal. Everyone knew about it. Yellow ribbons were everywhere.
In a nutshell: In November 1979, Iranian militants stormed the U.S. Embassy in Tehran, taking 52 American diplomats and citizens hostage, including Bill Keough, a former school superintendent in my town. The hostage takers were mad at the U.S. for supporting the deposed “Shah” of Iran.
They kept those poor people captive for 444(!) days—in very harsh conditions—led by the evil “Ayatollah Khomeini.” (Every GenXer knows how to say that guy’s name because it was on the news every single night.) Diplomatic efforts failed, and a U.S. military rescue mission, Operation Eagle Claw, ended in disaster in April 1980, killing eight servicemen. This severely damaged President Jimmy Carter’s administration and contributed to his loss in the 1980 election. The hostages were released on January 20, 1981, just minutes after Ronald Reagan’s inauguration, following the signing of the Algiers Accords (for which the Carter administration did all the legwork).
When the hostages were finally released, everyone watched with bated breath and there was widespread jubilation, especially in my town where we knew one of them! My high school marching band was invited to participate in a massive homecoming parade for Mr. Keough.
As one of the “goose-fleshed majorettes,” I mainly remember how COLD it was. I was 16, with not an ounce of fat on me, wearing a short little dress and holding a cold metal stick — in Massachusetts in FEBRUARY. Having recently compared notes with one of the “rosy-cheeked trumpeters,” I was reminded that our band director Mr. Toland made a last-minute decision to nix “The Empire Strikes Back” (one of our favorite numbers to perform) as we approached the grandstand. I guess he “read the room” and realized Darth Vader’s theme song was not the thing to play when celebrating triumph over the actual Evil Empire (Iran).
I was not political in high school. My parents didn’t talk much about politics (possibly because they were on opposite sides of the fence) and I cared way more about my hair than inflation or gas prices. But watching President Carter’s moving funeral, I was struck by how little credit he got for the hostage release. In The Boston Globe article above, Mr. Keough gave President Carter and his team full credit and gratitude for getting him home:
“Keough took the occasion, as he would again at a ceremony after the parade, to praise the handling of the hostage crisis by former President Jimmy Carter and his negotiating team “even in the face of personal disasters in their own careers.” “We are thankful that our President made the right decisions all along the way.” he said, adding his “eternal gratitude to the eight young men who died trying to rescue us and who will live in my memory and I hope in yours.”
GenX, if you didn’t get a chance to watch President Carter’s funeral and have time for only one clip, I suggest you watch President Ford’s eulogy, delivered by his son Steve. It’s hard to imagine that this level of grace and humility in politics existed in our lifetime.
Here I am in my skinny majorette days practicing with the marching band.
Below is a ChatGPT description of “Peter Pan Syndrome.”
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Peter Pan Syndrome refers to individuals who struggle with accepting adult responsibilities, often exhibiting emotional immaturity. While it’s not an official psychological diagnosis, the concept identifies key behavioral traits. The six main signs often associated with Peter Pan Syndrome are:
1. Avoidance of Responsibility
Difficulty committing to long-term goals, careers, or relationships, and a tendency to avoid adult obligations such as financial independence or household management.
2. Emotional Immaturity
Difficulty handling criticism, conflict, or stress, often reacting in a childlike or overly defensive manner.
3. Fear of Commitment
Reluctance to commit to relationships, work, or life plans, often prioritizing short-term pleasure over stability.
4. Dependency
Relying heavily on parents, partners, or others for financial or emotional support instead of fostering independence.
5. Escapism
Seeking constant distraction or entertainment, such as video games, social media, or partying, to avoid facing responsibilities.
6. Narcissistic Tendencies
A self-centered outlook, prioritizing personal desires over the needs of others, with difficulty showing empathy or maintaining healthy relationships.
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Do you have an adult in your life who acts like they never grew up? It may be Peter Pan Syndrome. My advice is to set boundaries early and stick to them.
And parents: don’t raise a Peter Pan. It can (and most likely will) damage your relationship with your other children.
This New Year’s is getting me down. I had so hoped that 2025, the year I turn 60, would be the year we’d finally stop seeing his ridiculous orange face and hearing his racist, lying voice forever. I had thought if we could just get through the November election, he’d fade from our consciousness. I worked hard to try to make that happen.
Instead, the shitshow continues. All the anger, fear and bitterness of the past nine years is back. I’m suspicious of old friends who seem to blame all their problems on immigrants. I’m worried that racism or god forbid—gun violence—is going to affect my family. I’m so sad for the planet. I’m scared that our new leaders are truly just self-dealers.
I used to want to try to make the world a better place for all our children and grandchildren. Now I just want to try to protect my own children and grandchild in whatever way I can.
All the expansive positivity, American pride, and hopefulness for all women I felt watching Kamala Harris accept her nomination for president is gone.
I am taking solace in the unparalleled personal, private, internal joy of becoming a grandmother. Maybe my love for this one child will save me.
The first time I got to hold my granddaughter was magical. I loved her immediately. (Photo taken by my daughter 9.24.24)
These days everyone is encouraged to “look at the source” of information they take in. “Don’t believe everything you hear” is a common refrain.
Well, my husband and I have the same policy with TV and movies. Certain people are in the “respected recommender” category. If Alissa or Ann or Gina tell us we should watch something because we’ll love it, we listen. I even jot it down for future reference.
Other people are in “the grain of salt” category. We’ll listen to their recommendations, but we have to consider the source. They might be someone we like very much personally, but we just don’t share their taste in TV and movies.
Some people who were once under consideration to be respected recommenders have recently been categorized “grain of salt” based on highly touting a pretty stupid show on Netflix. (I’m not going to say the name of the show, because many are finding it delightful.)
Now that Boston Globe TV critic Matthew Gilbert retired, I feel a little lost sometimes. If you’re the kind of person that eagerly awaited each new episode of Succession and is sad that both What We do in The Shadows and Somebody Somewhere just ended forever, then I’m listening.
We’re already aware and are excited for new seasons of Severance and White Lotus starting soon. And I went ahead and bought tickets to see A Complete Unknown on New Year’s Eve, because even though it’s getting mixed reviews, Bob Dylan is Bob Dylan. And I like to see all the big rock biopics on a big screen, with that big Hollywood sound.
At Christmas dinner yesterday, my father told me he had run into my old friend Debbie at the fish market. They recognized each other and exchanged some quick pleasantries.
Debbie and I were neighborhood friends who ended up becoming close friends for many years. She knew my parents well and I knew her family too. Her dad was a great guy. We took several trips to California and Florida in our late teens and twenties. We did a fair number of edgy things together including lots of underage drinking, shoplifting, dine-n-dashing, and at least one crazy 80s Spring Break trip to Fort Lauderdale. (Wet t-shirt contest anyone?) Debbie was 18 months older than me (a year ahead of me in high school) and liked to party and dance. I’m sure my first nightclub experience was with her. Even though she was a true redhead, she loved the sun like I did and we went to the beach as often as possible. We went skiing a few times too and once spun out in my mother’s car driving in a snowstorm. We did a 180 and hit the guardrail. (Debbie was driving at the time and we were fine.) In fact, we wanted to carry on with our ski trip with one headlight dangling, but when we called my parents from a gas station, they made us come home.
Debbie and I stayed friends for many years through a variety of life experiences including her being severely burned in a freak accident. (I remember visiting her in Shriner’s Burn Center where I saw the most horrifically scarred young children.) We knew each other’s deepest, darkest secrets. We attended each other’s weddings and then drifted apart as we became mothers and got busy raising kids. Still, we sent Christmas cards and occasionally saw each other in person.
Then, at some point during the second Obama administration her right-leaning political posts on Facebook caused a tiff between us. We unfriended each other and that was that. Some years later, I felt badly about it, but figured she had probably morphed into a Trump supporter, so what would be the purpose of reaching out. We were too different by then.
You know that expression about some friends being for a reason, some for a season, and some for a lifetime? Well, at one point I might’ve thought we’d be friends for a lifetime, but it turns out we were friends for a season. And our season was the 1980s. Big time.
Christmas 1989 (towards the end of our close friendship)
If I had to pick one song that tends to trigger a Debbie memory, it would be Kool & the Gang’s Celebration. I picture us dancing around in front of a mirror, sipping some alcohol, while we made our hair as big & fluffy as possible for whatever came next.
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