Makers and Merchants

img_2984Brooks Brothers

Makers and Merchants

They used to be such a revelation

346 Madison Avenue, New York

46 Newbury Street, Boston

Lenox Square, Atlanta

The three locations at which I first came to know Brooks Brothers in the early 1980s

For 202 years until July 8, 2020

The majority of my wardrobe is from their shelves, ready to wear

So many ties to that storied store

So many ties


So many ties

Some of those ties are 30 years old e.g. the spouting whales and the bird dogs

Some are brand spanking new

I love them all

I may own other ties from Hermès, Ferragamo, other brands, but it is Brooks Brothers silk that takes up the majority of my tie rack

It is Brooks Brothers cotton that takes up the majority of my hanging shirts

It is Brooks Brothers twill that takes up the pants section of the chest of drawers

At the high school I attended, there were no Senior pictures in coats and ties. Instead, we submitted our own edgy looks

What was mine?

Me in a red and white striped Brooks Brothers turtle neck from the store on Newbury Street

I wore it all the time

So not edgy

The news of Brooks Brothers’ bankruptcy stung

Where the hell did that come from?

Where the hell am I going to get my suits?

Where the hell am I going to get my non-iron dress shirts?

Where the hell am I going to get my all cotton boxers?

Where the hell am I going to get my bathrobes?

Where the hell am I going to get Black Watch plaids?

Where the hell am I going to get linen shirts for our hot summers?

Where the hell?

What the hell?

American Made by American Makes and Merchants still meant something to me

I wanted to shop there to support the makers in North Carolina and Massachusetts who were still spinning proverbial hay into sartorial gold

As I read on A Continuous Lean, the expansion for the sake of expansion may have led to the demise of this once great company

Here’s that piece:

Yes, it’s a de classe moment when one sees the place from whence most of one’s clothes come at every outlet, every major aiport, every city



Almost like seeing The Gap, Banana Republic, Foot Locker, Anthropologie, all the chains

All the chains

That’s not what we loyal Brooks Brothers customers wanted or needed

We were still willing to believe that Brooks Brothers could take the place of all our old local favorites like good old Jack Krawcheck’s here in Charleston

The local men’s stores that sold great clothes

We still have Grady Ervin on King Street

Thanks be to God

I was known to stop at the Brooks Brothers on King Street, Charleston, Main Street, Greenville, South Park, Charlotte, 346 Madison, New York, 1270 6th Ave, New York, and even the outlets in North Charleston and Bluffton

And so many other places that were good fits

And so many that weren’t

Now, they all may be gone

Anyone want to buy a two hundred year old brand?

Guess when Alden pulled their shoes from Brooks Brothers stores we should have known something was afoot

(Sorry, not sorry)

I weep for Garland, North Carolina, where Brooks Brothers shuttered its shirt factory in May

Their largest employer

As an honorary Tar Heel, I feel for my second favorite state in the Union

The Haverhill, Massachusetts, workers came to work yesterday only to find themselves barred from entry at the old Southwick factory

Death of a textile Titan

Damn Rona

Damn Casual Friday

No more broadcloth

No more wool

No more poplin

No more seersucker

No more linen

No more cotton

No more gabardine

All gone as of the morning of July 8, 2020

I’m super bummed

Wonder if I’ll have to pay my charge account balance?

Wonder if I’ll still redeem my points?

Wonder if I should change out of this LuluLemon?



In the course of human events



Happy Birthday US of A

Re-posting this tale of 4th of July’s past

In the words of Samuel Francis Smith, late of Andover, Mass, “Long may our land be bright/With with freedom’s holy light/Protect us by Thy might/Great God our King” 


July in South Carolina is hot. Miserably hot. It’s our hottest month.  Everyone thinks it’s August.  Historically, it is July.  It’s just that by August, everyone is over the summer and the heat. There are only so many times one can sweat through seersucker.

July also does not seem as hot as August due to the fact July comes in with a bang on July 4th.  Since forever, South Carolina has always ranked high among percentages of military service, percentages of enlistment, percentages of retired military living here.  We are damned patriotic despite that little period in the 19th Century when we rejected the Union.

A recent study found us to be the fourth (10th) most patriotic state in the Union.  Don’t take my word for it. Here’s that study

Growing up in Beaufort, South Carolina, a child is surrounded by the military.

They also serve who stand and wait who become Marines through osmosis.

We live in the shadow of Parris Island, where Marines are made.  We hear the roar of jets from the Marine Corps Air Station. “The noise you hear is the sound of freedom.”  We have our own Naval Hospital.  If a child grows up in Beaufort, chances are he knows someone in the military, she is friends with their children, he knows military retirees, or she is herself a military brat.  My friends in and I fell into one or more of those categories.

One of my best friends lived next door to retired Marine Corps General Edwin Pollock.  My friend used to knock on the General’s door and ask his wife, Miss Essie, if the General could come out and play.  The General often would.

In addition to General Pollack, we grew up with General OF Peatross and General Bud Masters.  We grew up around countless Colonels, Majors, Captains, Lieutenants, Master Sergeants, Gunnies, Warrant Officers, Drill Sergeants.  These men helped win the Second World War.  To us, they were just nice older men who always spoke to us and our parents. We had no idea of their badassery until we grew older and read about their exploits on Guadalcanal, on Mankin Island, on Iwo Jima, at the Battle of the Bulge.  My across the street neighbor, Dr. Aimar, a Beaufort boy, had also served on Iwo Jima and was proud of his service, as well he should have been.

Our fathers’ generation had been in Vietnam.  My dad served there. My best friends’ fathers had served there.  Our pal Charles Chitty had been in Naval Intelligence during Vietnam and served as Admiral McCain’s aide while his wife, our beloved Penny, played bridge with Mrs. McCain all while their son was in the Hanoi Hilton.

It was the exception, not the rule, for us to not know someone whose dad had been in the service.

Some of my parents’ oldest friends to this day were Marine Corps friends.  Some of the people I miss the absolute most are some of those Marine Corps friends that are no longer with us.

That is not to say that jingoistic patriotic slogans dripped from our lips.  That is not to say we all agreed with the actions of whatever administration was in office. It is to say that Beaufort folks thanked veterans for their service way before beer commercials made it popular.

Often, the Parris Island band would play in local parades and in concerts around town.  When the band began “From the Halls of Montezuma to the shores of Tripoli….”  all assembled stood and began to sing with nary a dry eye.  Because, as General Louis H. Wilson stated in his famous toast

… the greatest of loves, the quintessence of loves

Even greater than that of a mother,

Is the tender, passionate, infinite love,

of one drunken Marine for another.

Semper Fidelis.

We Marine Corps children often looked forward to pieces of sheet cake purloined from the Marine Corps Ball in November.  We laughed at stories of how Ms. Hickman, a teacher at our school, and a Navy doctor’s wife went up to a man she thought was another friend’s father and pinched his bottom saying, “What you doing later Marine? Wanna get out of here?”  The man in dress blues turned and said, “I beg your pardon, Madame.”  Mrs. Hickman’s reply, “Well, General, what ARE you doing later?”  It was the Commandant of the Marine Corps in town for the Ball.

We heard about how hot the Lyceum was.  How there was no food.  How the flowers were tacky.  How the toasts went on forever.  How my mother and her friends were never going back.

What does this have to do with America’s birthday? It’s backdrop and setting.

We were birthed and reared in a deeply patriotic town.  We had great patriotism and great fun on a regular basis in those decades where the threat of nuclear war still loomed large, the Russians could be coming up the river any minute, the Israelis raided Entebbe on our country’s birthday, and where that weak ass sumbitch Carter couldn’t free our hostages.

We were beyond supportive of Independence Day.  Girls dressed as Betsy Ross. Boys donned tricorners. We festooned our bikes with red white and blue crepe paper.  We stock piled sparklers, Roman candles, cherry bombs, bottle rockets.  The Bicentennial cast a large shadow for years and years.

Our 4ths always dawned hot. Super hot.  (Firecracker hot?)

Our family’s 4ths had the same rhythm for a decade or so.

After a lazy breakfast, we crossed the street for our first party which began mid-morning.  The Aimars, this being the same Aimars of whom Dr. Aimar who had served as a Marine on Iwo Jima, hosted an annual mid-morning/mid-day party.  That party consisted of the Aimar and Sams families and their extended kinfolk, us included, with residents of our neighborhood, The Point, and members of the First Presbyterian Church, the Aimars’ church.  We always thought it was sort of a church picnic for the Presbyterians. The beer coolers were kept discreetly tucked away at that event.

At the Aimars, there was lots of swimming in their pool by us children. The only sunscreen applied was a little zinc oxide on already blistering noses.   There was plenty of cigarette smoke and Skin So Soft  to keep the mosquitoes away.

The Reverend Frank Sells of the same First Presbyterian Church blessed the food every year.   We were in and out of the Aimars every year as soon as we had eaten lunch.  Every year at the Aimars my mother warned us, “Boys, don’t eat Miz Webster’s potato salad. It’s been in the heat for two hours and she uses mayonnaise. You’ll get sick.”

Every year we had a better deal waiting for us.

At the Aimars, there weren’t a lot of young people our age.

That would all change at the better deal a quick five minute drive away.

As soon as we had eaten lunch, our parents would load us, dripping wet and often shirtless, our festooned bikes, a couple of Igloo coolers, and platters with whatever contribution my mother was making to the second feast of the day into our car to head over to another neighborhood, Spanish Point, for the party and picnic hosted by the Patricks, the Lawrences, and the Clarkes.

That was the main attraction. That was where all our friends were waiting. It was a free for all: a patriotic pow wow.

Ladies would put their dishes in the kitchen,.  Every year Rosemary Morton brought her dish under protest.  “I don’t know why I do this. Y’all know I think it’s tacky to take dishes to parties.”

General Masters would always dress up like Uncle Sam. I don’t see how he didn’t collapse in the heat.  Full costume with beard. He was James Montgomery Flagg’s poster come to life. “I want you,” he would point at us as we ran around the Patricks’ yard.

General Pollock would throw footballs with us and remind us that the Citadel was the greatest college on the face of the planet. “Boys, go to the Citadel. ”  He was a graduate of the class of 1918. Yet there he was throwing footballs with us in the late 70’s.

Our parents would take us around to speak to various older folks sitting in the shade of oak trees hoping for a good breeze to come up the river once the tide turned.

Making the rounds speaking to the older folks, every year we had to go and say hello to Mrs. Harvey.  Mrs. Harvey insisted on a kiss, too.  Mrs. Harvey’s hair had been dyed a color not occurring in nature.

Her husband was our state senator.  Her son would later be our state senator.  They were and are lovely people, but I still don’t see why we always had to go kiss Mrs. Harvey as she held court sitting in her green and white nylon strapped aluminum picnic chair.

The men who hosted would have a huge set of grills set up with chicken quarters cooking over coals.  They would cook the chicken low and slow and add a secret barbecue sauce just before serving.

One year, William Devaux came up to the men and spat on a piece of chicken. Hocked a loogie.  He said, “Well, guess that one’s mine, fellas.”  Little did he know that all the assembled cooks also spat on the same piece of chicken.   Turns out the cooks told every man at the party about Mr. Deveaux’s obnoxious act.  Every man there and some of the older boys hocked loogie after loogie on Mr. Devaux’s chicken quarter. He was overheard extolling the yard bird, “Best chicken, ever.  Man, I mean ever. Best that John, Alec, and Thomas have ever cooked.”

On a back portion of the Patricks’ sprawling property, there was a race course set up every year for the annual games portion of the picnic. There were croaker (pronounced croke-ah) sack races, egg tosses, spoon races, water balloon tosses, three legged races.  My parents, my brothers, and I never won.

I complained one year at our breakfast table. “Why do the Bennetts always win?”  My dad’s reply, “Because they’re goddamned cheaters.”  My mother, “Language, please.”  My father was right. They were goddamned cheaters.

Another year, Mary Lee, Anne, and Bonnie were locked in a bathroom by our pal Gracie.  Gracie stood guard outside the bathroom, letting no one in or out.  My father went to use the bathroom and said, “Gracie, what you doing?”  Her reply, “Nothing, George O’Kelley. Nothing.”  Gracie has always called my father by his first and last names.  Hearing the conversation, tremulous voices called out from the bathroom, “Mr. George, is that you? Help! Gracie won’t let us out.” “Let them out, Gracie, dahlin.  Let them out.”  Out came the girls hugging my father as their rescuer.  Anne still credits him for saving them that day.

Gracie was also hell on the see saw.  There were four see saws up by the back deck.  God help the child who see sawed with Gracie.  Charlie Brown still lets Lucy hold the ball expecting a different outcome.  We see sawed with Gracie expecting a different outcome.  It never happened.

While her victim was at the apex of the see saw, Gracie would get a glint in her eye, which meant her victim knew she was about to hop off the see saw sending her partner earthward at 9.8 meters per second squared.

The victim’s refrain, “No Gracie. No Gracie. No Gracie. No Gracie” repeated as fast as young voices could say it is still well known by a certain population from Beaufort.  The begging never helped.  Gracie, at the bottom of the see saw would roll off onto the ground and laugh a deep belly laugh as her victim crashed to the ground spanking his or her bottom on the hard wood and soil compacted by years of see saw use.  At least ten children every July 4th would be seen running through the assembled throng holding onto their bottoms looking for their mamas and saying “Gracie did it, again.”  Often the reply from the mamas, “Well, you know she’s going to do it. Don’t see saw with her.”

“No Gracie. No Gracie. No Gracie. No Gracie.”

Every year, the local fire department sent a bunting clad fire truck for younger children to ride on during the 4th of July parade around Spanish Point.  Parents rode with them, drinks in hand.  Older children rode bikes under their own steam.  Often children with training wheels on their bikes brought up the rear of the parade. Dads followed and pushed these younger bikers while holding Budweisers in old Styrofoam koozies in one hand, the back of the bikes in the other sweat dripping down their noses as their children screamed out, “Isn’t this great?”

I can’t remember to whom we waved on those parades as the entire Spanish Point neighborhood was at the party.

Saw horses and plywood serving tables would be set up in the yard under the same oak trees where the older folks hid from the sun.  No potato salad from Miz Webster at this party.  After a day of grilling chicken, everyone would eat around 4 or 5 o’clock.  Chicken, tons of sliced tomatoes, marinated cucumbers and onions, three bean salads, grilled corn on the cob, deviled eggs and slaw kept in coolers until right before serving, tons of baked beans, watermelon, cantaloupe, berries, tons of freezer pops, cakes, pies, popsicles.

By 6 or 7 o’clock most of the children were beyond wiped out. Delirious. Absolutely gobsmacked tired.  Tears.  Crankiness.  Fighting friends and siblings. Screaming at their parents, “I DON’T WANT TO GO HOME!”  Feet in Saltwater sandals stomping the ground.  Little ones passed out in strollers.

Most of our parents were wiped out by then, too, aided by the beer and liquor and whatever else was in their Igloo coolers.

Our parents would gather their monkey pod serving bowls, their Tupperware containers, their deviled egg platters, their children and their bikes and throw them all into the back of the cars for the rides home.  One year my youngest brother fell asleep on the ride home during that five minute journey.

We would all go home and be thrown into tubs and showers only to fall asleep as soon as our sunburned heads hit our pillows. Our parents would sit in air conditioned dens  with glazed looks in their eyes asking each other if the other wanted another drink.

My parents tell me that those 4ths of July were the most exhausting days of their being parents.  They say that it was all too much work and too hot.  I think they are exaggerating.

The main event party fizzled out after the Patrick family sold their property in Spanish Point. I never had as much fun on the 4th of July ever again.  Ever. Well, at least not until I had children and could experience the holiday with them and through them.

Other friends took up the mantle of hosting 4th of July parties and moved the picnics to their houses with docks or pools.

Other friends went to the beach.

Other friends went to the mountains.

The image of those days that comes to mind is from a picture my father took of the pack of assembled children right before we ate one year.  It think it’s 1978 or 1979.   On the back of the picture is written in my mother’s handwriting “4th, Patricks Party”.  That’s all it says.  That’s all it needs to say.

There are a myriad of sweating pig tailed girls and grimy red faced boys, almost all barefooted, wearing our camping shorts, our matching Lacoste sets, t-shirts and cut off jeans, halter tops, Little House inspired tops with calico, sun bonnets, baseball hats, straw hats, bucket hats with little ones in their smocked John John suits and breezy sun dresses.

We are all assembled by the back deck to listen to the older folks sing The Star Spangled Banner and to listen to William Clarke give one of his famously rambling patriotic prayers before we ate.

We are all staring in the same direction at the deck.

Sweat pouring down some faces.  White blonde hair plastered to foreheads.  Long dark braids flowing from under a red bandana.

Some of us have our arms around each other.  Others have their arms crossed.  Others have their arms akimbo. A few have their right hands over their hearts. Most do not. A couple of boys are attempting a salute.

One of the older teenagers with a cigarette hanging from his lips makes no attempt to sing or bow his head in prayer. He has his arm on a girl’s shoulder.

Some of those children ended up marrying each other.

Some have died.

Some have long since moved away from the Lowcountry.

Some have never left Beaufort. Now, they range in age from their late 30’s to early 50’s.

In the course of human events, indeed.

Although I miss almost everything about those Independence Days, I don’t miss having to kiss Mrs. Harvey.

The R Word

Flattening the Curve, Hamlin O’Kelley, Ink on Paper, March 20, 2020



I hate that word


“The capacity to recover quickly from difficulties; toughness”

From the Latin meaning to leap back, recoil, rebound, jump, leap



Not a comfort during this pandemic

No, we parents aren’t resilient

No, our students aren’t resilient

We are coping

We are dealing

We are putting up with all the stuff

All the fake graduations

All the drive by birthdays, parades, moments

All the videos for birthdays instead of hugs and kisses

All the cancellations

All the postponements

All the disappointments

All the “you got this” crap

And, it’s total crap

In physics, resilience means the capacity of a body to recover its size and shape after compressive stresses

I have not sprung back

It’s gonna be a minute

It’s gonna be years, really

Grief is tough

How about, “I’m sorry”?

How about, “Well, this stinks”?

I would rather have the full grief acknowledged instead of the patronizing back handed compliment of

….. these young people are SO resilient

….. this class is SO resilient

…… these children are SO resilient

…… they’ll make up for it later

…… they have such brighter days ahead

Those are lies

By being told they are resilient, their voices are silenced

They are not allowed to process their emotions if they are resilient because they have already bounced back….see…aren’t we amazing people?

When people die, I write their loved one notes


It’s all I know to do

In those notes, I often quote the shortest verse of the Bible

“Jesus wept.”  John 11:35

Full humanity

Full loss

Weeping for the full pain of his friends Mary and Martha at the loss of their brother and his friend Lazarus

My Lord and Savior did not say

“Better days ahead”

“This too shall pass”

“We’re all in this together”

“Stay safe”

“You got this”

No, Jesus wept

He wept because they wept

He wept for their lack of faith, too

He wept for his own suffering, too

He didn’t tell Mary and Martha that they were resilient and would get over Lazarus dying

No, he wept with them and for them and knowing what faces us all….suffering, grief, pain

The Swedes get it with their proverb, “Shared joy is double joy. Shared sorrow is half sorrow”

Don’t tell me I’m resilient

Don’t tell our children they’re resilient

We’re all in mourning

Let us mourn

If I never hear the word resilient again, it will be o.k.





Blues for Reunion

Five years ago, I composed The Andover Blues in honor of our wonderful 25th Reunion

This year, I am offering up Blues for Reunion since the Class of 1990 will not be together for a marvelous weekend in a certain small town in Massachusetts 

I can’t think of a time where we need my alma mater’s motto more

Non sibi 

Not for self

Paul Revere, that midnight rider and silversmith, carved Non Sibi into a shining sun over a beehive representing hard work and industry on the school’s seal

I would show y’all the seal, but the Office of Communications has not given me permission. I don’t want to be a bad alumnus

I wrote these words not for myself, but for my beloved classmates

Since 1778 the place has been educating youth from every quarter, of which I am honored and privileged to be called one



Armillary Sphere. Paul Manship. 1928. Gift of Thomas Cochran. Commonly called The Egg Beater. On the Great Lawn. Phillips Academy. Andover, Massachusetts


Blues for Reunion

(To mark our postponed 30th) 


We won’t be together on Andover Hill

Sister Rona forcing a very hard pill

To swallow and bear without each other

No hugging and kissing, Dear Sister, Dear Brother

For that’s what we are, a family in spirit

Go Blue! Beat Red! (Can’t we all hear it?)

No major gift to rival our last

Eight million dollars, which we all amassed

No midnight treks across the Great Lawn

Showing up young alums until the bright dawn

No Harrison’s run for a lahge mayo sos

No march to the Chapel to meet the new boss

No 80s Cover Band where we could boogie

No worm from Jared Jackson, The Doogie

No jamming and laughing in West Quad North

To be our HQ where’d we go back and forth

All over our beloved physical plant

Now because of Rona we can’t

Be with each other, those whom we love

Even those with whom we don’t fit like a glove

Bungs, heinous beavers, nerds, and cool kids

Even missing those who aren’t on the grids

Of coming to campus to fill hallowed spaces

We have the best class full of such graces

Ninety-one gird your loins; our class will bring it

Shit will be epic; totally lit

But on the 12th, I’ll miss y’all more than you know

You darling people……I love you so


Hamlin O’Kelley, PA ’90

Nature’s First Green



In the Seventh Grade, we were made to memorize a poem in our English class taught by Tom Horton.

We could pick one of three works by Robert Frost. “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”, “The Road Not Taken”, or “Nothing Gold Can Stay.”

Most chose “Nothing Gold Can Stay” due to its brevity blithely ignorant of its themes of mortality and the early twentieth century update of that ancient of admonitions

Carpe diem

All thirty of us in Mr. Horton’s class stood in front of our classmates and recited from memory over the course of two days

I actually chose “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” as its meter and rhyme were the easiest to commit to memory

Having heard it so many times over two classes, though, “Nothing Gold Can Stay” remains with me some thirty five years later.

It has really remained with me these last two months of quarantine and Rona, bad news on all fronts

From March through May, my beloved Lowcountry has flowered in profusion due to a surfeit of rain followed by weeks of sun

The last of the pink perfection camellias were insanely gorgeous

True perfection

Mathematical in form



Our only native hydrangea, the oak leaf, has blossomed like never before

It has grown tall enough to reach our kitchen windows

It has gone from early green buds to white flowers which will then go pink which will eventually fade to brown during the summer heat




We have been blessed with the most abundant Confederate jasmine blooms in recent memory

It’s my favorite scent of all time





#iykyk as the kids say these days




The wisteria’s mild clean odor wafts through the woodlands and through thickets and borders near our house

We had one growing up in Beaufort

One of my great grandmothers was a serious gardener

She spotted the wisteria in our yard, looked at my father, and remarked, “George, you have a wisteria…mmmm…that’s a mistake”

I never thought it was

That smell reminds me of playing in our yard

Proust had his madeleines

I have my wisteria and Confederate jasmine

From all that woozy goodness, the magnolias have opened to amazing early blooms perfuming all the air around them while continuing to be the messiest trees God ever created



The antiseptic astringency of the ligustrum mixes in nicely

The sultry intoxication of gardenias, named for a South Carolinian, layer on top of all of that

It’s too much sitting outside or walking around Charleston or strolling through Hampton Park where all of these scents mingle

Our foxgloves bloomed early

In our hot summers, they count as early spring annuals as they literally melt in the hot suns of June, July, and August

Sometimes they are biennials if they get a little shade

Mine generally melt



The one hundred White Christmas caladium bulbs I planted are busting through the soil

The Kentucky Colonel mint and chocolate mint are spreading

In spite of all the gloom and bad news, we have never had a more glorious spring


The hydrangeas are budding in profusion, too

The aluminum sulfate that I spread a couple weeks ago is working its acidifying magic on the blooms creating deep blues and purples

The Southern shield ferns have never been bigger unfurling their fiddle heads to fronds all from volunteer spores spread by the wind




The annual pentas  in pinks, whites, lavenders fill beds and pots with Persian shield and gomphrena along with the purple fuzzy Wandering Jew rooted from my in-laws

As I stand in our garden watering, I am overwhelmed by it all

It’s too much

I know it cannot remain

It is destined to succumb eventually

Nothing gold can stay

And, so I give you Mr. Frost’s ode to spring, youth, beauty, Original Sin, death, and life, which I memorized some thirty five years ago and recite to myself every spring with all credit given to that flinty New England sage



Nothing Gold Can Stay

Robert Frost


Nature’s first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf’s a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

Suffice It

“Some say in ice”  Robert Frost 

“Do we have enough ice?”

That is the question I have been asking over the past two months

Is our ice maker producing enough?

Do we need to make more?

I can bag some

Will we have enough for tonight?

Did you move some out of the way so it makes more?

Will there be enough for the cocktails?

Will there be enough for the Hydroflask refill?

Fixated on it

Like bird-dogging it

One thing I can sort of control

During these grief stricken days

During the paralyzing paroxysms

“Do we have enough ice?”

So stupid, too

While my fellow countrymen are in lines at food banks

While my fellow countrymen are applying for and failing to collect unemployment

While my fellow countrymen espouse conspiracy theories out of desperation to make sense of out of the desperate

While my fellow countrymen cling to memories of a world that made some sense three months ago

While my fellow countrymen rebel against authority and control

While my fellow countrymen do their parts to aid each other

While my fellow countrymen are stuck in quarantines

While my fellow countrymen’s hair wants cutting

While my fellow countrymen wonder from whence cometh their next meal

I stupidly ask that question

“Do we have enough ice? ”

While our collective house is on fire

Fire and Ice

As Mr. Frost once wrote

“….that for destruction ice/Is also great/And would suffice”

Do we have enough ice?

The three ladies with whom I live roll their eyes at me

“Stop, Dad”

“Yes, we do”

“What’s with you and the ice?”

It’s all I can ask

When I hear the familiar hiss of water into the molds in the ice maker, I smile

When I hear the crashing clank of ice landing on ice, I smile

The louder the noise, the less ice we have

I don’t care if it’s clear

I don’t care if it’s cloudy

Do we have enough ice?


We do

Hope you do, too




Now We Are Not Very Young


Our hero pleads his case to the King, Queen, and Prince


Inside my copy of When We Were Very Young by A.A. Milne there is an inscription, “Happy 3rd Birthday, Hamlin! Love, The Barnes”  Obviously, I was given this book by the Barnes when I turned three. 

When I was very young, my parents would read me the poems out of that vaunted collection

Of course, Mr. Milne is best known for Pooh, Piglet, Christopher Robin and all their pals in the Hundred Acre Wood.

I started with When We Were Very Young, moved on to Now We Are Six, then graduated to The World of Pooh

In spite of my zeal for the next volumes, I never really got past my all time favorite of Milne’s work 

A poem of great rebellion


In which our hero, James James Morrison Morrison Weatherby George DuPree takes great care of his mother, though he is only three.

James James said to his mother, “Mother,” he said, said he, “you must never go down to the end of the town if you don’t go down with me”

There are stanzas

There are admonishments

There are decorations by Ernest H. Shepherd of a Jazz Age London mother striding down the street clad in her tea suit, muff in hand, hat on her head, car waiting to whisk her off to take tea with her smart set somewhere near the end of the town with James James Morrison Morrison, commonly known as Jim, wildly pedaling his tricycle behind her

No gits, wankers, prats, or children allowed

In one image JJ MM  Dubya G DuP leashes his mother to his tricycle as he leads her back home with her fur rakishly tossed over her shoulder 

His head held high

And, yet, there is a child desperate not to be left alone taking full charge of his situation

And, yet, there is a mother flippant and defiant in a post-war London ready to enjoy herself

And, yet, there is no father

And, yet, there is no starched and stiff upper lipped nanny, the most common of British tropes at the time

As my parents would read “Disobedience” to me, we would sing the poem in full meter

It was only much after we were six that I discovered the Chad Mitchell Trio had converted the poem to early 1960’s folk music a la the Kingston Trio’s tale of woe about a man stuck on Boston’s T due to the want of some change

To this day, I view that brilliant piece of writing as the beginning of my own undercurrent of disobedience 

If JJ MM Dubya G DuP could take on his mama as she sauntered into society, then I could take on my parents

If he could bark orders, then so could I

If he could enlist the help of the King and Queen and Prince to locate a renegade refusing to obey, then I could be secure in the knowledge of my own resourcefulness

I attribute my independent streak to this very day to having read “Disobedience” from the time I was three

But, who was being disobedient? JJ MM Dubya G DuP or Mrs. DuP? 

Now that we are not six, or very young, that streak of independence remains

All the while due to a three year old quaking in fear…after a war…with no father…with a prodigal mother…left alone…wondering if he would be safe

And, yet, he flips it

And, yet, he assumes full control

And, yet, he is the chief actor in Milne’s poem

He acts

He shan’t be acted upon by the grown ups…even those who run the Kingdom and the Empire

A three year old giving permission to all three year old’s to know that he and we would one day be in charge

He and we would be giving orders

He and we would buck the system

He and we would not tolerate disobedience, but he and we would be disobedient

He even stakes a forty shilling reward

JJ MM Dubya G DuP basically gives his three year old middle finger to the Establishment

A punk rocker some fifty years early

Never mind the bollocks, here’s James James Morrison Morrison Weatherby George DuPree 






When Life Gives You Lemons…and Limes


…but the fruit of the poor lemon is impossible to eat


In October of last year, The New York Times published an article entitled “The Secret to Poundcake That Really Pops” by Sam Sifton.

What was this amazing poundcake?

7Up Cake

That staple of church cookbooks, Junior League cookbooks, symphony league cookbooks – which is where Sam Sifton claims to have gotten his inspiration

Since everyone is sitting on lbs and lbs of flour these days, this is an easy one to make

The ingredients are usually available at any store

Provided they have flour

This is self comfort and self care at its finest

All that Vitamin C boost to our immunity

(Not an-FDA-approved- statement)

I made the version below during this time of quarantine because it’s an amazing dessert, easier than pie to make, and toasts up beautifully with butter for breakfast the next day

Dad, what’s for dessert?

Well, this cake, dear ones

We use Sprite instead of 7UP because we’re Co-cola people

Either works


All rights reserved by the Coca-Cola Company



Lemon Lime Pound Cake:

1 -2 tbsp. butter to grease the bundt pan – at room temperature

1 tbsp. flour to sprinkle in the bundt pan

1 1/2 cups (3 sticks) butter – at room temperature

3 cups of sugar – yes – it’s a lot – but it works

5 eggs

Zest of a lime

Zest of a lemon

Juice of a lime

Juice of a lemon

2 tsp. vanilla extract

3 cups all purpose flour

1 cup Sprite or 7-Up  (we use Sprite)



2 c. powdered sugar

2 tbsp. Sprite or 7 up

Juice of a lime


Grease and double grease and grease some more a bundt pan with that tbsp or so of butter.  Sprinkle with the tbsp. of flour and set aside

Heat oven to 325 degrees

In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with paddle attachment, beat butter and sugar until light and fluffy (about 5 mins or so) (or a large bowl using a hand held mixer)

Add eggs one at a time and beat well

Add zests, juices and vanilla and beat until incorporated

Alternating, add flour and Sprite or 7-UP. I add half a cup of flour at a time and a tsp or so of Sprite. I don’t measure.  I finish with the Sprite, though.

You’ll have to scrape down the sides of the mixing bowl a few times to make sure everything is fully incorporated

Pour into bundt pan and bake for 60-70 minutes.

Share the remnants of the batter in the mixing bowl and on the paddle with your significant other, your children, or, better yet, devour it yourself standing over the kitchen sink before you clean up the baking mess you’ve made

The cake is finished when toothpick or knife comes out clean and top is beginning to darken. Let rest in pan for 20 mins. Then invert onto a rack

Let cool completely before glazing

To glaze, mix powdered sugar with juice and Sprite. Drizzle all over the cake with a spoon. I do it in the sink with the cake on a rack.  The glaze will harden and lots of the glaze will run off into the drain….that’s o.k.

People love this cake

They’ve even been known to use that most hated of “m” words to describe it

We’ve all been through enough, so I won’t use that word here


All that’s left on the cake stand the next day



“There is a cult of ignorance in the United States, and there always has been. The strain of anti-intellectualism has been a constant thread, winding its way through our political and cultural life, nurtured by the false notion that democracy means that my ignorance is just as good as your knowledge.” Isaac Asimov

Dear Lord

We’re all epidemiologists, infectious disease experts, economists, educators, psychiatrists, statisticians these days

But, we’re not

What happened America?

We used to listen to folks with knowledge, experience, education

We used to listen to experts

Now, we listen to Karen who heard from her friend that her cousin had chloroquine and got better

Now, we listen to Doug who did an informal survey on Facebook and has decided there aren’t many cases in his town

Now, we listen to that doctor in India who says herd immunity is already in place

When the suicides start due to the economic devastation of Covid 19, we will say that the experts got it all wrong

When the spousal abuse reaches new levels due to isolation, we will say the experts got it all wrong

When the children lose months of learning and lag woefully behind, we will say the experts got it all wrong

When the summer plans evaporate, we will say the experts got it all wrong

I have no idea when we all became so wary of the smart, the educated, the gifted and talented

Growing up in a family of teachers – mother, grandmother, great-aunts – we always valued education and the educated

During the height of the Great Depression, one of my great grandmothers stood up to her husband and said she would move heaven and earth to have all of her children receive a full education just as she had received in Virginia

People around the world sacrifice everything for education

Here, we disdain the egg-headed, ivory towered, tenured, cloistered

I cannot fathom the cult of ignorance that pervades so much of our discussions these days

The cult of brilliance of the average person


Not facts

I have no expertise in epidemiology, infectious diseases, economics, education, psychiatry, statistics

Being anti-intellectual does not make you a champion of the common man

In fact, it jeopardizes the common man, of whom we all are

Even the experts

Do any of us want to operated upon by someone who did not go to medical school?

The answer is no


During these curious, stressful, grief filled days, it would be appreciated if the non-experts could keep their non-expertise to themselves

No one cares, literally, no one, about your anecdotes

Because, that’s all they are


Not expertise




The Three Dots


“I’ve never been held hostage, but I have been in a group text.” Anon.

That meme-worthy phrase has been around a while

During these viral ridden days when the news cycle gives us newer and fresher hells, I have never been more grateful for the groups of texters with whom I communicate regularly

I call one the Family texts

I call another the Charleston guys

I call another my New Yorkers

I call another Four Guys and a Girl

I call another Travel Buds

I eagerly watch those three pulsating dots when someone types

Then, there are the Facebook groups and Instagram groups

These people are all a life line to me, and, I hope, I to them

A lifeline of like minded souls

A lifeline of friends who are family

A lifeline of humor

So much humor

So much humor


Recounting tales of misbegotten youth

Sharing completely inappropriate items

Shocking each other


But mainly agreeing

Sending articles

Sending memes

Obsessing over the Tiger King

Bringing back phrases long forgotten

Discussing people who died over twenty years ago

Roasting one another

It’s all love writ large on iPhone keyboards

It’s also challenges to name foods named for places

It’s pictures of children

It’s complaints

It’s rants

“I’m minutes away from becoming that lady who yells at strangers!”

“Helluva an anniversary”

“Clear eyes, full heart, can’t lose”

“Where the hell is everyone?”

“Yes! that was fantastic! Next time should we do it Finnish-style?”

“I wasn’t wearing any pants, anyway!”

“The lady at the Sonesta just said, ‘But did they cancel their graduation, too?’ I said, ‘Yes, ma’am’  Her reply ‘Well…shit…oh…sorry’ I told her I understood”

Sometimes I read them and spit out the beverage I am drinking

Sometimes I read them and cry

I just know that out there across the globe there I people whom I love and who love me

In Charleston

In Beaufort

In New York

In Denver

In Malibu

In Charlotte

In Boulder

In Hartsville

In Vermont

In New Hampshire

In Shanghai

In London

Here’s to keeping all the group texts going

Here’s to keeping in touch