I learned that the gods ate nectar and ambrosia on Olympus from my bedraggled and dog eared and messy copy of D’Aulaires Book of Greek Myths (1962)
We don’t eat nectar at Christmas, but we do eat ambrosia.
Probably not the Hellenic kind.
I’ve already made it today for tomorrow’s feast.
Our version is, once again, from our family’s best cook, Aunt Marion in Savannah, whose version was from her mama and her mama’s cook, Martha Shannon. I have added Cara Cara oranges to the original version. I’m sure Martha didn’t have access to that novel variety of pink oranges as she cooked in my great-grandparents’ kitchen
We serve ambrosia with Christmas breakfast
Ambrosia is fully Southern. There are all manner of versions of it. Some with nuts. Some with bing cherries. Some with mayonnaise. Some with coconut. Some with marshmallows.
Sectioning citrus takes a while. Like a while. It’s messy, too. Doing this for your family is an act of love.
Usually, I have orange and grapefruit juice seeping into the cuts of what I call Christmas hands, being raw from dousing in and out of hot water cooking and cleaning and polishing to welcome the Sweet Baby Jesus.
Usually, I section to that young boy soprano’s “Once in Royal David’s City, stood a lowly cattle shed, where a mother laid her baby in a manger for his bed….” filling King’s College, Cambridge, brought to you by Minnesota Public Radio
Orange you glad to know all this
I’m nothing if not traditional
Martha Shannon’s Ambrosia
1 bag navel oranges
1 bag Cara Cara oranges
3 large red grape fruit
20 oz can crushed pineapple in juice, drained
1 bag angel flake sweetened shredded coconut
Sugar
Take four oranges and one grape fruit and section them making sure no white parts are on the sections. I use a steak knife. I cut off ends of the fruit, then peel around the skin then go in and out of the sections between the pithy membranes to get the sections.
Place into whatever bowl you’re going to serve.
Sprinkle with a teaspoon or so of sugar. Take a third of the crushed pineapple and dab over the sections. Repeat until all of the citrus is used. Over the last layer, sprinkle coconut until the surface of the citrus and pineapple are covered. My bowl takes about half a bag of the flakes. Place in the refrigerator overnight. The sugar and pineapple work on the citrus and make a beautiful syrup.
Goes great with sausage, bacon, country ham, rib roast, tenderloin, pork roast
I hope you all have a very Merry Christmas and that there’s some ambrosia on your table tomorrow.
They need recs for Christmas gifts for their menfolk
Apparently we are hard to buy for
Or we just buy things for ourselves
Or we’re just happy to wear the same ratty clothes and things that are falling apart
So, here goes.
No paid partnerships with anyone, but I’m willing to accept all offers
Especially those to wrap presents for me
Well, I kind of did an ok job
Here are the shops I recommend. You can’t go wrong with any of them
Grady Ervin & Co., Charleston
The gents at Grady Ervin on King Street know what’s up. Ask any of the folks who work there to recommend something. They will know what to do.
Tabor, Charlotte
These folks are my go to for all things sartorial. When I darken the door there, I feel like I’m an episode of Cheers. Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name. And, they know mine and see me coming.
Foundwell, NYC
A highly personal collection of watches, baubles, calling card cases, all manner of silver coolness
Wentworth, Charleston
A newer entry to the shopping scene. A really great store with tons of Christmas ornaments, Cuckoo Clocks, German Erzgebirge pyramids, smokers, silver, glassware, and those Bristol glass match strikes, which is what I want Santa to bring me
J. Mueser, NYC
Men’s clothing store where things are designed to measure, bespoke, semi-bespoke, and off the rack. Make an appointment for your dudes. Or give them a gift certificate. Or order off the rack.
Billy Kirk, Jersey City
The Brothers Bray make great handcrafted leather from right here in the US of A. Satchels. Wallets. Card holders. Luggage. Belts. And they stand by everything they make
Sid Mashburn, Atlanta
Sid and crew know their jackets, suits, pants, shirts, shorts, 5-pockets, shoes. Big fan of their shoes. Sid also sells things at Grady Ervin if you don’t want to travel to the 404.
And, in no particular order, every guy needs the following:
A good oyster knife
A good Dutch oven for cooking
A good Chef’s knife
A good pairing knife
A good set of steak knives
A good silver iced beverage spoon for the bar
A good shot glass
A good cutting board
A good set of double old fashioned glasses
A good set of martini glasses
A good set of wine glasses
A good bathrobe – really – light madras or cotton for the summer, flannel or terry cloth for the winter
A good set of handkerchiefs – monogrammed or not
A good set of cotton or linen boxer shorts from Sunspel, Brooks Bros., Linoto. Linen boxer shorts are game changers
A good set of crew neck t-shirts. By Hanes or Fruit of the Loom. Nothing fancy here
A good set of skincare beyond that Dial soap sitting on his sink. Jack Black products, for example
A good belt or two
A good satchel or briefcase
A good overnight bag
A good cotton sweater
A good wool crew neck sweater
A good wool roll neck or turtleneck sweater. They’re back. 100% back.
A good coffee table book or two about his interests. One of the nicest presents ever received was such a present given me after an off hand comment to my bride.
A good book about the Mongol Empire by Jack Weatherford
A good set of tongs for the grill, the kitchen
A good apron
A good cast iron skillet. I have two that were passed down in the family and one that was a gift a few years ago. I wash mine with soap and water and the world still spins to the clutched pearled horror of those who claim to be cast iron experts
A good pepper mill as the store bought already milled pepper goes bad. Peppercorns last a long time
A good comically expensive tie from Hermes or Ferragamo. I don’t know why giving ties fell out of favor. But, they are still a great gift
A good bottle of bourbon
A good bottle of vodka
A good bottle of gin
A good bottle of Scotch
A good bottle of tequila
A good bottle of white
A good bottle of red
A good bottle of rose’
A good bottle of bubbly
A good rain coat
A good top coat
A good puffy coat
A good chore coat
A good barn jacket
A good silver belt buckle
A good alligator belt
A good cordless leaf blower
A good set of clippers
A good set of slippers…yes…slippers…velvet for formal functions, leather ones like Grandpapa had, Glerups that are my all time favorites during the winter
A good pair of long matches to light a fire
A good pair of boots or work shoes
A good pair of Birkenstocks – really – the Boston clogs are my favorites this time of year. I go full on boarding school Deadhead the rest of the the year with the Arizonas
A good bathing suit. Not the baggy long board shorts that come down below the knee. But an old fashioned bathing suit: Birdwell, Sundek, Orlebar Brown, Vilebrequin
A good set of stationery. Arzberger’s in Charlotte, NC, is the best in the bidness
A good smell good. Santa Maria Novella’s Russa or Tobacco Toscano. Acqua di Parma’s Arancia di Capri.
A good soap…again…not the Dial on his sink…but something he wouldn’t by for himself
A good toothbrush. I recommend the Trask ones by my dentist pal Marjorie Trask Gray from Beaufort
A good piece of art
A good night’s sleep…really. So, good sheets, good pillows, or maybe taking the kids somewhere for the night so he has the night alone. Fondness makes the heart grow fonder and all like that
A good photo book of the last year’s pictures. Because, he’s just as sentimental as the rest of the family but won’t admit it
Prior to the rush of the Holidays and the heat of late summer
But, I love NYC. Like heart it. I love everything about it.
Even the addict shooting up before God and everyone in the Spring Street subway station
Tales of New York’s death are greatly exaggerated, to paraphrase Mr. Twain
And, we still take the subway. Fastest. Cheapest. Easiest way to get around town.
From meeting some pals at 81st and Madison to meeting other pals in SoHo, we took trains uptown and downtown
We took the 6th back uptown this past Sunday for a surgical strike at The Met. I join museums. The Met. The MoMA. Used to be a member of The Frick. I join because you can skip lines, don’t have to buy tickets, and part of the fee is deductible.
Having limited time this trip to the Big Apple with a tight schedule, we decided that Sunday before we hopped back on over to LaGuardia would be the best time to go see the highly touted exhibit “Siena: The Rise of Painting 1300-1350”
I know why it’s so touted
Duccio, di Pietro, Martini, the Brothers Lorenzetti.
Anyone who ever took a Renaissance art class would recognize these forms and works and transitional religious paintings and sculptures and art about to take off from the end of the Middle Ages bridging the gap to the Renaissance coming out of plague
Bridging Gothic/Gothick and Byzantine
The plague would claim the lives of each of the artists, not to mention a third of the European population
And, so, back on the 6th we hopped to 86th Street and then marched west to The Met to the members entrance on the ground floor. No waiting. Breezed through. Flashed card.
To quote Amex, “Membership has its privileges”
Up the stairs to the vaulted Great Hall.
Stopping at the information desk looking out onto 82nd Street
“Ma’am, where’s the Siena exhibit?”
“Were you here for the Harlem Renaissance Exhibit? Same gallery”
“Oh, up the stairs and to the left”
“That’s it. You’re going to love it”
So up the stairs made famous by Ocean’s 8. No Nancy Sinatra playing in the background this time
To the left and down the hall then back to the right
Into a darkened room with the exhibit details on the wall
Transitions from Byzantine to the buds later to fully flower in the Renaissance
Super low light to highlight the gold, the lapis, the enamel, the polychromatic wonder of the works
Super low light highlighting the woodwork, worm holed and exposed to dry rot down the centuries, parts missing
Super low light reflecting the dust in the folds of the Virgin’s skirts rendered from the tusk of an elephant
Super low light transforming the wound in Christ’s pierced side into a glowing red river of blood landing at His feet with a small skull beneath The Cross referencing Golgatha, the Place of the Skull
Explanations of Siena’s importance being on the road between the French and the Romans
Writings below each artwork with materials, techniques, stories
Our opening devotional piece being this one of The Virgin and Jesus. Would have been right to home at a late Roman church on The Bosporus or in Ravenna. The Byzantine icon influence can’t be missed. Nor can the frame’s damage through the years.
Yet, His small hand reaching up to touch his mother’s face. Wiping future tears. That touch. That little soft touch. Making way for later artwork over the next centuries
Walking up to this Nativity, Christmas carols began to play in my head
Ox and ass before him bow, and He is in the manger now
All the angels
Gloooooooooria! In excelsis Deo!
And, poor Joseph looking old beyond his years
And, then, who doesn’t recognize this scene.
His earthly father pointing at his Mother. “She was worried sick. Where have you been?”
Jesus in the posture of all petulant pre-pubescents pre-teens. He was twelve.
Crossing his arms, “Why are you mad at me? I was just talking to those priests”
Mary’s hand gesture says it all
Anyone who has had a child or has been a child gets this
“Leave me alone. I’m fine!”
Fully God
Fully Man
Fully devotional
Simone Martini surely understood his assignment to capture the family dynamic.
And the altar pieces….oh the altar pieces
This is St. John the Baptist from a large altar piece.
His camel haired tunic showing under his royal purple robe
Prepare the way of the Lord
He is cutting his eye at the one who came after, the strap of whose sandal he was not worthy to untie. (John 1:27)
We were in town for an event for which St. John the Baptist is the patron saint, even it being closest to the Feast of St. Luke
We had been at a lengthy service at St. Thomas church the day before and Choral Evensong on Friday night
But we did go to worship on Sunday. Church in the City. At The Met.
The piece that moved us the most, and almost everyone who came through, was di Pietro’s Fragment of a Figure of Christ, formerly part of a large crucifix in a church outside of Siena. For centuries, no one knew who sculpted Christ on the crucifix. Towards the end of World War II, we and our Allies bombed the church.
The Crucifix splintered.
Discovered behind the sculpted knee cap, blown to bits, were two fragments of parchment. One identifying di Pietro as the sculptor. The other asking God for mercy on the artist’s soul.
You can just make out one of the scraps there below the head.
A Man of Sorrows, indeed.
If you can get to The Met between now and January 26, 2025, you can skip the rooms of Impressionist glory on the same floor. Head straight to Gallery 999.
Knowing that none of the artists survived the Black Death and that one of them had begged for his own soul and placed that prayer in his art…..come on….who’s chopping onions in here?
All told, we were in and out of The Met in less than an hour
If you are anywhere near The Met, I encourage you to have a moment of prayer and reflection before these works.
And may we all beseech God to have mercy on our souls.
Last month, my crew left to go to the mountains leaving me home alone for a while
Usually, I fry up a mess of chicken livers or make beef liver and onions or a simple pot of butter beans to be eaten with rice for a few days
Growing up, my mother would fry chicken for us once in a blue moon. Hating the grease and the mess, she would literally place paper towels around the eye of the stove to aid the clean up effort
Nancy Singleton, who helped out at our pals the Schwartzes most Saturdays, would leave their house with her perfect fried chicken warm in their stove. Nancy’s fried chicken could have won awards. God bless the child who happened to be at our pals’ house on Saturdays for Nancy’s chicken.
Maryland Fried Chicken on Ribaut Road was our go to fried chicken spot. We did have a Kentucky Fried Chicken, but we didn’t darken its door.
On the inside of Maryland Fried there was a sign that read, “Buck King is my name. Frying chicken is my game.”
It was Mr. King who owned the place
He was up on his Game
The Palms in Ridgeland, SC, had fried chicken that shattered upon eating. See, e.g., my earlier post, Palm Sunday
Larry Taylor at the Beaufort Yacht Club and at his restaurant LT’s could fry the hell out of yard bird. Still can and does.
I used to be really good at it. Then I got really bad at it.
So, being home alone, I decided to make a mess of fried chicken to eat for the three nights I was a renewed bachelor
Fearless
One has to be fearless with frying
And I was
Fried yard bird. Cast iron skillet. Rice and gravy. Butter beans. Sliced tomato with a little salt and pepper. The perfect summer suppa three nights in a row, with only one night of real work frying the chicken.
I put a picture of the bird on the grams and was asked how to fry the chicken.
As my late great Aunt Lucy used to say about her wonderful potato salad, “All in the world I do is……”
Chicken thighs and legs (I hear there is this stuff called white meat, but I don’t truck with that)
Buttermilk
Hot sauce
Flour
A touch of corn meal
Salt
Pepper
Cayenne pepper
Large grocery store paper bag
Vegetable oil
Cast iron skillet
Candy thermometer
The night before frying the chicken, place the legs and thighs in a bowl and cover with buttermilk. Sprinkle in a few healthy dashes of hot sauce and mix with your bare hands. Cover and place in the fridge for at least 24 hours
The day of the fry, remove the chicken from the buttermilk and let drain on a wire rack set over a cookie sheet/toast tray for a least 3 hours or so. It needs to come up to room temperature.
Place a few handfuls of flour, a bop of cornmeal, salt, pepper and cayenne pepper into a paper bag. Add the dried chicken and shake well over your kitchen sink.
Place back onto the wire rack and let rest for 20 minutes or so
Heat oven to 250 while chicken rests
While the bird rests, place a good amount of oil into your heavy cast iron skillet. I put in enough to go about half way up a 10 inch skillet. Place on medium heat and let the oil come up to between 350 and 375 degrees as shown on the candy thermometer
Once it comes to temp, place the chicken in the skillet. I don’t do more than 3 or 4 pieces at a time.
It may pop and splattter
It may pop and lock
You will have to clean the stove and surrounding area
Either way, don’t mess with it
I don’t lid mine
Let it brown
At least 5 minutes or so
Make sure the oil stays in the 350 – 375 temperature with that handy candy thermometer touching the oil and not the skillet itself
Flip the bird once and let fry another 5
After the flip:
Cooking with gas…no…really…and grease…and that well seasoned cast iron skillet you know you have somewhere. I actually wash mine with soap and water. The skillet doesn’t complain
I don’t drain it on paper towels or brown paper, just on the wrack
It does stink up the kitchen, and, you might even break a sweat
While the chicken drains in the oven, I do make a white gravy with some of the left over grease, cracklins in the skillet, flour, salt, pepper, and milk to serve over that rice that’s been steaming on the back eye next to those simmering beans. I have already sliced, salted, and peppered that tomato, too
This would be my death row last supper
But, I would have to cook it
Or, if possible, I’d bring back Nancy Singleton or Buck King
Carolina Snowballl…on the burgee…mentioned by Mr. Conroy in The Prince of Tides
It being the week of the summer solstice, just know that for many years during these highly lit days, my brothers and I along with an entire gaggle of unruly children spent many unsupervised summer days at the Beaufort Yacht & Sailing Club
Especially at the pool
An Olympic sized pool complete with deep end with high dive and low dive, a fiber glass slide, and a shallow end with steps along with a baby pool for the young ones still under the supervision of mothers and babysitters
That baby pool once held a baby shark caught by the then manager of the BY&SC. The shark just swam round and round in that overly chlorinated water until said manager could return it to the Beaufort River
We spent so many hours at the Yacht Club as we all called it
From the time it opened at 10:00 a.m. until retrieved by parents, generally after 4:00, and, if we were lucky, sometimes not until closer to 6:00, we wore that place ragged
Did we reapply sunscreen?
Did we have nutritious snacks at our disposal?
Did we have adults to guide us and make sure we were behaving?
Did we hydrate?
All negative
We had quarters with which to buy bottled cokes which we drank on concrete paved decking in barefeet not worrying one wit about broken glass
Icy cold Grape Fanta in a glass bottle slakes thirst like nothing else
We had a bag of sandwiches and chips and more quarters to buy snacks out of the Tom’s snack machine, which, if your hands were wet and the concrete decking was wet, you could get a cheap thrill of mild electric shock as you pushed E24 for your pack o’ nabs to be ejected into the holding bin at the bottom of the vending machine
On rare occasions a parent would send a watermelon for everyone to share. And I do mean rare
We all had crispy noses and often had to wear t-shirts in the water over our sunburns
Even those of us Beaufort kids with darker hair would have had it lightening in the many hours of sun exposure. Those of us with lighter hair would have had it greening lightly from the chlorine
And, oh, the chlorine
At the start of every summer, we would all develop pool toe from our non-summer feet spending hours wrinkling in the water only to scrape them on the hard concrete bottom of the pool and the decking around said pool after chlorine thinned the skin. We all bled from our big toes during those late days of May while the water was still cool and callouses had yet to form
I can still smell the chlorine
I can still smell the cigarette smoke of some of the mothers sitting nearby reading Time and Newsweek and People magazine giving benign neglect to their children and friends
I can still smell the Coppertone
I can still smell the mildew in the bathrooms with changing areas
I can still feel the algal slick board on the outside shower which we were all required to use prior to entry in the pool
One late summer afternoon, The Beaufort Gazette’s own version of Jimmy Olson, Bob Sofaly, snapped a shot of me and my brothers in the spray of that shower with the late sun glinting off the drops of the shower.
We made the front page of that fish wrapping the next day. My parents have the original photo
Being on the Beaufort River, the Yacht Club had a sailing program and a full ramp for launching boats of all kinds and a large dock with pier heads with two large floats
We would run from the pool to the dock and go diving and jumping off the end of the pierhead into the deep water of the river only to climb out and head back to the pool for a freshwater dip
Who was watching us?
Well, the teenager life guards sure weren’t as they were long suffering in having to deal with the children of their parents’ friends jumping in and out of the water, running at all times only to be whistled down with shouts of “NO RUNNING!”
I could give you an entire list, but let’s just say Helen, Martha, and Jim were some of our favorites as they only blew their whistles when it was absolutely necessary
There were others who were tyrants on the deck in their wooden chairs. I’ll not say who but does anyone else remember a certain BD whose anger smoldered daily? “QUIT RUNING, YOU KIDS!”
During those summer days, there was a radio near the pool phone. It was usually tuned to I95 in Savannah.
I still remember the Yacht Club’s old phone number. Back then, if a friend was not at home that friend’s mother was likely to say, “Just call the Yacht Club”
Our parents always called us at that 524 number to leave us messages
“Hey, Helen, may I speak to Hamlin?”
Invariably, a lifeguard would scream across the way, “Hamlin!!! Telephone!!!”
And, sure enough, you’d cross the decking to answer the pressing question from a friend, get that instruction from a parent, relay a message from someone to someone else, and, usually dripping wet, all to get another one of those mild tingles in the arm from the radio line and the telephone line
Guess it was just part of the deal
Cheap thrills brought to you by SCE&G and a lack of grounding
The pump house had closed doors and was next to the alcove where the phone stayed and the radio played. When the pump house doors were open, we were all able to see the sign that said, “PLEASE DON’T EEEE IN OUR OOOLE…SEE…NO P IN IT” or was it “WE DON’T SWIM IN YOUR TOILET, DON’T PEE IN OUR POOL” Either way, neither sign worked
Hence the shocking amounts of chlorine
Or the pool being shocked with chlorine
And, it’s where Charles DeLoach taught me to swim. Covered in baby oil and brown as a berry, Charles was the most patient of swim teachers.
He died in 1992
We all went to his funeral
Even though he hadn’t lived in Beaufort for years, his Yacht Club charges showed up to honor one of our favorites
And, really, the BY&SC was our favorite place to be
Every year as our yearbooks came out in the spring, we would sign in the back LYLAS, LYLAB, 2QT2B4GTN, RHTS, I signed your crack, and See you at the BY&SC
Because we saw everyone there
The whole town it felt like
And, with such a large number of children there ages 1 to 18, there was always something to do
Marco Polo in the shallow end
Races from one end to the other
TV Show
Categories
The most viscious games of Sharks & Minnows in the deep end. Touch the drain at the bottom of the 12 feet and you were safe….might drown and ears might burst from the pressure…but at least you were safe
Our Sharks & Minnows games lasted forever with the opening rounds seeing minnows dive and jump and land on each other during initial crossings across the deep end…long running dives could get you at least half way across the deep end to the sound of a lifeguard’s whistle and a “DO NOT RUN” shouted at you
Diving contests were the real deal with a low and high dive
Preacher seats
Flips
Jack knives
Double flips
Watermelons
Sailor dives
Gainers…half gainers
Can openers
Pencils
Belly flops
Back flops
I don’t think there’s a person who went to that pool between 1976 and 1986 who didn’t belly flop or back flop off of that high dive in an attempt to do something rad like a double flip
I landed on my back one time to a huge splat and thought I had died. Did anyone check on me? Nope. Just shouts of “MOVE, WE’RE TRYING TO DIVE!!”
In fact, no one seemed to check on anything except the chlorine levels, kept at the highest of the high
Did anyone check to see if the fiber glass sliding board had been sufficiently sprayed down with water before we went down it?
Never
Situated in a corner farthest from any lifeguard chair, you took you bare skin in your own hands if you decided to go down the slide without checking to see if it had been properly conditioned with pool water prior to your climbing the steps
Both the Epi and the Dermis of many a youngster were left on the hot side of that slide
At least once a summer, some kid would go over the side of the slide and land on the pool decking, and, yet, there were few injuries
No backboard pulled out
No neck braces used
The BY&SC had a clubhouse of sorts, too, which was really just a big room with a hall with restrooms off of one side and a kitchen off the other side and a large covered porch facing the river
One summer afternoon, one of our pals discovered huge boxes of non dairy individual creamers left over from some event just sitting there in the kitchen. No refrigeration required
He got the bright idea that we could use the creamers as weapons and squirt them at each other in a a full on battle on the lawn
The Great Creamer War of 1983 commenced
Boys and girls of all ages gathered between the clubhouse and the dock and squirted creamers at each other. Covered in that white oleaginous milk substitute, we all laughed and hollered until the manager found out and screamed at us, “What are y’all doing?”
Of course, this being the same manager who put a shark in the baby pool
Well, those of us of older years high tailed it back to the pool, off the dock, into the boathouse, around the back of the clubhouse leaving the younger warriors to clean up small plastic packs empty of their oily contents
As one of the scofflaws who ran and was not caught, my parents later chastised me, “Why didn’t you help them pick up the creamers?”
Creamers? What creamers? There was one? Who? Me? Never heard of it?
Plausible deniability all round
The instigator of The Great Creamer War of 1983 wrote an apology letter and appeared before the Board in contrition. He was allowed to return to the Yacht Club
That was typical of the Yacht Club: constant expiation of sins
The place was a co-ed Lord of the Flies meets Caddyshack meets an Esther Williams musical – since everyone was in a bathing suit and could swim the English Channel
When I went away for high school, we were required to take a drown proofing class as part of our physical education program
Drown proofing?
By 1987, I was completely drown proof after 15 years of the BY&SC
Hell, I’d been held under water for at least a minute or two by kids 4-5 years older than I when we were annoying or tried to steal back the rafts and inner tubes they had stolen from us which we had stolen from them which they had stolen from us
And, I’m not just talking about older boys, either. The girls at the Yacht Club were just as tough. They had to be.
The Club had a Junior Activities program for many summers, too. Basically a day camp for a week or two. We passed written tests on sailing. We showed proficiency with knots. We played tennis. We swam. We sailed. We goofed off
Our tennis instructors were always disaffected youth whose parents made them get summer jobs. The Two Roberts were our favorites. Both named Robert, they spent more time hitting us with tennis balls and ripping cigs in the shade than actually instructing us. We thought them cooler than Bjorn Borg and John McEnroe because, well, they left us alone. I still tell one of them to this day how much we hated them, but not really. He still tells me how much he and Robert hated us, but not really
We all learned to sail on Sunfish at the Yacht Club, usually in twos in each boat
We loved to turtle and then right the ship with our feet holding the dagger boards as we pulled on the sheet lines and yanked our vessels back to sail
After Sunfish mastery, if you could demonstrate not just sailing proficiency but passed the written tests and knot tests, then you could take out the Lasers or the Widgeons which would require a crew of three
One boring summer day at the Junior Activities Program, our pal Christopher Gibson decided that a group of us could take out the Widgeons. We told no one. So, Christopher Gibson, Hayes Williams, John Dukes, Billy Besterman, Jeff Riordan and I decided to have 3 of us each in a Widgeon.
We pushed off from the docks in an outgoing tide with no wind, hence our boredome
With NO wind
NO WIND
Pancake flat
Hot and still
Not a breeze to be bought in 5 square miles
Stuck in irons
So, what did we do in the Widgeons?
We rafted up together, jumped in the river, tied ropes around our waists and made make shift rope swings using the masts and not realizing we could have made accidental nooses. The indelibility of youth
We didn’t think twice about the fact that we were drifting east pretty fast
Luckily, one of the people who worked at the camp noticed the Widgeons were missing
Again, he noticed the Widgeons were missing
Not a soul noticed we were missing
After about 45 minutes and our drifting almost past the southern end of Parris Island, Mark, the camp employee, came down the river in the Club’s Boston Whaler to retrieve the Widgeons. Wayward campers were a bonus.
His sister, Kim, ran the camp
“Kim is going to KILL y’all” he told us
I think we all mooned him in response to that statement
And then fell on the decks laughing
“We had some difficulties with the jib” someone retorted to Mark
And then fell on the decks laughing
Sure enough, Kim wanted to kill us
“Boys! Those Widgeons are new this summer! You could have lost the Widgeons! I’m calling each of your parents about this!”
Now, Kim had been one of my family’s babysitters. I knew her well
I raised my hand
“What, Hamlin?” she snorted
“Well, Kim, mom and dad are at The Grove Park in Asheville. I’m staying with the Williams.”
Giggles all round.
Then, fell on the ground laughing
It’s important to know your audience.
“I’m staying at the Williams,” I said through chuckles and tears
“Quit laughing!” Kim yelled. “This is not funny. The Widgeons are new!”
She was beyond mad
We could have lost two perfectly good Widgeons after all
None of our parents were mad at us, they were mad at such lax behavior on the part of the Yacht Club not keeping watch over their campers. No mothers came to pick us up that day.
Instead, the fathers descended upon the Club.
When Hayes’s dad and John’s dad, both lawyers, came to pick us up, they chastised Kim and crew for letting us boys get the better of them. Jeff’s dad was a Colonel in the Marine Corps. He gave Kim a dressing down. Billy’s dad was a doctor who explained the risk to our life and limb. Chris’s dad owned an insurance agency who went over the liability issues.
My dad was in Asheville
They didn’t raise their voices, they just said that boys would be boys and the Club needed to keep better watch over its campers.
It was the first time that I saw a parent go to bat for a child against the party truly most to blame
Did we all get in trouble? Of course, but at least the parents weren’t mad at us
But, they, too, were glad we didn’t lose two perfectly good Widgeons
In May of 2023, I went to Chapel Hill, NC, in order to take my daughter to the airport on a Sunday morning at 3:00 a.m.
She had a flight leaving the Raleigh Durham Airport, connections in Seattle, on to Seoul
It was Graduation Weekend. Commencing Commencement
I went up on that Saturday and was home that Sunday before 9 a.m.
While I was in Chapel Hill for that limited engagement, all I heard about was how much fun a Friday night party was for my daughter’s sorority’s members soon to be graduates held at the Horace Williams House Museum on Franklin Street
“They had a band”
“They had the best barbecue”
“It was in a tent on the lawn”
It was ALL I heard about during my less than 24 hours in the Old North State
So, being someone with executive functioning skills, I sent a text to a pal who had a daughter in the Class of ’23
Three texts and an email later, I was in touch with a lovely lady in Charlotte, NC, who gave me the entire playbook: the contact at the Horace Williams House, the contact for Wilber’s Barbecue in Goldsboro, NC, the contact for the tent/dance floor/stage/tables/linens in Cary, NC, and the contact with East Coast Entertainment for the band.
Starting over a year ago, calls were made, contracts put in place, items procured
A mom in Charlotte offered to do the flowers
Decisions done damn it
“We want to do the same party” was all I told people
“Have you procured the [fill in the blank]?”
“Yes, ma’am”
“Have you contacted the port-o-potty company?”
“My friend, [Who will now be ever called Mr. Port-o-Potty] has a pal in Fuquay Varina who can do that for us at cost”
“Call me in January to finalize”
“Let’s set the menu in February”
“The band’s rider is simple: a room, a full meal, water, and sufficient electricity”
Done
Done
Done
From May of last year through May of this year, I emailed a group of Moms and Dads whom I’ve come to know since that fated Covid year of 2020-2021 when we moved our daughters at least three or four times
I would email and ask for money to be sent to my Venmo account
Without any questions, without any push back, without any hesitation, my Venmo would fill with requested funds in a day
Without question
How trusting
I guess I could have stolen it and gone on a great trip
A week before the event, there were flurries of calls and texts and emails, including with the Town of Chapel Hill Police Department
I obtained the appropriate Noise Permit from the Police Department
We were able to have the band play until 11 p.m.
That being said, we agreed that the band would stop by 10:30 p.m. as the Horace Williams House borders a residential neighborhood
The morning of the party, I met the equipment company at 7:45 a.m. My pal Mr. Port-o-Potty, as I have now named him, my lovely wife, and I met the portable toilet company in the driveway of the Horace Williams House. Luckily, Mr. Port-o-Potty has a truck full of equipment, including extension cords of proper gauge that we used to plug in the portable toilet trailer, complete with air conditioning and stereo system.
How many college graduates does it take to rig up a portable toilet trailer? 3…it takes 3
By 9:45 a.m., we had tables, chairs, dance floor, stage, all under two tents on the lawn
“Do y’all put out the table cloths?”
“No, you do, Sir”
Fair enough
That afternoon, my bride and I went back to the Horace Williams House and placed Carolina Blue table cloths on 16 round tables and black table cloths on serving tables and bar tables
Who knew that draping polyester takes so long?
Our pals from Charlotte had already brought perfect arrangements with white and blue hydrangeas, blue muscari, and hosta leaves
We placed those on tables
Well, someone knows how to do
After a quick change, it was back to the Horace Williams House by 3:45 p.m. to finalize everything
The folks from Wilber’s in Goldsboro arrived right on time, having bypassed a wreck on I40
“We got to get this bah buh cue to Chapel Hill!” is what one of the gentlemen from Wilber’s told me. “We were goin round that damn wreck”
We helped the band set up, too
Bounce is their name
If you ever need a great band, contact them through East Coast Entertainment
I knew they were going to be good when one of the female lead singers announced she needed some space, to, and, I quote, “Throw on my sequins”
A quick shower dumped rain on us at 5:45 p.m., then the skies opened up that perfect Carolina blue
By 6:00 p.m., the graduates and their parents arrived
Hugging old pals
Meeting parents whom we had not yet met
“Thanks for organizing this”
“Twas nothing”
As folks filled tables and started going through the buffet, I let everyone know that the dining room table was covered with individual servings of banana pudding
“Revoke my Southern card, but I hate banana pudding,” I announced to everyone, too
“Is this Wilbers?”
“Best Eastern North Carolina barbecue ever!”
“I love their hushpuppies”
The assembled devoured the barbecue, both pork and turkey, green beans, slaw, macaroni, hush puppies, and banana pudding
The band played opening songs in the form of what we all call Beach Music
As the buffet wound down, the band cranked up
By the time the opening disco diva sounds of “First I was afraid, I was petrified” swept across the crowd, the dance floor was full
I should’ve changed that stupid lock/Or made your leave your key….G. Gaynor. Love Tracks. 1978.
The speakers were actually on the dance floor itself as the stage had a sinking spell when the speakers were placed upon them during set up and sound check
But, we made it work
By 9:15, a good time was being had by all
“Oh, life is like that. Sometimes, at the height of our revelries, when our joy is at its zenith, when all is most right with the world, the most unthinkable disasters descend upon us.” Jean Shepherd. A Christmas Story. 1983
Everyone brought their own bottles, ice, cups, mixers, beer, wine, High White Noon Claws
Everyone shared their bottles, ice, cups, mixers, beer, wine, High White Noon Claws
Not the host, but definitely the Party Dad, I came around a corner and one of my daughter’s pals ran up to me
She’s from Little Washington, NC, and has the best accent
Absolutely the best
“Hamlin, there’s someone in there calling the police! Are we going to jail?”
Not on my watch, young lady
Sure enough, inside the front room of the Horace Williams House a grown man seethed and shook
I approached and introduced myself
“I have just called 911! You cannot have this party here!”
The veins in his neck bulged
His rage rollingly boiled
“This should not be a party venue”
Well, Sir, it is and has been since the 70s. We also have a Noise Permit
The lady who manages the place came in and spoke to the complainant. They were old pals
“I have told you that we have every right to have parties here,” she said
She pulled me aside and said he does this all the time
He did it two weeks ago during a wedding reception
Trying to disarm the man, I asked where he lived, what he did for a living, how much family he had
“I live a block away; I moved here two years ago”
“I teach at a university, but not this one”
“I have young children”
Lawd, he moved to the alleged nuisance
Lawd, a dookie
Lawd, a dad
“How old are your children?” I asked
“They are 14 and 12,” he spat at me
“Well, Sir, I can guarantee you that they are awake and on Tik Tok at 9:25 on a Friday”
Oh, boy, I pushed his button on that
“THEY ARE NOT ON TIK TOK!”
Well, they aren’t asleep at 9:25 on a Friday. I kept that to myself.
After that, I felt taps on my shoulder from another of my daughter’s pals
“Mr. O’Kelley, the police are here”
So, out into the night I went knowing there was a lawn full of people ready to raise my bail if needed, with a number of licensed North Carolina attorneys sprinkled about the tables
Extending my right arm, I introduced myself to the officers and handed them the Noise Permit
“You’re fine, Sir” was the immediate reply
“We have to walk the party to make sure everyone is fine and secure”
“Yes, Sir”
“Sorry to be here, Mr. O’Kelley, but he calls every week”
“Yes, Ma’am”
So, the police walked around the tent, circled the dance floor, asked for a decibel level reading
“Y’all are at 91, and can go to 130,” one of the officers told me. “He’s probably at 60 at his house, which is conversation level”
As we discussed the sound levels, the numerous complaints made by the dookie, the fact that the Horace Williams House has been a venue for fifty years, I realized that the police were definitely on our side
“They had this same party here last year, and he complained”
Looking back over the leftovers of the buffet, I turned to the cops and said that may be we should give him some green beans and slaw as it was obvious the man was definitely backed up
On a cold Friday morning in New York, my bride and I sauntered, strolled, ambled up that toniest of sections of Madison Avenue heading to a certain store in the mid 70s
As it was not quite ten o’clock, we wandered further up said avenue and ducked into the Sant Ambroeus for some more warm caffeinated beverages.
Who doesn’t love some Italian coffee drinks?
It being a high in the mid-40s and low in the mid-20s, we were dressed for the weather.
I had on a corduroy suit, sweater, long scarf, wool fisherman’s beanie, top coat
A legit corduroy suit in the color of “dark stone” from a favorite UK maker
How now brown cow?
Seemed legit for the weather
Stepping into Sant Ambroeus, Madison, b/t 77th and 78th, we observed a man in shorts (!) drinking from his cup and saucer at the end of the coffee bar. His shorts and his jacket matched. His black socks and shoes matched.
My bride thought he worked there
I knew better
As he sipped his drink, I removed my outer coat, took off my wool fisherman’s hat, unwrapped my scarf
I was abandoned by my bride who walked over to look at something in the bakery display case
As I walked by the man in shorts, he said, “I like your suit”
Recently, I had the ultimate privilege to serve as an usher at a funeral
For a 22 year old
For a 22 year old
For a 22 year old
I have been to this funeral
Many times
I’m from Beaufort, SC.
As my maternal grandmama used to say, for a town its size Beaufort has a lot of tragedy
I have buried the dead
I have mourned
He whom every grief hath known that wrings the human breast and takes and bears them for His own that all in him may rest also wept
There were so many young people in the church
Hundreds of them
“Son, please take off your baseball cap.”
“Oh, sorry, Sir”
All dazed with grief
Sobbing and crying as one expects
Through the hymns and the readings and the First Song of Isaiah
Then, the deceased’s mother took to the lectern to speak about her recently departed boy
Without shedding one single tear
Without cracking her voice
Without missing a beat
With love
With conviction
With visible heartache and careworn brow
At the end of her remembrance, she said the following which is a paraphrase since my racking sobs prevented a direct quote
At the end of her time, our Rector commented that it was one of the most powerful things he had ever heard in a church
Agreed
This is what she said, more of less
…. So many of you young people have asked me what you can do.
This is what you can do.
Pick up your Bible.
Read it.
Pray from it.
That’s how you will honor my son and our family …
Silence
Then more sobs like you’ve never heard
Audible gasps and choking
The other ushers and I could not look at each other
The sexton said he had to go outside
A friend helping with the reception in the Parish Hall said they were just all openly sobbing
And then we sang Jesus Loves Me, This I Know
Jesus wept
John 19:25-27
Now there stood by the cross of Jesus His mother, and His mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. When Jesus therefore saw His mother, and the disciple whom He loved standing by, He said to His mother, “Woman, behold your son!” Then He said to the disciple, “Behold your mother!” And from that hour that disciple took her to his own home.
Growing up, my parents proudly displayed their first edition Take Joy!The Tasha Tudor Christmas Book on the living room coffee table
First published in 1966, I can’t tell you the hours I spent pouring over every page of that book around Christmas.
What can I say?
It was the 70’s and 80’s. Cable was nascent and limited. Three t.v. channels otherwise, four if one counted PBS, which was really only good for Sesame Street, The Electric Company, and Mr. Rogers.
We had a lot more free time on our hands than the youth of today
Boredom? What’s that
I would open the book every year it was out and read it from cover to cover
More than once
Like every day
Poems, carols, receipts, Fra Giovanni’s prayer in letter form telling a discouraged friend to “Take Joy!” from whence came the title of her tome
The Nativity According to St. Luke, “And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed”
Each into his own city
Which, led me to win an entire week of no homework in math class in the 6th grade around this time of year
Our math teacher, a retired Marine Corps Colonel, one Colonel Piper, would have row races to see which row could complete math problems fastest and with the most mastery. The prize: no homework
Upon the blackboard in his class in the upper left corner, the Colonel had written the letters “PSRTQ” in bold print
Piper Says Read The Question
Good advice, Marine
For most of that fall in his class, my row consisted of me and four other over achievers
Finally, around Christmas a classmate complained that we had been exempt from homework for almost two months
Colonel Piper shifted the rows
Well, one December, before exams, which we had starting in the 5th grade at our school, he did one of those coded word problems connected with math wherein words are revealed by correctly solving the math problem
I have no idea what the math problem was, but I started and came up with “And it came to pass….”
Having read the KJV of Luke 2 time and time again that season, I raced through the problem from “And it came to pass” straight on through “Peace on earth; good will toward men”
We won thanks in large part to Mrs. Tudor’s inclusion of that Gospel passage in her book
When St. Linus the Evangelist recites St. Luke’s Gospel to Charlie Brown and the other Peanuts gang, I mouth the words with him, because of Mrs. Tudor
What else did she include?
Excerpts from Dickens of the Cratchits’ humble Christmas dinner as seen by Scrooge and the Ghost of Christmas Present along with their overflowing gratitude for even their meager meal
A great feast indeed
The young couple, each of whom puts their new spouse’s wants and desires before their own interests in that tale of grace and irony, in O. Henry’s The Gift of the Magi
Della contemplating her pennies
Dylan Thomas’s A Child’s Christmas in Wales in which the postman rat a tat tatted all the time
The postman always rat a tat tats twice
The Reverend Doctor Clement C. Moore’s telling of a visit from St. Nicholas
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof
Carols and carols and more carols
When I arrived at boarding school in 1987, that December I attended my first wonderful Christmas carol sing and concert in the Chapel right before exams
Who needs a program when you already know all the verses to Hark! The Heard Angels Sing or It Came Upon the Midnight Clear or I Saw Three Ships on Christmas Day or O Little Town of Bethlehem? Not me
Still through the cloven skies they come
I can tell Jennette and Isabella to bring a torch
One of my classmates said “How do you know all of these verses?”
My reply, “Tasha Tudor’s Take Joy!”
His reply, “We have that book. I’ve never read it”
Guess his being from New York City and all meant he had a lot more options for entertainment than we did in Beaufort
Unlike my New York classmate, I do have a dear pal from the Eastern Shore of Maryland who is a huge fan. In fact, she has given additional Tasha Tudor books to our girls for Christmas. You know who you are.
Having never traveled to Sweden, I still knew about the Santa Lucia Queen wearing a crown of candles and handing out goodies to all assembled
Having never been to the Tudor family farm, I still knew about their traditions, including putting a creche in the bread oven. Wouldn’t it burn up?
For years and years, I begged my parents to give me their copy of Take Joy!
No chance
And, well, thanks to the silliness that is social media, a lovely book seller at Pease Porridge Press whom I follow posted a picture of a first edition Take Joy! with a reasonable asking price. (@myoldbooks if anyone wants to follow along)
I immediately slid into some DMs and have proudly displayed my first edition Take Joy! for years now
At least once during Advent, I sit quietly and read Mrs. Tudor’s book from cover to cover with her watercolor illustrations
Sometimes tears flow from my eyes. Sometimes gut busting laughter erupts.
But, mainly, the emotion is the one on her cover
Joy
I pray you all find Joy this Christmas, especially any of you experiencing losses, bad news, upsetting events. It’s a tough time of year for so many
I pray that you, too, remember the words of the Angel, “Fear not!”
As there is no peace in that Little Town of Bethlehem this Christmas, I pray that that the Angel’s further message of Peace on Earth, Goodwill Toward Men will once again be heard by both sides in that ages old conflict
So, Take Joy!
Merry Christmas, kids
I leave you with this prayer in letter form from a Sixteenth Century Franciscan friar, architect, scholar
Fra Giovanni’s Christmas Prayer
I salute you! There is nothing I can give you which you have not; but there is much that, while I cannot give, you can take.
No heaven can come to us unless our hearts find rest in it today. Take Heaven.
No peace lies in the future which is not hidden in the present. Take Peace.
The gloom of the world is but a shadow; behind it, yet within our reach is joy. Take Joy!
And so, at this Christmas time, I greet you, with the prayer that for you, now and forever, the day breaks and the shadows flee away
Fra Giovanni Giocondo to his friend Contessa Allagia Aldobrandeschi, Christmas Eve. 1513.
Dad, what's for supper? 