Will. Allison. Woody. Pop. Stepmonster.
You will probably prefer to use your parent’s new partner’s first name in the declarative rather than call him or her a variation of Mummy or Daddy. The fact is, this person is a replacement spouse, but not a replacement parent. That’s patently obvious, every time you see him or her hold your parent’s hand (which never happened when your real parents were married).
Yes, it matters when they entered your life, and whether your missing biological parent is around and acting, well, parental. If your stepfather joined your family when you were a young child, supports you, coaches your soccer team, and lives full- time with you and your mummy, and you consider him the father figure in your life, then call him what you like. In a made-for-TV tearjerker, that moment when you call him “dad”—shyly—would cause the background music to swell and everyone to feel pretty darn good about the high divorce rate in this country.
If your parents are the marrying kind, and between the two of them there are halfs, steps, and foster children, it might be best to use numbers to keep everyone straight.
As everyone—including Daddy—knows, it is really gross when Daddy begins a relationship with someone close to your age. It is nothing less than disgusting when Mummy does the same. You have the upper hand here. Be strong! Tell your parents you won’t accept a substitute parent who was a junior when you were a freshman, who dated someone you dated, or who had lower SAT scores than you. This is just basic.
Literature is full of stepparents who promise love and loyalty to the first set of kids and welsh on that promise after the wedding (“Hansel and Gretel,” The Parent Trap, Sean Wilsey’s memoir [see]). In the spirit of The Parent Trap (Hayley Mills’s version) feel justified in putting your parent’s intended through a few tests. It’s for your parent’s own good, even if he or she doesn’t understand at first.
Some of us are able to have friendly, reciprocal relationships with our quasi-siblings. It usually takes some effort and generosity of spirit, but it is possible. As for the new placeholder in your parent’s life—start them out on probation.
Will you ever adjust to this new person? Will you ever tolerate her? Could you love her? If she makes Daddy happy, that’s a decent beginning, but she has to make you happy, too. She has to be sensitive to your needs now. She can’t keep touching Daddy in front of you. She might have to buy your love, but she must pay attention to where you like to shop and what you like to do.
Will the two sides of this new, oddly matched blended family ever feel like one big, happy feel-good movie? Keep your expectations low and focus on your own life (as if you haven’t), and perhaps in time you won’t even notice that you are living in some version of Capulet-Montague peace. Hold onto those frequent-flyer miles.
For people who grew up gatoring, had tête-à-têtes with porcelain (and you know we’re not just talking about you, Cooper), and like to be known by their childhood nicknames, we age with surprising dignity. It’s incredible, really, when you think about it. How could a population so unself-conscious that they summer as fifty-year-olds—with their parents—do anything with dignity?
It’s because in some ways, we don’t change. You may be looking at the near side of seventy, but don’t you still fit into your wedding suit? And Laurinda, you are still wearing your hair in the same style of, well—your whole life: bangs pulled back in a tortoiseshell barrette, straight hair to your chin. You both look, well, kind of radiantly boyish, and well scrubbed. And since we’re all still active, we stay trim and firm. We may have added a little poundage over the years but not enough to make us jiggle.
And by staying the same, we don’t just mean the same looks. We mean the same. We keep our friends, our hobbies, even go to the office (it’s a nice place to read the paper and hang with old friends) until we are no longer upright, if we are aging prepsters, as Christopher Buckley prematurely calls himself (see). We stay put, even if we are travelers and adventurers. We are content with our lives; so why change them? That contentment helps us weather things over which we have no control.
Cognitive therapy (huh?) teaches us that if we put on a smile, we will feel better—one fakes it until one makes it. So we smile and wave to our friends, and we catch up and drink and even dance a bit … When it gets cool out, Penn still drapes his blazer around our shoulders with a casual hug, pieces still fall into place. We know we can charge a chef’s salad and an iced tea at the club (at this point, we don’t even have to sign for it; the waiters know our account number as well as we do).
Good luck does not favor the preppy. We have overindulged and are susceptible to the same vicissitudes of the modern toxic world. But by the time we hit our second half, it turns out we know people.
We know people who know the head of the hospital board. We know the DA. We know the very best lawyer for that. We know the cardiologist who helped the President. We know the head pro. We know the maître d’. We know Aunt Chapin’s orthopedic surgeon, and he is the knee man.
So we might as well look good.
Welcome to the Real World, Payne. As you have perhaps surmised by now, you have to be organized and figure out who can help you if ever things were to go awry. (This is the unpredictable twenty-first century we’re living in.)
The obvious first steps are to consult Daddy and Mummy or, better still, to rely on them entirely. Maybe it’s time to remember this harsh reality: Mummy and Daddy can’t help. Or Mummy is in a home, and Daddy hasn’t been right for years. Your brother Timmy has a public-access cable TV show about mosaics, and your sister is living somewhere in Costa Rica without a phone. What we’re saying, Pookie, is that you have to grow up. Okay, pour yourself another drink.
You need to be prepared to make some decisions on your own. Which means you need to hire smart people you can trust to make these decisions for you.
Let’s start with your medical team; over forty it’s more than one doctor.
Your primary physician needs to be selected with these questions in mind: Did he or she graduate from a top medical school? (Aha! It matters.) Is he or she young enough to be curious and energetic but not so young as to be arrogant? Will he or she be around for me for the long haul? Could I bear getting difficult news relayed from this person? Is she an athlete? (A team player is a nice quality in a medical doctor.) Do you like their hospital of affiliation? Is that where your friends go when they’re sick? Think about your own physical vulnerabilities: If it’s your liver, your heart, your metabolism, your internist could be a specialist in that area.
Don’t look at this chapter of your life as getting older, look at it as assembling a top-notch medical group. Your eye doctor, dentist, orthopedic surgeon, urologist, physical therapist, and hairdresser should all radiate competence and reassurance when you see them. After enough years of being their patient you may consider breaking the doctor-patient wall and inviting him to your box at the game, inviting her to one of your cocktail parties, or offering to write a letter of recommendation for him or her at your children’s school, your club, or their co-op board. Bottom line: You need your doctor to offer you his or her cell number. You won’t over-use it, but it’s a nice feeling to have it.
Official tie of the American College of Physicians.
As we are surrounded by lawyers at our clubs, at our resorts, at home, at our restaurants, and even in our law firms, we don’t need much in the way of guidance here. But (as givers) we always want to be of assistance.
Specifically, have you thought about your will? It’s an unpleasant task at best, forcing you to confront your … you know. Even thinking about it, you’ll want to pour yourself a stiff drink and get into bed and pull up the covers. When you come to, you will realize that someone has to do it for you. Hire a lawyer. Do not—under any circumstances—reread Dickens’s Bleak House (see) now. Save it for later.
Good lawyers (we never say “attorneys”) charge at least $300 per hour, but more typically in the $500 to $700 range. Consider what your time is worth
: $50 an hour? Less? Could you be more affronted by having to spend a fortune to dispense with your fortune? And while they’ve got you on the phone, they want to talk about golf, the movies, or their son’s award from the Latin master of his school. (Are you being charged for all this? You would tolerate and even possibly enjoy their chatter if you bumped into them while getting your morning lattes after your weekend jog, but over the phone you sense that the meter is running.)
And while we’re at it, the practice of calling our house, our Milton Avery print, our sailboat, our antique silver gravy boats, the set of of twenty-four mother-of-pearl–handled fish forks and knives, our grapefruit spoons, our prized chandelier, and our grandmother’s charm bracelets “assets” sounds icky. Remember that Jane always admired your emerald earrings. If you can bear it, use your will to bestow them to her after, you know.
It is likely your family has worked with one firm in particular which has lawyers engaged in all specialties. It is even likely that by now you have met Daddy and Mummy’s trust and estate lawyer, since they probably wrote up their wills a while ago (before they sold Microsoft at $179). If you find all this too morbid, ask your brother or sister to be the point person. If you don’t trust your brother, Tudor, who’s joined that group in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, or your sister, Cabot, will try to divert your share of the inheritance to her tree hugger in Oregon, then, Phillipa, it’s up to you.
“I’m not crying, I’m checking my mascara. I used that lash primer with the fibers, and I think one fell into my eye. Martha will not believe it was standing room only at India’s memorial service. It’s not that we didn’t all love her, though we didn’t, really … love her. There must be 200 people here! More than at the Easter Ball. I wonder what Lyon would say about that. ‘India Powell. Looks like an owl,’ he always sang. God, she was not so ‘charmingly original.’ She wore funny hats, that’s all. And red lipstick even to just go out for the paper.
“I wonder if there are 300 people here. Oh, wait, I can see the Maxwells in my compact mirror. He looks embalmed already, and is Fiona crying? I read somewhere—probably in Vogue—that each new loss brings up old pains. Maybe it was on Oprah. Anyway. Fiona is probably thinking of her mummy. Or her brother Duke. That was awful, falling off that diving board. How did India make a difference? By reading to the blind? Don’t they use books on tape now? Everyone does. Marian uses them on her treadmill. I’d use it at the gym, but my trainer would be hurt. But maybe if I told her once that I was in the middle of this book and I couldn’t put it down, she’d shut up about her gorgeous four-year-old she’s still nursing. It’s worth a shot.
“I wonder how many people will go to the reception at the Powells’. I’d be amazed if the Symingtons went. Oh, no. More? I promised Lucinda I’d pick up the cupcakes for her. No funeral should be more than one hour. Honor Cadbury? She was friends with India?”
What is more stressful than trying to write a tribute to a relative or friend when you are grieving and unable to focus? (Focus was never your strong suit, anyway.) Here, to make your job easier, is a fill-in-the-blanks eulogy, intended to be a template, or at least a way to collect your thoughts about your beloved _______________.
Thank you all for coming today. (Allow time for seat shifting and murmurs.) How to best describe ________________________? He/She was such a unique ____________________. He/She was the total ________________. We each have our different memories of him/her. Whether he/she was on the _____________, at his/her _______________, or just _________________ at the ______________ club, he/she was always ________________________. We first met at _______________________. It was (season, year) _______________, and ________________ was wearing a classic ___________________, without socks/with her pearls. I’ll never forget looking at ____________________ the first time and hearing ____________________. What a singular laugh he/she had! It sounded like a crow. (Speaker now tries to emulate, as do several mourners.)
_______________ lived for his/her __________________. Every summer he/she loved to ___________, sometimes alone at __________________, sometimes with friends at ______________. He/She once _______________________________!!! (Pause for chuckles.) Then in the Fall, it was always _________________ time, which _______________ also adored. How I can still hear his/her voice now, saying _________________________! Let’s _________________! Because ______________ loved life. And he/she was so modest, he/she never boasted about winning the ___________________ in (year)__________. Do you know what he/she said to the runner-up/Silver Medalist? _______________________________. Only _________________ could be that generous as a winner.
I thought I’d tell you about the origins of ______________________’s nickname. Many of you called our ___________________, “_________________.” But indeed, that was not his/her actual given name. He/She was said to be born on/under (a lunar circumstance) _______________ that affected his/her mother as she went into labor. OR, as a baby, ____________ looked like _______________. OR as a child, _____________ loved to eat _______________. That plus the fact that he/she was named for his/her father/mother—as was family tradition—meant that a nickname was the only way possible to distinguish between them. And now, his/her daughter/son carries his/her name so well. We are all proud of him/her.
Which brings us to _________________’s home life. At (name of house) __________, you always felt welcome, whether you were expected or not. (Name of housekeeper, pointed out by speaker, weeping in the second row) __________ would always set a place for you at the table and offer you your favorite drink. Or in Woody’s case, a pitcher of _______________s. (General laughter.) ___________ was always looking for his car keys/reading glasses/pills. Being there was like being in your own house, with your own family. As a parent, _________ was so proud of his/her children. They’d sometimes go for a drive, just ____________ and ______________, and hit some balls/shoot at cans/look at houses/buy liquor across the border to save taxes, only to return to tell the most amazing stories about getting lost in (strange neighborhood) __________, where they observed (some kind of behavior or ritual they’d never seen before) __________________. It was like listening to Margaret Mead talking about Samoa! Buying a GPS would never do for ______________. It wasn’t the money, it was the adventure he/she would have missed. Well, that and the money.
A few weeks ago, when I last saw ___________, he/she was talking about something he/she learned at (alma mater) ______________. How he/she was inspired by his/her English teacher/coach/dean. How he/she had his/her eyes opened to the whole world thanks to this man/woman. When the library reading room/junior lounge/humanities building/weight room was dedicated to ________________ last year, I never heard him/her so happy, so proud, so fulfilled.
_____________, we will miss you. We will miss your warmth, your grace, your awful sense of direction, your competitiveness, your sense of humor, and your laugh. I will miss you. The world of (community) ______________ will miss you.
And now, the (alma mater marching band) __________ will play _______________’s favorite hymn, followed by their fight song.
Some people can never get enough of their old school. You know the type. They return for every possible event: homecomings, reunions (at Princeton, though, this is an annual ritual; see), and even concerts and lectures. They collar students and point out that the (not so) new Middle Eastern Studies building used to be the music building, or some other factoid almost as fascinating. Their spouses can’t bear to show up. They know about the music building.
Now some schools are offering campus burials to these loyal alumni. And a surprising number are choosing this option as their final resting place.
Many old prep schools, colleges, and universities built cemeteries because people used to die so young. The University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill has a cemetery that is 6.98 acres. It has survived the Civil War (many Confederate soldiers are buried there) and lots of vandalism. In 2005 an area called Memorial Grove was created for the spreading of ashes, along with a wall where the names of thos
e former Carolinans are inscribed.
Princeton University’s cemetery is home to Aaron Burr, and his father and father-in-law, who were the second and third presidents of that most prep university. Author Harriet Beecher Stowe is buried in the Andover cemetery, but obviously, she was not an alumna.
The University of Notre Dame, home of the “Fighting Irish” (and not a hotbed of preppiness, though they do exist in Fort Wayne, Indiana), has an enormous death program for its community in its lush and well-maintained Cedar Grove Cemetery. Called “Come Home,” it offers a “dignified Christian burial,” not only in-ground for Notre Damers who fulfill several criteria (full-time faculty and staff as well as former faculty and staff, if they meet age and service thresholds) but also many opportunities to be buried above ground in crypts or have one’s cremated remains stored in niches. Alumni and surviving spouses are welcome, and may purchase up to four places—even a combination of niches and crypts—if they like, in the two (and here’s the plural) mausolea. To make it easier for graduates to choose, the cemetery offers Open Houses every Friday and Saturday during football season.
The glorious campus that was designed by Thomas Jefferson, the University of Virginia in Charlottesville, has a cemetery, which in its earliest days experienced so many grave robbers that families had to fake-bury their dead by day—using bundles of rocks or logs covered in shrouds—only to return in the dark of night to actually bury the bodies. By the end of the Civil War, 1,907 Confederate soldiers were buried there, including two generals.
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