"Good Ale, Raw Onions, No Women"

On a dreary day in March 1966, the slogan "Good Ale, Raw Onions, No Women" still described the bill of fare at McSorley's Old Ale House on the Bowery in New York City. Since then, the "No Women" feature has passed into history, swept into the maelstrom of feminist sentiment that arose not too long after I took this picture. But if you thought the advent of female customers changed anything about the place except the gender of its clientele, you'd be wrong. The folklore is that the joint still hasn't been cleaned since 1854 -- except as necessary to comply with public-health ordinances. For a gang of Dartmouth College lads on the loose in the city, McSorley's was an indispensable stop on the road to ... well ... whatever came next. For many of us, it was military service during the Vietnam years. Ladies and gentlemen, here's a toast to our youth: Not entirely misspent, we hope! A postscript: An anonymous commentator has insisted that the slogan was "Good Ale, Raw Onions, and No Ladies." I wouldn't swear to anything on the strength of my memory alone, so I'm going to leave the title of this posting as it is, acknowledging all along that I may be dead wrong. Wouldn't be the first time, nor will it be the last.

Nora Jeanne Molyneaux

Okay, now you're in for it. It's time for old Gramps to start hauling out granddaughter pictures and shoving them in your face, like it or not. This shot of Nora is actually now about a year old, but it gives you some sense of how much she loves to eat....

(Grand) Father's Day in Harvard Yard

Every year, my birthday (June 18) coincides closely with Father's Day (this year, June 21). Last Thursday, Eve and I made the arduous trek from home to Cambridge, Mass., 360 miles of traffic-choked frustration. Notwithstanding the travelers' woes, however, we had a wonderful visit with my daughter Lindsay and granddaughter Nora Jeanne. We also caught a fleeting glimpse of Nora's father Brad, but he's in the indentured servitude called a first-year medical residency at Mass General; we stopped by the hospital and caught a few moments with him wearing his scrubs -- which look uncannily like a prison uniform. Lindsay and family live in an apartment in Grays Hall on the Harvard campus, and a sweeter venue you could not imagine. She's an instructor (Statistics), a Ph.D. candidate (Education Policy) and a freshman proctor at Harvard. I'm rather proud of her, just in case you were wondering. At 18 months, Nora has begun to develop a vocabulary, starting with "No." She's a sweet little thing with a smile that lights up her face like a tropical sunrise. No doubt you'll see some pictures here whenever I get around to posting them. All too soon, the weekend was over, and we made the homeward voyage. Here we are, back in that warm quotidian bath.

Why "Son of a Curmudgeon"? (Reprise)

Over the years, people have called me a son of many things, most of them based on my supposed relationship to female dogs. But why a Son of a Curmudgeon? It started one winter day, just before Christmas, in the early 1960s. Our family had gathered in the living room. My brothers and I were taking bets on whether or not the Christmas tree would remain standing under the onslaught of Mom’s relentless tinkering with the ornaments and placement of the lights. Everyone was in a festive, poisonous humor. The language was quite inappropriate for the season. We decided to take a break for family photos. What a great idea! I can’t remember which moron came up with it, but at least it promised to sidetrack momentarily the strife over the tree. We started with Dad. We sat him in a straight-backed chair, handed him a walking stick, and told him to look as crusty and disagreeable as he could -- not a difficult assignment under the circumstances -- while one of us took the picture. I wish I could show you the result, but it's lost to posterity, more's the pity. Pop looked like one of those sourpussed elderly gentlemen you sometimes see in old studio photographs, their necks clamped in steel and celluloid to prevent the slightest appearance of comfort or relaxation. From the day it came back from the photo shop to the day it vanished into the ether, that portrait was titled “Curmudgeon.” Dad decided he enjoyed the role and refined it considerably during the remainder of his life. Happily, he could toggle it on and off at will, and never lost his capacity to enjoy or share a good joke or a conversation. As the years go by, I find myself wondering if curmudgeonliness might not be an inherited trait. There are times I feel an almost overwhelming urge to growl at someone.

Another Sentimental Journey

Here's a rainy-day photo I made on Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia, during a trip there in 1970 (actually, it was my first honeymoon, may that marriage and my late ex-wife rest in peace). It was the last time I visited that part of the world. I would love to see Cape Breton on one of the two or three sunny days that occur up there during the year, but these things are hard to plan for.

The Famous Virginia Beach Daisy Chain

Maybe someday I'll get tired of telling tall tales about my Navy days, but not yet. I'm sure you'll get tired of it before I do. Anyway, during the winter of 1968-1969, while our ship was in drydock for a major overhaul, four of my fellow junior officers and I rented a quaint little house in Virginia Beach, from a sweet little old lady who I'm sure lived to regret her decision to lease the place to us. To keep a rough tally of beers consumed on the premises, we made a daisy chain out of our aluminum pop-tops (remember those?), and placed the end in the flower basket of the rosy-cheeked young lass in the picture, who occupied the living-room mantel along with other bits of bric-a-brac. By the end of the winter, that chain circled the living room and was starting to creep up to the second floor. I'm surprised our landlady didn't see to it we were court-martialed.