My parents are gone, but I still have their things. A plate, a chair, a matchbook, a sweater, an old cell phone. Something of them lives on in this stuff. Send a picture of an object and tell me what it does to you and how it makes you feel about your mom and dad, dead or alive. Then go clean up your room. Thank you
My dad ran The Old Post House in Southampton and we lived right next door. Peter Benchley called it “the meeting place of the Hamptons” in Holiday Magazine, and it was the place to be in the sixties and seventies. My dad loved his local bartenders and all his regulars.
In the hours before night fell, the side lawn of the Post House became a baseball diamond. This was serious stuff. The Old Post House team would play now long-gone Southampton institutions like Healey’s Drive-In and had rivalries with Herrick Hardware and the North Sea Fire Department. Howie the Hero would always get the hit to win the game. In my memory, The Post House sluggers never lost.
My dad is still with us, happily, and we love his stories of his glory days in the sun. A satin baseball jacket embroidered with
Post House in script lettering and the name “Lee” after my father’s head bartender who passed away last year, still hangs in his closet and I know one day will hang in mine. The collar is frayed, the elbows worn. Still, it has held up well for a piece of clothing made fifty years ago. Built to last. Just like my dad.