The Catskill Chronicle

By Jude Waterston

When my brother, Buzz, was ten years old (and my sister, Janet, and I were 6  and 3, respectively), he presented my parents with this hand-written declaration.

Why I Was Punished, By Buzzy Waterston

I was punished because my mother tries to relie (sic) on me because  I’m the oldest one of the children but instead I’m the worst of the children. I get the other two (and sometimes three) kids wild. If my mother gave me five cents for every time I got the other kids wild, I would be a millionare (sic). The End.

Apparently, things went nothing but down hill from there. My brother typed the following on his personal stationery when he was sixteen years old. It was left on my parent’s bed one evening. By the way, for those not familiar with the term “numismatist” refers to a coin collector.

Harry “Buzz” Waterston

Numismatist

204 West 18^th Street

Deer Park, New York 11729

I, Harry Neil Waterston, on this twenty-seventh day of the month of June, in the year 1964, do solemnly swear that never again will I baby-sit for my two sisters or any of their friends and/or relatives unless a set of qualifications which I shall mention later are fulfilled. I do declare this because:

1. During the three years that I have been baby-sitting, I have suffered injustices directly or indirectly caused by my two sisters (i.e. tantrums, contempt for authority, and keeping me from the priveleges (sic) and pleasures any and all baby-sitters should enjoy).

2. These injustices have been increased by the fact that for most of my three years sitting I have offered my services without benefit of a wage, and because, in the arguments following my sisters frequent outbreaks of barbaric behavior, both my parents invariably take the side of my sisters, or simply abstain from all debate, in direct defiance of democratic ideals.

The qualifications, which must be fulfilled before I again take on the responsibilities of baby-sitting, are as follows:

1. I must be given much more authority in disputes between me and my sisters, and my decision must prevail.

2. I must be given the power to punish my sisters for any wrongdoing, as I see fit. This includes sending them to their rooms or adjusting their bedtimes.

3. I must not be required to do any thing not normally required of any baby-sitter.

4. I refuse to sacrifice my privleges (sic) and pleasures to my two sisters.

5. I must be guaranteed an hourly wage, not to be adjusted or abolished except by both my consent and my parents.

If any one of these qualifications is not fulfilled, I refuse to sit again for the rest of my life.

Respectfully submitted,

Harry Neil Waterston

P.S. THIS CAN VERY EASILY BE NOTARIZED AND TAKEN TO COURT!

I would guess that the post script had to have been my parents’ favorite part. The truth is I have no memory of causing Buzz such grief with my antics when he babysat. In fact, neither my sister, Janet, nor I remember much about growing up with him. He was not only seven years my senior, but was nine years ahead of me in school, having skipped two grades. He was out of the house, attending college in upstate New York, by the time I was nine years old.

There is only one time I do recall Buzzy babysitting us, and that was on a New Year’s Eve when I was six. The carefully orchestrated night began in early  evening with my mother inviting me to help her set up what she billed as “grown up hors d’oeurves.” There were three popular crackers in those days –  Ritz, Triscuits, and Wheat Thins. I laid them out carefully on a dinner plate, slightly overlapping and in concentric circles. My mother cut Swiss Jarlsburg and a block of creamy Muenster cheese into small cubes and let me spear each chunk with a colorful, frilly toothpick.

“Would you be willing to try smoked oysters?” my mother asked, taking a tin from a nearby cabinet. I made a face, scrunching up my nose in disgust. “Why not taste just one and you don’t have to finish it if you don’t like it,” she suggested. As I thought this over, she sweetened the pot by adding, “You can open the can yourself.” Anything smacking of grown-up behavior interested me. Once I’d opened the oysters we drained the oily juice from the can and I dumped the plump little mollusks into a decorative bowl. My mother gamely stabbed one with a toothpick and popped it into her mouth. Emboldened, I followed suit. “This is good,” I declared. Smiling, my mother ran a hand through my hair.

Together, we surveyed the table of snacks. “This is not like you and Daddy have,” I said. “What do you mean?” my mother asked. “You always have something hot. That you cook yourself,” I said. My mother sighed audibly.

She thought for a moment, stood up and opened the cabinet again. “Hey, do you remember the hot artichoke dip I make when we have company? You love that,” she said. I nodded enthusiastically. “Can I help make it?” I asked. “Sure,” she said, pushing my shirt sleeves up over my elbows. She drained a can of artichoke hearts in the sink while I was allowed to grate the parmesan cheese over a piece of paper towel and to plop a few dollops of mayonnaise into the mouth of the blender. She added the cheese, minced garlic, the roughly chopped artichokes, salt and pepper into the blender and we pulsed the ingredients until they were nicely combined. My mother scraped the dip into an oven-proof baking dish and I sprinkled the top with rust-colored paprika. “Your brother will just have to warm this up in the oven for twenty minutes. I’m sure he won’t mind,” my mother said. She patted my bottom and told me to head upstairs to get into my pajamas.

I went up to my room, changed, and began to read Winnie the Pooh. The plan was for Janet and me to go to sleep at our usual bedtime, and then Buzz would wake us a little before midnight so we could watch the great ball descend, click juice glasses, and yell “Happy New Year!” at the top of our lungs. At 11:30 that night, Buzz heated up the artichoke dip and thoughtfully laid out the food on folding trays in the den. He turned the television on and flipped the channels until he found the annual New Year’s Eve countdown with Dick Clark as master of ceremonies. Then he entered our darkened bedroom to wake us. He found us like rag dolls, deep with sleep, and tried repeatedly to rouse us from our stupors. Janet finally sat up momentarily, only to flop back down in a lifeless heap. At five to midnight, Buzz gave up and returned to the den, ate three quarters of a pound of cheese, half the smoked oysters, and most of the artichoke dip while wearily watching the ball go down over Times Square. My parents arrived home to find him nursing a stomachache and composing a long, angry letter destined for them.

Baked Artichoke Dip

Makes about 1 ½ cups of dip

In the old days, before the advent of the food processor, we would make this in a blender. But I think the processor does a better job, so that’s what I use now.

1 – 14 ounce can artichoke hearts, drained well

1 large garlic clove, finely minced

¾ cup finely grated parmesan cheese

½ cup Hellman’s mayonnaise

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

¼ teaspoon paprika

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Coarsely chop the artichoke hearts and drop them into the bowl of a food processor. Add garlic, mayonnaise, parmesan cheese, a pinch of salt and a healthy grinding of fresh black pepper. Process until well combined, about 5 seconds. Spoon mixture into a small oven-proof baking dish. Sprinkle with paprika. Bake for 20 minutes. Serve hot with crackers.