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So, getting with the new political realities, Maureen and I started off the year with a great resolution: Let’s balance our budget. “It’s only fair to the kids, you know,” we both said, “we don’t want to saddle them with the burden of our frivolous spending.” We certainly want to be well thought of by them—heaven forbid they should cry, “Look at those bums, they inherited all that dough, then blew it on brie and Zinfandel and left us holding the bag!” “Sure,” said Maureen, “good idea—how ‘bout we set out to do it over a 10-month period?” “Ten months? Are you crazy?” Said I, “It’s seven months or I’ll lock you out of the bed¬room! What do we need 10 months for—an entire generation can be born in 10 months!” “Not if you lock me out of the bedroom” said Maureen.

So we went at it. First thing to go was our charitable contributions. “Let them fend for themselves,” said I, “if they aren’t smart enough to get into Andover, or if one of their parents didn’t go there, who needs them!” (I did insist on making one gift—to Andover— of course.) What!” Maureen said, “The rich get richer; pretty soon you’ll be advocating a flat tax!” That led to a weeklong bedroom lockout and, even at our age, that wasn’t so terrific. So we got back to the breakfast-nook table. “OK,” said I, “gotta sell the house.” “Sell the house? Are you crazy?” Maureen countered. “Yup. If we’re going to balance the budget, can’t be six figures in debt, you know. Gotta rip up those credit cards, too.”

So we locked ourselves out of the bedroom again, doing it for our own good, and that of our, most clearly, unborn children, of course, and went at it again, agreeing that this time we would abide by the Federal Under-the-Mattress-Budget-Office figures, and that we would make most of the cuts in months six and seven. Actually, things started off very well: We wouldn’t educate Matt; we’d stop all our charitable contributions; we’d throw our trash in the streets; we’d stop paying our car, house and medical insurance . . . but then we hit a snag. Maureen thought it would fine to keep pooling our income, but I said, “Have you lost your mind completely? You keep 50 percent of your income, and give me a block grant of the other half, and I’ll do the same for you—it’s easy, it’s the American way.” She resisted: “How will I know you’ll spend your block grant wisely?” “Don’t you trust me?” I asked.

Well, the bedroom’s locked again, but stay tuned—I’ll up-date you on our progress next time.

Making real progress is John Smith, who has incorporated a new non-profit called The Foundation for Individual Responsibility and Social Trust, which has been created to inspire young people to become involved in how our country should move into the future. The first plans are to have a series of meetings and conventions through the end of the century aimed at creating steps that will progressively involve more and more young people in shaping our national goals.

For those of you who don’t know that the PA football team beat Exeter 6-3 on a no-time-on-the-clock repeat of a failed play that ended with a penalty preserving their undefeated season (8-0), Andy Shea informs us, and congratulates the team. He informs us as well that the boy’s soccer team won the New England championship. And in hockey, Hank Higdon’s son Henry Jr., PA ‘94, scored the first goal for Harvard in their win over Yale.

For our part, I’m pleased to report a 6-1 /2-ton grape harvest this year, so unless we blow it in the winery, there’ll be lots of possibly mediocre but certainly 12 percent stuff for any visitors to help us dispose of come next summer.

Finally, I'm saddened to report that Skip Dolan died in December. Skip graduated from Yale, and got a master's in psychology from Tulane. He was a major in the Army and worked in banking in New York and as a real estate appraiser in New Jersey. A few years ago he returned to school and earned a degree in nursing from Fairleigh Dckinson University. He was a nurse at Matheny School and Hospital in Peapack, N.J., when he died after a sudden illness.