Tilting at All the Windmills
- Tracy Grathwohl
- Apr 10
- 4 min read
The “Tilting at Windmills” column first appeared in this paper six years ago last month.
Happy Anniversary to me!
Time flies when you’re having fun and it’s been a blast drafting such entertaining (at least to me) 900 words every four, five, or six weeks – depending on how many wise columnists the fine folks at The Express News Group had on rotation.
Wait, why didn’t I celebrate the more traditional fifth anniversary?
Great question. The short answer is I forgot.
The longer answer might involve pain killers. My March 2024 column was about how I had spent the preceding six months recovering from two knee replacement surgeries. Maybe I was too hopped up to notice the date. In the column, I did mention that I hallucinated pink pineapple socks.
Does it make a difference? According to Brides magazine, the traditional gift for a fifth anniversary is wood. The modern gift is silverware. The traditional gift for a sixth anniversary is candy or iron, while the modern gift is wood. Modern or traditional? Fifth or sixth? Either way, I’m entitled to celebratory lumber.
How about a plaque?
The plaque could congratulate me for six years of never failing to enter my writing garret every four, five, or six weeks, dipping my quill into my inkwell, and producing the funniest (at least to me) 900 words to grace the paper for the week.
Over those six years I have submitted 62 columns. Or 55,800 words. Wow! That’s practically the length of the magnum opus I keep threatening to write.
It takes roughly four minutes to read one of my columns, which means the most ardent readers have spent just over four hours perusing my work. Thank you, ardent readers. You deserve celebratory lumber.
My plan for this congratulatory column was to review my entire back catalogue and hopefully find the best parts to talk about here. You know, 900 words of humorous (at least to me) highlights.
Ardent readers, I couldn’t do it. Sure, these columns are cute and fun to read every four, five, or six weeks – depending on how many wise columnists the fine folks at The Express News Group have on rotation – but all at once?
All at once is a lot. Imagine spending four straight hours reading 900-word pieces about bras, salad spinners, and hockey pucks. Four continuous hours of this tone of voice, lots of repetition, and horrible, dad-joke level puns. I am obviously repeating myself here, but I deserve celebratory lumber for taking on this f-expletiving project.
And I almost forgot about the four unceasing hours of me attempting to coin stupid words, such as “covidian,” “s-expletive,” and “f-expletive.” Like I’m Shakespeare or someone.
Honestly, it’s exhausting to be (or not to be) me. See! Another horrible, dad-joke level pun.
It’s exhausting because the tone of voice that you ardently read in this cute, funny, column every four, five, or six weeks, runs through my brain all day. Uninterrupted. All I do is think about dresses with pockets, the Equal Rights Amendment, and toilet paper and how to turn those topics into amusing (at least to me) 900-word tomes.
Lately, I’ve been pondering Velcro. And guess what? In four, five, or six weeks, you’re going to read 900 witty (at least to me) words about Velcro.
If you think I’m drained, consider poor Mr. Hockey. He’s lived through three decades of me yammering about peonies, reusable k-cups, and wearing sneakers to weddings. Everything that appears in this column, I’ve said to Mr. Hockey many times.
And guess what? He doesn’t give a s-expletive about Velcro.
I think Mr. Hockey’s glad the fine folks at The Express News Group hired me because it gives me another outlet, which gives him a break.
Speaking of the fine folks at The Express News Group, if you had asked me six years ago if I’d still be writing this column, I’d have said, “No way. My editors won’t continue to publish this slop.”
Yet here we are.
When they hired me in 2019, they were well aware of my tone and style. My writing sample was about how I could never have a pet because I don’t like the smell of wet fur. That submission eventually became a column about me living with a puck’s cat during Covid. Conveniently, cats don’t like wet fur either. The cat and I ultimately came to a covidian détente.
The editors asked me to write about local themes. Was writing about how we can’t make left turns onto Highway 27 in the summer what they meant? Who knows? Waiting seven minutes to turn left out of Georgica Road sure feels local. And worthy of 900 words.
Looking back, I’ve written many locally-themed columns about the East End’s shops, roads, and beaches. But I’ve also written about the fat my thighs store for me in case there’s a famine, my buoyancy, and my colonoscopies. Those topics are hyper-local.
The point is, I’ve been tilting at these windmills for six wonderful years. And I have a lot of people to thank: my ardent readers, my writing sisters, my friends (some of whom have made it into this space), the fine folks at The Express News Group, the hockey pucks and their partners, the hockey sticks, and of course poor Mr. Hockey, who’s heard it all before.
You all deserve celebratory lumber.
Published in The East Hampton Press on April 10, 2025.
Photo by me! Taken on the way to the post office.
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