Driving Miss Daisy…Crazy

Posted on July 14, 2024 by Ellen Ross

Ever move to a different state, Dear Readers? And have you done it lately?

As I wrote in the last blog, I recently reloed from Illinois to North Carolina.

Why North Carolina?

Why not?

North Carolina has Duke in it.  And Asheville. And the great UNC- GO HEELS!  And Camp LeJeune.  And the Outer Banks.  And acceptable winter weather and user friendly taxes and comfortable house prices.

Ever since I moved here, I’ve discovered that the state of North Carolina is just like a state of pregnancy.

You don’t notice it until you’re in it.

And then when you are, you suddenly see many like-minded people everywhere you look.

I just read a great article about people moving to North Carolina for these reasons.

You’ll forgive me, Dear Readers, if I don’t say where.  Some of you know that for the last couple of years (!) I have been plagued with a stalker.

A destructive one.  He drained my bank account, eavesdropped electronically, spread lies about me, altered my Facebook posts and made my life hellacious.

Moving on with moving…

Interstate moving is one of those things like root canal.  If you knew how awful it would be, you just might not do it.

But someday, Dear Readers, you might find yourself with a change of zip code.

So in the spirit of public service, here is The Ellen Ross Quick Relocation Guide.

1.  Did you know that Interstate movers charge by weight?  Not by the mile. Get rid of everything you don’t use, need or want.

I shipped twice as much bulk as my new digs could handle.

This is just one corner of my new abode.  A cross between a junk shop, second hand book store and an art gallery.  I can finally see my floor but eBay come and take stuff away!

2.  Did you know that if you want to close a savings account at certain national banks you have to do it IN PERSON?

Moolah was sitting in my savings account at the Winstead Bank in Illinois but they would not mail, wire or return it to me.

It wasn’t that I had an early withdrawal penalty on it.

It was the fact that I had forgotten to close it before I left Illinois.

Three overdrawn check penalties, a one hour pleading phone call on my behalf made by my new banker, one certified, notarized, handwritten letter begging for my own money Fed Exed to the bank and…

One month later, I got my money back.

3.  And speaking of money, did you know that Chase Bank- Jamie Dimon’s little piggy bank- might be a huge presence in the world of finance but it doesn’t exist in North Carolina?

Yep.

NO Chase Banks anywhere in the state. Try finding a Chase ATM when you need a quick cash transfusion.

Fuggetaboutit.

4.  Did you know that if you get a temporary mailing address and a PO box because your new domicile isn’t quite ready yet, you are doomed to Casablanca Hell?

Take buying a car.

At the first dealership I tried, the Finance Lady- a close relation to Elsa Klebb- had a  problem with the concept.

“I will be moving into my permanent address in a month, I told her.  You’ll have to title it to that address- not my current one.”

“Why?” she snapped.

“Um, because my new apartment isn’t ready, ” I answered meekly.

“WHY?” she barked.

“Because they’re painting it and it isn’t ready yet,” I answered.  My pulse was starting to race.

“Why?” she snarled.

“Because the people haven’t moved out yet and…”

“WHY?’ she roared.

At that point, I gave up and left the unbought car sitting forlornly on the lot.

The two address thing also screwed up my credit card.

Don’t ask.

5. Did you know that moving to North Carolina means you might have to get new health insurance?  In North Carolina, these is no such thing as Blue Cross.

I got an eye infection, had no doctor yet, drove to the hospital E.R using GPS that I could not see, couldn’t figure out where I was insurance-wise, got a scrip, got a bill, paid a bill and then found out that I owed no bill, then I was in a doughnut and the new insurance company cancelled me until my old Blue Cross officially expired- even though I carefully explained to the agent that I was covered until June…

Never mind.

6.  Did you know that you will have to get all new doctors?  Sounds easy but…

A friend of mine – Emily- saw her internist at their local grocery store.  Emily asked if the doctor was taking new patients.  He was.  The doctor then told Emily to have me stop by his office the next day to fill out his new patient package.

I happily complied.

The first thing the receptionist- an AWFUL tattooed harridan with a thousand-yard stare- said to me was,”No. The doctor is not taking any new patients.”

It went downhill from there.

In the end, I used the Charm Offensive.

I had the charm.  She was offensive.

But I prevailed, filled out the forms, reminded her that I also needed to sign release forms to get my old medical records and left the office ninety minutes later with a splitting headache and an ulcer.

(Btw, if I have to walk, I am keeping my Chicago gynecologist.  Nobody new is checking me out under the hood.)

7.  Did you know that no matter what the automated system says, you will need many, MANY more documents to get a driver’s license- even if you do not have to take the driver’s road test.

I called the North Carolina Motor Vehicle Hotline before I set out to become a Carolina Driver In Good Standing.

I listened carefully to the list of things I would need to bring to the facility.

I gathered up official mail with my new address on it and two expired passports. (I had gone to the bank to get my current one out of the safety deposit box but it was the first Monday after the first of the month.  The bank line was an hour long.  I bagged it and took my old ones instead.)

I also brought my current valid Illinois driver’s license, my Illinois state ID, an electric company bill and a few other valid pieces of identification.

Emily had graciously offered to drive me to a the driver’s license place.

It had moved and was now in another town now, she had said.

I happily accepted and on the way, we chatted and laughed and had a great time talking nonsense.

We were both carefree as she parked the car and we sauntered into the facility.

It was not too crowded.

Good sign.  She sat down. I took a ticket and right away my number was called.

I walked up.

“Car registration,” the civil servant demanded.

Huh?

“Car registration,” he repeated.

“It’s in my car.  Back home.  The hotline never mentioned that…”

“I need to see your car registration or you can’t get a license.’

OMG.

I sat down in a fog.  Car registration?  When did I ever need a car registration to get a driver’s license in Maryland? Or Colorado? Or Illinois, for that matter.

Emily was dismayed, too.

But I gathered my wits, called the gal at the car dealership and faster than you could say, “Paul Powell,” she had emailed me a copy of my car registration.

Back I went into line.

The clerk wearily looked at my identification and started to fill out the forms when he was stopped by his supervisor.

“You can’t take those passports.  They’re expired.”

“But it doesn’t matter, ” I pleaded.  “I had to be an United States citizen to get them in the first place.  See where it says “born in Chicago, Illinois”?  See my photos?  It’s me…”

The line behind was growing longer with disgruntled license seekers.  Emily was growing restive and regretting her decision to take me in the first place.

I stood my ground.

The supervisor was iron.

“Nope.  Go back to your bank and get the valid one.  And why don’t you go to the facility in your own home town and leave us alone?’

“It’s closed, ” I volunteered. “My friend Emily told me so.”

“It’s NOT,” he corrected.  “Go there.”

Emily looked shell shocked but she dutifully drove me back to the bank.

I ran in and saw the original line from 11 a.m. hadn’t advanced by one person yet.

I now went into my Shirley MacLaine mode and convincingly acted out the part from Terms of Endearment.

“Someone open the box! Get me someone to open the box!”

Then it was on to the hometown facility.

By now it was almost closed.  The new clerk warned me I might not be seen that afternoon.

The tension was mounting.

But at last, my number was called.  The clerk happily took my documents, praised them to the skies for meeting all the guidelines and then said, “You’re almost good to go on to the final step.  Just one more question.”

I wearily nodded my head.

“Are you married?” he asked.

“No,” I answered.  I was plumb tuckered out.  “I’m divorced.”

“I need to see your divorce papers,” he said.

DIVORCE PAPERS.

OMG.

“WHY?” I screamed.  They could hear me in South Carolina.

“Why? Nobody ever told me to bring divorce papers I didn’t bring them and I don’t even have them all and I didn’t know I need them to get a driver’s license oh my God why in heaven’s name do you need divorce papers wait a minute I haven’t changed my name since 1976 will that work?”

It did.

Whew.

So far so good. I love it here.

When it comes to moving ever again, in the immortal words of Sam Goldwyn, “Include me out!”

I’m here for good and all.

Poor Emily.

Native son James Taylor, please sing me to sleep.

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School of Thought

Posted on June 30, 2024 by Ellen Ross

In case you can’t tell, Dear Readers, this is me. And I’m acting out a scene from a recurring nightmare I had for years.

In my dream, I’m standing in front of my high school locker and for the life of me, I can’t remember the combination.

And then I won’t be able to get my books.

Or do my homework.

And I won’t graduate.

I can’t tell you how many years I had this dream.  I’d wake up shaking.

Eventually it went away.  Time, distance and a high school diploma finally eased my mind.

Until I went back to the scene of the crime.

New Trier High School, Winnetka, Illinois.

Although I have officially exited Illinois and am now residing in North Carolina…

WAIT!! WHAT?? HUH?? Don’t worry Dear Readers, you didn’t miss anything. You’ll learn a bit more about my heading for the coast in the next blog.

… A three day combination retirement extravaganza-symposium-lovefest for my fearless leader in the tricky world of crossword construction, University of Minnesota Chemistry professor George Barany, recently brought me to Rosemont, Illinois.

In the last few years, I had heard wondrous things about a facelift on New Trier. So while I was more or less back in town, I thought I’d go back and see what marvelous renovations had been done to it.

I also thought I’d have more fun if I booked a tour and invited another Class of ’67 alum, Jack.

Sidebar about Jack.  Even at thirteen, Jack had ALL the tools.  Smart, handsome, steadfast, determined- he knew where he was heading in Life.  He was the guy you would have voted “Most Likely To Succeed- In Everything.”

And sixty years on, he has.

I, on the other hand, thought of high school as a romp, a sandbox, a place to have fun.  I didn’t wise up and get serious about my work or my grades or my life or my career or my future until…

Um…never?

I’m still goofing around.

Anyhow, I had heard that you couldn’t just walk in and see the school.  Those days vanished in 1988 with a tragic local school shooting.  Horrible.

So I pestered the principal’s secretary who (unluckily for her) happened to answer the  phone. I won the day with persistence- and the fact that I flaunted Jack’s real cred and inflated my own.

Finally she caved and set up an official guided tour.

Mission accomplished, I emailed Jack and gave him the deets about how to see our old stomping grounds- Beta Version.

So on a beautiful almost-summer Thursday afternoon, we showed up, signed in through the strict security and waited for our guide to escort down the new hallowed halls.

Here’s what met us.

Wow.

Where I used to take Driver’s Ed with Mr. Schneider- the basketball coach from southern Illinois who looked like Clint Eastwood and sounded like Chet Atkins- he was always talking about the POH-lice and IN-surance- there was a brand new, shiny SCHOOL built on to our old one.

Jack and I were dumbfounded.

In awe, we gazed around at our new New Trier.

Enter Denise.  Our tour guide.

Adorable, bright, knowledgeable, enthusiastic- and looking young enough to be a junior- Denise started our tour with a bang.

She took us to the new dining hall experience.

What Jack and I had so casually called “the Cafeteria” in 1963 had been transmogrified.

Now it was three (?) glamorous dining spaces fit for vegans, vegetarians, gourmands and the most sophisticated of palates.

My mother had neither ever cooked (or shopped for groceries) in her life.  Thus I “bought.”  I had Sloppy Joes when I got lucky and drank the little cartons of lemonade for FOUR YEARS.

Not only did I now spot Coke machines glistening in the halls along with shiny vending machines chock filled with unhealthy salty snacks, but when Denise casually mentioned the sushi bar, I blacked out.

A sushi bar?

And that didn’t include a deluxe place for the teachers now to partake.

Back in the Stone Age (make that Alex and Donna Stone) all that our poor teachers had was an unseen- and I’m sure lousy- teacher’s lounge in which to chill- and escape us.

I picture dingy formica and one rusted coffee pot with a can of non dairy creamer and a couple of chipped mugs.

Now I think they swan about eating in something like this.

The tour continued in the same vein.

I had vaguely remembered “Shop.”

Maybe a vise, one lathe, an old car tire and a cracked engine block if you were mechanically inclined.  My first hint that things had changed came here.

Holy Bauhaus, Batman!

On the top floor of a gigantic glass addition that Walter Gropius would have been proud to call his own, there were drafting ROOMS and architectural CAD computers and enough room for Henry Ford to build another assembly line.  There was EVERYTHING an aspiring young Mies would need to set him on the right blueprint for Life.

Or were you drama, dance or songbird-oriented when you were fifteen?

Denise pointed out theaters – including a black box if you were avant garde- and enough rehearsal space for a roadshow company of Cats.

New Trier was always a pacesetter in the world of the Arts.  In our day, Dr. Peterman and later, Dennis Moreen, set the bar for excellence.

If any of you remember Dennis, please take a look at this.  It’s outstanding, of course, and it will give you an idea of the quality of the teacher and the product we kids could turn out when inspired by brilliance.

And when you made it big on Broadway or became a pop idol, there was now (befittingly) a New Trier Swag Store.

Run by a bonzer Aussie lady. I’m sorry that I’ve forgotten her name but we laughed and laughed as we quoted lines from one of my all time FAVE movies- The Castle.

Denise’s tour was likewise fabulous.  In between being gobsmacked, Jack and I  bombarded her with hilariously funny (to us only) reminiscences as we endeavored to explain how much those years had shaped both of us.

And we VEHEMENTLY declaimed why we would always be New Trier Indians.

Never Trevians.

The natatorium smelled exactly the same, btw.

As we made our way to the rotunda- the agora of the our old New Trier- we noticed some other things.

And the kids themselves looked shiny and new.

School was still in session and we saw purple-haired, tye-dyed, tattooed boys and girls- bright-eyed, engaged and purposeful as they dodged us in the halls.

Now this might be the time to say that I know that high school was not the be all and end all for everyone.  New Trier in our day- with its 4600 students and tough competition- was probably a nightmare for many teenagers.

If you were too shy or too tall or too short or weren’t interested in “The Waning of the Middle Ages” or “The Brothers Karamazov” (two books I particularly loathe to this day) New Trier was probably a nuisance or an anathema- depending on how sensitive you were.

But then and now, maybe high school is the last time in ALL of our lives where anything is possible.

The real world of college admissions and job searches and mortgage payments and health insurance and child support has not reared its ugly head yet. Responsibilities, gray hair, fatal illnesses, addiction issues – these are all in the future.

New Trier- and all her sister high schools schools- might have been the best of times and the worst of times but for me, it will now and forever be my field of dreams.

Dream on, Cowboys and Indians.

Dream on.

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Huckleberry Friend

Posted on June 23, 2024 by Ellen Ross

Well, Dear Readers, I have some news for you.   Some of it’s good, some of it’s sad, some of it’s wonderful and like most of Mark Twain’s writing, it’s too unbelievable not to be true.

But it is.

You may remember that I married TBF in October, 2022.

In December 2022- same year just in case you missed it- he came home and asked for a divorce.

Now, you know me.  After a lifetime of getting married to different men for different reasons, I’m probably not that of a great picker.

But I’m a pro when it comes to moving on.

That’s all I needed to hear.  He said, “I want a divorce.”

He didn’t have to ask me twice.

That was Divorce Court for me, Dear Readers.

The rest of 2023 was spent in the paper work and recriminations.

You know.  All the ugly details.

But on January 9, 2024, we got the divorce that he asked for and I, by then, desperately wanted.

Finally, I was free.

“I ain’t got a dime but what I have is mine. I ain’t rich, but Lord, I’m free.”

That could be my motto.

I never asked for anything.  Ask any of my ex husbands.

But I’m free.

I want to type that again.

I’m free.

For me, the two most beautiful words in any language.

And now, at seventy-four, after being a puppet of my mother’s, a dutiful wife of a cheating  husband, a devoted mother of three step-children and two biological ones who all grew up to be hard workers and credits to their communities, I can FINALLY do what I want.

I know what I want and I want to start looking for it.

Wish me luck.  I know that you will.

After all, haven’t you stuck by me through thick and thin?

Thanks for that.  It means more to me than I can ever tell you.

I promise I will stay in touch.

And now, I’ll let Huck bid you adieu.  He can say it better than I can.

“But I reckon I got to light out for the Territory ahead of the rest, because Aunt Sally she’s going to adopt me and sivilize me, and I can’t stand it. I been there before.”

― Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huck Finn 

Nobody ever is going to sivilize me.

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Martial Arts

Posted on January 20, 2024 by Ellen Ross

This post is dedicated to WLSC, FDR and JBS.  They know why.  God bless them.

I am running this post today, January 21, Dear Readers, because on this date in 1954, the first nuclear-powered submarine, the USS Nautilus was launched by Mamie Eisenhower.  (Who happens to share my birthday- November 14.)

It was launched in Groton, Connecticut and I know this because…

What you’re looking at pictured above is a sampling of my books about military history.

I have done you a favor.

This a very small sample.

I have always been fascinated by the subject.

And like most of my interests, I have NO idea why.

My grandfather was in the Army Infantry in France in World War I.  He was the oldest vet at Hines Hospital when he died at 96.  (And a belated thank you to Dr. Mike Rubnitz.  I think he helped land him safely at the new facility.)

My father was in the Navy on the aircraft carrier Number 88- the USS Shangri-Là- during all of WWII.

My beloved Uncle Herb was in the Air Force for WWII and Korea.  He stayed in and retired as a Colonel.

I was married to a former Major in the Army and a Marine.  (I do not have to divulge the Marine’s name, rank or serial number. Just the word “Marine” should tell you everything you need to know about him.)

I’ve spent time at USMA.   (That’s West Point for those of you who have never had the privilege of being in Highland Falls, New York.)

I’m proud and grateful for each and every man and woman who has defended our country and kept us free.  Free to make up our own minds on everything from religion to what blogs we read.

But I can’t help wishing that I could have been part of the show.  I always thought I should have been in the military.  I don’t know why.

I do know that from earliest childhood, I was entranced by war movies.

Destination Gobi, Sergeant York, The Desert Fox, What Price Glory, Destination Tokyo, The Great Escape, Stalag 17, Lawrence of Arabia, The Bridge on the River Kwai, Kelly’s Heroes, The Dirty Dozen, The Guns of Navarone.

But then there was the one movie that changed my life.

The Man Who Never Was.

SPOILER ALERT: If you’ve never seen it, I am sworn to secrecy about the whole darn plot.  Let’s just say, for your eyes only, that Ian Fleming and the original role model for M- Sir Stewart Cameron Menzies KCB, KCMG, DSO, MC, Chief of MI6, played supporting roles in this true life “Spy vs Spy” story about the D-Day invasion at Normandy.

See it.

And that’s an order!

Counter Intelligence, hide in plain sight, code breaking…

Ahhh. Code-breaking.  This movie really rang a bell for Crossword Constructionist me.

The girl who solves the crossword puzzle?  That’s always been me. (Only I’m nowhere near as beautiful as Keira Knightley.)

Completely off topic clip.  Because I love her so much.

Ok. I’m all squared away and back on the beam.

I always wanted to join the military- but I knew I could never hack it.

Beast Barracks?  Basic? The orders I would have to follow- like it or not.

I’d be much more like this NJG.

I would end up like these guys for sure.

But after a lifetime of trying to figure out what branch of the military I truly belong in, I think I’ve finally got it.

I would, likely as not, end up here.

Yep. I can live with that.

Where do I sign?

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Mantra

Posted on January 7, 2024 by Ellen Ross

This post is dedicated to John Yager. New Trier Class of 1966.  Fearless Leader (along with Terry Winkless) of my favorite FB Group “You lived on Chicago’s North Shore…”, BBQ maven and all around great guy.  Thanks, Hopsy.

A few years ago, I was going through some tough emotional stuff.  I shared a bit with you, Dear Readers.

John responded right away.

“You’ve got this, E.”

He was just so sure, so positive, had so much faith in me that his instantaneous belief in me made me believe in myself.

And it became my new mantra.

I always knew that I usually could rise to the occasion when Life handed me a whopper of a moral, ethical or just way too hard problem.

My childhood- and Colorado- had taught me how to figure stuff out on my own.

Like the time, our husky Killarney broke free of her rope.

Now here’s the back story.  We lived on thousands of acres of Colorado wilderness.  Killarney was Mike- my ski instructor husband’s- dog.  She was my step dog.  He never tied her up.  Ever.

But for some reason I don’t recall, she was staked out for an hour in our yard while he went off on an errand.

I checked on her through the kitchen window.  One minute she was there.  Next minute- gone.

With the rope attached.

I ran out of the house with my hair on fire.  It wasn’t that she was gone- she always knew how to get home.  It was that damn thick rope she had on her.

I called her and called her.  Nada.

I looked high- and then I got lucky.  I looked low.

And there at the bottom of a gully was Killarney, smiling up at me, wagging her tail, and entirely tangled up with that rope lethally entwined around a log.

I was so happy to find her – a Siberian in a haystack- that without thinking, I slid down that gully and untied her.  In a flash, she scrambled up and out.

She was free.

But I was trapped.  The rock face of that gully was too steep for me to get any real footing.

Hmmm.

There was no point in yelling.

And there was no such thing as a cell phone back then.

Hmmm.

And then I had a brain wave.  I didn’t have a steam shovel and a crew of rescuers.  I had a HUSKY.  And she was born to pull.

I called her and she came immediately- with the rope dangling over the hole and juuuust long enough for me to grab it and tie it around my waist.

And then all I had to say was, “Killarney, go home.”

And she pulled me straight up that rock wall and I was safe and dry in about thirty seconds.

A couple of weeks ago, I found myself in another “Do or Die” predicament.

TH was in Northwestern Hospital in Chicago.  He had just undergone a rather nasty tune up and they were keeping him there for five days.

Rather than train in every day, I opted for a nearby hotel room.  At the end of every visiting session, me, myself and my bottle of Diet Coke and bag of Gardetto’s Snack Mix (Original Flavor) would head back to my temporary digs.

By then, it always would be dark and cold and I would be beat from watching him not feel so hot all day.

He did make good progress and he was right on the money recovery-wise.  And every day,  I’d sit on a bench in his room- along with nurses, doctors, orderlies, student trainees.

There were always more people in his room in Feinberg Pavilion than this.

(One of the ALL TIME GREAT SCENES in moviedom.  Even if you don’t read the post, watch this.)

As I was gazing out of his window at the Walgreen’s in the Galter Pavilion across the street, Walgreen’s actually texted me.

My Prolia shot was ready to be picked up.

Long story very short: I am thin and small-boned.  A prime candidate for osteoporosis.

I was put on Fosomax tablets a long time ago and then had to go off.  They did not agree with me.

I have flunked the bone scan test so many times, I think I set the bar.  Like he did.

But at long last, I got the official okay from Medicare and my $1700 twice a year shot went down to $17.

I could handle that.

I get my shots every June and December.  If you EVER stop taking them you lose any bone mass that the shots have built up.  All previous efforts go down the drain.

So when Walgreen’s called me, I jumped to attention.

There was just one small glitch.

Nobody could give me the injection.

Let me make this perfectly clear.

I was at Northwestern Hospital in a room filled with Northwestern doctors and nurses.

I had a prescription ordered by a Northwestern doctor who has just semi-retired and is now only practicing tele-health.

I have an appointment with a brand new Northwestern internist in January.

I get shots at Walgreen’s all the time.

NOBODY would give me the shot.

My new internist’s office called Northwestern’s Urgent Care Clinic and spoke with them personally.

Nope.  No dice.

I called Walgreen’s back and pleaded with them to give me the shot.

No.

NOBODY WOULD GIVE ME THE SHOT.

I felt just like this.

With visions of my spine crumbling, I ran over to Walgreen’s.  With my heart POUNDING, I asked to speak to the head pharmacist.

She was a she- and lovely.

And kind, understanding and very patient with this soon-to-be hysterical patient.

She understood my dilemma. She was extremely concerned about my fall-between-the cracks bureaucratic liability problem.  She truly cared.  I could tell.

“Mrs. Ross, if I gave you that shot I would lose my job.  I would be fired.  I can not risk that.  I am so very sorry.”

I couldn’t argue with that one.

“Can you at least show me how to give it to myself then?  I am too worn out to watch instructions on Youtube.”

“Yes, that I can do.  Cleanse the area with alcohol.  Then put the syringe two fingers from your belly button right here.  She was touching me at the point where X would puncture the spot.

By now, ALL of Walgreen’s was entranced.

“Then you inject into the fatty tissue. Wait five seconds and pull out the needle.”

“Good luck, Mrs. Ross.”

She handed me this.

I bought a bottle of my go-to energy drink- Diet Coke- and bemused, bedraggled and beaten, plodded slowly to my hotel room-

And my date with Destiny.

Oh, did I happen to mention, Dear Readers, that I had never done this before? I had injected my diabetic Husky twice a day but that was different.  I would do anything for a DOG.  But for myself ?  Um, I wasn’t so sure.

I was tired, cold and shaking by the time I got that G.D. key card to work on the elevator and my door.  The door was so heavy that I could barely shove it open with my shoulder.

I had to lie down.

I took a beat. Or two.  And then I forced myself to remember what the nice lady had shown and told.

Okay.  First thing, get all the works out of my purse.

Okay.  Now go wash my hands like I’m Dr. Michael DeBakey getting prepped for transplant surgery.

Now clean off the area with alcohol.

Hmm. Alcohol. Alcohol.  In a hotel room?  No mini bar, just a fridge…

I become this:

And so I search through my purse and pull out this.

And now all I have to do is lie on the bed, unzip my jeans, wipe the area with my glasses cleaner and…

Wait a minute. I can’t open the box.  It’s sealed tight and I have no scissors or letter opener…

It was impossible to open the package and then it was even harder to get the syringe out of the blister pack.  Ten minutes of struggling and wrestling and trying not to break finger nails finally led to this.

It had been mano à mano but I won.

And I yanked the cap off that mother, wiped away and then….

In golf, you’re always supposed to have a “Swing Thought.”  It’s a little chant you say to make you relax and let the swing come naturally.

My “Swing Thought” here was:

You’ve got this.

I jabbed, plunged the needle in, left it there for five seconds and pulled it out.

I looked around.

I wasn’t dead or in a coma or anything.

A good sign.

And I owe it all to John Yager and his mantra.

You’ve got this.

And Dear Readers, As 2024 begins, I wish you all the happiest and healthiest of New Years.

But just in case some sadness, hardship or strife should unexpectedly and undeservedly strike, just know:

You’ve got this.

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Posted in John Yager, New Trier High School, Uncategorized | 19 Comments

A Charmed Life

Posted on October 8, 2023 by Ellen Ross

In 1973 at Christmastime, my second husband robbed me.

I had blithely set out for the day leaving behind my four dogs (an Afghan hound- technically his- two Bassets and a Doberman) my Oldsmobile Cutlass with the license plate “Pookah” and all my valuables in our house outside of Baltimore.

Upon my return, I found…

Hmmm.  Let’s just say for the sake of time, only the house.

Which had been ransacked beyond my powers of description.

My second husband and all the dogs had vanished into thin air.

Along with my car.

After the shock had started to wear off and the police had been called, I took some preliminary inventory.

All the mattresses had been slashed. Gone were the pills in the medicine chest, the frozen food, all my Steiff stuffed animals and my typewriter. A Smith Corona Selectric.

And then I discovered that all of my jewelry was missing, as well.

Which was the point of the whole damn thing.

Even though I was still young at that time, I owned some beautiful jewelry.

My grandmother had given me some.

My parents had given me a little – including a gold pocket watch that had been my father’s father’s most treasured possession.

And my first husband’s family had given me some lovely pieces.

My second husband and his henchmen- the cops later told me that there were three criminals involved in this enterprise- did not get my Cartier Tank watch.  I happened to be wearing it that morning.

Thank goodness.

But they did manage to get quite a haul of irreplaceable items.

And one of them was my charm bracelet that I had been given as a pre-teen.

And now, after all these years, it’s the piece of jewelry that I miss the most.

For those of you who actually know me, I’m sure you’re aware of my – shall we say- colorful marital history.

I’ve been wooed and won and loved and lost more than my fair share.

And with each new romance came hope- and swag.

Loot.  Jewelry. Bling.

(Some of it more blingy than others.)

But nothing ever told my story better than that charm bracelet.

It was a wearable autobiography.

I’ll close my eyes now and try to remember each charm.

Let’s start with the Scottie Dog.

Funny that it was a Scottie.  I had started this charm bracelet when I was about twelve.  I was dog-crazy as a kid.  Still am today.  But I had never owned a Scottie and hence the wish- in the form of a little silver charm.

Look what that charm turned into many years later.

Here’s the clan. That’s Wee Gillis, St. Andrew Ross McGregor Stuart and Kayo Murdoch chillin’ in my/their Colorado kitchen.  (I know. Black dogs are hard to see. Sorry.)

The next charm I can see is is this.

An ice skate.  Boy, does that bring back fond memories of countless cold-but-enchanting Friday nights at the Wilmette Village Green.

I had a pair of skates handed down from my cousin, Suzie.  They were white, of course and had a blue and white yarn pom pom on each boot.

I had a chocolate velveteen skating skirt- not handed down from Cousin Suzie- a bulky cream-colored knit sweater and a matching tam.  It was my uniform and every Friday and Sunday in the winter, I’d hop into it- and my mother’s car- and dream of the scalding hot chocolate with the teeny marshmellows that I was going to sip (carefully) in the next few hours.

I loved skating.  The feeling of freedom was just…intoxicating.  I never had that feeling before and I didn’t discover it again until years later when I learned to ski.

(You’ll notice my daughter Natasha was the only one in this photo not wearing sun glasses.  She categorically refused to wear them- no matter how much I begged her. Until one day, when her eyes hurt her so terribly that I had to take her to an emergency appointment with an opthamologist.  Turned out the Snowmass sun had scorched her eyeballs.  Was she ever in pain.  She wore sunglasses on the slopes forever after.)

Here’s the next charm I can remember.

A silver globe that spun when you twirled it.

My father once told me that I when I was two, I stormed up to him, put my hands on my hips and indignantly stated, “Do you know that I have never been anywhere in my whole life?”

That sounds like me.

Then- and now.

I love traveling.  Just show me an empty suitcase and I start dreaming.

And even though I was a late bloomer, my wonderful life has taken me on a magic carpet ride.

I’ve loved everywhere from NYC to HK.

I’ve stood in awe in front of this.

And this.

And there is still so much more I long to see.

The next stop on my bracelet is this one.

For my younger readers, let me explain.

This was a telephone.

Not an iPhone or A Google Android phone.

A phone.

With something called a dial.

Here’s what we teens used to do with it.

Neat-O, right?  And just in case any of you crazy kids wants to start a charm bracelet of your very own, you can always start with this.

The next link on my bracelet held this.

A tiny adding machine- with a workable crank.  My New Trier High School freshman year beau, Steve, had given it to me.

He had also given me my very first grown up kiss.

Saturday night, November 23, 1963.

You history buffs will have immediately noticed this date, of course.  President Kennedy had been assassinated in Dallas the day before.  Even at 14, I was reeling like the rest of the country.  Not only from the sense of immense and stupefying loss, but I had never seen a teacher cry before like Mrs. Burns did when we were called back to Advisory and she told us the terrible news.

The next night, Steve and I were at the movies watching this.

Somewhere during this epic, Steve leaned over and kissed me.

I don’t remember the rest of the movie.

I do remember that on that New Year’s Eve, we necked up a storm in my basement.

And that’s why Steve bought me the adding machine- to add up all our kisses, of course.

There were more charms.

This.

This.

And this.

But the one that matters most, now that I have had sixty plus years to think about it, is this one. Without a doubt.

A four leaf clover.  For luck.

Because I’m starting to believe that in the end, it all comes down to luck.  Good. Or bad.

I’ve had my fair share of both.  No complaints.

I had a charm bracelet and I had it stolen.

I’ve had husbands- some good, some bad- but I’ve learned important things from all of them.

I’ve been lucky enough to have great friends.

I’ve been lucky enough to have good health. (Knock on wood.)

I’ve been lucky enough to have been given some brains, survival skills and some staying power.

And I’ve been lucky enough to have been born curious.  I want to see what the next charm on the bracelet of Life will be.

Maybe this one.

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Posted in Aging, charm bracelets | Tagged | 10 Comments

Hello, Mary Lu

Posted on September 17, 2023 by Ellen Ross

This coming Wednesday, September 20, will be a red letter anniversary for me. That’s the day forty-eight years ago, that Mary Lu Rubnitz became Mary Lu Roffe.

And my sister-in-law.

Wow. Forty-eight years.  That’s a long time.  But you have to keep in mind, Dear Readers, that I first met her in 1970 so I have had the pleasure of her company for even longer.

Fade to 1970…

(This was playing on the radio.)

It was a Saturday night in October. I was twenty years old, divorced, had a Yorkie and a fab stereo set up and I was living at the brand new, very-hip-for-a-suburban-kid Astor House at 1340 North Astor.

In other words, I had all the trappings of an extremely cool older sister.

Hence it was no surprise when my doorbell rang and in swaggered my younger and very suburban brother, Kenny.

(Both of us pre-orthodontics.  Thanks Dr. Swoiskin.  Belated apology for cutting all those wires.)

He was accompanied by three adorable New Trier kids.

“This is Sam.  This is Lori.  This is Mary Lu.  Get out.”

And I did.

That first Saturday night date must have gone well. The course of Kenny and Mary Lu’s true love went smoothly.

And look how it ended up.

Thus I feel totally responsible for their wedding anniversary this Wednesday.

Wouldn’t you?

In the course of the last forty plus years, I’ve come to know, respect and love ML for many reasons.

We have shared many a (mis)adventure together.  From Post Camp at Ojibwa to maternity ward.

It was Mary Lu who sped me to the hospital when I was having Nick at any second.  I think of her- and her Graham Hill-like driving- every April 21 and I’m eternally grateful.

(And no, Kenny, I did not mess up the seats on your new car.)

She has always been there for me.  Like the steadfast, devoted to family gal that she is.

She was even good sport/matron of honor/official wedding photographer at out very spur of the moment wedding in Arizona last October.

(TH and I looking very surprised to find ourselves at the wedding chapel.)

Broadway producer, philanthropist, patron of the arts -and artists- Mary Lu may have entered my life as a suburban Winnetka kid.

She’s become a very great lady.

And she hasn’t finished yet.

Can’t wait to see where the next forty-eight years takes her.

And us.

Happy Anniversary, Gorgeous.

Enjoy this gift.

It’s from one great red head to another.

With love,

Ellen.

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Posted in Friendship, Mary Lu Roffe | 13 Comments

People Who Need People

Posted on July 30, 2023 by Ellen Ross

In case you don’t recognize it, Dear Readers, that’s the Colony Hotel Cabana Club.  It’s located in Delray Beach, Florida and TH (The Husband- formerly known as “TBF”) and I just got back from one glorious sun-filled week there.

Florida?  In the summer? Yep. THE best kept travel secret around. The conditions were perfect.

The weather was hot.  The ocean and pool water were both warm and inviting.  We had fled the the thunderstorms, tornados and wildfire smoke-filled skies of Geneva, Illinois and we have sought warm tropic breezes and cold drinks.

We kept to a very strict routine.

7:00 a.m. Up and dress in bathing suits and cover ups.  Do Wordle and drink coffee (TH) Watch (me)

8:00 a.m.  Head to Walgreen’s or Publix for New York Times and one bottle of Diet Coke.  (Me)

9:00 a.m.  Breakfast at either Bagels With Deli or The Green Owl    Yum.

10:00 a.m. Head to the Cabana Club to spend the rest of the day at the beach (TH) and the pool (Me)

3:30 p.m. Leave the club

End of rigorous daytime schedule.

The nights were just as grueling.

5:00 p.m. to 7:00 p.m. Happy Hour and dinner

(Think Margarita for him.  Diet Coke for me.)

7:00 p.m. until 10:00 p.m. Drinks and people-watching from the front porch of the Colony.

10:01 p.m. Go to bed.

We did this for seven glorious days.  We had highly-cooperative weather, wonderful food and a lovely respite from reality.

But the thing that struck me the most about this trip was the people we met.

They were fun.  And I want you to meet them, too.

(Ahem. The following names have been changed to protect the innocent- and the not-so-innocent.)

My very first dip in the pool I met Carrie and her husband- let’s call him Art.  They were originally from Boston.   Art was in Real Estate. Carrie?  She looked like a grandmotherly housewife.  If she had a job, she never discussed it.

The moment I waded in, Carrie was Johnny-On-The-Spot. She noodled into my personal space and began talking.

Pool Sidebar: EVERYONE at the beach club was heavily into these things.  Why?

Anyhow…in about six minutes Carrie had learned everything she wanted to know (and what I was willing to share) about TH and me. Art told me alot about the real estate market in Delray – hot and prices going up all the time- the beach club and why they belong to it, Delray and why they moved there, their kids, grandkids and political views. Then TH came swimming up to us and the conversation got serious.

“Where’s the best place to get fish for dinner around here?” queried TH.

They knew.

They knew a lot about EVERYTHING and for the rest of the week they happily shared their opinions on all subjects whenever they saw me.

I didn’t mind. They were kind and well-meaning and actually feigned interest when I told them that my Boston grandson Sam had just gone to sleepaway camp in Maine.

Now those are good people.

My next close encounter came in the shallow end -again- with The Three Ladies From Naples.

I never did catch their names but they were on a girl’s trip from the other side of Florida and we struck up a lively conversation on how tough Life is when you need a vacation from your permanent vacation.

At least two of of the The Three Ladies spoke to me, that is.  The other one just glowered, sulked, pouted and shot me dirty look whenever I opened my mouth.

Lest you think I was imagining this ill will, TH laughed and teased me about it.

“She sure hates you,” he snickered.  “Whenever  you say anything to the other two, she gets mad.”

“I know, right?” I concurred.  “I have no idea why but she absolutely HATES me.”

Hater Lady proceeded to undermine every restaurant review I gave to her group, nix any activity that I suggested they might try and took great pains to let me know that virtually any idea that came from me was not even worth considering.

I just laughed.  It provided days of amusement to watch her put the kibosh on all my good dinner suggestions.

My next noodle encounter was pasta of a very different sort.

Meet Carmella and her spouse, Tony.  They were at the Beach Club for a few days baby-sitting their only grandchild- Caesare.

And although Carmella informed me at once that they hailed from Long Island, (pronounced “Lon-Guyislan”) I suspected her of being born somewhere near Newark, New Jersey.

My Carmela had the same accent, fingernails and basic contempt for her husband as the Soprano version.  But she was hilarious.  And when she dismissed Tone (when he wasn’t in earshot) as “a waste of space,”  I went into silent hysterics.

She was buxom, bawdy, tattooed and completely sure of her opinions. And with three cop sons, she went pretty hard on the current Biden administration.  I enjoyed every close encounter with her.

MSNBC BULLETIN: Let’s get the politics out of the way right now. Yes.  I did feel guilty venturing into De Santis Land.  No. I do not endorse in any way his hateful ideas or actions as governor. Yes.  I had decided in advance to make no mention of how I felt whilst I was in a bathing suit.  No.  I didn’t exactly keep to my decision.  Yes and No.  I did not change one person’s mind on politics while I was in Florida.  Most of the people I met shared my opinion and I didn’t bother with the other faction.

I met terrific people from Pennsylvania, New York City, New York City and New York City.  At no time did I encounter another person from Chicago.

And then there was Stephanie.

I had to save the best for last.

TH and I did not meet Stephanie in the pool.  We met her over dinner at the bar at Cut 432.

She and two other gal pals were having a boozy Happy Hour next to TH and I.

I happened to glance over in her general direction as she ordered some drink fantasia with alcohol, coffee whipped cream and only God (and Aaron the bartender) knows what else in it.

Somehow, before I could say, “Women’s Christian Temperance Union,” I had been coerced into tasting her Espresso Martini cocktail and forced to sample her appetizer.  (I no longer know what the heck she made me eat.  It must have been the martini.)

But that’s not all.

Before you could say “Ann Landers,” I heard her doling out marital advice – unasked for I’m sure- to TH!

And TH was actually listening!

OMG.

Steph was so invasive but well-meaning that by the end of dinner, we had not only invited her out for the next night but I had secured a place at her Thanksgiving table this November.

Her advice was so great that I just might go. Oh and I have just now remembered what the heck she made me try.  Oysters Rockefeller!

So thank you, new found friends. You helped me connect and see the world through tiger striped sunglasses.

You were cozy, welcoming and informative.

You laughed at my jokes and turned me on to some very good peel ‘n eat shrimp and I will never forget you.

See you in the shallow end.

Next time, I’ll bring my noodle.

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Posted in Colony Hotel Florida, Delray Beach Florida | 10 Comments

The Grand (Andy) Teton

Posted on May 21, 2023 by Ellen Ross

Hello again, Dear Readers.  I know.  It’s been a while since you heard from me.

I apologize for the delay but Life has a way of throwing us curve balls when we least expect them and since last December, I’ve had a couple that beaned me right in the head and threw me off my game.

Man plans and God laughs.

Thank you all for sticking with me.

Which leads me to back to a time when Life wasn’t so difficult to navigate.

1967.

1967 was maybe the best year of my life.

I had it made in the shade.  I was a senior at New Trier High School in Winnetka, Illinois.  (Not New Trier East or West.  Just one and only New Trier. 4700 kids in the school. 1200 in our class alone. We were The Indians back then and proud of it! (Who knew from Political Correctness?)

I loved, my friends, my friends, my friends, my social life and most of my teachers and classes.

I hated gym and missing school.  I never wanted to stay away.

My brother and I called our house “The Locker Room.”  The WORST punishment my mother could dole out was grounding me- second only to ripping my phone out of the wall.  My mother would tear my princess phone out by its roots so much that the Bell Telephone repair guy got to be a real friend of the family.

Sidebar:  My brother maintains that even now, he still has enough dirt on me to get my mother to  come back from the grave and ground me.  Something about stealing the family car without a license and picking up hitchhiker Skip Otto…

My boyfriend – and very soon-to-be-husband Billy Spatz was one year ahead of me in school. Class of ’66.  And he was away at the University of Wisconsin in Madison for his Frosh year.

That meant that I had the best of both worlds.  I could visit him every other weekend and get a really fun taste of college frat boy party life.

AND I could finally pick my own boy friends and have fully-mother-sanctioned-and approved FUN with the opposite sex.

Billy wasn’t jealous, my mother (who loved him herself) was happy and I was delirious with freedom of choice.

And then the Universe handed me a big kiss on the lips.

Somehow, among the 4700 kids, I found the grand Andrew Teton.

(I bet you thought I’d never get around to him, didn’t you?)

I can’t remember how we first met.  We must have been in a class together senior year.  But Fate threw us together and for me, at least, it was love at first laugh.

Andy was wildly creative, mischievous and unusual.  An outside-the-box kind of guy.

In short, he was an unicorn.

Like me.

Take his Wake Up Machine, for example.

Andy had put a tape recorder into his room and set it on a timer.  It would go off every morning and get him up for school.

I thought it was the ultimate in high tech.  But then I heard the tape.

It was his mother SCREAMING at him, “Andrew, get up!  Andy, wake up!  Andrew, get up!!!!!”

Then I thought it was the ultimate in hysterical.

But it wasn’t that Andy was funny and different.  We both just clicked, bonded, flipped for the same books, movies, music and most importantly, this.

Every Friday night, I’d go over to his house and we would hunker down in the den to watch Mrs. Peel and John Steed do their delightful ballet à deux cleverly playful satire on the then wildly popular torrent of James Bond spoofs, spy movies and tv shows.

We also had adventures of our own.  We’d walk the beautiful Wilmette Beach at night- weather permitting.  It was so different than the crowded, loud, token-wearing kid and mom-infested place we knew during the day.

Wilmette Beach at night was enchanted- and enchanting.  It was filled with haunting dunes and crazy shapes that were dimly-glimpsed by glasses-wearing Andy and blind-as-a bat-but no-glasses allowed-night blind me.

We’d roam around in a world of our own. We were the only people on the sand dunes.

One night, Andy suggested that we sit on a large piece of driftwood.  It looked like it could hold two comfortably so we made our way over to it and sat down.

It was a cozy beach couch and we felt right at home- for about a second.

Then the couch began to buck and rear and much to our dismay, it started to stand up.

And it was yelling.

We two escapees from The Hadley Institute for the Blind had sat on top of…well, in the parlance of the day…two people um… “doing it” under a blanket.

We actually never saw the girl.  All I know is one minute we were seated and the next moment we were running for our lives.

The guy was chasing us, pulling up his pants and cursing all at the same time.

We were running away as fast as we could and I would have made it back to Andy’s house if he hadn’t turned back at me and yelled’ “Let’s hope he wasn’t using the withdrawal method.”

That tore it.

I was felled by helpless laughter.   Luckily, the guy decided that he had better things to do than murder dopey us so he turned back and headed back for to finish his unfinished girlfriend business.

Andy and I did more than stroll on the beach, though.  We cut school to see movies and buy record albums.

I’m pretty sure on May 26, 1967, we ditched afternoon classes and I bought this.

It changed my life.  This album had the words to the songs actually printed on the back of the album.  No longer would I have to get up off my bed, and CAREFULLY replace the arm of my little record player exactly on the grove of the track if I wanted to know what The Beatles were actually saying.

Which I painstakingly did with Meet The Beatles, Beatles ’65, Rubber Soul et al.

In 1967, when Andy and I were friends, it was a simpler time.  A time in our lives when sex hadn’t reared its complicated head, a time when a friendship between a boy and and a girl could leave that messy part out and just be fun.

Maybe we were naive.  Maybe we just were young and innocent. Maybe, well, Life back then was full of simple joys like movies and new Beatle albums and walks on the beach and we were seventeen and nothing bad could ever happen to anyone.

Not like today.

Now I’m all grown up and Life has put me – and probably lots of you- through some pretty hard tests.  We’ve learned some tough lessons about love and loss and illness and death and divorce and…

Well, I don’t have to tell you guys.

We’re not seventeen anymore and nobody has escaped some hardship or trouble.

But a funny thing happened on the way to this post.  I had started it last year before the you-know-what hit the fan.

So I stopped.

And then, out of the blue, last weekend, I got an email from…

Andrew Teton himself!

I hadn’t heard from him since 1967- although we did see each other for a fun, fleeting moment at our last reunion.

What are the odds that I had been writing about him and then HEARD from him?

(Math majors help me out here.)

Maybe we are still unicorns in sync with each other and Time and Space play no part in our friendship.

Who knows?

All I can say is thanks, my friend.

Nice hearing from you.

And Steed, don’t wait another fifty-six years to get in touch.  You are needed.

Love, Mrs. Peel

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Posted in Andy Teton, New Trier High School | 10 Comments

GO!

Posted on December 4, 2022 by Ellen Ross

The very first movie that I ever remember seeing with my parents was “No Time for Sergeants” with Andy Griffith.  The year was 1958, I was seven and I saw it in their car at a drive in movie.

I remember the car.  It was a baby blue Chevy Impala convertible.

(My brother Kenny, Caesar, our Standard Poodle, and me- skinny bookworm. Still am.)

I certainly remember the movie.  I fell in love with Andy Griffith- and this scene put me away for LIFE.

“No Time For Sergeants” and “Lady and The Tramp” made me a movie liker.

My father, Ben Roffe, made me a movie LOVER.

I admired and emulated EVERYTHING about him.  And as it turned out, I had a fabulous and well-informed mentor with impeccable taste in everything about movies, music, dance, theater and baseball.

He taught me to love things greater than ourselves.   He taught me to worship the writers, the screenwriters, the actors and actresses, the playwrights, the directors, the comics, the comedians, the composers, the cinematographers, the costume designers, the choreographers, the chorus, the gypsies…

In other words-

SHOW BUSINESS.

It was ingrained somehow in his DNA. (Btw, he took my mother- who couldn’t have cared less about anything musical- to see the great Ethel Merman in “Annie Get Your Gun” on their honeymoon in 1947. I was born two years later- undoubtedly singing this as I proudly strutted out onto the Stage of Life.)

And my father was the one who turned me on to “Casablanca.”

Now let’s watch Rick and Ilsa remember Paris. (My dad somehow knew the guy who played the doorman at Rick’s Café Americain!)

He also loved “The Maltese Falcon,” “Laura,” “The Thirty Nine Steps,” Robert Donat, “Goodbye, Mr. Chips,” Claude Rains, Madeleine Carroll, Terry-Thomas, Bette Davis- his FAVORITE actress,  Peter Sellers, Rex Harrison, Sid Caesar in anything– but especially his tour de force turn in “It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad etc.World,” “Citizen Kane,” the entire cannon of Billy Wilder and….

Preston Sturges.  Dad loved- and laughed- at every movie this genius ever made.

And then there was the G.O.A.T.

The immortal Ernst Lubitsch.  Just watch “Ninotchka” or “The Shop Around The Corner” or the GREAT “To Be or Not To Be.”

Fred Astaire and Cary Grant towered above of his movie idols.  He learned how to be dress by watching all their movies. They taught him how to look like a gent. (Nobody ever had to teach him how to act like one.  He was born one.)

Ben Roffe gave me a great gift all those years ago when his eyes would light up as he talked about his favorite movies.

Now, Dear Readers, here is my holiday gift to you.

Run- do not walk to see Steven Spielberg’s “The Fabelmans.”  Co-written by another genius, Tony Kushner (think “Angels in America”) it is the story of how a scaredy-cat little boy grows up in a hostile and incomprehensible environment- both at home and in the world at large.

NO SPOILER ALERT This young boy grows up to be STEVEN SPIELBERG.  You know- the guy who brought you this.

And this.

And “Jurassic Park,” “E.T.,” “Schindler’s List,” “Saving Private Ryan,” “The Post,” “Lincoln”…

Uh, you know who he is.

Or do you?

“The Fabelmans” is not about a boy who grows up to make movies.  It’s a story about a loving and supportive family who- no matter what they have to face- pull together and save each other.

It’s about anybody who has ever had a mother, a father, a mean aunt, a grandma, siblings – you know- ALL of us.

(Michelle Williams WILL win Best Actress at the Oscars, btw.  And Austin Butler will get it for Best Actor for “Elvis.”  So so movie with bad Tom Hanks stunt casting, but Butler KILLS it.)

I don’t want to waste more of your time.

As Ben Roffe would say,”Ellen, take yes for an answer!”

GO.  Bring Kleenex.

Say hi to my/your dad.

See you at the movies.

Happy holidays to all

God Bless Us Everyone.

ATTENTION: The place is for the comments is temporarily on the blink.   You can post a comment by hitting “Comments” link below.  Hopefully, all my tech support will restore this box to its rightful place soon. Would love to hear what you think/thought of the movie.  Or anything else. Thanks.

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Posted in Actors, Brothers and Sisters, Divorce, Film Making, Marriage, Mothers and Sons, Movies, Parents, Steven Spielberg, The Fabelmans | 8 Comments