Fan Mail

Back when I worked for the Sun Times’ Pioneer Press, I wrote a weekly humor column called “Social Studies.”  It ran twelve hundred words and it was about the everyday life of the North Shore housewife.

Think Erma Bombeck- only thinner.

I did it for ten years and I loved every minute of it.  My editor, Dorothy Andries, was the kindest lady on the planet, and more importantly, she left me alone.

“You’re the one person I never have to worry about,” she’d tell me at our annual lunch Boss/Ross meeting.  “I never have to edit you. You always know what not to say.”

It was true.  I did know my job description- and my audience- to a tee. I scrupulously self-edited and I always steered clear of thorny topics like politics and religion.

My column was strictly G rated.  And that was fine by me.  I still had all the freedom of my imagination.

And to that end I wrote one act plays, fake horoscopes, phony wedding announcements, epistles, ersatz Christmas newsletters from the long-suffering Shumway family and ruthlessly mined my own life for anecdotes and incidents.

Nora Ephron’s mother, Phoebe, had set out my mantra years before.

“Everything’s copy,” she had declared and I faithfully hued to that party line.  (And I have a gigantic box filled with ten years of tear sheets to prove it.)

And people really liked the column.  Sometimes, they’d tell me, it was the very first thing they read in their Winnetka Talk or Glencoe News or Evanston Review.

(Not me.  The first thing I read was “Police Blotter.”  It was always fun to see which one of my friends or old classmates had just gotten a DUI or had been caught shoplifting.)

And because my photograph ran above the byline, I became a very minor celebrity on the North Shore.  (Emphasis on the “minor.”)  People would recognize me and stop me in the store or at the gas station to tell me how much they liked what I wrote.

It was very gratifying to me.  But it always mortified my daughter, shy Natasha- if she happened to be with me.  Her reaction to these close encounters never varied.  She’d squirm, glower, and eye roll.

And heaven forfend if any of these nice people ever addressed the fatal- yet inevitable- question to her: “What’s it like to have such a funny mother?  Is she always funny at home?”

“Not funny at all,” she’d snap as she’d pull on my arm and whine, “Come on, Mom. Let’s go.”

(Later both my kids learned to tell people, “Don’t believe everything you read.”  They knew darn well that I took liberal license with the truth- especially about them.)

But when she was young, these meet-ups embarrassed the living daylights out of her. But I enjoyed them. It was swell knowing that what I did made people happy.

And once in awhile, I would get a fan letter to that effect- sent the old-fashioned way to me via the Pioneer Press headquarters.  As I only went into the office once a month to drop off my copy (ah, those low tech days before email) Dorothy would save them up and hand them to me when I showed up.

These letters were great.

Hearing from total strangers that you made them laugh, or think, or better yet, they had torn you out and sent you to their mother-in-law, or stuck you up in a prominent place on their refrigerator door, always made my day.

I got letters from other columnists, too.  Bob Greene, Michael Medved and Roger Ebert all wrote to tell me that they had given “thumbs up” to something I had to say.  Terrific.

It may seem like bragging now, but back then, it was the only real validation I had telling me that my peers felt strongly enough to take the time out of their day to pass on a compliment.

But fan letters from the not-so-famous moved me equally.  And I want to share with you my all-time favorite missive.

It came from a member in good standing of Wilmette, Illinois’s Avoca School’s third grade class.  Mrs. Hayden was Natasha’s teacher (and later, Nick’s) and she had a lovely tradition of inviting each parent to bring a favorite book and read aloud to her class.

The roster went alphabetically and toward the end of the year it was my turn. Natasha couldn’t really object to my guest star appearance.  She surrendered to the fact that all the other parents had come in and read something.  She would bravely soldier on somehow through my turn.

I gave my assignment plenty of thought and, finally, I came up with my selection.

It was Champion Dog Prince Tom by Jean Fritz and Tom Clute. I chose it because its true story of a little blond cocker spaniel who captured both obedience and field trial championships had enchanted me as a kid.  And the adorable illustrations by Ernest Hart were sure to wow a third grade class.

Not to mention I still had my original 1958 Weekly Reader version from which to read.

On the day, I headed into class and read the time-allotted sample of the book- not forgetting to hold the pages open at the captivating illustrations.

The third graders oohed and aahed appropriately.  I had chosen wisely, and even Natasha was pleased with the results.

I went home in a fine mood- which was reinforced a week later when a packet of letters arrived.

Everyone in the class had written me a thank you note.  (The class’s best penman had been recruited to tell me this in a beautiful Palmer cursive cover letter that was on the top of the pile.)

I read each one with pleasure.  Some of the artier of the kids had even enclosed drawings of me holding up the book or of Prince Tom himself.

The notes were terrific and I loved them all.  However one has stood out after all these years.

“Dear Mrs. Ross,” it said.  “You were very good.  I was absent.”

Ah.  How sweet is success.

Even Natasha would have to agree.