Love Letter

When she was a little girl, my daughter Natasha, went to a coed summer camp in Maine. And she would come home at the end of the eight weeks and say,”You know, Mom, I think Jacob Bernstein likes me.”

And I would say, “Dump him, Natasha.”

Every summer she would come home and say, “I think Jacob Bernstein still likes me.” And every summer I would say, “Dump him, Natasha.”

When Natasha abandoned the sleepaway camp near our home to venture into the far more exotic regions of Maine, I was hoping she’d find a far more exotic type of husband.  Prince Stanislaus Bolkonski or Le Comte Edmond de Polignac or the Earl of St. Swithin or some aristo like that.

Jacob Bernstein sounded exactly like the boy next door.

(Yes, I know she was only ten at the time, but a good mother can never plan too far ahead.)

After the third year of my high-handed dismissal, she screwed up her forehead in thought. “You know, Mom.  I think Jacob’s mother does what you do.  I think she’s a writer or something.”

“Yeah, right,” I snorted disdainfully.  “She could never do what I do.  I have thousands of people who read me every week.”

“No, I think you’re wrong,” my daughter replied earnestly. “I think she works in the movies or something.”

“Yeah, right.  I bet she gets Woody Allen his coffee.  She could never be as funny as me,” I answered.

“And you know what else?” Natasha continued.  “Jacob’s father’s picture is in our history book at school.”

“His father is in your history book?  Why would that be?”  I racked my brain but I couldn’t come up with anyone named Bernstein who had done anything remotely historic.

“Well, he’s a writer, too.  And I think he wrote something about the government or something…”  Her voice trailed off.  Clearly she was foggy on the details.

“Government?  Bernstein?  OH MY GOD.  Are you telling me his father is Carl Bernstein, Natasha?  OH MY GOD.  That means his mother is NORA EPHRON!  OH MY GOD! NORA EPHRON?”  I was screaming and swooning at the same time.

“Well, I don’t know his mother’s name.  All I do know is that his parents come to visiting weekend at camp on two different days,” she replied.

“Well, yeah.  Didn’t you read Heartburn?”

“No, Mom.  I’m only twelve,” she sighed.

“Oh My God, if you marry him, Natasha, I’d have Nora Ephron as an in-law!  I would be friends with Billy Crystal and hang out with Meryl Streep, and trade bon mots at Elaine’s with Mike Nichols! I’d be friends with Rob Reiner, and Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan!”

A whole glorious, glamorous New York future passed before my eyes in a New York minute.

“Yeah, but you keep telling me to dump him,” my daughter rightly pointed out.

Oops.

I thought of this Nora Ephron-esque moment when I heard the awful news of her death. For so many years, she had filled my life with wit, wisdom, courage, laughter and tears. In print, on screen, in my kitchen, she was my idol, and now she’s gone way too soon.

My condolences go out to her sons, Jacob and Max.  (Jacob and Natasha never got together, by the way.  They are each happily going their separate ways.)

Nora Ephron famously said “Everything is copy.”  That mantra has informed all of my writing in the good times and kept me going in the bad.  I’m sorry that I never had the chance to tell her how much she meant to me at our kids’ imaginary wedding.

Nora, I love you, I miss you, God bless you.

And thanks.