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 CaféAmericain!)
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.
Hi, Dear Readers! It’s so nice to be back – even if it’s just for a brief visit. For those of you who have missed Letter From Elba, bless you. Here’s my “absence note.”
The world has changed so dramatically in these last few years- Covid, Politics, Possible Presidential Candidates for the next election, Ukraine, Proud Boys, the Insurrection at the Capital, looting, no punishment for looting… It’s all be so unreal and so troubling that I barely recognize it anymore.
And I’m not sure if I what I like to write has any meaning at all.
I’m no expert, pundit, political and/or societal insider with special knowledge. I don’t want to waste your time- and eyesight- on everyday stuff that merely amuses -if I’m lucky- or makes no impression at all.
And let me just add that this has been a very demanding year personally and finding a moment to collect my thoughts- let alone write them down in a coherent manner- has been a challenge.
Thank you for sticking by very erratic me. I appreciate your loyalty more than I can ever say.
A writer like me has to live Life to find inspiration. I can not sit alone in a garret and just think deep thoughts.
And every so often, I stumble across something that I just have to share.
See the women in the post’s opening photograph? It’s blurry, so just in case you don’t recognize all of them, they are Mackenzie Scott, Kamala Harris, Christine Lagarde, Mary Barra, Melinda French Gates, Abigail Johnson, Ana Patricia Botin, Ursula von der Leyen, Tsai Ing-wen and Julie Sweet.And they are – according to Forbes- the ten most powerful woman in the world- as of 2021.
Impressive, no? But on my last visit to Seattle, I met the eleventh. (In order to protect her anonymity here, her name has been changed. And there will not be a photo. Read on and you’ll see why.)
For the above reasons, let’s call her Kalista. And she was, at the time, four years old.
She is my grandson Hendrix’s friend. (And for security reasons- and under pain of taking down this entire site, my tech son Nick – who installed it- forbids me to put up photos of him- or any other family member.)
Just use your imagination. They’re both pretty adorable.
Kalista is Chinese-American. I mention this only because her grandparents were visiting Seattle from China at the same time that I was and it was a real pleasure to meet people who had actually travelled further than I did to get a glimpse of their descendants.
Kalista and Hendrix trade off visiting each other for play dates. I happened to be on duty a day that Kalista came over to “our” house.
Missy, my daughter-in-law, was not going to be home. Nick, who has worked from home for the last two years, was NOT to be disturbed as he was on a Zoom call with five different people in four different countries.
Missy had already filled me in on the essentials before she left the house: Some unsupervised (but still monitored by paranoid me from the living room) playtime in Hendrix’s room. No dog allowed. (Kalista doesn’t like him much.) Then some computer game time. Let them fight it out as to which games they want to play. No lunch or snacks necessary. Kalista’s mom would be back before lunchtime to get her.
Check, check, check. Piece of cake.
Right on schedule, Kalista entered. She eyed the house warily and I reassured her that Frasier was dutifully contained and she could go directly into Hendrix’s room unmolested.
In Defense Of Frasier Sidebar: Frasier is not ferocious or life-threatening. He’s just a rather large, obstreperous Bernese Mountain Dog mixed with Standard Poodle and a soupçon of Labradoodle thrown in for good measure. When you add the disparate Dog Ancestory.Com parts up, you get an adorable designer mongrel who is large, hairy and extremely enthusiastic around small children. He also thinks Hendrix’s only-child toy-infested bedroom is a perfect place to go shopping.
As I said earlier in this post, I left them alone but still sat poised on the living room couch ready to leap up- just in case my assistance or referee mode was needed.
Eight minutes into playtime, I heard a plaintive wail come from Kalista.
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
OMG.
I had NOT signed up for this but hey, it was my watch so…
I flew into the bedroom. As I started to escort Kalista (who was mercifully wearing a dress) to the bathroom, she stopped me dead in my tracks with a laser beam stare.
“Are you wearing wool?” she interrogated sternly.
“Uh…I don’t know.”
I was completely nonplussed by the seriousness of her demeanor.
“Are you wearing wool?” she repeated.
“Maybe?” I stammered. “This sweater is wool, I think. It might be wool, I’m not sure exactly. It’s old, I don’t know…why are you asking me?”
“I am ALLERGIC to wool. You can’t touch me if you’re wearing wool.”
Nobody had mentioned this to me but one look into this kid’s cold, dead, f%^&*ing eyes told me she wasn’t messing around.
“I have to go to the bathroom. Now. Is it wool or not? ”
I started stammering again but she cut me off with contempt.
“All you have to do is read the label.”
Here was my problem. First the sweater itself.
You will notice on the right hand side of the neck (my left) that this sweater is closed by eight teeny weeny hard-to-do-with-finger-nails, buttons. I just could not get the darn sweater unbuttoned while both kids were staring at me in wonder- and distress. The pressure was making my hands tremble.
And second problem.
I couldn’t read the damn label without my glasses- which were God knows where at this point.
I took a wild guess and tore off the sweater and ran Kalista into the bathroom.
She could handle the toilet seat etc. part herself, so I shut the door and gave her privacy.
And then another imperious command came from within the bathroom.
“Wipe me!”
OMG.
Not on your potential-child-molestation-charges life.
Instead, I calmly walked in, tore off a piece of toilet paper and handed it t0 her.
“Do it yourself,” I said.
She did with no problem.
Trust me. This kid could run the WORLD with no problem.
Maybe I have a candidate for the 2024 Presidential election after all.
Last Thursday, April 28, was Holocaust Remembrance Day. If a picture is worth a thousand words, let these pictures speak for the millions lost then- and now.
These photographs are very hard to look at. But the road to Auschwitz was paved by people who just looked the other way. Read their all-too-brief stories, note the dates and say their names. And please say a prayer for these children- and all the children who went before- and after- them.
Sshhh. Don’t tell anyone. This is for you and you alone, Dear Readers.
I’ve got a secret. I’ve stumbled upon a GEM.
Her name is Jane. And she looks like Laura Linney.
And she paints like Michelangelo.
Houses. Outside and in.
And ceilings and chapels and furniture.
And walls.
And WOW!
Take a look at some of her walls.
This one paint treatment looks like hammered silver. (I had the same paint in my boudoir in my old apartment in Chicago. Bruce Gregga had done the room in silver with touches of gold. I felt as though I lived in a jewel box.)
Or this.
This is paint with plaster and a shine. Think gesso. Jane studied the technique with a maestro at an art school outside of Rome. She knows her plaster.
Is this blue more you?
Or are you a Rothko person- like me?
If you can dream it, Jane can paint it.
And if you’re hopeless at dreaming up paint techniques and need help- also like me- she was Jane-on-the-spot.
She patiently listened and looked at endless photos of what I kind of thought wanted to do. I was pretty sure of what I wanted but then…I would get cold feet and freeze in anticipation of making a huge wall/decor faux pas.
Jane to the rescue.
She made up custom paint samples, found the wallpaper that was better than my dreamiest pick and took my tentative decor ideas and made them better.
And she did it joyfully, surely and swiftly.
And when the choices were made and my paint dye lot was cast, she said exactly what she was going to do- and did it.
On time and on budget.
Who could ask for anything more?
Jane has worked all over the North Shore for many years. Her references were impeccable. She’s strictly word of mouth and believe me, I felt lucky to find her.
You know, I usually don’t go this gaga over the plumber or the electrician or the plasterer or the landscaper or any other person who works in/on my house. They’ve all been professionals and have done their work well.
But from the moment this ray of Cadmium Yellow walked in, I was enchanted. Her sunny personality, confidence and general adorableness just won the day.
Sometimes Fate steps in and hands you a gift. This year, my best housewarming present was Jane.
Oh, by the way, take a look at some of my new walls.
(And please take in account that I’m no Architectural Digest photographer. The fuzziness, the lighting… I know, I know. They have to be seen in real life to do her art justice. And no, you cynics out there. Jane has NO idea that I wrote this. There was no quidpro decor quo involved here.)
In case you don’t recognize it, Dear Readers, this is the Colony Hotel in Delray Beach, Florida.
TBF and I just got back from our annual January pilgrimage to Florida. (Except for last year. Covid was raging and we hadn’t had been vaccinated yet and we didn’t want to dice with death.)
We go in January because, by then, even if the weather in sunny Florida isn’t beachcomber warm, it sure beats looking at this all day.
Note the color of the sky. Gray. This is what gets me down the most. The need to turn on electric lights all day, every Chicago winter day. After years of living in Aspen, the relentless lack of blue skies and sunshine has me completely defeated by January.
I miss this.
Hence down south we go. And in a little over two-ish hours, we can be here.
(Yeah, yeah. I see the clouds. Still, it sure ain’t snowing.)
Do you remember this?
Depressing, huh? And after skipping last year, we were more than ready to hit the beach again.
Sad Side Bar: This poster reminds that beautiful, beautiful Yvette Mimieux recently passed away. How I loved her.
When I was a kid, my very first crush was on tv’s Dr. Kildare- handsome Richard Chamberlain. I never missed a show- or my chance to swoon over my pre-teen heart throb.
There was an episode called “Tiger, Tiger, Burning Bright” in which Yvette played a gorgeous surfer chick with epilepsy. These two blonde beauties soon fell for each other. My twelve year old heart burned with jealousy.
Of course, the Doc forbade her from surfing again.
But carpe diem Yvette ignored my idol’s good medical advice and surfed again anyway. She drowned. He was devastated.
I was glad.
Twelve year old puppy love isn’t pretty.
But this was not the end for this made-in-photogenic-heaven duo. Some Hollywood big shot decided that these two fabulous-looking people were destined for bigger screens.
They were soon paired up again in a movie called Joy in the Morning.
It was a lovely little bagatelle. But then came this.
Light in the Piazza.
She was favolosa as the beautiful but mentally-challenged Clara. (And they filmed it in my spiritual home town- Florence- the jewel box of Italy.)
Sigh. Rest in peace, you lovely creature. I will always love you.
…Back to the story at hand.
As we were racing around the Colony hotel room, throwing off our winter attire and chomping at the bit to get out in some of the sunshine, I noticed that our toilet was leaking a little from the flush valve gasket.
It wasn’t a big deal but there was a little hang tag in the bath room that gave guests instructions about where to put used towels versus clean ones, maid service- you know stuff like that.
It also asked to report any leaks. This is an old, I mean, historic, hotel, after all.
They actually had this on display in the lobby hallway.
(When was the last time you saw one of those?)
As we ran by the front desk, I casually mentioned to the desk clerk that our toilet was leaking.
He assured me that it would be taken care of.
When we got back to our room several hours later, the toilet was fine. But that’s not all.
Look what I found waiting for me on the chest of drawers.
I was floored. In all my years of traveling- from the lousiest flea bag to the poshest hotel- NEVER had I received a note from a maintenance person.
And such a kind note. He really went that extra mile. In these depressing times, his thoughtfulness restored some of my faith in humanity.
Thank you, Dustin Rosa. You made mine a blessed day.
And now my friends, on behalf of Dustin and myself, I wish you all
Dear Readers, I didn’t intend to be back in your email boxes so soon.
But last week, I- and the rest of the world- got some devastating news.
Stephen Sondheim was dead.
A genuine genius, a theatrical LEGEND, a wordsmith extraordinaire, a composer without peer, a visionary, a fellow crossword puzzle fiend, a creative role model and a lifesaver to a young girl all alone in her basement with a record player and two albums:
These two albums saved my life.
It was 1961 and I was twelve. My parents didn’t own a ton of records but for some reason, they did have these two. I will never know what compelled me to play them. But thank goodness I did.
Steve had me by the second song of Gypsy. Ethel Merman’s brassy, booming voice confidently belting out “Some People.”
In that one song, I had found a whole new world of fabulous lyrics. Lyrics with clever, intricate rhymes. And I had found my mantra.
It was okay to have big dreams.
And it was okay to be different.
I’ve written before about my struggles with my mother as I grew up. She had never understood or liked me. Stephen Sondheim had his own demon of a mother to contend with and he understood a monster- and a life force like Madame Rose- only too well.
Me, too.
And Gypsy –with its wonderful music and insightful lyrics- made my life an easier place to be.
It wasn’t all Freud. It was fun, too.
Even though I had no idea what stripteasers actually did, I listened to “You Gotta Have a Gimmick” so many times that I could have auditioned for Minsky’s.
I won’t play the whole album here. I don’t have to. I still know every word to every song and the show’s personal meaning for me hasn’t faded over time.
The life and death struggle of a jealous mother and an overlooked daughter had been turned into art with a capital A and I wasn’t alone any more.
And then there was this album. And this song.
Wow.
I was also wowed by “Officer Krupke.”
And this one.
The outrageous and hilarious rhymes just blew me away. I marveled at the wordplay and it was so much fun singing along.
Fun Fact: I once saw Cher being interviewed. She said she did the exact same thing when she was young and she, too, still knew every word to West Side Story.
Back then, had I heard of Stephen Sondheim? Heck, no. I was twelve.
But I knew something very different had arrived on the musical scene.
Then in 1962, a funny thing happened. Mr. Sondheim got to exercise his full artistic chops and he wrote the words AND music to this.
Steve and I went our separate ways for awhile. I had to grow up, get married, get divorced, get re-married and get separated from my second husband. (Whew.)
He had to write this.
CAUTIONARY NOTE: From this point on, the music you are about to hear is not hummable. Jule Styne who wrote the music for Gypsy and Leonard Bernstein who did the same for West Side Story wrote tunes anyone could at least try to sing.
Not Mr. Sondheim.
His music is not user-friendly. It’s complicated – with a big nod to Ravel, Stravinsky and Benjamin Britten. You do not come out of the theater whistling the tunes.
Except for one. Which we will get to later.
When I first heard Steve’s cynical view of marriage – and delivered in Elaine Stritch’s cyanide venom of a voice- it suited my mood down to the ground.
I was also cuh-razy about this little ditty.
(Here’s your chance to see it being recorded for the cast album. (In case you don’t know, Steve is the guy with the cigarette.)
(Btw, this show also made me an Elaine Stritch fan for life. When she played Jack Donaghy’s dragon of a mother on 30 Rock, I knew pitch perfect casting when I saw it.)
Company was review- a series of musical sketches- but it had a theme.
And a hero.
And the hero- Bobby- was not your typical, handsome, charming 1950’s Gordon MacCrae/John Raitt musical leading man type.
He was a loner, a singleton in the land of married couples. He had problems. He didn’t fit in.
Bobby was different.
Bingo.
Steve had written uncomfortable songs about this complicated, messy business of Life.
In 1984 Steve wrote the music and lyrics to this.
And once again, he hit it out of the park for me.
With this song.
He had put into (beautiful) words what it feels like to have to create something. The artistic impulse to strong to resist.
Every writer, painter, dancer, musician, actor feels this and it’s hard to describe.
But through Mandy Patinkin’s masterful rendition of those exquisitely simple words, “Look I made a hat…where there never was a hat.” Any artist knows that joyous feeling of creation.
Coincidence: When Nick was in third grade, I volunteered to be the “Art Lady.” My task was 1. To select a piece of art in the Art Institute and teach the little tykes all about it. And 2. Take the little darlings on a field trip to the museum and look at said work.
I picked this one.
I liked all the dots and the lady with the bustle walking the monkey and I hoped maybe the kids would, too.
They sort of liked the picture.
But they LOVED the field trip. As soon as we hit the Art Institute, my twenty amped-up third graders immediately scattered and ran down two different staircases and attacked the Arthur Rubloff Collection of paperweights in the basement.
Chaos reigned.
I think we were all escorted out by a disgruntled security guard.
While I recover from the memory of that dark experience, let’s take a break. Now seems like a good time to play you the one Sondheim hit to make it to the top of the Pop charts.
Since Stephen Sondheim passed away, social media has been flooded with obituaries and tributes and appreciations and explanations of how and why he was so great and so important to our cultural landscape.
And Steven Spielberg is tipping his hat on December 10 with the release of his sixty year later remake of West Side Story.
But I thought the best way to remember and revere my idol was to let those who interpreted him best have the last (sung) word.
With a little help from David Hyde Pierce, here are Stephen Sondheim’s muses- and greatest interpreters: Patti LuPone, Marin Mazzie, Audra MacDonald, Donna Murphy, Bernadette Peters and Elaine Stritch.
Watch how each of these legends tells a whole play in one magnificent song.
And Steve, thanks for everything. It’s been a ball. God bless you.
Hello, Dear Readers! I know, I know. It seems like a mighty long time.
But today, I write with three purposes. The first is to check in with all of you.
I hope from the bottom of my heart that you all have come through this awful, awful pandemic relatively unscathed. Due to immunizations, caution, lots of hand-washing, my daughter Natasha’s constant worrying/advising/intervention/checking in**** and just plain dumb luck, so far I haven’t gotten sick.
(Pooh, pooh, pooh- as my very superstitious mother would have said.)
***Throughout these past two and a half years, Natasha was on the phone to me daily. She sent me designer masks non-stop. And she was so concerned, involved, stressed, worried, and up-to-date on the latest medical breakthroughs, I now call her “Dr. Fauci.”
But others near and dear to me were not as fortunate. I don’t want to discuss people’s very private sorrows. Let’s just say I know people who’ve had to say their last farewell’s and “I love you’s” to their loved ones over the phone.
And I’ve been to more Zoom funerals than I ever want to go to again.
The worst thing that happened to me was that I couldn’t see my children or grandchildren for almost two years. In fact, it’s been exactly two years ago today since I’ve had them all together in the same room.
You see today’s my birthday.
And that’s the second reason I’m sending out the blog today. I wanted to share my birthday with all of you. These last few years have really driven home how much I miss my friends and readers. (It’s hard for me to tell the difference.) Small social things I took for granted- lunches, dinners, casually bumping into people in my neighborhood- all went gone with the virus.
But the virus was kind of responsible for one piece of good news, too.
In May, TBF and I took the plunge.
Nope, we didn’t tie the knot. We did something that I take way more seriously.
We bought a house and moved in together.
And Corona was a big reason.
As you probably know, I lived in Chicago.
As you probably didn’t know, he lives in Geneva, Illinois.
Nope, not Lake Geneva. That’s in Wisconsin. (Don’t snicker. I’ve had more people mix up the two than you can believe.)
So for the last five plus years- give or take- my routine was to take the train out to his house for the weekends on Friday afternoon. Tuesday mornings, I would hop back on the train and go home.
Easy peasy. When you’re with someone part-time three or four days a week, you get along beautifully. There are no real arguments, temperament clashes, lifestyle differences or territorial conflicts.
Nothing matters because it will all be resolved by an one hour train ride.
But then Covid hit last March, and I stopped riding the train.
At first, he came in and brought me back to his house. This was a two hour and ten minute joy ride- at best. (At worst- like on Friday afternoons- don’t ask.)
But because the schlepp was so long, I felt guilty about making him do it twice every week.
So I just stayed. Longer and longer and longer, until I only went home to pick up my mail.
I was now “The Man Who Came To Dinner” but we were still getting along.
And one thing led to another and…
I now live in Geneva.
(There was never a prayer of getting him to move to Chicago. His work and and kids and grandchildren are out here. I can work anywhere and my kids are in Boston and Seattle. I lost any way I looked at it.)
It could have been worse. Geneva is a charmer of a town. It’s small, quaint, easy-going and quite the tourist attraction.
Its many antique shops, legendary chocolate emporiums, restaurants, the Fox River, art and food and wine festivals and short ride from the city make it a great way to spend the day away from the bustle of Chicago.
I think of it as Aspen- without Ajax Mountain.
It’s not all about the town for me, of course. I’m a “house” person, and after eight years in an apartment, I’m thrilled to have a back yard, stairs and a garage again.
I still manage to get back to Chicago for things like hair cuts and family occasions. (Not necessarily in order of importance.)
And in an extra serendipitous twist of Fate, my treasured manicurist changed jobs and now works nearby!
So my third reason for writing today, Dear Readers, is to issue you all an invitation.
I miss you. Come out and visit. You’re welcome any time.
Hello, Dear Readers. It’s me just checking in again. I’m fine and I sure hope all of you are still safe and sound.
…So a couple of weeks ago, TBF and I decided that we really needed a getaway.
TIMEOUT! What? I bet you thought that our romance was finito, kaput, adios and sayonara.
Well, Dear Readers, when I wrote a blog about it on September 30, 2018 A Hymn To Him,I honestly thought that it was.
Except that it wasn’t.
Practically as soon as that blog went live, the texts and phone calls started again and we electronically kissed and made up.
Let’s just say that the break-up didn’t take.
We’ve been together for four and a half years- give or take a fight or two- and now we’re going through Covid together.
And apart.
TBF doesn’t live in Chicago. He lives in the suburbs and heretofore, we both enjoyed each other’s digs as a refreshing change of venue.
I liked the country life and he had fun in the city. All good.
Except when the lockdown hit, we didn’t know what to do. So I just hunkered down at my apartment for five weeks and he watched his p’s and q’s out in Suburbia.
And when the first phase of lockdown ended, we reunited out at his place.
Over the course of the summer, we’ve been having fun there. I cook up a storm and it’s so nice just to be able to stroll about in the sun or go for a drive. A peaceful oasis in a time of uncertainty.
But still, I miss my kids. So I wheedled and pleaded and being the good guy that he is, TBF agreed to drive me to Boston to see Natasha.
(Not to play favorites here but Seattle- where Nick lives- seemed a little to far for a road trip.)
I was overjoyed when he said he’d do it. And we’d stop in Pittsburgh- from whence he hails- on the way to and fro. It would give him a chance to catch up with his family, as well.
Win win.
I called Natasha and told her the good news. I made hotel reservations for us all along the route. I planned a day in Newport, Rhode Island. (Both my kids went to school there and I knew it well and I knew that TBF would love it.)
We were all so excited.
Until the Governor of Massachusetts loused up all my plans.
And just like that, I had to cancel everything.
Everyone concerned was disappointed. I had looked forward to that trip for weeks and it was cruel to have it vanish before my very eyes.
And now I had caught the travel bug and I just needed to go somewhere.
Anywhere.
For days, TBF and I had scoured the Internet in search of a car ride destination with a beach and without the virus.
Michigan was an option but it seemed like a really long car trip- especially when I wasn’t exactly bowled over by any of the destinations.
Anywhere south- Nashville, Memphis, New Orleans?
Out of the Covid question.
We wracked our brains and finally…
Paging Lake Geneva.
We had spent the day there recently and figured it was close, we knew where the beach was and it had enough restaurants (outdoor dining only, obviously) and shops to keep us busy for a few days.
Besides, a change is a good as a rest as the saying goes, and I desperately needed a change.
So we made hotel reservations and on a Sunday, off we drove.
CDC Footnote: Wisconsin had just made Lori Lightfoot’s quarantine list the day before we decided to go. However, TBF doesn’t live in Chicago and so we agreed that I would just hunker down at his digs upon our return to be in compliance. And Lake Geneva was not experiencing a very high rate of the disease. We checked before booking.)
In no time flat, armed with enough luggage for a month and snacks galore, we arrived at our hotel. The day was glorious and since check-in time was four p.m., we secured our luggage and strolled the town.
It was jammed.
But we managed to do the waterfront and grab a quick outside lunch and gaze- from a healthy distance- at an art fair.
Soon it was time for check in. Our hotel was right on the waterfront. A glorious view.
Just the ticket to calm the soul.
And our room- really a little suite- was perfect. It had a kitchenette and a living room and it was ideal for in-room dining. It had a balcony, too.
Lovely.
TBF and I sat on the balcony and excitedly planned out the vacation’s activities for the upcoming week. Monday’s weather looked a little overcast with a brief rain shower forecast for the afternoon so we decided that Tuesday would be our long-awaited beach day. We also earmarked lots of fun places to eat and days to take lazy, long walks around the lake.
It was going to be great.
We went to sleep that night happy and secure in the knowledge that we had done the exact right thing coming here.
Monday morning was warm but cloudy. We lazed around until it was time for a late brunch and some grocery shopping. Brunch – breakfast for him and gazpacho for me- was yummy and the store was fine. But as we walked out, the rain had started so we made a quick dash to the car and managed to get the grocery bags back into the room before the floodgates really opened.
We were schmoozing about nothing when a siren went off.
And the lights went out.
“Hmmm,” I said. “That must be a tornado siren. I’m not sure that I’ve ever heard one…”
There was a sharp knock on our door.
A disembodied voice said, “That was the tornado warning. I’m sorry but you will have to evacuate to the basement, please. Right now, please and use the stairs, of course.”
More in amusement than fear, TBF and I walked down five (short) flight into the basement. There was a lounge with lots of chairs and a few other families- most of the guests having departed that morning.
The floor-to-ceiling glass windows gave us a good view of the storm out over the water.
The rain thundered down for a while and then it stopped.
We climbed back up the stairs and waited for the power to come back on.
After about an hour, it did. TBF and I heaved a sigh of relief and then went about the rest of the evening’s important business.
Deciding where and what to bring in for dinner.
A decision had finally been made, the call for the dinner order had been placed when he suddenly turned to me and said, “Why did you shut the living room lamp off?”
“I didn’t,” I replied, walking over to try the lamp switch myself.
Nada.
“It’s not necessary to turn the lamp off from the switch. You can do it from this wall switch…”
“I didn’t shut it off. I just told you.”
And then it hit me. I looked around the room.
“The power is out again. OMG.”
TBF trudged down the four flights again and went to pick up dinner.
When he returned he had a brown paper bag- and the latest news.
“The power is out in about half of the town. The restaurant was operational but this side of town is completely dark. I stopped by the desk and the clerk said there was no way to reach the guy who can turn on the generator. He did give me some candles, though. What do you want to do?”
We ate our dinner by candlelight as I pondered the options.
Having no power was NOT an option. I couldn’t countenance no phone, no iPad, no lights, no air conditioning and TBF dearly likes his tv news at ten.
Calling the trip off and going home was always a choice but still…I had so looked forward to this little vacay.
I pondered some more and then made a decision.
“What do you want to do?” I decided to ask him.
TBF didn’t love the passing of the buck and so he said, “I’ll do whatever you want to, Dear.”
Sigh.
This happens a lot in our relationship.
I mean A LOT.
It was now 8:30 and the room- except for the romantic flicker of the two candles- was growing exceedingly dim.
I threw in the (beach) towel.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said. “Why pay good money for no electricity?”
We rushed around, packed up all our junk, remembered to take the stuff out of the mini fridge, schlepped it all down the four flights and groped our way to the front desk.
“We’re leaving, ” I (unnecessarily) announced to the clerk.
“I don’t blame you,” he said. “All the other guests have left already. I can’t print you a bill, sir, but I’ll credit your card and cancel the rest of your stay. I’m just sorry that this had to happen,” he sympathized.
“Well, we had thirty-one and a half hours of vacation,” I philosophized. “Better than nothing.”
As we sadly walked out the door and headed to the car, the lights went back on in the hotel lobby.
Hello, Dear Readers. I’m checking back in with you all. I’m fine and I hope you all are, as well.
First, let me start by wishing you a very happy, healthy Father’s Day. I know this holiday might feel a little different from ones in the past. My Mother’s Day 2020 celebration consisted of me alone with a tuna salad sandwich and Facetime. But it’s a small price to pay to keep children, grandchildren and grand-dogs safe from this awful virus.
(This is Lola- the newest addition to our family. She’s a born helper.)
And now here’s my Father’s Day gift to all you guys.
Let’s just hope for a do-over in 2021.
And the second reason I reached out is that I want to get something off my chest. Ever since these recent protests started, I’ve been thinking about something.
Life is not fair.
Equal rights and equal privileges have never existed.
For anyone.
Just ask any woman. She’ll tell you how the world treats the sexes differently.
Sometimes better.
But sometimes worse.
My ex husband Bill and I used to argue about this. As far back as 1977, He honestly believed that the gender playing field was level and there was no bias.
I heartily disagreed with him.
“What could you possibly know about it?” I’d ask him. “You are a tall, white, successful American male. The world automatically treats you with deference and respect. You have NO idea how the other half lives.”
Case in point: We had a brand new Gaggenau cook top installed in our newly remodeled kitchen in Barrington Hills. It looked great. But one of the burners wouldn’t ignite.
I called Gaggenau to report the defect.
Nothing was done.
I called again.
Again, nothing.
Finally, I called and asked to speak to the head honcho in the maintenance department. He listened to my complaint about the new burner that would not ignite and then, wearily and exasperatedly sighed and said, “Are you sure it’s a Gaggenau cooktop, lady?”
That tore it.
“You call them now!” I told Bill. “Do you think he would have dared asked a MAN that question?”
It doesn’t sound like much but I won’t bore you with the hundreds of other times that I have been dismissed, ignored, overlooked and felt invisible just because of my sex.
And don’t get me started on DIVORCED.
Going from a married woman to a divorced one is its own special brand of Hell. Snubbed, ostracized, uninvited by former friends- it’s terribly unfair.
But I bet every woman reading this – be she married or single- has hundreds of anecdotal evidence of her own to tell.
I was not born male, rich or famous. And I was burdened with a mother who had serious mental health issues. She took them all out on me. I left home at seventeen and never looked back.
(Not a great Life Plan. But hey. It was better than the alternative.)
I was Jewish, too. And trust me, living near Kenilworth and its “gentleman’s agreement” of “No Jews Allowed” was a bitter pill to swallow when I was a kid.
And it wasn’t just Kenilworth. Many of the North Shore towns had unwritten rules about that ugly issue.
My best girl friend lived on a street in Wilmette that our family never would have been welcomed on.
My parents accepted this humiliating- and unlawful- injustice without a murmur of protest. That’s “just the way it was” and they didn’t want to buck the status quo or make waves. But I knew at twelve that this inequity sucked. And I dealt with it in my own way later on in my life.
Hearts and minds don’t change just because it’s the right thing to do.
And I don’t have time to wait for Society to erase prejudices and correct injustices.
But I can take ownership over my own feelings and responsibilities. I can control my own destiny.
Hello, Dear Fellow Quarantines. Happy Passover and Happy Easter. I hope this holiday season finds you and your families safe and well. As for me- so far, so good. Fingers crossed that we all maintain this status quo.
As I begin Week 6 of my isolation, I have to report that I am going a little stir crazy.
But, like the World War II Brits I do so admire, I try like the dickens to just “Keep Calm And Carry On.”
And to that end, I’ve watched so many episodes of Inspector Morse, Lewis, Endeavour, The Crown, Poirot, The Forsyte Saga, Brideshead Revisited, Upstairs, Downstairs, Love in A Cold Climate and Miss Marple that by this past Sunday, my iPad was speaking with an English accent.
It also sent me this S.O.S.
Blimey! I mean, Yikes!
This blitz of British Culture was was starting to affect my eyesight- not to mention my speech.
So I asked myself “What would Winston do?”
And he said, “Spotify!”
So I turned on the music.
Allow me now to share my “Music To Weather The Apocalypse” playlist.
Each selection has a special meaning for me and I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.
And please share your favorites these days in the comments section below. I’d love to hear whatever gets you through this epidemic night.
Hang in there, homies.
Now turn on, tune in and DON’T drop out.
My first selection just has to be this video.
Wow! How dystopian was that? Streets and buildings deserted. Just like downtown Chicago now.
But on the other hand, take a look at this video. It just happens to be one of my all-time faves, but now I see how timely it is.
Notice how they stayed inside the house at all times? Very Covid curfew-ready.
Now it’s time to change it up. Who better than The King (and I don’t mean Edward VII) to get me off my “What’s the use?” ass?
If that doesn’t get your virus-free booty shaking, how about this one?
And just to finish the Dancercise portion of this post, here’s one more number that used to serve as my alarm clock. It always got me out of bed. (Let’s hope it doesn’t have to get me out of a death bed.)
Now guys, this re-run is just for you. You’re welcome.
Now, in honor of a few sadly-stricken states, let’s start with where it all began. Seattle, this one’s for you.
And I just read that this guy donated $1 million to Mass. General Hospital to help his home state. He was born at that hospital, btw.
Blessings on you, James. You’re a handy man to have around in a crisis.
And of course, we can not forget this town. My thoughts and prayers go out to them daily.
https://youtu.be/Xbd3C44fAHo
OMG. Billy, Tony and the old Shea Stadium. You just can’t get any more Big Apple than that.
Now, here’s an anthem for these critical days.
Wow! Two of the greatest voices in rock- reminding us that we all have to man up and make it through. It’s now or never.
Thanks for the moral support, guys.
And as for the light at the end of the tunnel….
I leave you, Dear Listeners, with this final song.
