Letter From Elba

Dude’s Day

Posted on May 1, 2016 by Ellen Ross

Happy Early Mother’s Day, Dear Readers. I’m sending this Letter From Elba now because I’m going to be celebrating out of town and this is my last post until Sunday, May 15. Hope your upcoming holiday is wonderful.

That’s Natasha, Nick and yours truly taken on Mother’s Day 1985. (Very 80’s, btw. Short hair. BIG shoulders.)

We’re in our back yard, and judging by Nick’s sport jacket, we’re on the way to the club for the Mother’s Day dinner.

Old photographs are bittersweet, aren’t they? The time has flown so fast. Today Natasha is almost 38, Nick is 36 and I’m…

None of your business.

And it all went by in a blink of an eye.

(Mother’s Day 2015. Nick 30 pounds heavier than he is today. Lots and lots of snowboarding.)

But it brings me to my story…

As many of you already know, Nick calls me “Dude.”

This started when he was a pre-teen. At eleven, he went in for skateboarding in a BIG way.

It seems that I woke up one morning and Nick’s walls were suddenly covered with spectacular photographs of California guys defying both the laws of gravity and barbershops. Posters proclaiming “Skate or Die!” had pride of place.

His room became a graveyard of outgrown decks and worn-out wheels. And catalogs from exotically-named companies like Cali4niaSKATExpress spontaneously generated in our mail box.

Words like “geek,” “toasty” and “poser” mysteriously crept into the dinner table vernacular.

And before you could say, “Tony Hawk,” Nick had morphed into a full-fledged skatehead- or “thrasher”- as they are affectionately known to law enforcement officials the world over.

Nick was totally immersed in the culture.

He couldn’t walk through a mall, an airport or a parking lot without sizing up its potential as a skate park. He couldn’t see a swimming pool without dreaming of draining it. And he pestered me so much that I remember that Mother’s Day in 1991, I asked for- and received- a skateboard ramp to be built in our yard.

(Nick was pretty handy spray painting it with skulls, as I recall.)

The Red Hot Chili Peppers constantly played in our house.

Thrasher Magazine and Transworld became required reading.

I read them, too.

OMG.

I was horrified by their editorial content. These rags promoted the joys of doing nothing and the blatant flouting of ALL authorty figures.

Especially parents.

They also featured a high degree of, shall we say, “scatological humor.”

From my maternal vantage point, these magazines appeared to be written by morons for an audience of wanna-be delinquents. I was sick with worry whenever I thought of the possible effects of this propaganda on my impressionable sweet child.

But then I remembered that luckily, Nick, never read anything.

He only cut out the pictures.

The Beavis and Butthead obsession also stoked the “Dude” fuel.

Nick used to make me watch every episode with him.

And when we moved full-time to Colorado in 1996, the “Dude” monicker took on a whole other layer of meaning.

Nick was sixteen at the time and he liked to date “older” women. 18 to 20 year old girls who were good snowboarders- and had their own cars and crash pads.

“But I don’t want them to know that I live with my mother,” he explained. “So I tell them that you’re my landlord, Dude. Don’t blow it.”

Deal.

So it’s been “Dude” ever since.

(When Nick calls me “Mom,” I know something awful has happened.)

I won’t be here on Sunday May 8, so just let me say now

Party on, Dudes.

Posted in Mother's Day, Parents | 13 Comments

Bowled Over

Posted on April 28, 2016 by Ellen Ross

I know I’ve mentioned this before but it bears repeating.

I have NO artistic talent whatsoever. When it comes to drawing, painting, sculpting or throwing a pot, you’ll have to excuse me.

I STINK at any form of arts and crafts.

I’m also sorry to report that both my kids inherited my UnRembrandt gene. Whenever they came home with their latest drawing, I would stare at it in frustration and give up.

“What is it?” I’d ask, baffled.

My ex- who had been down the parenthood road before with three grown daughters- used to reprimand me.

“You’re supposed to say ‘Tell me about it.'”

But the ghastly melanges they’d come up with inevitably prompted the “What is it?” response from me whenever they’d proudly proffer their latest piece of handicraft.

Sound harsh?

Take a look at this bowl that Natasha made in the fifth grade.

I rest my case.

Which leads me to some bowls of an entirely different nature…

As you can see, on Friday, April 15, my friends at LillStreet Art Center held their ninth annual fundraiser “Empty Bowls.” The Empty Bowls Project is a nation-wide endeavour using ceramic artists to fight hunger.

It’s such a neat event and such a worthy cause that I gladly rubbed shoulders with the artists as they used their talents to raise money to feed the hungry here in Chicago.

Here’s how it works. (So you can get in line early for next year.)

Empty Bowls is a world-wide grass roots movement that raises awareness and dollars for the needy all over America. “Everybody Eats” is their motto, and for the last twenty-five years, artists like potters, sculptors and metal-workers have donated their time and talent to this end.

At LillStreet, it is a joint venture between the studio, the artists and the center’s on-site “First Slice” Cafe.

LillStreet donates the clay, the artists donate their talent, First Slice makes and donates the dinner of yummy soup and fabulous bread, and it all comes together when the public lines up around the block to get a crack at buying beautiful bowls for the bargain basement price of $25.

All the monies raised then go to feed the hungry here at home.

This year the do-gooders/art lovers/bargain hunters were out in force.

400 bowls were sold.

Quickly.

Some people filled their bowls with First Slice soup. Some just gazed upon their new treasures with glee.

But everyone felt just great. They got to do good, eat well and do well all at the same time.

The “Empty Bowls” concept at LillStreet is beautiful because it’s simple, right?

Tell me about it.

Posted in Art, Chicago, Lillstreet, Philanthropy | 6 Comments

New Rules

Posted on April 24, 2016 by Ellen Ross

Hi, Dear Readers. I’m back. Whew. I really needed that little R and R. Hope you had a great couple of weeks.

And good news, guys. I think the Comments Section has finally been de-bugged. Come on. Give it a try. I need to know if it was Mission Accomplished. Thanks.

I’m sure you all recognize that man in blue in the photo above. He’s a TSA agent and for a single woman traveling alone, he can be a real pain in the neck.

Whenever I travel over a holiday- if I’m by myself- these folks give me a very hard time.

Even with my KTN.

It all started in 2002 when I met up with my kids for Christmas vacation in Hawaii. They were coming from all over and I was headed in from Aspen. We were going to rendez-vous in Maui.

Sounds cinchy, right?

Wrong.

To get from Aspen to Maui involved three flights. Aspen/Denver. Denver/Los Angeles. LA/Maui. There were some looong layovers and the trip took forever.

And to add insult to injury, it seems that single women traveling alone at Christmastime were being flagged as suspect.

So at each juncture, I was stopped, hassled and my carry on thoroughly searched. By the time I got to the hotel, I was wiped out from all the Dramamine- and the sexist profiling.

Finally, at six a.m. Maui time, I collapsed into the bed and gratefully closed my eyes. One minute later, the hotel’s fire alarm went off. I ignored it. I was too tired to move and my last coherent thoughts were “Oh, well. Let the fire kill me. If I burn up, the kids will own the Ritz and I won’t have to get hassled at airports anymore.”

And these days, not much has changed. With Natasha in Boston and Nick in Seattle, I am usually traveling by myself on the holidays.

Case in point: last November I was headed for Seattle. Nick and Missy had put me in charge of Thanksgiving dinner, and to that end, I gave some thought to the tablescape. So into my carry on went Thanksgiving-themed napkins and these.

Turkey napkin rings. Aren’t they cute?

TSA didn’t think so. They pulled me out of the line, gave me a pat down, and rifled my carry on thoroughly. They even went item by item through my makeup case.

I was protesting (quietly) on the sidelines.

“What are you looking for? Those are napkin rings. What do you think I’m trying to do? I’m just visiting my kids for Thanksgiving.”

Grudgingly- after what seemed like an hour- they gave up and with a show of very poor sportsmanship, testily gave me back my disheveled luggage and allowed me to proceed to the gate.

When I unpacked in Seattle, much to my chagrin, I could not find my favorite eyeliner brush. In their enthusiastic search for weapons, the TSA people had lost it.

I was pissed. And when I got back to Chicago, I tried to turn in a claim for it.

Lost and Found Sidebar: Have you ever tried to claim money damages for an item lost by the TSA? Words to the wise: Don’t bother. The paperwork alone will kill you. Not only did they demand to see a receipt for the eyeliner brush but they wanted a photograph of it. I don’t know about you but I usually don’t snap my cosmetic accessories. After bitching and moaning and using a Q-tip for a couple of days, I gave up and ordered a new one from Amazon.

Now with Mother’s Day coming up and another set of airports to negotiate, I’m already bracing myself for the inevitable inconvenient stop-and-frisk moments that await me.

So it came as quite a surprise two weeks ago when I heard my son Nick whistle and go “Holy Shit! Look at this!” as he unpacked at my house for his monthly business trip.

(Yes, he lives in Seattle but his business is headquartered in Chicago. He works remote three weeks a month and then he comes in for meetings Monday to Friday.)

I ran into his room

“This was in my pants pocket, Dude. I didn’t even remember I had it in there,” Nick said in amazement as he gazed at his half-unpacked carry on.

To get the full effect, take a look at this.

Yep, Nick had just flown in from Sea-Tac with a box cutter in his carry on.

Come on!

He’s 6’1″ and looks like a terrorist.

He gets to fly with a weapon and I get busted for napkin rings?

Ain’t fair, Dude.

Now take a look at this poor schmuck. I know just how he feels.

Posted in Travel | 14 Comments

The Moo Moo Diaries Part 2

Posted on April 10, 2016 by Ellen Ross

Dear Readers, let me start out this post by saying thank you. Your emails, texts, phone calls and Facebook comments about my last post have meant so much to Kenny and me. This is a tough subject and it was heartening to know that so many of you understand and/or have been there yourselves. Your words of wisdom, humor and support are truly appreciated.

Thank you for your good common sense suggestions and the reminders to hang in there.

And thank you, too, for understanding that although she is “difficult” and “dramatic” and “feisty” and all the other buzz words people have always applied to my mother, I try to understand and forgive her.

So it will probably come as no surprise when I tell you that I am taking some personal time off. This will be my last Letter From Elba until Sunday, April 24. As my heroine Nora Ephron says, “Everything is copy,” and I need to gather my thoughts- and some fresh material.

Tech Note: I know. I know. My Comments sections has mutinied and made it difficult to post comments. Especially from iPhones and iPads. (People using desktops seem to have any easier time of it.) We are working on isolating the problem. My sincerest apologies. I know you want to post comments. Believe me, I want to get them. I like them better than the posts. Hopefully by the time I return, this glitch will be fixed.

And now back to Moo Moo…

Wednesday: Day Three Post Op Moo Moo’s Hip Surgery.

Our day started off with a bang. I tried calling her early this morning and there was no answer. I was puzzled. She was completely bed-ridden yesterday. Where could she have gone?

Kenny cleared the whole thing up.

It seems that last night, Moo Moo had called the Deerfield police four times from her hospital bed. The nurses then confiscated both the hospital phone and her cell phone.

She wasn’t a happy camper.

This morning she was still so riled up that they finally knocked her out. Peace once again reigned on the third floor.

When Kenny and I got there, Moo Moo was still out like a light.

“We can wake her up if you’d like,” said Deb, the sweet nurse.

“Do you have a gun and a whip?” I asked.

She laughed ruefully.

“Yes, we had to give her a big injection,” she admitted. “She was very agitated.”

Kenny and I conferenced briefly.

“Don’t wake her,” he said.

And then we tiptoed into her room.

Poor Moo Moo. She looked awful. But on the other hand, she wasn’t in pain and she wasn’t suffering.

(And neither was the hospital staff.)

“Better let her sleep it off,” Kenny said. “Let’s hang here for awhile and see if she wakes up.”

I put her crossword puzzle book on her tray table and we tiptoed out and went to a lounge around the corner.

Periodically I’d go in and see if she was awake.

Nope.

She had been tased, bro.

And the nurses were pretty sure that she would NOT be going to the rehab facility tomorrow.

“She’s a little behind in her recovery,” said Deb. “I doubt that she will leave here on time.”

Thursday: Day Four Post-Op

As Deb predicted, Moo Moo was not moved to the rehab facility. She did look much improved, however. When we got to her room, she was sitting in a chair, nibbling at some lunch and checking on the stock market.

All good signs.

One tiny problem. She thought she was going home tomorrow.

“No, you’re going to rehab tomorrow,” I explained.

“I don’t want to go there. I’m going home,” she pronounced.

“You can’t walk,” Kenny said wearily. “You have to go there so they can get you up and going again.”

She didn’t seem to believe us but we didn’t push it. After all, she’ll find out sooner or later.

Friday: Day Five Post-Op

Moo Moo was moved to the rehab facility. (I could hear a collective cheer go up on the third floor of the hospital.) Kenny and I drove out to see her bearing good wishes and some clothes. (After all, she had fallen wearing a nightgown. They just might have to dress her at some point.)

We found her sitting in her bed and rarin’ to go.

“Where were you? I called you five times! That other place stunk! What is this place? It’s nicer than that other place. Why didn’t you put me in here first? Where’s my Sun Times? Where’s my ice cream? Where’s my mail? Turn on the tv! What’s the channel for the stock market? Get me the ball game! Sit in that chair! What’s my phone number? Get me my purse!”

There was more. I’m just too anxiety-ridden to remember all of her never-ending temper tantrum harangue.

For Kenny and me it was SNAFU.

Situation Normal All Fucked Up.

But for Moo Moo it is now FUBAR.

Fucked Up Beyond All Repair.

We stood it as long as we could, Kenny had a brief talk with her nurse while I tried to distract her with pleasant conversation and then, exhausted from the visit, we split.

Dear Lord, give us strength.

Saturday: Day Six Post-Op

9 a.m. I just called her room at rehab. I hoped to find out how she was doing and if they had started physical therapy yet.

9:05 a.m. I just hung up with her.

And on her.

9:06 a.m. I texted Kenny.

“Just hung up on Moo Moo when I said, ‘Mom, you’ve just got to be patient’ and she snarled and screamed ‘AW SHUT UP!’ She hates the place already.”

9:08 a.m. Kenny- an emoji genius- texted this back.

I have tried to tell the truth here. It’s not pretty and not politically correct to say you have a depressed and angry mother who always makes trouble and is not lovable.

But I have to admit that there was one area in which my mother excelled and I’ll forever be grateful to her.

She had enormous confidence in me. She always made me feel that I could do ANYTHING. And in times of trouble and heartbreak- like now- her indomitable spirit still takes me over.

“You can do it!’ she’d always exhort me.

No girl ever had a bigger cheerleader.

(Well, maybe this one did.)

See you on the 24th.

Love, Gypsy

Posted in Aging, Parents | 4 Comments

The Moo Moo Diaries Part 1

Posted on April 7, 2016 by Ellen Ross

That’s my mother. Leatrice Joy Roffe. She was named for a famous silent movie star, Leatrice Joy.

(She was dubbed “Moo Moo” by her first grandchild, Natasha, and the sobriquet stuck.)

True, both women were beautiful. But I bet that’s where the resemblance ended.

My mother is one of a kind.

And that’s not always so great.

Let’s just say to save time and space, that at age ninety-two she’s not this.

She’s much closer to this.

She’s an angry force of nature. Paranoid, combative and sarcastic.

She’s also smart as a whip, canny as a fox and stubborn as a mule.

But that’s not the point of this post.

The point is that around three a.m. on Saturday/Sunday she slipped on her kitchen floor and broke her hip.

She then crawled to her bedroom, called 911 and the police had to break down her front door to get at her.

They called my brother who went to the hospital at four in the morning.

He texted me at 6:30 and it’s been off to the races ever since.

Monday:

Our day started out on a very CSI note. Kenny and I- armed with buckets, mop, rubber gloves, industrial strength Pine Sol and bleach- went to Moo Moo’s to clean up her kitchen. She had gashed her hand as she fell and there was blood spattered all over the floor. It looked like a crime scene. Whew. Good thing I have an alibi. Anyone who knows me knows how I feel. (On the other hand, anyone who knows her wouldn’t prosecute me.)

We also met with the handy carpenter who was fixing her bashed-in door. He was a wizard with that drill. Hope Moo Moo’s hip can be fixed as easily.

I mopped, Kenny scrubbed, and together we got the kitchen back in order.

I felt just like this guy.

Then it was on to check out a brand-new Assisted Living facility that a neighbor had recommended. Moo Moo’s not to be going home any time soon, we figure.

The place was swell. We got a tour and a brochure. The saleswoman couldn’t have been nicer.

But there was one tiny glitch. Stacy, the helpful sales gal, mentioned the dreaded A Word.

Assessment.

Moo Moo doesn’t like questions. And she doesn’t cooperate with the people asking them.

“What’s it to you?” and “It’s none of your business” are two of her more genteel responses to any direct question.

Stacy seemed nonplussed.

“We’ve had difficult cases in here before,” she assured us. “Your mother won’t be the first older person who doesn’t want to move out of her home.”

Kenny and I exchanged meaningful looks. That was the understatement of the year.

“We can come to the rehab center and assess her there,” she said. “No problem.”

Okay. But how do you you tell an unsuspecting person that she’s going to be assessing this?

We left Stacy to her illusions because it was time for us to hit the hospital. We took the brochure and went up to see Moo Moo pre-op. She had been sedated.

But not enough.

“Where’s my phone book? Where’s my jewelry? Where’s my watch? Why did they move me? How much is it going to cost to fix the door? What am I doing here? ”

The nurses looked shell-shocked.

And her primary care physician looked all in.

“I know she’s old and paranoid but golly she’s mean,” he said.

“Tell us something we don’t know, Doc.”

They wheeled her out and Kenny and I went to Once Upon a Bagel to grab a fortifying snack. Then we came back and hunkered down in the surgical waiting room.

Three hours crawled by.

Finally her surgeon came out.

“Well… it was a little touch and go there. She had two ana-somethings *** ( forgot the word he used) while she was on the table. Luckily our team got her heart going again.”

“Did she have a heart attack?’ Kenny asked.

“Her heart stopped beating twice. She’ll be monitored by Cardiology for tonight.”

The Roffe kids exchanged more glances. She had survived the surgery but what was in store for her?

Rehab? Assisted Living? A nursing home? Moo Moo? Blending gently into a new environment where she’d have to behave and conform to other people’s rules?

Houston, we have a problem.

Tuesday

Kenny and I arrived at Moo Moo’s hospital bed just in time to have her nurse tell us that she had just finished giving her a blood transfusion.

“And we gave her the sweetest blood we have!” sang out the nurse as she wheeled the paraphernalia out of the room.

Let’s hope it works.

Moo Moo did look better today. Hair combed, lipstick on, a big improvement on the groggy, bedraggled wraith we saw languishing in the bed yesterday.

We made small talk and I showed her some videos of Sam, her great-grandson.

Then another Sam made his appearance.

Sam The Physical Therapy Man,

It was his task to get her up on her feet.

At first scream, Kenny fled.

I hung in there to cheer lead and lend moral support. (To Sam.) Moo Moo was terrified and she was sure that this was against doctor’s orders.

“No, you don’t understand,” she said. “I’m in pain and can not move.”

“I’m here to help you, ma’am,” replied patient Sam

She tried everything in her power to make him go away but Sam was in charge now.

Slowly he got her up on her feet. She took a half step and then refused to go on.

Sam skillfully got her into a chair and explained to her that it was vitally important that she sit up for awhile.

I went out in the hall and gave Kenny the all clear signal. He came back in the room.

Moo Moo was beat and so were we.

Kenny gave me the high sign and I put on my coat. Poor Moo Moo. She looked wrung out.

“We’ll be back tomorrow,” Kenny assurred her. “And we’ll bring you your crossword puzzle book.”

To be continued…

Now take a look at this family in an alternate- and gentler- universe.

Until Sunday, with love from Princess and Bud.

Posted in Aging, Parents | 10 Comments

Teardown

Posted on April 3, 2016 by Ellen Ross

A couple of weeks ago an old high school buddy and I took a sentimental journey. We drove out from Chicago and went back to our old home town- Winnetka, Illinois.

Our first stop was New Trier High School.

“Bud” and I went there in the the 60’s. And it was home to so many of our teenage triumphs and tragedies.

New Trier is currently undergoing a pricey remodeling project. Although the refurbishment is extensive, I’m happy to report that good old New Trier looks pretty much the same- minus the infamous mobile classrooms of our day.

(And if any of you want to watch the live stream of the construction, just click on this.)

As Bud drove us around the surrounding side streets to survey the work in progress, we laughed and reminisced about old friends, teachers we liked, teachers we loathed and Driver’s Ed.

And then Bud had a brainstorm.

“Let’s go to my old house. I haven’t been there in years.”

And so off we went to Lindenwood Drive.

Lindenwood is a pleasant residential street in Winnetka built in the early 50’s by the great builder, Clarence Hemphill. Founded in 1926, here’s the kind of houses his company put up back in those glorious suburban baby boom days.

And this.

Sadly, after sixty-seven years in business, Homes by Hemphill had to close its doors in 1993. It’s “carriage trade” approach had been severely undermined when the real estate market shifted from people who wanted quality to people who demanded value.

Once upon a time, we knew everyone on Lindenwood. I had friends who lived there, my doctor lived there, I even went out on one memorable date with a creep who lived there.

Misogynistic Sexist Sidebar: There was a kid in my class who lived on Lindenwood. Let’s call him “Larry.” One day he asked me out for a Friday night date. We went to the movies and then he took me back to his grandmother’s (empty) apartment in Evanston. I remember the white shag carpeting and I remember how he unsuccessfully tried to put the moves on me. I spurned him and the evening ended none too soon as I demanded that he take me home. The ugly little incident was closed. Or so I thought. When I got to school the next Monday morning, good old Lar had been telling everyone how he scored with Roffe. I was outraged. And shocked. I had never had anyone lie about me before. I still hate his guts.

Back to Lindenwood Drive…

As Bud and I drove up the street, our mouths fell open.

His house and one other I knew were still there. Looking pretty much exactly the way we remembered them.

But practically every original house was GONE.

And in their places.

Curses!

McMansions.

You know, those awful travesties that don’t fit the lot. Those towering monstosities that are built upward merely to impress and intimidate.

Like this.

These houses had sprung up like toadstools and had blighted the block. People with more dollars than sense had invaded poor little Lindenwood and now garish faux castles made out stucco were a tawdry testament to the fact that money doesn’t care who owns it.

It was sad.

And although I have singled out Lindenwood for this post, the fact is that all over the North Shore this phenomenon of tearing down perfectly beautiful old houses and substituting glitzy Frankenhouses is rampant.

So many charming, gracious homes have been razed. And the new houses that take their place have no worth architecturally or historically.

They do have bigger bathrooms, though.

Bud and I just shook our heads and continued our drive up Appletree Lane. He pointed out the houses that used to belong to many of his friends. Fortunately some of them still had survived the teardown treatment. (The houses. Not the friends.)

And then, because I was in a WTF mood, I said to Bud, “Now let’s go to my house.”

We turned left onto Hill Road and one block later there was the stop sign. Locust Road. We made a right and I was happy to see that the first few houses were still in situ.

But in a blink we came to my neighbor, George Lill’s, house.

OMG. Gone. Like George who died in 1996.

George had a white and green kind of Cape Cod cottage house on a very large piece of property. It was charming and low key. He and his wife had raised five boys and dozens of Springer Spaniels happily in that house.

But George died in 1996 and the property was sold.

Now look.

You can’t even begin to understand how this ugly behemoth has taken over the lot. It looks like a hotel. And the listing says it has seven bedrooms and is going for over $7 million.

(If you really want to punish yourself, read all about it here.)

And here’s my old house.

That’s it. Most of the house is hidden in this picture but I can tell you this.

NOTHING has changed since the day I left it. I even saw the planters that Med Lange designed for me still reigning out in front.

The landscaping, the roof, the blue stone chip in the driveway, everything we had done was still untouched.

In a way, this was more unsettling than what had happened to the Lill house. My house still looked as if I lived there.

Well, in a way, I do. The best time of my life was spent in that house and I visit it in my mind often.

I turned to Bud with a sigh.

“You can’t go home again, no matter what,” I said.

He nodded and headed for the city.

Houses may come and go.

Good memories stay forever.

You can’t tear them down.

Posted in Architecture, Nostalgia, pop culture, Winnetka | 17 Comments

Sunshine State of Mind

Posted on March 31, 2016 by Ellen Ross

Once upon a time I used to like Florida. Miami Beach, Palm Beach, South Beach, Long Boat Key, Coral Gables, Coconut Grove, Ft. Lauderdale, Boca Raton. Sunned there and loved that.

I even had in-laws who lived in St. Petersburg. Hated that but I was crazy about this.

(I was nuts about their black bean soup and house salad.)

It’s getting to be that time of year when many of my readers will be heading back from Florida to their summertime digs. That’s why I have been thinking about the Sunshine State lately.

No offense, Florida lovers, but I usually try not to.

When my ex and I were divorced, he got custody. I didn’t fight him for it. He ended up one of those Illinois snowbirds who lives in Naples six months of the year- avoiding skin cancer and Illinois state taxes with the same due diligence.

He does what all rich retirees do down there. Plays a lot of golf, goes out to a lot of pricey dinners. We call it “Assisted Living.”

(Don’t be fooled by the presence of the bicycles in this Naples publicity still. I have it on good authority that the preferred method of transportation is the golf cart- followed shortly thereafter by the hearse.)

As you can see, I can get all riled up at the mere mention of the word “Florida.” It hits my hot button. (And if you especially love Naples and feel that I have maligned it unfairly, my sincerest apologies.)

But I have to be honest. I do have some very good memories of that state and I’m in the mood to share them with all of you.

My first visit took place when I was in high school. The Roffe family stayed at a hotel in Miami Beach called the Carillon.

It was nowhere near as fancy as the Fontainebleau, the Eden Roc or the Doral. But it was on Collins Avenue and fifteen year old me was crazy about the pool.

I remember the heady aroma of Bain de Soleil, the card games, the fighting for lounge chairs and the constant paging of phone calls over the PA system.

This will give you a good idea of what it was like back in the day.

I especially loved the PA system. Some of my friends were in town for that Christmas vacation. Other New Trier cronies were in Winter Park, Colorado on a school ski trip. In the days before cell phones, this system meant that I would never have to miss a phone call.

Vitally important for a teenager.

I did, however, have to learn the ropes.

“Call for Mrs. Newman. Mrs. Belle Newman.”

“Call for Mr. Reynolds. Mr. Robert Reynolds.”

“Call for Mrs. Price. “Mrs. Phyllis Price.”

“Call for Mr. Rossi. Mr. Alan Rossi.”

My mother gave me a nudge with her elbow.

“That’s for you. Go get it.”

“Huh?” I was baffled. “That call was for some man.”

“I’ve had this name longer than you. Mr. Alan Rossi is you. Trust me.”

And she was right.

It was all so glamorous back then. The balmy weather. The roar of the surf. The soft breezes at night.

With stars in my untravelled eyes, I was Ellen in Wonderland.

There was the terribly exciting night life. Even for a teenager- if Daddy was paying.

Billy took me to see the Supremes at the Deauville. Jimmy took me to see the Smothers Brothers at the Americana, I think. Maitre d’s bowing and scraping. Swanky dinners with menus in French. I think Jimmy was even served a cocktail- no ID required.

This was heady stuff for a teenager.

And then there were the fun places to eat like Junior’s and Wolfie’s.

And the great Vincent Capra’s.

And then there was Pumpernik’s.

OMG! I still go crazy when I think about Pumpernick’s.

Sure they had a huge menu. But for me it was about one thing and one thing only.

This.

I was addicted to their cheesecake. I craved it. No heroin addict ever had a bigger jones.

When I went back to Miami as an adult in my early twenties, I still had the cheesecake monkey on my back. Without the teen age metabolism, alas.

So I did what any sensible girl who wanted to look good in her bikini would do.

I ate nothing all day and then had one slice of Pumpernick’s cheesecake for dinner.

Sure it’s a tad extreme but since that one slice had about a billion calories, I wasn’t exactly starving.

Pumpernick’s is gone now.

And, funnily enough, so is most of my animus towards Florida.

Maybe next winter, I’ll give it another try.

Naples still might be enemy territory but…

The (east) coast is clear.

Posted in Florida, New Trier High School, pop culture, Travel | 6 Comments

I Saw The Light

Posted on March 27, 2016 by Ellen Ross

It’s Easter and it’s Spring. The time for rejuvenation and new promise. And the time when this young girl’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.

And that’s when I turn to Hiram King Williams.

Better known to you-all as Hank.

Having “King” as his middle name was no mere chance.

For me, he is the King of Heartbreak and Bad Breaks.

That’s my very own copy of the sheet music in the photograph that heads this post. It’s an original first printing of “Your Cheatin’ Heart” and I treasure it.

Hank’s life was no bed of roses. Born with a disorder of the spinal column, his short twenty-nine years were spent in a misery of painkillers, alcohol, busted marriages and lost chances.

It was also filled with God-given musical genius.

This guy has to be the very definition of a genius. Unlettered and unschooled, nevertheless Hank had been gifted with a prodigious talent for writing songs and a voice that could make the angels weep.

(Here’s Hank in 1938. Legend has it that some of the townspeople of Georgiana, Alabama pitched in and bought that guitar for him.)

Dying ignominiously in the early hours of January 1, 1953 from heart failure brought on by the pills and booze, his brief life was a cautionary tale of all the woes that can get a mere mortal down

But today he is regarded as one of the most influential singer-songwriters of the twentieth century.

(And you don’t have to take my word for it. In 1991 Bob Dylan- no songwriting slouch himself- said, “To me, Hank Williams is still the best songwriter.”)

And when I’m broken-hearted, Hank sings just like the way I’m feeling.

But Hank could dish it out as well as take it. He was no honky tonk angel and he could be as pesky as a stray hound dog who likes to wander.

He loved himself a good old time.

And he always had an eye for the ladies. Here’s a song that is known the world-over.

Oh, Lordy! I’ve got goosebumps. What a song. As a writer, I love his ability to tell a story. I particularly love the part about “No more lookin.’ I know I been tookin.'”

(And if you think those lyrics that sound so simple are easy to rhyme, try writing some yourself sometime. This is Cole Porter – if he had been born in Butler County, Alabama.)

If you’ve never been introduced to Hank Williams, now is a pretty good time to get acquainted. Last Friday, the new bio pic I Saw The Light opened in New York, Los Angeles and, of course, Nashville.

(The rest of us will have to wait until April 1.)

In it, Brit actor Tom Hiddleston plays Hank. He studied up hard for the role. Elizabeth Olsen plays Audrey, Hank’s famous wife/manager/watchdog/nemesis. Here’s their take on taking on two legends.

I leave it to you to decide whether you want to see the movie or not. As for me, I’m on the fence. I love old Hank so much that I don’t think I can watch anyone- no matter how talented- do an impersonation of him.

So today, as I wish you all a very Happy Easter, I’ll remember lost loves and daydream about future ones.

And listen to this for awhile.

Posted in Dating, Music, Romance | 8 Comments

Heart to Hart

Posted on March 24, 2016 by Ellen Ross

That handsome man is Robert Wagner. Movie star, TV star, all-around mensch. I’m thinking about him because I recently came upon this amongst my books.

As you can see, it’s his autobiography. I hadn’t looked at it in years, and as I was idly leafing through it, I saw this inscription.

(In case you can’t make out his handwriting it says: “To Ellen and Fritz. With my love and happiness. Always, Robert Wagner 03/05/09 You wonderful dog lovers)

Mike and I bumped into him at the Little Nell in Aspen one day. We just happened to have Fritz, our German Shepherd, with us and one thing led to another and we all started talking. It turned out that R.J. too had a beloved German Shepherd named Larry and that we shared the same terrific vet- Scott Dolginow.

That’s why he autographed the book to my dog.

(My German Shepherds, Onda and Fritz)

And here’s R.J. his wife Jill St. John and Larry. (Named for Sir Laurence Olivier, btw.)

What a guy. He was gracious and charming. Couldn’t have been nicer.

If you lived in Aspen, major celebrity-sightings were a daily occupational hazard. We had ’em all. And we knew their local reputations. Everyone had heard the stories.

There was The Good.

Catherine Zeta-Jones and her husband Michael Douglas were very much fan favorites. Beautiful (she) and kind to all.

Then there was The Bad.

Don Johnson had an awful reputation within the Ski School. Stuck up, demanding, and petty. The local scuttlebutt had it that he had once asked a ski instructor to carry his boots. Seems he was much closer to this character in real life than to good ol’ boy Sonny Crockett.

And there was The Ugly

That’s the late Michael Kennedy and his mother, Ethel. Virtually all the Kennedys were despised as entitled, check-stiffing boors, but Michael was the worst of a rotten bunch.

His needless death in 1998- playing ski football on Ajax at four o’clock thereby endangering innocent skiers- was the sad end result of a lifetime of oafish behavior.

But for the most part, the Celebs and the Locals had a “live and let live” relationship that served all parties well.

Sure you recognized Cher and Goldie and Chevy** and Kurt, but you didn’t act like a touron (tourist + moron) and ask for their autograph or gape or anything uncool like that.

(**Well, Bill did get into a tussle with Chevy over the last turkey sandwich at High Alpine one lunchtime. Bill won. Chevy didn’t take it all that well.)

And we all had our favorites.

I, of course, was bowled over by my locker mate, Ringo. For an entire ski season, he and I would put our ski boots on next to each other on the same bench. I wish that I could report that we became great mates, luv, but I never wanted to bother him. We’d just exchanged “hello’s” every morning.

Still I had to pinch myself because I could never believe that it wasn’t all A Hard Day’s Night dream.

And I wasn’t the only member of the Ross Clan with a favorite star encounter.

Nick really enjoyed the time- and the memories- of riding up the chair lift with this.

Even serious Natasha once came back from a day on the slopes all aglow. Seems like she shared some pizza at Up 4 Pizza at the top of Snowmass’s Big Burn with this guy.

Over the years I have spotted Dustin Hoffman, Will Smith, Don Henley, Jack Nicholson and Kevin Costner.

And one New Year’s Eve, I caught a glimpse of Ivana Trump with a group of hard-looking divorcées out on the town. (Bet she never dreamed what her ex would be getting up to in 2016.)

Once I even got stranded at DIA waiting for the weather to clear for a Denver-to-Aspen flight one May. There were exactly three people waiting for that flight- me, Billie Jean King (with a very cute Papillon) and Martina Navratilova.

We hung out and made small talk for about an hour. Finally the captain announced that there was a break in the weather and that we were “going to go for it.”

We ran on board, the plane took off and soon we were back in Aspen.

Fast forward to a Christmas party that year. I had been invited by SkiCo to a very posh bash they threw every year for their VIP’s. (Don’t ask me why I was invited. Maybe all the money I had spent vainly trying to learn how to pole plant correctly.)

A teenaged Nick was pressed into service as my escort and driver since I’m night blind. At first he was reluctant to have fun. But he got into the spirit when I made him accompany me as I walked up to Martina.

“Watch this,” I said to my son. “I know she’ll remember me.”

“Hi, Martina. Remember when we all got stranded at DIA this Spring? Well, I was going to ask you if you wanted to rent a car with me and drive to Aspen but I wasn’t quite sure if you could afford it.”

Martina laughed. She was digging it. (She’s so rich that she knew I was teasing.)

“I do remember you,” she said in a Greta Garbo accent. “And the next time we get stuck at the airport, you rent the car and I vill drive.”

Fine by me. She’s got the great hand-eye coordination, after all.

(Btw, her rival on the court, Chris Evert, spent a lot of time in Aspen when she was married to local ski hero, Andy Mill. I sat behind Chris and her kids once on a very small plane and I can report that the children behaved perfectly. Chris must have been a good mother as well as a great tennis player.)

Nick got a big kick out of the exchange.

“Dude! You were chillin’ with Martina!” He was amused.

But then he looked impressed.

“Wow. Look over there. It’s the Hart to Hart dude!”

I followed where he was looking and there he was- Robert Wagner.

Now married to local Jill St. John and laughing and looking like the epitome old world Hollywood.

He might have been Jonathan Hart to Nick but to me he was the kid who invented the Sousaphone in Stars and Stripes Forever.

And the man who married the beautiful screen legend Natalie Wood.

Twice.

Sometimes we meet screen idols we admire. Sometimes they don’t live up to our expectations.

Not in Robert Wagner’s case.

Handsome is as handsome does.

And R.J. you can sneak into my bedroom with Champagne any night you want.

And bring Larry.

(But leave Jill home.)

Posted in Actors, Aspen, Dogs, Movies | 8 Comments

Blow Me Down

Posted on March 20, 2016 by Ellen Ross

Wow! I’m still all shook up, Dear Readers. This past Wednesday I had a brush with Mother Nature- and she plays hardball.

It all started out so innocently- with a lunch date at R.J. Grunts with Fred Nachman, an old friend from New Trier High School.

He is a serious amateur photographer whose work has appeared in several publications and on numerous websites.

Fred is also the author of There Used to Be a Synagogue Here: Former
Chicago Temples, a collection of 100 images from his almost 400 photographs of these buildings as well as commentary on their history and significance.

And he is an AMAZING sports photographer, as well. Take a look at this.

That’s PNC Park in Pittsburgh. Is that off the cover of Sports Illustrated or what?

We get together every so often so reminisce, talk about upcoming events and share sports stories.

And on this day, he had hopped a bus to Grunts and I had walked over there.

(Can you tell this photo is by Ellen Ross?)

I got there at noon. The wind was really picking up but I didn’t give it much thought.

Lunch was fun, the busboy bagged my leftovers and Fred and I said good-bye at the corner. He was headed downtown and I started my way up north.

I got a couple of blocks and then I knew I was in trouble. The wind had assumed gale-like proportions at the lakefront and I was in the epicenter.

I was being tossed around like a beachball and finally, out of sheer desperation, I grabbed on to a green mailbox and hung on for dear life.

The roar of the wind was that of a freight train. I was absolutely terrified to let go. I knew I would be blown into the street and hit by a car.

I clung there for about five minutes. A long time with branches whizzing by your head. Finally a guy walking a black and white Boxer mix fought his way over to me.

“Are you okay?” he shouted. “Do you need any help?”

“I’m okay,” I yelled back. “There’s nothing you can do.”

And there wasn’t. I thought I’d just gut it out.

Reluctantly he left me there. (The dog was reluctant too. He didn’t want to abandon my leftover hamburger that he had been sniffing the whole time.)

I waited for the wind to die down and made a break for it. I got exactly one short block and WHAM!

I was thrown to the ground with a body slam worthy of the WWE.

As I was sprawled out on the street, I saw a guy jump out of his cab of a semi truck. He looked really worried.

“Let me help you, ma’am,” he said.

And he lifted my up, and with his arm around my waist, he carefully walked me to the shelter of some buildings on Lakeview.

I was really dazed but I do remember that his red shirt said “Carl.”

So thanks, Carl. I needed that.

Carl’s truck was blocking traffic so he had to split. I was sore but nothing was broken (my lunch had broken my fall) so I thought I’d be able to make it back home.

Wrong.

At the next corner, the wind was so fierce that I grabbed onto to a stop sign and was blown off my feet.

How long I was on that thing, I have no idea. I do remember thinking that if the sign itself sheared off the top of that pole, I was going to end up like Jayne Mansfield.

Finally a cab turned the corner and saw me.

He slammed on his brakes and fighting the wind, he inched his way over to me.

By this time, I didn’t want to let go.

He gave me his arm and together we fought our way back to his cab. He wrestled open the door and gently deposited me inside.

“It’s dangerous out there!” he said. “You shouldn’t have been walking.”

He drove me home and then asked if I needed him to get out and take me into my building.

I didn’t, but I thanked him from the bottom of my heart. (With a tip to match.)

I got home just in time to find out the storm had shut down all the electrical power on my block. Everything was blown so that meant I was walking up to my apartment.

Thank goodness I live on the eleventh floor. (But I never live higher than I can walk.)

The power stayed off for the next three hours.

Which gave me plenty of time to think.

The Windy City? Make that “The Kindest City.”

And hey there, Donald Trump. Get this. The guy with the dog was Hispanic, Carl was black and the cab driver was Lebanese.

Here in Chicago, Good Samaritans come in all colors.

One last thing…

In my youth, I was in two productions of “The Wizard of Oz.” Once I played the Scarecrow. (Typecasting because I was skinny.) And once I was the Wicked Witch of the West. (Typecasting because…?)

Much to my chagrin, I never got to play Dorothy.

Until now.

Posted in Chicago, Weather | 8 Comments