Letter From Elba

Surf’s Up!

Posted on December 17, 2015 by Ellen Ross

Now that the Chicago weather is gray and gloomy, it’s time for me to grab my bikini and head for my favorite beach.

Movies, I mean.

Sun, surf, sand, dune buggies, beach houses, surfboards, bonfires, Dick Dale and the battle of the teenage sexes have made for some very fabulous movie moments.

Let’s head west and start with the first of a memorable series. After all, this Beach Party is where Frankie met Annette.

But, as we all know, the path of true love is never smooth as the sand on Malibu. In Beach Blanket Bingo, Frankie’s wandering eye lands on the dishy singer, Sugar Kane- played with wholesome All American blondness by Linda Evans.

But don’t worry, wahines. Annette doesn’t wipe out. She keeps her one piece, Walt Disney-approved bathing suit on and still gets her man.

Things are way more complicated for Gidget. She desperately wants to learn to surf and hang with the boys.

Wasn’t that the ginchiest? And how about those special effects? They looked so real. I didn’t know that Sandra Dee, James Darren and Cliff Robertson were such rad hodaddies.

Will Gidget get invited to the luau? Will she ever get a bust? And will she ever get Moondoggie to fall for her? I’m always on the edge of my Bing surfboard praying that everything works out swell for adorable her.

Now here’s a movie where the guys really know how to hang ten. Have a glimpse of Endless Summer. (I had that title poster hanging in my bedroom when I was Gidget’s age.)

But let’s give the Hawaii girls their due. Watch these lovely surfers Blue Crush it.

One of my all-time favorite desert island disc movies is the wonderful romp Mr. Hobbs Takes a Vacation. There is teenage trouble galore as fourteen year old Katey is ashamed of her braces and won’t smile long enough to get a boy to dance with her.

Enter Fabian.

I LOVE this movie. And I’ve gone from Laurie Peters’ age to Maureen O’Hara’s grandmother status laughing all the way.

But the Pacific isn’t the only ocean in town. Let’s see what’s happening on the Atlantic side of Beach Country.

Sometimes girls meet girls on Beaches and tearjerker movies are born. Watch this close encounter between CC Bloom (Mayam Bialik) and Hilary Whitney (Marcie Leeds).

Now here’s Bette and Barbara all grown up but still hanging out on another tear-drenched beach.

And though teen queen Sandra Dee still has the ingenue role, she doesn’t want to surf any more. Uh oh. Look what happens when she discovers handsome Johnny.

(Sometimes resort houses in Maine in the movies are played by real houses in Carmel-by-the-sea. Designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, no less. Built in 1948, it stands on Scenic Road and you can go visit it.)

Now listen to this while I dry off and put on some Bain de Soleil.

Certainly not a beach movie, in some Like It Hot, the Hotel Del Coronado in San Diego stands in for the Seminole Ritz in Florida.

One of the all-time great beach scenes, nonetheless.

(Not only is the Del pretending, everybody’s pretending. Tony is pretending to be Cary Grant, Marilyn is pretending to be a Vassar girl and Jack Lemmon is pretending to be his own mother. What fun. Thank you, Billy Wilder. I just couldn’t resist.)

I’m getting noodle arms so this is going to be my last party wave.

This movie is epic.

Where the Boys Are has it all. Hunk George Hamilton- basically playing himself- smart Dolores Hart- who went on to be a nun- comic relief in the form of tall Paula Prentiss and even taller Jim Hutton.

But it also had the tragic story of Ivy League groupie, Yvette Mimieux. What a cautionary tale. I know I learned my lesson.

Okay. Time to pack up the woody and head home. I’ll leave you in Connie Francis’s good hands.

It’s been bitchin’, dudes.

Posted in Movies, Nostalgia, pop culture | 8 Comments

Scents and Sensability

Posted on December 13, 2015 by Ellen Ross

Do you remember owning a bottle of this? Or giving one to your mother perhaps?

And hey, boys. Do you remember buying these?

Do the names “Jade East” and “Hai Karate” ring any teenage bells?

When was the last time you forked over your allowance for one of these?

And girls, I haven’t forgotten about you. Remember when you wouldn’t be caught dead going out on a Friday or Saturday night without a spray of these?

Now take a look at this old commercial and see if it brings back any fragrance memories.

(That’s my girl, Ali MacGraw, in case you didn’t recognize her.)

It all seems so retro now. The idea of perfumes, colognes, sprays, toilet water. I can’t think of the last time I put some on before I went out.

But the names bring back so many memories.

It might have all started with L’heure Blue.

Created in 1912 by Jacques Guerlain, it beautifully combined orange blossom with vanilla, iris and incense.

Is it any wonder that it is Catherine Deneuve’s signature fragrance?

Guerlain also came up with another classic- Shalimar.

For generations, no well-appointed dressing table would be without a bottle of this knockout.

Then there were the Big Three.

The story is that Number 5 was so named because Mademoiselle Chanel had turned her nose up and her thumb down at the first four creative olfactory attempts. The story also goes on to say that she sold 70% of the perfume company to businessman and racehorse owner Pierre Wertheimer in 1924. In exchange for 10% of the stock, Coco licensed her name to “Parfums Chanel” and agreed to remove herself from the business.

But in 1935, Mademoiselle sued to get the business back. Her suit was unsuccessful but she didn’t give it up. She tried again to regain control in 1941.

Using the “Aryan” laws that prohibited Jews from owning businesses, Chanel petitioned the Nazis to legalize her right to sole ownership.

However the Wertheimers had forestalled this. Prior to fleeing France for New York, they had legally tuned over the business to (Christian) industrialist Felix Amiot.

At the war’s end, he turned it back over to the Wertheimer family.

Now it was Chanel’s turn to flee.

Branded as a “collabo,” she spent the next ten years in Switzerland.

Back to sweeter smelling topics…

At New Trier High School in the 60’s, lots of boys I knew bathed in Russian Leather.

I, on the other hand, spritzed Casaque on strategic pulse points.

It was my secret weapon and I wore it on all my co-ed close encounters until one fateful day in 1967. I had strolled into a parfumerie on a mission.

I wanted to “blind” spray test all the fragrances and find out which one whispered
“me.”

I didn’t want to be influenced by the name, the packaging or the hype. I just wanted to find a scent that smelled enchanting.

I tried many beauties that the saleslady proffered.

And then I struck gold.

One fragrance simply transported me. I knew that I had found my signature scent.

“I’ll take it,” I said rapturously. “What is it?”

It was this.

It was called “Forbidden” because for many years, it was only worn by my idol herself.

I still have it. But I never wear it.

Too afraid to stir up other people’s allergies, I guess.

Besides, I’m saving it for a very special evening.

With a very special someone.

(Sure hope he’ll be wearing English Leather.)

Posted in New Trier High School, Nostalgia, Perfume, pop culture | 24 Comments

The Chairman

Posted on December 10, 2015 by Ellen Ross

Author’s Note: This post is dedicated to Bernie Kerman. Ring-a-ding-ding, baby.

As you undoubtedly know by now, this Saturday, December 12, marks the hundredth birthday of Francis Albert Sinatra. Born in Hoboken, New Jersey, he died on May 14, 1998 in Los Angeles, California.

He’s buried in Cathedral City. I heard that his family sent him off with a bottle of bourbon, a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, some Tootsie Rolls, cherry Lifesavers and a roll of dimes for the pay phone- just in case he wanted to get in touch.

What a life he led. And how lucky for the rest of us that he took us along for that talented roller coaster love-sick ride.

For the record, Ol’ Blue Eyes and I never actually met. But our paths did cross a couple of times.

If they asked me, I could write a book…

I guess it all started before I was born. My mother was one of those bobby soxers who screamed and swooned over Frankie in the forties. Take a gander at her teen idol.

Skinny, not much to look at, but the voice was already on its way to becoming The Voice. Now have another listen as early Frankie teams up with the legendary Harry James on this smasheroo.

Of course we all know the legend. Enormous fame and fortune. Here’s what being on top of the world sounds like.

And then vocal problems, changing musical tastes and Ava Gardner did him in. Watch this and you can see why she devastated him.

Nobody, but nobody, could carry a torch like Frankie. He turned it into an art form. Here’s Ol’ Blue Eyes singin’ the blues.

Was that the coolest? The hat? The cigarette? Hey, how about another one for the road?

Sigh. Now there’s a guy who’s been disappointed by a dame- but still loves her anyway.

But no broad, chick, mouse, gal or female could ever get the best of Frank for long. Harry Cohn from Columbia finally came calling and begrudgingly granted him the role of Maggio in From Here to Eternity.

This is the scene that won him his Best Supporting Actor Academy Award and gave us Sinatra Part Two.

That’s the Sinatra with whom I (almost) encountered in Palm Springs in 1970.

I was spending the winter out there with my girlfriend, Vicki. Night after carefree night, we’d hit all the hot spots in town- Ruby’s Dunes, Dominick’s- and the refrain was always the same.

“You just missed Frank. He and Jilly and some girls just left.”

We’d have to content ourselves with looking at his photograph. It hung in pride of place in every restaurant in P.S.

In 1979 I got a little closer to the sun. We had rented a house on Via Alejo that winter and it had been Frank’s before he built his big one out in Rancho Mirage.

And although he had long since vacated it, it was still on the celebrity bus tour. Each day, holding baby Natasha in my arms, I would graciously smile and wave at the tourists as they craned their necks to glimpse what they thought still to be the Sinatra manse.

Sometime in the mid 80’s I finally caught up with The Man in person. We went to a last gasp “Rat Pack” tour and I saw him clown around on stage with his paisan, Dean Martin. This will give you some idea.

That looked like fun. Two handsome, worldly Italians having a great time.

But even Frank- as powerful as he was- couldn’t keep that old hitman Father Time from making his contract.

By coincidence, I happened to be in Chicago on May 14, 1998 (I had moved full-time to Colorado in 1996) when the news was announced that Frank had finally met his Maker.

All of the Rush Street was instantly plunged into grief. “My Kind of Town” and “My Way” could be heard coming out of every saloon, restaurant and club.

But The Legend never dies.

Thank goodness.

Public Service Announcement: If this post whetted your appetite, one of the greatest pieces of reportage ever is being reprinted in honor of the big birthday. It is THE definitive piece on Frank.

It’s called “Frank Sinatra Has a Cold” and it was masterfully written by Gay Talese. Click on the title and read it. It shouldn’t be missed.

One more thing before I go…

Because Frank always gave credit where credit was due, let me acknowledge here the fabulous songwriters he so beautifully interpreted.

“If They Asked Me I Could Write A Book” Richard Rodgers and Lorenz Hart

“All or Nothing At All” Arthur Altman and Jack Lawrence

“I’ve Got The World on a String” Harold Arlen and Ted Koehler

“I think of You’ from Piano Concerto Number 2 in C Minor by Sergei Rachmaninov, Jack Elliott and Don Marcotte

“One for My Baby” Harold Arlen and Johnny Mercer

“What’s New?” Bob Haggart and Johnny Burke

“Love is Just Around The Corner” Lewis E. Gensler and Leo Robbin

“My Kind of Girl” Leslie Bricusse

“But Beautiful” Jimmy Van Heusen and Johnny Burke

“L-O-V-E” Bert Kaempfert and Milt Gabler

“I Get a Kick Out of You” Cole Porter

“Goody Goody” Matty Malnick and Johnny Mercer

“Guys and Dolls” Frank Loesser

“I Thought About You” Jimmy Van Heusen and Johnny Mercer

Here’s my personal favorite. If you’ve ever had to leave someone you’re crazy about, you can see that Frank nails it.

(And listen to the great Nelson Riddle’s snazzy arrangement. It’s the swingin’est, baby.)

Cent’ anni, Francis.

Posted in Chicago, Music, Palm Springs, pop culture, Restaurants | 14 Comments

Marinara

Posted on December 6, 2015 by Ellen Ross

Hi, Dear Readers. It’s great to be back. Hope you all had a marvelous holiday. I sure did.

I went to Seattle to visit my son, Nick, his beauteous wife Missy and the love of my son’s life, Lucy, their Blue Tick Coon Hound.

Here’s the view from my window.

That white stuff in the distance is the Cascades. The Vashon Island Ferry embarkation point is at the end of the street.

And here’s my roommate.

The four of us had a ball. The weather was cooperative- sunny and crisp- and so Nick, Lucy and I went hiking every day through terrain like this.

(Photograph by Nick Ross)

This fallen tree cut off our descent so we detoured around it. Contrary to my “woodsy” image, I am not John Muir.

We also made time for some local Seattle high culture. Last Friday, November 27th, was Jimi Hendrix’s birthday. He would have been seventy-three years old. Hard to believe, of course, because I picture him eternally like this.

My son worships him. No exaggeration. So it felt only right to me that we make a pilgrimage out to his grave.

Other people had the same idea. When we got there, we found balloons and birthday cake waiting.

FullSizeRender

We stayed a while and I reminisced about the first time I heard “Foxy Lady ” and “Purple Haze.” (University of Wisconsin, Madison, December, 1967.) Nick talked about all the great musicians Jimi influenced. Then we paid our final respects and played this all the way home.

Serendipity is one of my favorite things. I never expected to be in Seattle at Jimi Hendrix’s grave on his birthday. The universe just kind of aligned. But the one thing I did expect to do on this trip- and I did- was cook.

I came loaded for bear. I even brought this out with me.

The kids cook but I just knew they would never be caught dead in anything like an actual apron. And there was one more thing I had to do before I started chopping and dicing and mincing and carving.

I gathered up the knives and Missy obligingly drove me over to their local True Value. A few minutes later, I was now in possession of cutlery that could really kick ass and take names.

It was time to make the marinara.

I learned to make marinara sauce- as I actually learned how to do most of my cooking- from my Florentine boyfriend, Paolo, way back in 1975.

Paolo was a strict disciplinarian when it came to making his favorite sugo. The olive oil, garlic and tomatoes had to come from his country house. And he insisted on showing me everything from the correct size of the dice to the order that the ingredients went into the specific pot to the right amount of seasoning to the precise way to stir the heady brew as it gently cooked down to its deep ruby red, succulent essence.

He would even hold my hand as I stirred it with the one special wooden spoon he had so lovingly chosen for me.

Great marinara was in the details and after months of practice, Paolo would taste it, shrug, sigh and pronounce, “Fatta dall’americana.” (“Made by an American.”)

But he would eat it.

But I’m not Paolo, and to me, the beauty of marinara sauce is that it’s custom-made to clean out the vegetable bin in your refrigerator.

Wilted celery? Perfect. An onion about to give up the ghost? Favoloso. Green onions getting dried out and limp? Even better.

So I would change up the ingredients or the amounts as the spirit moved me. I just knew that when I had random veggie odds and ends in the fridge, it was time to make the pasta sauce.

But one thing always stuck with me from that Florentine cucina all those years ago.

Paolo had drilled into me what the final product should taste like.

His taste. That is to say his mother’s demanding palate.

Upon reflection, I am sure that all these years my family has eaten- and loved- Paolo’s mother’s recipe for tomato sauce.

See that’s the thing about marinara. It’s all what you’re used to eating when you were a kid.

My family – and a few ex husbands or two- loved my marinara. But it wasn’t ever really mine. It was seasoned to Paolo’s mother’s taste buds.

The Chinese philosopher Lin Yutang once said, “What is patriotism but the love of the food one ate as a child?”

So I guess you could say I raised a bunch of fiorentini.

And no matter where my family lives- Seattle, Boston, Chicago- the secret ingredient of her sauce- and mine- was and always will be…

Amore.

Glad to be back, guys.

“Alla Famiglia!”

Posted in Cooking, Seattle, Travel | 12 Comments

The Best Things in Life

Posted on November 12, 2015 by Ellen Ross

IMPORTANT Letter From Elba Announcement. Dear Readers, I will be playing hooky for the next few weeks. My next post will be on Sunday, December 6.

My birthday is this weekend- November 14 to be exact- and I have a three day bash planned. I then plan on heading out of town to get an early jump on the holiday travel crush.

Thus, this is going to be my annual “Thanksgiving” post. (A little early but heart-felt just the same, I can assure you.)

I have been doing the blog now for over three years. And I want to again thank you all for your support. Some of you have been here since the very first post, Love Letter.

Some of you have joined up more recently. But I’m touched and gratified to see how many of you are loyal readers twice every week.

I love the comments and the fan mail. I love your emails and Facebook commentary. You have contributed no end to the success of this thing and I can not thank you enough.

But the one thing I hear over and over again from some of you is “you don’t charge any money to read the blog. What exactly do you get out of it?”

Here’s my answer to all you well-meaning and looking-out-for-my-best-interests friends/readers:

I am so glad you think my efforts here are worth paying for. But the truth is that I do get something out of all this.

Lots of something, in fact.

When I first started this blog, I was shipwrecked. Alone on an uninhabited island of heartbreak, loss and despair.

I felt cut off from all of my old friends and not capable of making the effort to find any new ones.

I was single after a lifetime of being married. My kids had flown the nest and had headed to opposite ends of the country.

Leaving Colorado and moving back here alone felt scary and sad. Chicago was filled with memories. And, ironically, the happier the memory, the more painful it was.

I missed so much about my old life and was at complete loss as to how to forge a new one.

I couldn’t fall back on money or my long-lost looks. All I had was an old lap top.

And I had nothing of value to say.

Robinson Crusoe and Wilson the Volleyball never felt as bereft as I did.

And then one day, I had an idea. I sent out a message in a bottle.

And you guys showed up.

You’ve given me a reason to stay up late two nights a week and a reason to get up in the morning. You’ve given me a shoulder to cry on (I still can’t get over that there were THREE wives at my grandson’s first birthday party) and someone to laugh at my jokes.

You’ve put a smile on my face with your jokes, too.

There have been dinners with old friends and lunches with new ones. I’ve been reunited with long-lost buddies and have had the enormous satisfaction of reuniting other old friends via the Comments Section, as well.

You’ve made me a part of your Thursdays and Sundays.

You are a part of my every day.

A writer’s life is, at heart, a solitary one.

I may be here alone, but thanks to you, I am no longer lonely.

No, I don’t want your money. The truth is I would pay you to let me do what I do.

It’s a joy and a privilege to be read by you all.

Wishing you a very happy, healthy Thanksgiving from the bottom of my rescued heart.

See you on December 6.

Posted in Blogging | 28 Comments

Benevolent

Posted on November 8, 2015 by Ellen Ross

(Photograph by Kevin Gibson)

Even if you live in Chicago, the chances are good that you have no idea where this photo was taken. I’ll give you a hint. I bet you’ve passed by its impressive exterior at least once.

Look familiar? That’s the National Headquarters of the Benevolent and Protective Order of the Elks.

It’s majestically located very near the corner of Lakeview and Diversey.

It happens to be my neighbor and I’ve walked by it a thousand times.

One day, curiosity finally prompted this cat and I went in. I met Gloria, the official Elks greeter, and she welcomed me in. She explained that this was the national headquarters of the organization and that it had been built as a memorial for all the Elks who had been killed in the wars.

Starting with the Civil War.

I walked around taking in all the history and the beauty. And I filed it away for another longer visit someday when I had a real Elk in tow.

On Halloween- just ahead of Veteran’s Day- cue this guy.

That’s my friend (and Super-Accountant) Kevin Gibson. Longtime readers of this blog know why I am in love with him. (No Mrs. Robinson cracks, please.)

Oh, what the heck.

He’s a great guy, loyal friend and a member in good standing of his lodge out in Colorado. He’s on the Elks’ scholarship committee and I thought he’d like to take a gander at nerve central.

Kev was in town last week for a three day seminar for CPA big wigs. (He’s a principal in Dalby, Wendland– the largest- and finest- accounting firm on the western slope of Colorado. He’s always trying to make his clients’ accounting experience a better, more cost-effective one.)

He’s careful with your money. And his.

Usually.

But when his official business duties out by O’Hare ended, Kevin grabbed a cab over to my place and we went on a Chicago tour.

I had planned out a big city itinerary custom-tailored to Kevin’s interests. But the weather last Saturday let me down.

Badly.

It rained all day long.

My fab fun walking tour of Lincoln Park and our beautiful lakefront- Kevin is an avid boating enthusiast- had to be scrapped. Dry indoor venues had to be substituted at the last minute.

I was up to the challenge.

All that patriotism, marble halls, and history at the Elks Memorial had given me goosebumps.

And an appetite.

Time for lunch.

Here.

Another Lincoln Park neighbor, R.J.Grunts. The very first restaurant of Rich Melman’s Lettuce Entertain You food empire.

I knew Kevin would be interested in the business back story. And that we could get a light lunch that wouldn’t kill us both for the dinner that was coming.

(Very Chicago, I know. Here, it’s all about where you eat. Believe me, I wanted to take him to Walker Brothers or Portillo’s or Due’s but our waistlines- and my conscience- wouldn’t allow it.)

It was still pouring when our lunch was over. Luckily our two hearts beat as one and we cabbed it to élu.

Back Story: Back when I lived in Snowmass, I was enamored of all things Henry Beguilin. The flagship store- owned by Paul and Cristina Nicoletti- was a heady mix of magnificent and stylish leather goods, furniture, and clothing.

I started out small. Purses, belts. But soon I graduated to the clothing- jackets, pants, all in softest leather. I was addicted to the scent of that gorgeous place.

Thus I listened with great interest when Kevin- a good friend of the Nicolettis- informed me that they had opened a baby sister boutique on Webster. Did I want to go?

Naturalmente!

(I also happened to be wearing my favorite Beguilin belt and carrying a treasured Beguilin bag and I thought they might want to meet up with their Chicago cousins.)

Andiamo!

This chic sexy boutique smelled just like a new car. I was swooning.

Haley, the adorable store manager, helped me play with little leather vests and showed me fabulous leather sneakers. Kevin prowled around on his own and then said, “Try this on.”

He held out the softest yummiest scarf I had seen in a long while.

“No,” I (faintly) protested. “You can’t do this.”

“It’s your birthday present,” my buddy gallantly replied. “I insist.”

(Me looking like a drowned rat. Because it was still raining!)

On to the Polo Store for a quick run through and then…

Time to repair to the RL bar for some R&R.

One hour and one exquisite champagne cocktail later, it was still raining.

Time for a foray here.

That’s the new Restoration Hardware in the old Three Arts Club building.

Have you been there yet? What a mind-blower. Each floor is dedicated to a different part of the house. Start at the top on the roof garden and work your way down. On the way, you can get some expert decorating advice.

(Kevin did. He has a pesky corner in his house that has been defying all attempts to civilize it. Twenty minutes with a designer here and his decor problem was solved.)

Uncle Kevin also found it necessary to buy his courtesy nephew, Sam, a soft floppy dog from the baby boutique.

It went over the next day like gangbusters.

By now it was almost the seven p.m. closing time. (Although the store was still packed.) So we didn’t have time to do more than peek at the fabulous glassed-in l’orangerie style restaurant on the first floor.

When we came out, it had finally stopped raining. We made our way through hordes of happy trick-or-treating Gold Coast families and walked home.

We had just enough time to dry off, change and head out to Bella Notte for dinner.

Three hours and a few proseccos later, it was time for this CinderEllen to come back down to earth.

We cabbed home, Kevin said farewell and went back to his digs out by O’Hare.

He had an early morning flight out on Sunday. (That didn’t end up leaving until four in the afternoon. But that’s another story.)

Thanks, pal. It’s been a long time since I’ve been given the red carpet treatment.

You’ve got my vote as Exalted Ruler any time.

Posted in Chicago, Elks Club, Shopping | 14 Comments

Rear View Mirror

Posted on November 5, 2015 by Ellen Ross

(Photograph by Linda Schwartz)

This photograph was taken on October 12, 1990. In case you don’t recognize us, that’s Nick Ross age 10 on the left, Natasha Ross age twelve on the right and Ellen Ross age none of your business in the middle.

We’re dressed all in black because our lifestyle/design mentor, Bruce Gregga, insisted that we take a family portrait à la his mentor, Victor Skrebneski.

Hence the car burglar getups.

But I booked the photo shoot with fabulous Chicago photographer Linda Schwartz instead of Victor.

(Victor didn’t have the time and I didn’t have the money because BG had taken ALL of ours.)

Actually, I really don’t remember why I was in black. I wasn’t going to be photographed at all. These photos were supposed to be a surprise Christmas present for their father. We had just done over his study and in a flash of inspiration, I had decided to deck his walls with pictures of the kids.

So on the Columbus Day school holiday, I piled them protesting and whining and bickering and carping into the car and we drove to Linda’s townhouse studio.

I well remember the fight over the radio. I lost. And had to listen to the soothing strains of MC Hammer and Vanilla Ice all the way from Winnetka to Lincoln Park.

Hey, why should I suffer alone?

The shoot itself was a little hectic. Neither kid wanted to stand still and pose. They were both distracted by Ruby, Linda’s cute Bichon Frisé puppy. Natasha was drawn to the antique hat collection. Nick wanted to play on the nifty iron staircase.

When Linda would say, “Smile,” Nick would contort his face into a grimace and Natasha simply looked into the lens and glared.

And the end of two hours, I was defeated and pessimistic.

But Linda was reassuring.

“I think we got some good stuff here,” she said smiling as she led a shell-shocked me to the door. “Honest. I think you’re going to be pleased.”

About a month later, the finished product arrived. A dozen stunning black and white photographs, handsomely bleed-mounted directly onto box frames.

They were fabulous and they looked terrific on Bill’s wall.

This last picture was kind of an impulse thing.

Linda asked me to get into camera range and then told us all to turn around.

We did.

And this effort- number thirteen- was done in sepia and shipped out to our Colorado house.

These days I have it with me on the wall of my bedroom. I look at it every day.

I love Natasha’s darling ballerina bun head. And I love how Nick’s left pants’ cuff has come unrolled. And I love how he’s holding my hand. (This, by the way, was the last time he was ever shorter than me.)

But what I love the most is the fact that we are frozen in time. I’m young(er), happy- and this might be my best angle.

The kids were captured before they grew up, moved away, had children of their own.

But every day I am reminded that one can only stop time in a photograph.

LIfe has a way of moving us on- like it or not.

Sometimes I don’t like it.

And sometimes…

It’s as sweet as honey.

(Photograph by Natasha Tofias)

Here’s not looking at you, kids.

With much love from Sam and Gran.

Posted in Memoir, Photography, pop culture | 8 Comments

Liar, Liar

Posted on November 1, 2015 by Ellen Ross

There was sad news from the pop music world this week. Cory Wells, one of the three singers in the band, Three Dog Night, had died in his sleep on October 20.

(That’s Cory in the middle.)

He, along with fellow vocalists Danny Hutton and Chuck Negron, formed the band in 1967.

Between 1969 and 1975, the guys registered twenty-one Billboard Top 40 hits. They brought to radio life songs by Paul Williams, Hoyt Axton, Laura Nyro, Harry Nilsson, Randy Newman and Leo Sayre.

In 1969 they covered a song by Harry Nilsson and made it their own. It ruled the airwaves that summer.

(And the minute I hear the opening bars, I am immediately transported back in time. I am blissfully floating on a raft in our pool in Encino, California. Long story. Another post.)

And here’s Cory and the guys doing a live version of Laura Nyro’s song “Eli’s Coming.” Check out the clothes, the mustaches, the bell bottoms and the hair, man. Completely psychedelic!

Released in 1971, the band took this Hoyt Axton number and just killed with it. It not only topped the singles charts but it made it into the soundtrack of the baby boomer anthem movie The Big Chill.

Take a look.

Very nice tambourine action.

By now, I guess you get the picture. I was a very big fan.

So…

In 1970 I was newly-divorced and living in, what used to be, the marital apartment on Astor Street.

I was dating again. No big deal. An ambulance-chasing PI attorney, a big shot “Madman” with J. Walter Thompson, a blonde juvenile delinquent with an XKE and a place in Florida.

And Hank.***

*** Not his real monicker.

I can’t remember exactly how we met. I think he was a friend of my gal pal, Kate.***

***Not her real name, either.

He wasn’t too smart or all that great-looking or too funny, as I recall. But he was right up my (Carnaby) street.

His father owned a chain of trendy women’s boutiques and Hank would always give me a major FOH discount.

In the spirit of the age, I once bought a pink bell-bottom man’s suit from that store. Heaven help me, I wore it with a man’s shirt and wild tie.

OMG. But it was the 70’s.

But the thing I remember most about Hank was not that suit, believe it or not.

It was that he was the BIGGEST liar.

Everything he said was BULLSHIT.

Maybe he got started like this.

Who knows? Who cares? All I know was that Hank’s track record for telling the emmes ***about anything was lousy.

***”Truth” in Yiddish

Anyhoo, if Hank told me he had a Corvette, when I wanted to see it, it was in the shop. (And then it turned out to be a Camaro.)

If Hank told me that he graduated from Princeton, two years of Roosevelt College was more on the money.

If Hank told me that he had a swinging getaway home in Palm Springs, this was it.

And on and on.

Ad infinitum and ad nauseam.

You get the picture.

I don’t know how long it took me to catch on, but once I did, I was no longer Hank’s willing dopey dupe.

I refused to believe anything he said. I took everything that came out of his mouth with a huge grain of Morton’s Salt.

I scoffed, laughed, guffawed and scorned all of his grandiose self-serving statements. I doubted and parsed and measured his ordinary ones.

I could not listen to one ounce of his conversation without making the “Oh yeah? I bet!?” face.

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So one day Hank tells me that he is friends with Three Dog Night, that they are coming to the Auditorium Theatre and that he can get Kate and me seats ON the stage.

Not backstage or in front of the stage, mind you.

On the stage.

Not only can he get us seats ON the stage but it’s going to be Danny’s birthday and can we please throw him a party at my apartment afterwards?

Yeah, right.

Hank insisted.

I resisted.

I mean, this was impossible. Three Dog Night was one of the biggest bands in the world. He couldn’t know them.

Hank begged me to believe him.

Just this once.

“I’ll believe it when I’m on stage and singing “Mama Told Me Not to Come,” I said.

It was all true.

After the concert I even managed to come up with a birthday cake with dogs on it.

You never know.

RIP, Cory.

And sorry, Hank.

Crow tasted pretty darn good with that cake.

Posted in Memoir, Music, Nostalgia, pop culture, The 70's | 17 Comments

Birthday Boy

Posted on October 29, 2015 by Ellen Ross

(Photograph by Henry X Arenberg)

The guy with the uncharacteristically serious look on his face is our dad, Ben Roffe. The Year was 1989- which made him seventy years old at the time this picture was taken.

The Place- Bub City.

The Occasion- my fortieth birthday party hosted by my friends, the Zisooks and the Felds.

Was I ever blindsided! I had bragged for years that I was too smart to ever be tripped up by a stealth birthday party op.

They really got me.

(I’m wearing a Saturday Night Live tee shirt because we had just landed from a trip to NYC. We hung out with the cast and crew all week.)

It’s how I got duped. Bill had told me that me that my stepdaughters made dinner reservations there to celebrate my birthday. We had to show up. (Usually we never went out the same day that we came back from a trip but this was a special occasion, he said.)

I went- grubby, no makeup, jeans, just to be a good sport. Voilà! All my friends and family were there in force.

I was shocked.

A good time was had by all.

I guess I’m thinking about birthdays because last Friday, October twenty-third, was my dad’s.

He would have been ninety-six. (But heck, he made it to almost ninety-five. And he’d be the first to tell you that he had a good long run. Kenny and I have NO complaints.)

We wanted to visit him so on Sunday we took a drive out to the cemetery.

It was a beautiful, sunny autumn day. We hung out for a while, I filled him in on what was new, Kenny visited with our grandparents and aunt and uncle who are also resting in adjoining real estate and then it was time to get going to do other errands.

We said goodbye, I dropped off his birthday gift and then it was on with the business of Life.

True, it was a short visit.

But no time or distance can ever really separate me from my dad. I’ve got the memories- along with all his quirks, likes and dislikes.

So much of what I read, watch, like, do and eat is either his nature or nurture that I never really have to miss him.

He’s with me whenever I do pretty much anything.

(We did disagree about coconut, however. Me- yes. Him- no.)

Because he got to celebrate so many birthdays, my kids knew him well.

(More than I can say for his father, my paternal grandfather. He died on my father’s twenty-first birthday and Dad never got over it. He missed his father every day and Kenny and I only got to hear second-hand about what a terrific guy our Roffe grandfather had been.)

Our kids got to find out first hand the measure of their man.

Two cherished memories…

Usually, grandparents- beaming with pride- turn out in force when their tiny tot grandkids take to their very first ski slope.

Snowmass has a terrific Kids Ski School. On any given holiday, you could always see these happy ancestors proudly filming their schussing progeny for posterity.

In our case, it was a little different. Dad learned to ski at eighty-one.

On his first day on the slopes, a very proud grandson, Nick Ross (the youngest snowboard instructor in the history of Aspen Skico) got to watch his grandfather make his first turns.

Nick was busting his uniform buttons with pride.

“How do you like it, Grandpa?” Nick excitedly called out.

“I love it!” said Grandpa. “It’s a great feeling!”

(We don’t have a photo of my dad skiing. You’ll just have to make do with this legend.)

How many people can say their father was a “never-ever” at eighty-one?

He was game. He just never said no to anyone or anything.

The wedding of another grandson, Greg Roffe, also conjures up some precious reminiscences.

The wedding was held in Indianapolis.

Natasha flew in from the East Coast to watch her cousin get married, I flew in from Colorado and my dad here in Chicago was the designated driver.

We took the Skyway to Indy, had two happy days celebrating the nuptials, and then, on Sunday, Dad donned his chauffeur’s cap and drove us back to Chicago.

But not without a pit stop.

“Oh, look!” cried Natasha. “There’s a Target! I love those! Can we stop, Grandpa? I want to go in.”

(If you’ve been reading this post closely, you’ll already know what his answer will be.)

“You know, Grandpa, they have everything. And such good prices, too,” added my little miser. “I bet you can’t go in there and not buy something.”

Depression-raised and careful about spending money on himself, my father rose to the challenge.

“Oh, no, Natasha,” he laughed. “I can go in there and not buy anything. That’s no problem for me.”

“I bet you’ll want to buy something,” challenged Natasha (Sky Masterson) Ross Tofias.

“I’ll take that bet!” was the confidant answer of Nicely Nicely Johnson Roffe.

The wager was on.

Sky was giggling with anticipation.

Nicely Nicely knew he had this one in the bag.

But the minute he walked into the store…

“Pajamas! I need those. I haven’t had a new pair in three years. And look! There’s a cd for Moo Moo. I’ll take that and that and this..”

Natasha loved winning that bet. She was delighted.

But not as delighted as my dad was at losing it.

Happy birthday, Dad.

From all of us.

Hope you like your present.

Much love,

The Gang

Now take a look at another great father.

Love to all of yours.

Posted in Ben Roffe, pop culture, Tributes | 14 Comments

“Wild” by Ellen Strayed

Posted on October 25, 2015 by Ellen Ross

Ever since I moved back to the city of Chicago, I have been on a kick.

It’s called walking.

I walk everywhere. It started as a good way to see my brand new neighborhood and get some exercise at the same time. No ski slopes around this neck of the woods and I detest the gym.

But lately, it’s turned into a real obsession. And a challenge. (Heck, I used to ski all day in Colorado. This landscape is flat, for pete’s sake.)

I live in an area of Chicago called Lakeview. The name is pretty accurate. I have one. My ‘hood borders Lincoln Park and I like it. It reminds me of the Upper West Side of NYC.

(The park, human-scale buildings, lots of designer dogs, baby carriages, young hip people, iron fences, pretty landscaping.)

At first, I kept my strolling close to home. A few blocks in all directions.

But in time, I grew bolder- during daylight hours only- and I started going further afield.

An amble to Oak Street on the Mag Mile? One hour. A sortie to the Merchandise Mart? Two hours. (But I was in heels.)

The Gage? 3.9 miles away and it took me almost two hours. (Heels.) The Hotel Godfrey? One hour fifteen minutes. (Again, I was in heels.)

I was getting pretty cocky. I was starting to learn my way around by overland route and I knew all the scenic ways to get wherever I had to go.

P.J. Hoff Sidebar: The weather here has been glorious. Mild and still sunny until almost six p.m. I’d feel like a wuss hailing a cab. But don’t expect me to continue these long urban hikes come January. Then Uber will own me.

So just a couple of weeks ago, I had a seven p.m. rendezvous at Trenchermen.

It’s a restaurant on North Avenue- 3.7 miles away from my house. An hour and eighteen minutes according to Yelp’s estimate.

The weather was gorgeous, I left in plenty of time, my boots were made for walking.

(Eat your heart out, Beyoncé!)

My Yelp route sounded easy. Fullerton to Ashland to Webster to Damen to North.***

***Sorry, non-Chicagoans. I know these street names mean nothing to you. You’re just going to have to call Triple AAA for directions.

My first pitfall occurred at the goofy intersection at Fullerton, Halsted, and Lincoln.

It’s got like nine different ways to go. And at ground level- and coupled with the fact that I am blind as a bat- I crossed the street and…

I chose poorly.

I ended up on Halsted.

I didn’t realize my mistake until I was about a half block up. (There are no street signs or building names that give the name of the street until then.) And remember, I’m walking. It takes ten minutes to find out that I am now on the wrong street.

So I turn around, go back to that same awful intersection and ask a random guy to put me back on Fullerton heading west, please.

He’s very nice, walks me to the corner and says, “Here you go.”

It doesn’t feel quite right. Even to directionally-challenged me.

I walk for a while and catch an address. Instead of heading west on Fullerton, I am now going north on CLARK! That good Samaritan was worse off than I was. Just my luck. I had to stop the one guy who didn’t know where he was going either.

I walk the wrong way for a bit and desperately try and catch an address. Finally, I go into a martial arts studio where two tae kwon do instructors are sitting behind a reception desk.

“Are you here for kick boxing lessons?” one asks.

“Yeah, I want to kick box that guy’s ass who gave me bad directions. Can you tell me where Fullerton is? I need to go west.”

“Sure, it’s simple. It’s right on the corner. I’ll show you. Where’s your car?”

“You’re looking at it. I’m walking.”

“Walking?”

He takes me outside and points me to the correct corner. I now start heading west and I pass a CTA bus driver waiting outside his bus.

“Am I heading west on Fullerton?” I ask. Just to make sure.

“You are. Where are you going?”

“To Ashland.”

“To ASHLAND!?! That’s far!”

“I’m okay with it,” I grin and keep going.

But when I get to the corner of Fullerton and Ashland, two things. The sun is directly in my eyes and I can’t read the signs. And it’s another crazy corner with a bunch of different possibilities of going off on a tangent.

I’m screwed. But luckily, there is a bum with no teeth on the corner hanging out. He’s a little sketchy-looking but I am desperate not to get lost again.

“Excuse me, sir. Is this Ashland?”

“Yep, this is it.”

Happily I start heading south. But instantly I find myself over some kind of bridge over very troubled urban waters.

Yikes! This thing could open any second. I scurry across and look for Webster. A kindly couple point it out to me because, by now, it’s getting to be twilight and I can’t read the street signs at all.

I turn west on Webster and all is well until…

I hit the Webster underpass. There are beds and blankets and signs of homeless people living under there.

And now I’m starting to question the wisdom of walking.

So I run.

When I hit daylight and Damen Avenue, I breathe a sigh of relief.

Much to my surprise, the whole area here has been gentrified in my seventeen year absence. I stroll by gelato shops and high-end baby clothes stores and cute little bistros.

But then I see the biggest danger of the whole journey.

This.

A Marc Jacobs boutique. I love this guy’s clothes.

I’m still early so what the hell.

I walk in, I meet the adorable salespeople and darling Lauren- who usually works at the Gold Coast store- gives me a VIP tour. We talk about fashion and great clothes until I get a text.

I’m on the road again.

It’s the home stretch. But now it’s completely dark, the street signs are 100% invisible, I’m going to have to guess where North Avenue is.

I hit another diabolical three way intersection.

I have NO idea which side of the street is still North Avenue. I stop into Absinthe Sushi bar and ask if they know where Trenchermen is.

Nope.

I cross the street and go into Starbucks on the corner. The girl stocking the napkin dispenser doesn’t know what street she is on but she does know that the barista has a good sense of direction.

When he hears my plight, he takes pity on me, walks me outside and says, “Stay on this corner, walk up a half a block. It’s on this side. If you get to Leavitt, you’ve gone too far.

I get to the restaurant with just enough time to repair to the ladies’ room and spruce up.

The hostess leads me to the table and as I begin to sit down, I hear a charming male voice from behind me.

“Hello, Ellen.”

I turn around.

And now the adventure begins…

Posted in Chicago, Memoir, pop culture | 13 Comments