This post is dedicated to Ellen Kander and Judy Lynch. Almost sixty years ago, we were little girls who excitedly waited for the school bus on many a first day of school.
Maybe it’s the inveterate student in me, but this Labor Day holiday always marks the beginning of the new year.
Forget about December 31. It’s September that inevitably heralds all new good things on my calendar.
I remember how thrilled I was when the new list of school supplies would turn up in the mail. This always signaled the end of summer and the promise of a new school year.
And that meant a trip to Woolworth’s to buy these magical (to me) items:
Pencils
Pens
Spiral Notebooks
Erasers
A ruler
Three ring binder
Lined notebook paper
A plastic pencil/pen carrier that fit into the three ring binder
There was something so wonderful about the idea of a clean slate.
(To this day, I love going to Office Depot. I get the exact same rush looking at staplers and calendars and paper clips that I did when I was a kid.)
The first day of school always earned a brand new outfit. Carefully-chosen to make the best impression on fellow classmates and teachers alike. In junior high, it was probably all about the jumper.
(Gosh, I loved those. I’d wear one now if I could find one.)
The first day also meant waiting in a state of high anticipation for the school bus. And over the years, Ellen, Judy and I had come up with our very own song to give voice to our feelings.
(Sung to the tune of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow”)
“Today’s the first day of school, today’s the first day of school, today’s the first day of school. Hooray, hooray, hooray!”
Because we all had been at the same small school with basically the same eighty-three kids, the new year held very few surprises re personnel. Nevertheless, it was fun to see who was in our homerooms and who our new teachers would be.
That all changed in high school.
My class at New Trier had 1200 kids in it. The school itself had 4700. A new school year meant the beginning of anything and everything.
First of all, I don’t remember a bus. We had carpools now and parents were roped in to drive us.
(And later, boyfriends with cars carted me to school. Jimmy picked me up at 7:35 every school day for a year.)
But again, new clothes were a must. Villager was always a great preppy go-to.
The new school year at New Trier brought with it interesting new classmates and scary or fabulous new teachers.
And exciting football games on Saturday.
Time for everyone to break out one of these.
Homecoming meant crisp autumn air and decorating cars in the motorcade.
And then there were the long ago fall bonfires.
(Maybe that’s why the scent of burning leaves- now just a memory- instantly makes me think of happy things.)
So on this Labor Day holiday, I wish you all, Dear Readers, a safe and happy new year filled with love, laughter and the thrill of the possible in the upcoming school year.
(And the scent of burning leaves.)
Now watch this first day of class.
I’ve got to pick out a really neat outfit to wear tomorrow.
This post is dedicated to my friend Rickey Freeman. Connoisseur of vinyl. Owner of 3500 albums…and counting.
Have you seen the movie High Fidelity? In it, Rob Gordon- deftly played by John Cusack- is the owner of Championship Vinyl, a second-hand (read “Vintage”) record store in Chicago.
He and his two employees- niftily fleshed out by the fleshy Jack Black and the skinny Todd Louiso- are obsessed with music. Preferably on vinyl.
Rob is also obsessed with lists. His “Top Ten” lists are filled with Life’s more interesting moments: breakups, love songs, girls that got away…
And his twin obsessions neatly combine when he decides to rearrange his huge record collection.
Take a look. You’ll see what I mean.
Sort by “Autobiographical?” That idea killed me. So here’s my mix tape of the music that formed the soundtrack of my early years.
Here (hear) goes…
The very first rock song I ever heard was the Everly Brothers “Bye Bye Love.” It was 1958 and it was love at first guitar twang.
My love affair with Phil and Don has never grown cold. From “Wake Up, Little Susie,” “Dream,” “Cathie’s Clown “Cryin’ In the Rain,” right up to the release of their Some Hearts album in 1988, my affection has never waned.
By junior high, I’d listen obsessively to “Duke of Earl,” “Shop Around,” and Del Shannon’s “Runaway” on the radio. WLS. (I was too young and too broke to buy albums. That would have to wait until high school.)
I can vividly remember being at the information desk outside of the Marie Murphy office sneakily listening to this on my teeny transistor model.
The year was 1961, I was twelve and he’s obviously lip-synching in this clip because this is exactly the same version as the record I loved.
Dion’s “Runaround Sue.
And then in 1962, riding home in the back seat of the family car- coming back from a dinner at my Aunt Muriel’s house- there was “Sherry.”
Fast forward to high school. New Trier in Winnetka, Illinois.
Now I, too, could enter the hallowed world of albums. I had a little cash. (And I had boyfriends who had access to even more.)
For me, high school was ALL about the Beatles. Sure I loved the Beach Boys, Motown, the Kinks and the Who, the Turtles, Herman’s Hermits, the Hollies, the Lovin’ Spoonful and the Mamas and the Papas.
But…
The Beatles’ new album was THE must-buy. Preferably on the same day it came out. Here’s the first one I ever bought. The year was 1964.
(I actually labeled the guys so I could tell George from Paul.)
These two permanently changed my life.
(1965) (1966)
I can’t help myself. I’ve got to play these favorites right now.
This was my first inkling of what grown-up love could feel like.
In 1967, Andy Teton and I cut school to buy the gem of my collection. This was the game-changer, folks.
Not only because it told a story- the first concept album I had ever heard of- but because it had the lyrics printed on the back of the album jacket.
This, to a word-hungry girl like me, was a godsend.
Let’s spin a track, shall we?
(Back then I could not imagine anyone being sixty-four. What a yuk. Now it’s just yucky.)
This album- along with my precious stereo- were amongst my most prized possessions when I headed off to the University of Wisconsin in the summer of ’67.
The album that followed hard on the heels of my relocation?
This one.
There is only one song from that summer and I played it nonstop.
The combination of Linda Ronstadt’s haunting voice and the message- “…It’s just that I am not in the market for a boy who wants to love only me…We’ll both live a lot longer if you live without me.”- was dead on the money re my 60’s “Love ’em and Leave ’em” philosophy. Very revolutionary thinking in those days.
(Later I found out this lyric had been written for a man. Ah. That explained it.)
I also bought this one at Victor Music in Madison. It got swiped by some creepy album thief in the dorm. I’m still mad about it.
I’ll end my mix tape with the album that closed out my youth. After 1968, it was marriage and divorce and remarriage and kids and somewhere along the way, I stopped buying vinyl.
So long story short, this guy gets in touch with me. Someone has sent him my blog and he decides that I am just his cup of tea.
The line in my “About Me” section about being a member of the National Trivia Bowl Hall of Fame must really resonate with him. For days, he bombards me with obscure song lyrics and asks me to name the musicals from whence they came.
Piece of cake.
I play along for awhile and then call a halt to “Name That Tune.” By that time, my pen pal- let’s call him Lyle- decides to take our relationship to another level.
He sends me his stats.
Age: 69.
Where he lives: Right down the street from me.
Some of his recent photos: blond-haired, green-eyed, very fit in tennis shorts and golf clothes, cute.
He asks for my phone number.
Dear Readers, I give it to him.
Then he takes it to the next level.
He calls and is pretty charming and funny. We talk for awhile. (More music trivia. This time I have to sing “Satin Doll,” for pete’s sakes.)
I pass this test with flying Teddy Strayhorn colors and then Lyle wants to know if I will accompany him to a club that features Big Band Music.
I think about it, but before I can make up my mind, he casually mentions that the best way to get there would be to hop on the bus.
Really!?!
I hate the bus. The starts and the stops makes me sick to my stomach. No way to please a lady.
So I demur by telling him that, although I love Big Bands, the bus thing will have to go.
He’s a little affronted but he (grudgingly) agrees to break out his car and pick me up at 5:30.
But as it turns out, the club isn’t featuring Big Band stuff tonight, so he calls later and suggests Plan B. Would I now like to go to the Dock at Montrose Harbor and have dinner? Same time. Same station.
Sure.
What kind of car does he have?
A black Kia K-something.
Meh. (You know I like great cars. And I’m one judgmental be-yatch. But ok.)
Game on.
Promptly at 5:25 I go downstairs and wait outside my building for the black Kia to pull up in front of my door. Now will or will he not be on time- I abhor lateness- and will he get out of the car and escort me in? (First secret compatibility test.)
At 5:30 a black Kia rolls down the block. But then it parks on the OTHER side of the street and nothing happens.
Nothing. Nada. Nobody gets out.
Really!?!
Five minutes later, I give. I walk across the street and knock on the passenger side of the car window. He rolls it down and indicates that yes, I indeed, have found him.
He motions for me to get in.
When I get in the car, there he is.
79.
And in his gnarly old hand?
A roadie.
A red Solo cup- that is not filled with lemonade.
Really!?!
I could smell the booze. And I could see he had lied to me about…
Um…
Everything.
Now I’m pissed.
Don’t worry. He isn’t drunk. But clearly it’s a big red flag that he needs booze on the way to dinner.
But I have more important fish to fry. The weather has changed and eating outside at the Dock isn’t appealing to me any more.
“We’ve had the better part of the day. I think we should eat somewhere inside,” I suggest.
He’s silent.
I want to make it easy for the guy. “I eat anything but Greek and sushi,” I say helpfully.
“You’re pretty bossy,” he observes.
Really!?!
“Well, that gives you a lot of leeway. Where do you like to eat?” I ask.
“Mia Francesca, ” he replies.
Perfect.
I like it- and it’s close enough that he can’t drink too much on the way.
“What’s in the cup?” I ask.
“Orange juice.”
I laugh.
“Yeah, right. Like W.C. Fields’ orange juice.”
Even he laughs.
“Well, maybe I spiked it a little,” he concedes.
Really!?!
Mercifully, we quickly pull up to the restaurant. He cruises into the valet parking space- but there’s a problem.
“I only want to eat here if we can sit on the back patio. The main room is too noisy,” he states. “I’ll ask the valet to find out if we can sit there.”
Lyle inquires. The valet speaks no inglès.
Stalemate.
He just sits there.
So I finally offer to get out and ask the maître d’ if we can sit on the back patio.
He gallantly assents.
Really!?!
I ask, we can, I go back out and give him the “thumbs up” to leave the car and come in and…
Nothing.
No movement from inside the vehicle.
I walk out of the restaurant.
He rolls down the window.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he says. And he drives off.
Really!?!
Well, fuck it. I’m hungry.
I go back in and tell the maître d’ to seat me. I tell him that if an old coot comes in, to show him where the table is. (I also tell him that if anybody better shows up, please seat him at my table.)
He laughs.
I’m sitting at the table when Lyle walks in.
Nope. Strike that.
Hobbles in. He can’t walk any too well. Limping and lurching from side to side because – as I know from my experience with my ex- his knee replacements and/or hip replacements make walking straight ahead difficult.
As he slooooowly makes his way over to the table, the look on my face must be one of sheer horror. Where is the tennis-playing dandy of the pictures he has sent me?
Dead as Fred Perry, I’m thinking.
“Boy, you look serious,” Lyle remarks.
I’m too speechless with the combined annoyance of his inability to walk and the fact that Cheap-o has undoubtedly parked the car himself rather than pay for the valet.
But soon it’s Lyle’s turn to be turned off.
He is NOT impressed with my Diet Coke order. Argues and cajoles and wheedles and finally resigns himself to drinking alone.
But no matter. Two Ketel ones on the rocks with a splash in rapid succession quickly puts him back in good spirits in no time.
Really!?!
Cocktail hour is interminable. So are my attempts at small talk. He asks a lot of questions and he bitches about the people he usually hangs with when he’s down in Naples, Florida for the winter.
“They’re all well-off, shallow and stupid,” he reports. ‘They talk about tomorrow night’s dinner reservations. All the widows do is get manicures and go to the beach. The men are just as bad. They are on their third wives, they play cards or golf every day and they don’t want to do anything else. What am I supposed to do with that”
(Actually this is one area on which he and I concur. Bill spends the entire winter in Naples and I call it “Assisted Living.”)
By this time the poor scorned waiter has made his fourth sortie to the table and I’m starving. The minute he bravely comes over again, I pounce.
“Let’s order, shall we?”
Lyle gives me the once-over.
“Are you very hungry?” he queries.
Really!?!
I guess he wants to share a dinner.
“Yes,” I state. And I order the roast chicken.
(I am not usually a free dinner ho. But this lying SOB really deserves it.)
He does the same.
We eat and talk- at least the chicken is great- and then, finally, he’s downed his last Peroni and paid the check.
I ask for a doggie bag. He gets one, too
We get up to leave.
Of course he has to go to the bathroom.
Really!?!
We walk to his car.
(That is to say I walk. He stumbles.)
When we cross the street, he puts his cold dead hand on my neck. It’s not to guide me. It’s more like he needs to hang on to something.
He takes me home.
(But first he turns the wrong way and has to make several u-turns to right his course.)
Really!?!
I give up.
At a light on Sheridan Road, I jump out of the car.
“Thank you for dinner. Good luck in Florida,” I call as I run for my life.
The news of Jennifer Aniston and Justin Theroux’s recent nuptials and honeymoon got me reminiscing about the voyage that Mike and I made to French Polynesia.
What a trip.
Coming from Aspen, we caught up with the Air Tahiti Nui tour jet in Los Angeles. From there it was an eight hour forty-three minute flight to Papeete, Tahiti.
Tahiti, as you may know, is the largest of the Windward Islands in French Polynesia. Doesn’t that sound scenic and romantic?
It is. Tahiti was formed from volcanic activity and it’s surrounded by magnificent coral reefs.
Sadly, I can not tell you my first impressions of this tropic Eden. I was so blown away from the four flight jet lag- Aspen-Denver-Los Angeles-Tahiti- that I was barely conscious as Mike gently guided me up the cruise ship’s gangplank for the check in.
I passed out in the cabin and when I awoke the next day we were already underway cruising towards beautiful Moorea.
Welcome to Bali Hai. Only ten nautical miles from Tahiti, James Michener was inspired by Moorea’s haunting beauty to capture it in his Tales Of the South Pacific.
See all the shades of blue? I have never seen so many different colors of blue- from navy to the palest powder blue- in all my life. You couldn’t tell where the ocean began and the sky left off.
It was magical.
If you can’t book a trip now, close your eyes and let Juanita Hall take you there.
Let me say now- for those of you who might want to go- that we went in April (after Mike’s ski season) and it was HOT. Torrid, humid, BLASTING wet heat. A brick wall of inferno-like temperatures would hit you the moment you left the air-conditioned ship.
I couldn’t take much of it. Mike was made of sterner stuff*** and he would bike around the island and jump into the water every now and then to cool off.
***Two tours in Viet Nam had put him on speaking terms with the jungle. And, as he pointed out, on this trip, at least no one was shooting at his helicopter.
But I wilted in about five minutes.
(My hair, on the other hand, expanded. It got so big that it needed a cabin of its own.)
Take note: The humid season there runs from November to April so I do suggest- as a safety tip- that you pick another time of the year to go.
A word about cruising here. The islands are small and all ringed with atolls. This means that you need to get around on either a small ship or a small plane. But the seas here are calm- think bathtub- and even though I am prone to mal de mer, I never once experienced a ripple that made me reach for the Dramamine.
Two other glorious things about French Polynesia? It smells like vanilla and all the natives speak French. This was a heavenly combination of scent and sound, and for me, it beat any other island venue all hollow.
It’s also untouched. Not cluttered up with ugly reminders of the twenty-first century. It is emphatically not Hawaii. You get to see exactly what Captain Cook saw when his Endeavour landed in Tahiti on April 13, 1769. (I bet it was humid!)
Our little ship then made its way to Raiatea.
After Tahiti, Raiatea is the second-largest of the Society Islands. The first European to record sighting it was Pedro Fernandez de Quirós in 1606.
Here’s what he saw. And we did, too.
Okay, maybe the huts weren’t quite that nifty in 1606 but it’s still unbelievably pristine. Time has stood still there.
Last, but certainement not least, was our final stop.
Bora Bora.
This is the hot spot that Jen and Justin chose so they could honeymoon away from the prying eyes of the paps.
(Although they did have pals Justin Bateman, his wife Amanda Anka and Courtney Cox- along with their kids- tagging along for the outrigger ride. And rumor has it that Chelsea Handler showed up, too.)
Rumor also has it that Jen and Justin paid $84,00 for their swanky honeymoon villa at the Four Seasons.
And it’s also been reported that they shelled out $248,000 to charter a G5 jet from Van Nuys Airport to BB.
Sweet. But even if you don’t have Friends money you can do pretty much the same things. Scuba, snorkel, or watch the marine life from the comfort of your very own glass-bottomed villa.
Or you can jet ski, jeep safari, aqua safari (go for a walk underwater with an air-supplied helmet) aquabike, parasail, fish- blue marlin, yellow fin tuna, mahi-mahi and barracuda are the catch of the day in these waters- or laze around and play in the sand like Jen and Justin.
(Sorry about the grainy quality of the photograph. Who knows how far away the paparazzo was when he “stole” this shot?)
Sigh.
I hope you enjoyed this petit travelogue. I had to write it now before the weather turns ugly here. Once winter hits, I won’t have the heart to think about this enchanted place.
Now watch a different trip to paradise while you ponder calling your travel agent.
Bon Voyage!
(Oh, and congrats and bonne chance, Jen and Justin.)
Ahoy, Dear Readers. I’m back in dry dock. And I’m happy to report that my annual visit to Camp Ojibwa in Eagle River, Wisconsin was its usual blast.
Of course, there were non-stop activities from the moment we threw our bags in our cabins.
The weather was hot, hot, hot and Catfish Lake felt like a bathtub. So getting out of my city clothes, into a bathing suit and down to the waterfront ASAP was the first order of business.
And that’s the last thing I remember. I was instantly caught up in the whirlwind that is known as “Post Camp.”
I’ve written about this wonderful experience before. (If you’re new to the blog, read all about it here.) But suffice it to say, that Post can be likened to a landlocked cruise- if a cruise was ever this much fun.
At Post Camp you can:
Sail, play tennis, bike, hike, water ski, fish, tube, play baseball, basketball, do the climbing wall, play golf, do arts and crafts, put on skits, make campfires, roast marshmallows and play poker after dark. (If you’re a grown up.)
Or
You can work.
(Kenny’s knotty pine office)
Or
You can chill out and watch the world slow down and let your mind drift lazily along.
The main thing about Post Camp is that you get to chose the tempo along with your lanyard rope color. It’s up to you- although Mother Nature plays a role here- to decide what the day’s fun schedule should be.
But there is one venue at Post camp that really makes it special for me.
The dining hall.
Promptly ay 8:30 a.m. Reveille is sounded over the PA system. Then the troops happily convene from all over the campus for breakfast.
You name it, they got it. From homemade oatmeal to lox and bagels to eggs and pancakes to banana bread and fruit to dry cereal and…
You get the picture. Anything you want.
I usually opt for a banana and a cup of hot cocoa. (Remember, I’ve got to be in a bathing suit all day. No margin for error at my age. Plus there is another Catskills-size buffet coming promptly at 12:30.)
The morning then goes by in a flash, and before you know it, you’re trooping back in to the dining hall for lunch.
There is always a fabulous salad bar. Accompanied by great tuna salad, salsa and chips, there are soups, grilled cheese, pizza, hamburgers and hot dogs, Chinese chicken salad. The choices cater to everyone from vegans to carnivores.
And for dessert, fruit-laden, quivering jello (my favorite) and puddings- and other stuff I have forgotten.
After this feast, if the winds are right and the gusts are favorable, lunch is usually followed by a sail on Catfish Lake.
(I’m no Dennis Connor but I love it.)
At six o’clock dinner is served.
This is my biggest thrill. I get to eat dinner with someone. In fact, a whole lot of someones.
We had a great table this year. Denny and Sandy Rosen, Kenny and I, Burt- a friend of the Rosens- and his son, Jason. This was the nucleus of our group and they were all fun.
But frankly, I wouldn’t care what they were like. For one week a year I get the chance to expel the demon that plagues me in the barren wasteland post-divorce apocalypse that my life has become.
I hate eating dinner alone.
Let me repeat that.
I HATE EATING DINNER ALONE.
I can handle most of the culture shock of going from couplehood to Singleton with, if not aplomb, at least good-natured forbearance. When faced with the uncomfortable realities and loneliness of my status as a Minus One, I usually suck it up and tell myself, “You can do this, Ellen. Don’t be helpless.”
But the one bear I can never lick is eating dinner alone.
I do it a lot.
Yes, I have friends with whom I dine. And there is always my Ipad loaded with Netflix to keep me company if my social calendar is going through a dry spell.
But in the end, there are seven nights of the week and I’m dining chezmoi for most of them.
But until the sentence of my solitary single servitude is over, dinner time at Post Camp is my hands-down favorite time of the day.
(Denny- Camp Director. Glenn- Waterfront Boss.)
Post Camp means no more eating alone. There is noise and camaraderie and banter and songs and cheers and laughter and bonhomie galore. I revel in it all.
And that ain’t all.
After dinner, just in case you’re still hungry, there is a phenomenon known as “Fourth Meal.”
At 9:15- right after the evening festivities- family talent show, bingo, a campfire- the dining hall comes to life one last time.
There are deli and cheese trays, fruit, pies, cakes and two hot entree choices. (By this time, I am usually either in a food or activity-induced coma and sometimes I show up and sometimes I pass out in my room.)
But comes the morning and I am up and at ’em and ready to start the fun cycle all over again.
Here at Post, you never dine alone.
Now take a quick look at the opposite of Camp Ojibwa.
Letter From ElbaAnnual Announcement: Yep, Dear Readers, it’s that time of year again. I’m heading up to the North Woods for some R&R. I’ll be back in your email boxes on Sunday, August 23.
But for now, relax and start your engines. (Don’t forget to fasten your seat belts.)
Do you remember John Schneiter, the legendary New Trier basketball and tennis coach? He died last year at the age of eighty after having one of the most storied careers in boys- and girls- high school sports.
A native of Olney, Illinois, Mr. Schneiter began his career at Decatur High and made history in 1961 by becoming- at age twenty-eight- the youngest coach of a state championship basketball team.
By 1963 Mr. Schneiter had moved to New Trier to coach the boys basketball team there. He was reassigned to the girls team in 1981 when East and New Trier West merged.
And it was at New Trier that he became the only Illinois basketball coach to lead a boys and a girls team to the title game.
He was inducted into the Illinois Basketball Coaches Hall of Fame in 1978 and the Illinois High School Tennis Coaches Association Hall of Fame in 1995.
I, too, joined New Trier in 1963.
And I, too, had the privilege of having Mr. Schneiter as my coach.
No, not in basketball or tennis.
He was my Driver’s Ed teacher.
And he was unforgettable.
I just looked up Olney on a map. It’s a small town in southeastern Illinois. That comes as no surprise to me. Mr. Schneiter had a real southern drawl.
In class he used to refer to the important piece of paper for which we lusted as the “driving per-MIT.” (Honeysuckle accent emphasis on the last syllable.)
And he always talked about “IN-surance” and the “PO-lice.”
(We were supposed to maintain the former and avoid riling the latter.)
To that end, he was as strict in the driver’s ed car as he was on the basketball court. It was no-nonsense at all times when Coach Schneiter was in the (wheel) house.
Teaching driving to hundreds of hormonal, idiotic, reckless teenagers must have taken nerves of steel but Coach was up to the task.
He was all business in the driver’s ed car. And as I recall, he didn’t hesitate to use his override brake when the goofy teenage learner made some newbie tactical error.
I’m a little fuzzy on where we practiced. But I do remember driving on curvy Forest Way and negotiating the twists and turns of the Ravines.
And parallel parking in downtown Winnetka.
Mr. S. must have done a pretty good job because as my sixteenth birthday approached, I was ready and eager to go to Libertyville *** to take the driver’s test.
***Libertyville is where all the savvy North Shore kids went. They didn’t make you parallel park there. (And remember, kids. Always turn your steering wheel into the curb when you park downhill.)
The fateful day in November finally arrived and my good friend Steve volunteered to take me. When we got to the facility, Steve urged me to go in a grab a place.
“I’ll be right in,” he assured me. “You get in line.”
I did as I was bid. And, as soon an examiner called my name, we headed out to my dad’s car.
I was feeling good. With that November birthday, I had been coached by virtually everyone on the perils of stopping in the crosswalk or failing to signal on a lane change. I knew I had this test cold.
I confidently put the key in the ignition and started the car.
And…
The whole damn thing exploded.
The radio blared, the emergency signals went nuts, the lights came on.
The examiner flunked me right there in the parking lot. I hadn’t even driven one foot.
And that wasn’t all.
“Who brought you?” he demanded angrily.
Shakily I pointed to Steve- now laughing in the parking lot.
The guy strode over to my merry prankster and said,”Okay, wise guy. Let me see your license.”
Steve immediately forked over the Xerox copy he kept in his wallet. (His original had been appropriated by the Winnetka cops for some other traffic misdemeanor.)
The examiner took one look at the ersatz document and tore it up on the spot.
Now neither of us had a license.
It took me a long time to get up my nerve and go for the gold again. Eventually I did succeed in getting that vital piece of paper and I can honestly say that in all my years of driving, I have only gotten one traffic ticket for going through a yellow light in 1976.
I went to traffic school and had it expunged.
Which means that the infraction didn’t raise the rates on my IN-surance.
This is the grand staircase of the even grander restaurant Maxim’s. The Chicago Maxim’s that dwelt in the Bertrand Goldberg-designed Astor Towers. Opened in 1963 as an homage to the 1893 Paris original, it was run by Goldberg’s wife Nancy.
It closed in 1982.
But the on dit has it that it’s going to be restored to all its fin du siècle gloire by Au Cheval restaurateur Brendan Sodikoff.
Très bien!
I loved that place and I was lucky enough to be at the very last private party- I think- ever to be held at cher Maxim’s.
It was a birthday party for my dear friend, Martin.
Will Rogers Sidebar: For those of you who never had the privilege of knowing him, let me now introduce you. Martin- who sadly passed away at only sixty-three in 2010- was kind, quick to laugh and philanthropic to the max.
He had more friends than anyone.
And it was his greatest pleasure to have all his old friends meet all his new friends. And he loved nothing better than a fabulous fête.
Hence it was his birthday that we would be celebrating at Maxim’s.
Here’s a photo of Martin, me and few other high society toffs you may recognize.
That’s us- second and third from the right- at a Chicago Historical Museum Costume Committee Gala called the Donor’s Ball. This was held at the Field Museum that year.
Do me a favor.
Zoom in on my couture.
This getup was a BIG production number. Very La Belle Epoque indeed. My gown was by Oscar De la Renta, and it had a bustle, a black velvet bow and a train. I wore gloves, of course.
I even gilded the lily (Langtry) by topping it all off with a matching feather in my hair. (Which you can’t see in the photograph, but trust me. Not only is it there, but I still have it in one of my zillion hatboxes that I’m too lazy to go through.)
Very 1980’s, but it made me feel very 1880’s and I loved it.
So when Martin threw himself a fabulous black tie birthday gala at Maxim’s, this was the rig-out I donned.
Naturellement.
Came the big evening and I swanned in wearing my grand outfit. I was part of the milieu and matched the luxe decor parfaitement.
Everything was going swell until…
There is no other way to put this.
I had to go to the lady’s room.
Now chances are you’ve never had to negotiate a water closet in a ball gown.
(And gloves, a train, a bustle and a feathered headdress,)
This is an obstacle course that requires a whole lot of careful negotiating and finesse.
The key here is to sloooow everything down.
Take your time.
So I gingerly started wriggling around careful to avoid the water in the toilet.
The whole process took about seven minutes.
I had just finished and started to re-don all the accoutrement, when my eyes were drawn to a pair of size fourteen evening slippers jutting out from the stall next to me.
All in the Family Sidebar: Martin had a sibling named Darr. In his obituary, Crain’s Chicago Business referred to Darr as Martin’s sister.
Umm. I’m not sure if this was anatomically correct.
Although Darr always dressed and lived as a woman- “she” even had a husband named Ronny- I’m pretty sure that Darr was a dude.
A dude who looked like Bruce Vilanch and dressed like Dame Edna.
Picture a mashup between this.
And this.
I am not being mean. Darr was not one of those willowy, elegant trans people who looked his or her best in an evening gown.
But the minute I saw those giant pumps in the neighboring stall, I started to get concerned. I wanted to give Darr his/her privacy after all. So I carefully started to put my attire back onto place.
But then I heard Darr softly calling out.
“Ronny. Ronny.”
That did it.
I had no idea what hijinks were going to go on in the powder room stall but I was out of there in ten seconds flat.
I think about this now because I wonder what Caitlin Jenner does.
Red Carpet Safety Tip to Caitlin: If you’re going to a gala event and you’re all gussied up in a ball gown and feathers…
Attention All Jewel Thieves: The jewelry pictured in this post is NOT mine. These images were taken right from the Internet. So don’t bother coming here to rob me. Thanks for your cooperation.
And just in case you think I’m being paranoid….My grandparents once had their picture in the paper when they went to the opera. My grandmother was wearing a new silver mink stole. “Stole” is the operative word here because, when he saw the photograph, my grandfather wryly commented, “Here come the robbers.”
He was right. The next day the stole was stolen.
Now on with the post.
Jimmy Fallon’s recent weird and awful accident caused by his wedding ring has got me thinking.
About rings.
Engagement rings and wedding rings.
And how dangerous they are.
Well, mine are. That’s for sure.
I first got engaged in 1968. So, on and off, I have had forty-seven years of the ons and offs of the ring business.
In 1968 I got my very first diamond engagement ring. It was pear-shaped. (God only knows why.) And it was picked out by my future mother-in-law with absolutely no input from eighteen year old me.
Red flag.
Granted neither my nineteen year old fiancé (another red flag!) nor I knew anything about the four C’s of diamond shopping. And Mother-to-be*** already owned a whopper of a brilliant cut and had good friends in the jewelry trade, to boot.
***She had asked- no, demanded- that I call her “Mother.” She had no daughters of her own, you see. I did NOT want to call her “Mother.” Another red flag.
It was, in fact, a very nice ring, but I never had the feeling that it actually came from the guy who was going to walk me back down the aisle. It just felt more like I was marrying his family.
I didn’t give him a wedding band. Back in those days, it was not the fashion to have a double ring ceremony in our religious neck of the woods.
Sigh.
Let’s draw a veil over that ill-starred romance- and piece of jewelry.
Enter husband number two. I have no recollection of the wedding band he gave me. I do remember buying him a gold one.
As to the engagement ring I received, now it was a beauty. A three carat pear (again) and a real honey.
Which he later stole for the insurance money. Along with all my other jewelry because he felt the marriage wasn’t quite working out to his satisfaction.
I never saw any of my jewelry again. (Save for one Cartier tank watch and the aforementioned wedding ring that I was wearing at the time of the heist.)
And as for him? He got shot by his fellow partners in crime when they decided they didn’t really want to split the swag three ways.
Aww. Such a shame.
Sadly he survived. I was heartbroken
I had to spend good money to divorce the crook. But not before I hunted him down (he had gone on the lam after he recovered from the bullet wound) to try and recover some of my other belongings.
As to that wedding ring he gave me? I threw it at him in a hotel room in Elmira, New York. It bounced off and went flying to who knows where.
Some chambermaid probably still has it. Good luck to her.
Husband number three gave me three engagement rings.
The first- a small sapphire surrounded by tiny diamonds to form a delicate flower- was returned to C.D. Peacock’s when a co-worker snickered and pronounced it suitable for a fourteen year old girl.
He was right.
Back it went to be exchanged for a handsome pear-shaped (again!?!) sapphire embraced by twin pear-shaped diamonds.
Much better.
Believe It Or Not Crown Jewels Sidebar: Not only did this engagement ring precede the much more famous one that Prince Charles gave Shy Di a few years later, it turned out the two gems- sapphire and diamond- are the birthstones of our two children.
On a more melancholy note, Princess Diana and I shared something else besides engagement rings. We were both divorced on the exact same date -August 28, 1996.
But before that sad event, to celebrate after Nick was born, (the only son after four daughters) I got a hankering for a diamond ring.
So off to a family friend we went and hubby plunked down the money and I got the lolly.
Years later, the friend turned out to be a tad shady, the diamond had a tiny flaw- and the marriage had some larger ones.
I should have known from the get go.
I had given him a very handsome gold band from Tiffany’s.
Which he was loathe to wear.
He claimed that being a lefty, it bothered him when he played tennis. So early on, he wore it on his right hand.
This always reminded me of the great Moms Mabley quip. When asked why she wore her wedding ring on the wrong hand, she remarked that she had married the wrong man.
I’ll let Moms speak for herself about her marital woes. (Be warned. There ain’t nothing PC about Moms Mabley. So listen at your own risk.)
But soon, he jettisoned the wedding ring altogether.
I should have gotten the hint. But I was a slow learner and lovingly held on to my plain gold band for twenty years.
I remember well the day that I took it off.
I felt exactly like Melanie Wilkes when she took off her ring at the bazaar to donate it to the Southern cause.
But I replaced it with wedding ring number four. This husband had designed it himself- twisted strands of different colored gold.
I can’t find it.
The brilliant writer and great expert on human nature, Colette, once said that three moves are as bad as a fire. And somehow in my move from Colorado to Chicago, it has disappeared.
He had declared that he didn’t like jewelry but I gave him a gold signet ring custom intaglioed with a Celtic cross.
It looked a little something like this. (But nowhere near as fancy.)
He loved it. And if photographs don’t lie, he’s still wearing it.
Last but not least, The Kid and I exchanged platinum bands. Times had changed and gold was out and platinum just looked hipper.
(He used to thrum it against the strings of his bass guitar, He liked the noise it made.)
I loved the one he gave me. Delicate and dainty. I miss wearing it. My finger feels so bare without it.
So much for the marital jewelry inventory. That’s an awful lot of rings for anyone except Elizabeth Taylor, I’ll grant you.
But do I think there is one more in my insurance schedule’s future?
Dear Readers, it’s been awhile since you and I have had a movie date. So today I thought it would be fun to take a gander at our toddlin’ town’s very own star turns. The city of Chicago is a movie star all on its own.
So grab a bag of Garrett’s popcorn (me- I like the “Garrett Mix”) and let’s stake out the best seats in the house.
Chicago has always had a long love affair with the movies. And a storied past both on and off the screen.
In 1908, the Balaban brothers started their movie theater business by leasing the 100-seat Kedzie Nickolodeon. By 1916- joined by family friends, Sam and Morris Katz- their dreams got bigger.
They formed the Balaban and Katz Corporation and together they built opulent movies “palaces” filled them with magnificent furnishings, gorgeous antiques, fabulous murals and sumptuous artwork.
By 1925 B&K had a chain of posh theaters- they were the first ones to air-condition them, btw- from St. Louis to Minneapolis.
The names of these houses were legendary. The Belmont, the Granada, the Riviera, the Uptown, the Admiral, the Congress, the Apollo, the Garrick, the Oriental, the Roosevelt, United Artists.
And some are still proudly standing.
But the Biograph was one theater B&K didn’t own.
So let’s get this Chicago movie tribute off to a roaring start.
(The set designers altered the movie theater to look just like it did in 1934 when Dillinger went to see Manhattan Melodrama.)
When I lived in Florence, any time I mentioned that I was from Chicago, I’d get the same response from i fiorentini.
“Chee-caw-go? Bang bang!”
They thought everyone from Chi-town was a gangster.
Might as well go with the flow. So here’s another favorite. (It’s really neat to see the locales side by side.)
And what tribute to the Chicago underworld would be complete without this?
But Chicago wasn’t just rife with gangsters. It had its share of crusading newspaper reporters who used any means possible to fight corruption wherever they found it.
Let’s take a look at one of the best movies around. Watch as Jimmy Stewart, a intrepid Chicago reporter, is on the scene to get an innocent guy out of the slammer.
But here’s a pair of Chicago reporters who sound like they never set foot in our wonderful town. Even though the movie was shot on a Hollywood back lot, it was adapted from a play written by two real legendary Chicago reporters- Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur.
They knew whereof they wrote. The play- and the movie- is a great tribute colorful Chicago American editor Walter Howey, yellow journalism and the battle to expose corrupt politics. I’m using it.
(And if you don’t like it, you can’t fight City Hall.)
And here’s another guy on the lam for a crime he didn’t commit.
Okay, enough with the criminal element. In the Windy City, we know how to make love as well as (gang) wars.
Aw. And a river cruise is a great way to see our city look its architectural best, btw. Call CAF to arrange a romantic assignation of your own.
But if you’re prone to mal de mer, why not take the el?
If public transportation is just not your thing, how about a ride in a Porsche?
Or a Ferrari?
But no matter how you get there, what’s better than a day off at Wrigley Field?
But beware. Sometimes if you ditch school to go to a ball game, you will get caught and punished.
(Nitpickers will gripe that this movie was actually filmed at Maine North High School in Des Plaines. Technically not Chicago. But John Hughes loved the suburbs and they were featured in all his movies.)
Like this one. Compare for yourself.
Now here’s a movie that makes my “Top Ten” favorite Chicago movies list any time. Director Stephen Frears transplanted Nick Hornby’s London novel, but so what? I have a record store just like this in my neighborhood. It’s called Reckless Records and it rocks!
(There are some scenes of John Cusack walking around Chicago but I liked this clip better.)
Holy Deep Dish, Batman! Now look at this.
And when Tom Cruise grew up, he came back here and hooked up with a pool cue- and Paul Newman.
(For a change, Martin Scorsese used locations on West and South Sides in this gritty valentine.)
And can I mention some of the on-screen talent that our fair city has born and bred? A partial list must include Ralph Bellamy (His Girl Friday), Rock Hudson, Charlton Heston, Harrison Ford (The Fugitive) Bruce Dern, Penelope Milford, Ann-Marget, Jennifer Beals, Harold Ramis, Bill Murray, John Cusack (High Fidelity) John Belushi, Virginia Madsen, Mary Elisabeth Mastrantonio (The Color ofMoney) Kim Novak, John C. Reilly, Darryl Hannah, Amy Madigan.
I found this little car just the other day. It was stashed away in a kitchen drawer.
Take a good look. It is the sole survivor of a huge convoy of Matchbox cars, Hot Wheels, Tonka trucks, and other motor vehicles that belonged to my son Nick when he was a little boy.
And the vast majority of his fleet came from the Village Toy Shop in downtown Winnetka.
Right from the get go, Nick had the “collector” gene, and this enchanting store was his favorite place on earth- and thus a regular stop for me.
(Not us- but you get the picture.)
From the time he was three and knee high to a toy fire truck, Nick would purposefully stride in, head straight for the back room on the left, and belly up to the racks and racks of the Matchbox cars and trucks on display.
He would then peruse the shelves with an intensity of gaze the likes of which I never saw given to anything else. Then, in a feat of prodigious memory, (that’s my boy!) he would instantly point out the latest addition to the fleet.
Back then, the owner of this wonderful place, Pat Berwanger, was always amazed by his Mr. Memory demonstration of mnemonics.
“He knows the inventory better than I do,” she’d marvel. “He can always spot the new arrival.”
That was thirty-two years ago. But these days, it’s Pat and her wonderful shop that is still marvelous.
It’s now operated by her daughter Elizabeth, but Pat is still around, making sure that special toy gets into the hands of your special boy or girl.
(The Village Toy Shop has been in business for sixty-eight years, btw. Doubly impressive when you think how Amazon has changed the face of shopping.)
But this “Mom and Daughter” emporium has defied the odds with its attention to detail, terrific customer service and its signature polka dot wrapping paper.
Sherlock Holmes Sidebar: This photo reads “Natasha, Christmas 1982.” Nick was two and Natasha was just four, and yet they were both highly suspicious. They wanted to know why the presents from Santa bore the exact same wrapping paper as the Village Toy Shop.
I had to think on my feet. I told them that Santa and his elves used the same stuff at the North Pole. They bought that for a very long time. (In fact, I think Nick still believes it.)
From the beginning, Village Toy Shop was my resource – my motivational tool- for getting certain behaviors out of my collector.
Take the first time I left him for pre-school at Crow Island’s three year old program.
On the first day of three year old class in September, it was time for the moms to leave the tots. (Natasha’s leave-taking a few years before had NOT gone well, and the memory was still fresh in my mind. At Thanksgiving, I was the only mother left in the room.)
So I was braced for some pushback on the part of my second-born. I nervously got up to leave. Nicky glanced up from the cars he was maneuvering with a question mark on his little face.
“Well, I’ve got to go now, honey, but I’ll be back soon. I’m going to Lakeside and then I’ll go to the toy store. What do you want?”
Without a moment’s hesitation, he gave me his shopping list.
“I want an am-bu-lance.”
Done.
That was cinchy.
And then there were the swimming lessons. Both my kids were swimming by age three. And I kept them at it indoors over the winter so they wouldn’t forget how.
But the first day back in the pool the following summer, Nicky was flailing.
“I can’t swim!” he said as he splashed around unconvincingly in the deep end.
“You can, too,” I countered. “You swam perfectly just last week,”
“No, I don’t know how,” he maintained helplessly.
But I knew my customer.
“Okay, Nick, when you can do one width of this pool, I’ll buy you anything you want.”
“I want a truck with logs on it,” he stated instantly.
And then he put his head down and swam a length
Then there was the case of the stitches at Evanston Hospital. In first grade Nick had split his chin tripping on a ball.
I got the call from the school nurse and off to the ER we flew. Nicky was a trooper throughout the painful sewing procedure but…
He had to see me call the VTS from the “clean” phone in the OR.
They kept the toy shop open late just for us. It was an emergency, after all.
All of these memories came flooding back when I picked up that little car. And so I picked up the phone and called Pat to do some fact-checking.
She remembered us. I’m not surprised.
“How old is Nick now?” she asked.
“Thirty-five. And I want to to know that he turned out fine. Both the kids did. Even after all that shopping I did.”
“You were careful,” she told me. “You didn’t indulge them really. I noticed that.”
“I was careful,” I had to agree. “I didn’t want to ruin them.”
And I was touched. It meant a lot to me to hear that I had done a pretty good job on the world’s hardest job.
Pat and I chatted for a few more minutes as I caught up with her doings and she caught up with mine.
Ah, such sweet souvenirs of my kids’ precious childhood. When I hung up the phone, somehow the room had gotten a little misty.
