Letter From Elba

Shopgirl

Posted on May 3, 2015 by Ellen Ross

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen that shopping bag. Time was when the beautiful violets of Bonwit Teller bloomed everywhere.

The Chicago branch of the legendary New York shopping mecca stood proudly at the corners of Pearson Street and Michigan Avenue. It was a wonderful place and I remember it fondly.

In fact, in 1969 I worked at Bonwit’s. In the blouse department. But I can’t say that I recall that time with any special warmth, however.

I loathed buttoning up all the buttons on those blouses. And I heartily disliked standing around all day. I clearly remember changing my shoes each day after lunch. Vitally important if you didn’t want your feet to give up the ghost.

I wasn’t too keen on the customers, either. The portly women were annoyed that the blouses never seemed to fit them correctly.

And then there was that petty time clock punchcard system.

Alas, I was not cut out for retail- although I did hang in there until 1970. I even went along with Bonwit’s into the brand new state-of-the-art John Hancock Center. This was very exciting, and a girlfriend talked me into moving when they crossed Michigan Avenue.

Right into the shoe department.

My girlfriend and I were the worst shoe salesmen of ALL time. We would cavalierly toss the customers the shoe horns rather than lean down and actually touch their feet. Yuck.

What I mostly liked were the discounts on the shoes that came with the job.

But when I had enough shoes, I turned in my notice.

Retail was not my cup of tea.

But thinking about Bonwit’s triggered a whole flood of memories about long-gone but truly irreplaceable Chicago shopping institutions.

Like Blum’s Vogue.

Opened in 1910 on South Michigan Avenue by Harry Blum and his wife Becky, I came to know it well after it moved to North Michigan Avenue in 1931.

It was a sumptuous place. (It carried dresses by Jimmy Galanos as early as 1952.) And although I was too young and too poor to buy his gorgeous wares, Blum’s became a watchword for me of style and elegance.

Speaking of style, do you remember Martha Weathered on Michigan Avenue?

Again I was just a little too young and a little too cash-strapped to shop there in its heyday, but I remember wandering in just to soak up the atmosphere of luxe that Mrs. Weathered championed amongst her socialite clientele.

Martha may have been doyenne of the 20’s 30′ and 40’s, but when the 60’s youthquake hit, I was turned on and tuned in to Parapheranalia.

This was the coolest place ever. I bought mini dresses, a pair of rust-colored velour jeans and a black velvet “gaucho'”cropped pant suit- complete with white ruffled lace blouse. I wore the jeans and the gaucho outfit until they fell apart.

Stanley Korshak’s on Michigan Avenue was my very own special jam. Korshak’s began selling luxury one-of-a-kind items in 1909, and from 1980 until the day they closed in 1990, I spent practically all my disposable dress income there.

Here’s a little Thierry Mugler number I bought in 1986. It’s now on display at the Chicago Historical Museum in a show honoring the Magnificent Mile.

And then there was Ultimo. When Joan and Jerry Weinstein opened it in 1969, I bought a groovy pair of crocheted hot pants. OMG.

I can’t quite seem to locate them, but I also bought this mod leather choker.

And from then until its closing in 2010, I bought everything from men’s ties to rain hats and, of course, couture when ever my clothes allowance would let me.

Marshall Field’s, the granddaddy of them, is gone now, too.

It wasn’t the clothes department there I mourn. It was the toy department. Specifically the Steiff stuffed animal section.

Here are some of my favorites.

Christmastime with my grandmother at Marshall Field’s was a special treat. Somehow Macy’s just doesn’t have the same magic.

Well, my nostalgic shopping spree is over. There are plenty of stores I didn’t mention, but my charge card is all maxed out.

I’ll let this gal pick up the shopping bags now.

Posted in Chicago, Fashion, pop culture, Shopping | 21 Comments

Eden

Posted on April 30, 2015 by Ellen Ross

In 1978 I was living in Barrington Hills on eleven wooded acres with a husband, a big apricot Standard Poodle named Arno and a baby bump who’s sex and name were yet to be determined. It was paradise- until during the renovation, bull snakes started coming up into the house through the crawl space.

Pregnant me would turn a corner and BAM! There would be a medium-to-large reptile curled up in a corner of the hallway or bedroom.

Disconcerting- to say the least.

But as it turned out, after the healthy shock of seeing something that ought to be a belt hissing at you in your bathroom, I was not afraid of snakes.

I would lock up Arno, get a broom and a wastebasket, and I would calmly sweep the offender into the garbage bag-lined receptacle. Then I would throw the bag into the eleven wooded acres where it belonged.

(The house had cream wall-to-wall carpeting and I didn’t want a mano–a–mano blood bath between snake and dog. So this method of waste/snake disposal became my S.O.P.)

Hubby was never around for these random snake-sightings. They inevitably happened Monday through Friday when he was at work.

But one Saturday, the stars aligned. As I came out of our bedroom, I saw a snake in the corner of the hall. The master of the house was to home and so I called him. He took one look, turned tail and ran.

“Where are you going?” I called after him.

“To get a gun and an axe!” he shouted.

Meantime, I simply heaved my pregnant self into the kitchen, retrieved the trusty broom and wastebasket, and when Dan’l Boone came back armed to the teeth, I handed him a wiggling plastic bag.

“Here, Tarzan. Throw this out. I don’t want you chopping up a snake on my brand new carpet.”

Thus ended his one and only snake encounter.

Until the day he called in sick.

(In twenty years of marriage this was the only day I remember that he ever needed a doctor’s note.)

He was languishing in bed, when suddenly, Arno set up an unearthly barking. I came in to see what all the fuss was about and there it was.

Coiled up, menacing- and luckily for once on the outside of the house- a gigantic bull snake nonchalantly sunning itself on the deck outside our bedroom. Meanwhile the dog was having hysterics on our side of the glass.

I had an obstetrician’s appointment to attend and thus I couldn’t deal with the dog/snake scenario.

I deputized my better half.

“I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Get rid of that snake before I get home.” And I sailed out the door.

But two hours later, when I called home from the doctor’s office, I could still hear Arno going wild.

“Is that snake on the deck? I told you to get rid of it,” I said sternly.

“But I like looking at it,” he caviled. “It’s pretty.”

“Nice try, Jungle Jim. I’ll be home in forty minutes and that reptile had better be back in the woods where he belongs.”

But when I did get home it was a stalemate on the snake snafu. My spouse, it turned out, was deathly afraid of snakes and he refused to tackle it.

Now I had a real dilemma. I was seven months pregnant and not as light on my pins as I once was. And that snake was enormous. And although bull snakes are not poisonous, their bite can hurt you- like that of a dog or a cat.

I was just not up for taking any chances. And I couldn’t let the snake bask in the July sun and drive the dog crazy. I knew what I had to do.

And what I first had to do was win a long-standing argument with my husband.

“I’ll take care of the snake but I have to ask you a question. Do you honestly believe that the world treats men and women exactly the same way?” (A touchy point of contention between us ever since we had first met.)

“Yes, I do. No difference at all as far as I can ever see,” he stubbornly maintained.

“Okay, listen and see if you could make this call. Hello? Barrington Hills Police? I’m seven months pregnant and there is a giant snake on my deck. Help. I’m all alone here and I don’t know what to do,” I whined in a babyish voice.

“We will send an officer immediately, Ma’am. He’ll be right out.”

But before the policeman got there, I had to hide my six foot three male in the maid’s bedroom. If he was spotted, the jig would be up.

The aforementioned officer came out, took one look at the perp, paled, pulled his weapon and called for backup.

Swear to God.

He turned to me and said,”Uh, Ma’am, how do you usually handle this?”

“Well, I usually get a broom and a wastebasket. But this snake is clearly too big for that. I’ll get you a box.”

By the time I came back, his partner had joined him, and the two cops, though clearly terrified, poked the snake out of his corner and down through the deck slats. I watched until, at long last, it slithered into the carton. (Handcuffs probably wouldn’t have worked too well.)

They all drove off and I released Hubby from the safety of his hideout.

“Admit it. Say ‘Uncle.’ The cops never would have come out here if they knew you were at home,” I grinned.

Attention Sheryl Sandberg: Men and women are not created equal- no matter how hard they “lean in.”

Now take a look at this shy ophiologist and his charming snake charmer.

And grab me an apple, while you’re at it, sweetie.

Posted in Memoir, pop culture | 12 Comments

I Scream, You Scream

Posted on April 26, 2015 by Ellen Ross

If you’re not from Chicago’s North Shore, you might not immediately recognize this beloved institution.

It’s Homer’s Ice Cream Parlor in Wilmette, Illinois. Home of famous, fabulous ice cream.

Especially peach ice cream in season.

Its eighty years has been filled with happily serving hamburgers, tuna fish sandwiches and scrumptious ice cream desserts to generations of delighted kids and parents.

In 1979, it was the very first place I went to the day we moved into our house in Winnetka. I left baby Natasha- then eight months old- in my housekeeper’s Mary’s more-than-capable hands, and I drove a few minutes up Green Bay Road to pick up sandwiches for the movers and for Mary and me.

I remember it as if it were yesterday.

It was the very first place that I ever took Natasha to eat. She was a toddler by then, and her baby table manners were not quite Miss Manners perfect.

But at Homer’s, I was surrounded by a crowd of chatting moms and screaming babies, and giggling, rambunctious kids, and it was okay for her to toss a piece of hamburger on the floor.

It was the very first place she ever had ice cream.

I’m sure I gave her vanilla, but it didn’t take her long to land on Homer’s famous strawberry concoction. That soon became her go-to flavor.

In April of 1980, Natasha was joined by her brother Nick. Different from his sister in every way, he never emulated her behavior or choices.

Except in one area.

Homer’s strawberry ice cream

As hard as I tried to woo them over to my beloved vanilla, they both stood firm as rocky road on their choice.

It had to be Homer’s and it had to strawberry.

Okay. I knew when I was licked. (Sorry about the ice cream pun.)

Homer’s was our neighborhood kiddie hang. Our Malt Shoppe. Our Sweet Shoppe. Our Old Fashioned Ice Cream Parlor.

Decorated in candy apple red, just walking in there raised the spirits.

It was quick, easy, delicious, wholesome and fun. Many’s a time that my weary nerves and fretting children were soothed just by strollering into their friendly confines.

It was where I took my kids after stitches at the hospital or a ribbon at the swim meet.

Thus it was with very great sadness that I read a news story this week in Crain’s Chicago Business. Steven R. Strahler reported that a son of the founder accused his two brothers of skimming cash and letting the business “fall into debt, disrepair and unprofitability.”

It’s a heartbreaking saga of Alzheimer’s disease, addiction issues, mismanagement, greed, chaos.

The article is filled with ugly legal terms like “dissolutions” and “trustees” and “court filings.” The death knells of any business.

And all in the family.

Not the first family business to come apart at the seams. Not the last.

But the news that dark forces had enveloped one of the happiest places in my family’s personal narrative really saddens me.

I never thought it could happen at Homer’s.

Anywhere but here.

Sure could use a scoop of their vanilla right about now. Why isn’t real life as sweet as this?

Posted in Business, food, Nostalgia, pop culture, Winnetka | 10 Comments

Do Unto Others

Posted on April 23, 2015 by Ellen Ross

Photograph: courtesy of Fred Nachman

Author’s Note: If you only read one post of mine this year, please let it be this one. Thank you.

In case you aren’t familiar with this venerable Chicago landmark, this is the Fourth Presbyterian Church on Michigan Avenue. The congregation was founded in 1871 and moved to its present magnificent site on the Magnificent Mile at Chestnut Street in 1914.

Historians will note that except for the old Water Tower, Fourth Pres is the oldest building on Michigan Avenue north of the Chicago River.

And it’s where the Ernie Banks visitation was recently held.

Check it out.

Photo: courtesy of Fred Nachman

Since 1914 more than eight million people have entered its hallowed halls. Two thousand people worship here every Sunday.

And some of them are hungry.

Every Sunday night at five, dinner is served in Anderson Hall. About one hundred and fifty of Chicago’s neediest citizens- the homeless, the mentally-challenged, the disaffected, the lost- are fed a really great meal.

I’ll let Fourth Presbyterian explain why:

“At Fourth Church, we place a high priority on nurturing a sense of community among guests, volunteers, and partner organizations as we live out our mission to be a light in the city.”

And this past Sunday, I was one of the lucky volunteers that helped out at the dinner.

I wasn’t going to write about this. After all, isn’t there something in the Bible that says, “When you give to the poor, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing?”

But this past Monday night, my friend, the beautiful Susan Ifergan put up a story on her Facebook page that really made me think.

Susan’s social conscience had been aroused by the following injustice. She had posted an NBC News story by Bill Briggs that reported that more and more American cities are blocking individuals and ministries from feeding homeless people in parks and public squares.

People are being ticketed for offering this charity to the needy.

The article goes on to say that to date, thirty-three Red State cities have adopted- or are considering- such food-sharing restrictions.

Here’s the article in full, if you’d care to see what Susan posted.

For shame.

I only wish that some of these mean-spirited people who are behind this despicable movement could have been with me this past Sunday.

I arrived on the rainy afternoon at 3:45. The old pro volunteers- Norman, Sarah, Lynne, Pat, Scott, were already there and they showed Mira- a darling young newly-wed newbie- and me the ropes.

In the huge church basement, the tables had already been set with pretty table clothes and cheery vases of flowers. The food would be coming in later. Tonight’s meal of pasta with meat sauce, salad, green beans, bread and a chocolate bar dessert was going to be provided by Chicago’s Temple Sinai.

Ecumenical Sidebar: Next week’s meal is being catered by Glencoe’s North Shore Congregation Israel. Clearly, the act of charity is not the exclusive province of any one single denomination- or religion.

As the cold rain pattered on, people started drifting in. Then it was our job to give them iced tea or water, and make sure their glasses were refreshed as they waited patiently for dinner.

I’ve never waited tables before and I got the biggest laugh of the day when I came up to a group of guys who already had cups. Instead of saying something politic like,”Can I refill those, gentlemen?” I thoughtlessly said, “Who needs something to drink?”

It brought down the house.

I laughed at my blunder and quickly said, “Let me rephrase.”

But it was too late. All the guys good-naturedly hooted and demanded beer or Scotch.

It was on-the-job training.

Norman opened the proceedings with some announcements. Medical help and counseling would be available upstairs to any who needed it. Then with a brief prayer, dinner was served.

The numbered tables were called by random, and the men and women politely waited their turn to come through the chow line. Mira and I handed out the trays and the flatware.

I took my cue from Mira. She was chipper and beaming. I tried to follow in her footsteps when it was my turn to greet the guests.

Temple Sinai had provided food in abundance, and even without a miracle of loaves and fishes, there was plenty for all. “Seconds” was announced.

Most of the people came through the line again.

By 5:45 it was all over and we proceeded with the clean up. I took some people’s trays and empty cups, but for the most part, the guests did all their own table-bussing and garbage-tossing.

The room was then broken down and the tables and chairs stacked against the wall in a flash.

Gracious thank you’s, farewells and promises to come back were tossed around as everyone prepared to go back out into the still-pouring rain.

(I paused when I saw women asking for large garbage bags. I knew why they wanted them.)

I was privileged to take part in it all.

A very small part indeed.

Isaiah says “Is it not to divide your bread with the hungry And bring the homeless poor into the house?…And if you give yourself to the hungry And satisfy the desire of the afflicted, Then your light will rise in darkness And your gloom will become like midday.”

Thanks to all at Fourth Presbyterian Church. You really turned up the Light.

And thanks, Susan.

Amen.

Posted in Chicago, Philanthropy | 18 Comments

Ask Emily Post

Posted on April 19, 2015 by Ellen Ross

WARNING: This post is rated VC for violent content by P.E.T.A. and the Audubon Society.

Dear Emily Post, I need your advice. Please respond ASAP. Even though many years have passed, I have to buy a gift for the following reason.

Several years ago, I surprised my then husband Mike with a trip to Tahiti and Bora Bora. He had always dreamed of going there, and for a lark I thought it would be fun to spring it on him after ski season.

He was flabbergasted- and truly delighted. But we had a problem. Our dogs- Andy, our Scottie, and Killarney, the Siberian Husky. We would be gone for a couple of weeks and they needed to be cared for.

Andy was cinchy.

He happily went off to Boulder with my son, Nick, and his wonderful girlfriend Gina G. They both adored him and I knew he would be in capable hands.

Gina took him with her everywhere on campus. (I always teased that Andy actually attended more college classes than Nick.)

And Gina spoiled him so thoroughly- changing his bottled water at every meal- that he sulked a little when he came back home and was treated only as a mere canine and not as an emperor.

But Killarney was a different kettle of fish. She was terribly old by then and had diabetes. I had to give her insulin shots every day and she had to be monitored carefully.

Mrs. Post, I had tried to teach Nick and Gina how to inject her. Their eyes were as big as dinner plates as I showed them how to carefully roll the insulin bottle, fill the syringe and gently tap it to make sure there were no air bubbles.

I did all this while I filled the dog bowls with breakfast, pointing out that when Killarney was wolfing down her morning repast she hardly noticed the tiny jab.

As I turned back to the kids with the dog bowls in hand, the syringe was in its usual place.

My mouth.

Nick took one look at me and backed out of the room.

“Dude, you look so hard core,” he breathed in horror.

(Query: Mrs. Post, is it correct and proper for my son to call me “Dude?” Just asking.)

Any way, I wasn’t too surprised by his reaction. I knew Nick had a phobia about needles – although that didn’t stop him from getting tattooed. (ICYMI Mrs. P. please see Tattoo You) Besides, one dog was all they could handle comfortably. Killarney needed truly expert attention.

Which led me to my vet. Dr. Scott Dolginow was fabulous and he had the greatest staff in the world. I told them my problem.

“Of course, we will take Killarney while you’re away,” his receptionist Michelle said. “She’s too old and too sick to be stressed at a kennel.”

I was so relieved. So was Mike. She really was his dog. He had owned her mother, bred her, and Killarney was the pup he had kept. So naturally he wanted her to be comfortable while we were out of the country.

“And you know what I’ll do?” continued sweet Michelle. “We’ll keep her here during the day, but when I go home at night, I’ll take her with me. That way I can watch her.”

We were both surprised and thrilled at her generous offer. This was way better than we had ever expected.

Well, Mrs. Post, the trip was terrific. Tahiti, Bora Bora and the surrounding little atoll islands were a dream. Hot beyond belief in April, but unspoiled and so beautiful.

Everything smelled of vanilla and was in French. Magnifique! And I never saw so many shades of blue in one place.

When we got back to Colorado the first thing we did was go to the vet’s office to pick up Killarney.

“How did it go?” I asked Michelle. “Was she any trouble?”

“No, she was perfect. Everything went fine,” she reassured Mike and me.

And so we gathered her up and drove her home. Nick and Gina drove Andy down from school the following weekend.

Killarney did finally die of extreme old age. She just wore out.

And about a year later I happened to run in to Michelle at the dog park. I was happy to see her.

And then it happened…

“I never knew how to tell you this,” she said. “Remember when Killarney stayed at my house last year?”

“Of course,” I smiled. “You were so nice to take her.”

“I don’t know if I should tell you this but…”

Now I was alarmed.

“What happened?” I cried.

“The very first night I brought her home, I had forgotten that my parrot was out of its cage and walking around.”

Uh oh.

“I had no sooner opened the front door when Killarney dashed in, and before I could stop her…”

UH OH.

“She pounced on it and killed it. And then she ate it.”

OMG.

“She ate your pet? Why didn’t you say anything to us?” I wailed in disbelief.

“Well, I didn’t want to mention it because Mike is so nice and I knew he’d be upset…”

“How long had you had the parrot? Could he talk?” I was absolutely miserable.

“Nine years. Yes, he could talk a blue streak. But don’t feel too badly, Ellen. It was all my fault. I should have realized that even though Killarney was old, she was still quick. That dog was a hunter.”

So here’s my question, Mrs. Post. What do you buy someone when your dog has eaten their boon companion?

(And why didn’t that damn bird cry for help?)

Thank you, Mrs. Post. I know you’ll come up with just the right gift for the occasion.

Now take a look at another dog that’s really quick.

And don’t worry. No parrots were harmed in the making of this video.

Now watch the birdie.

Posted in Aspen, Dogs | 6 Comments

Meet-Cute

Posted on April 16, 2015 by Ellen Ross

Yes, that’s the great Billy Wilder. Legendary cinema screenwriter, brilliant director, auteur. Although he didn’t invent the “meet-cute,” (when boy meets girl in an adorable way on the big screen) here’s one clever example he came up with for that other rom com legend, his mentor and hero, Ernst Lubitsch.

“One day (Charles) Brackett and I were called in to see Lubitsch. He told us he was thinking about doing an adaptation of a French play about a millionaire- a very law-abiding guy who would never have an affair with a woman without marrying her. So he married seven times!

Author’s Note: Hmmm. Sounds familiar.

As the meeting was being adjourned I said, ‘I have a meet-cute for your story. Let’s say your millionaire is an American who is stingy. He goes to a department store in Nice on the French Riviera where he wants to buy a pajama top, but just the top because he never wears the pants. The girl comes to the same counter to buy pajamas for her father, who as it happens only wears the pants.’

That broke the ice and we were put to work on that picture that became Bluebeard’s Eighth Wife.”

Author’s Second Note: Sorry, but this was the only clip I could find of the “pajama” scene. Tune in at 4:00 if you don’t want to see the other movie clips featured.

Billy Wilder had dozens of meet-cutes filed away in a little notebook for future reference.

Here is another Wilder gem from one of the best movies of all time Boy (?) and boy (?) meet girl (oh boy!) in Some Like it Hot.

Now let his boss show off the famous “Lubitsch Touch.” Here’s how clever Ernst thought Melvin Douglas and Greta Garbo should get acquainted in the fabulous Ninotchka.

Preston Sturges was another auteur and genius in the art of movie-making. Here’s his classic take on “boy meets girl” in his masterpiece Sullivan’s Travels.

Cinematic history was also made when Tracy met Hepburn in Woman of the Year. Movie lore has it that when Kate met Spence in real life for the first time on the MGM lot, she looked him over and said, “Mr. Tracy, I’m afraid I’ll be too tall for you.” Joe Mankiewicz then piped up, “Don’t worry, sister. He’ll cut you down to size.’

Here’s the proof.

And here they go again in Pat and Mike. (Let Aldo Ray do the introductions, but do stick around for the end. It’s a classic line.)

Kate Hepburn also paired up with Cary Grant in the screwball fun fest Bringing Up Baby.

Here’s how “boy meets leopard” in that wonderful romp.

Not all meet-cutes happen in comedies.

Take a gander at the definitive one in the wonderful English weeper Brief Encounter. Watch how Celia Johnson and Trevor Howard are brought together in true British stiff upper lip style.

And here’s the historic encounter when Rhett meets Scarlett for the very first time. Talk about fireworks!

My generation had their own pair of iconic lovers who met in a different library.

At Radcliffe.

Yes, that’s Ryan and Ali. Aka Ollie and Jennifer in Love Story.

And I like how bumbling but adorable Hugh Grant met playing-herself-as-a-famous-movie star Julia Roberts in Notting Hill.

And here’s Hugh again in Love Actually. Watch as the Prime Minister meets Natalie, played by delicious Martine McCutcheon, an aide on his household staff at 10 Downing Street.

I started with Billy but I think I’ll give Preston the last word.

This may be the meet-cute of all time. Barbara Stanwyck meeting Henry Fonda in THE screwball to end all screwballs, The Lady Eve.

That’s all, folks.

I’ve got to go forth and have some meet-cutes of my own. Now where did I put my ski boots?

Posted in Dating, Movies, pop culture | 2 Comments

Candyland

Posted on April 12, 2015 by Ellen Ross

In the latest issue of The Hollywood Reporter, actress Juliette Binoche spilled the cacao beans. During the filming of the 2000 film Chocolat, she discovered that her co-star, Johnny Depp “actually didn’t like chocolate.”

“He was spitting it out after every take,” La Belle Binoche said. “Alfred Molina didn’t like chocolate that much, either. It was a funny experience dealing with them and the faces they would make.”

I have a confession to make. Johnny Depp, Alfred Molina and I all have something in common.

We do not like chocolate. It’s just too sweet for our delicate taste buds. What I do love is licorice.

Give me the black Chuckle every time.

Here’s how I eat my Chuckles:

Red, orange, yellow and green.

I save the best for last.

The black one.

Now as I type this, I can hear a collective moan go out amongst my readers.

Most people I know loathe the black one. They don’t like licorice at all. I know I’m in the minority candy-wise.

That’s ok. I can take it.

I’ve been ok with the minority report since I was a tot. My dad liked licorice and so did I.

Calorie Counter Sidebar: There are four calories in one Good & Plenty. There are twenty-two in one Hershey’s Kiss. I can indulge my licorice jones with impunity.

Even back when I was a kid and didn’t have to count the calories, I was crazy about Good & Plenty. I savored the sweet crunchy-coated outside encasing the tangy licorice within. (Could anyone taste the difference between the pink and the white one? I never could.)

I also loved a candy with the very un PC name of Mason’s “Black Crows.” They’ve gone through sensitivity training and their name’s been changed. Thank goodness they taste exactly the same.

And for me btw, if it’s licorice, it’s got to be black.

Yeah, yeah, I know all about red and chocolate and grape and rainbow-flavored Twizzlers. But these are merely mutant forms of chewy, ropy ersatz candy.

Self-respecting licorice is black and that’s that.

That’s takes in a lot of candy territory.

There are jelly beans and jelly bellies, licorice mix, licorice pipes, licorice snaps, licorice allsorts, Australian licorice, Nibs and these:

Scottie Dog Licorice! Cunning and delicious. Natasha sent me a big box for Christmas one year. I could hardly bear to eat them. But I did.

I’m proud to say that both Natasha and Nick inherited my black candy craving.

I don’t know if it was sweet tooth nature or nurture, but neither one of my kids ever developed a hankering for chocolate.

But the down side was that as they grew up, I now had two little fierce rivals for the black Chuckle.

You’ve got to get ’em while they’re young.

Here’s the latest picture of my grandson, Sam.

Photograph: Natasha Tofias

Oops. Better make that three family rivals.

See you at the sweet shop, sweeties.

(And Johnny and Al, save the black Chuckle for me.)

Posted in food, Memoir, Nostalgia, pop culture | 16 Comments

Seventeen

Posted on April 9, 2015 by Ellen Ross

Calling All Girls: If the names “Enid Haupt” and “Colleen Corby” ring a familiar bell, this post should be on your “must read” list.

When I was a pre-teen growing up on Chicago’s North Shore, I was rabidly interested in many things of vital importance.

They were:

1. Clothes

2. Boys

3. Will boys like my clothes?

4. Hairstyles

5. Skin care

6. Lip gloss

7. Capezios

(True, I was also crazy about books, movies, dogs, horses, television, my friends and the Everly Brothers. But the above list really took up 99% of my waking thoughts.)

And it was Seventeen magazine that understood this perfectly.

I eagerly devoured every issue. And that’s how I came to be acquainted with its brilliant editor and guiding light- Enid Haupt.

Daughter of The Daily Racing Form tycoon Moses Annenberg and sister of future media mogul Walter, Enid was handed the reins to Seventeen in 1953. She capably ran the show there until 1970.

(Seventeen had debuted in September of 1944 as the very first American magazine established just for the teen age market.)

In 1965 Seventeen cost $.60 and a girl could really get her money’s worth- thanks to the genius of Enid Haupt.

Although she had been born in Chicago in 1906 with a silver spoon in her mouth, Mrs. Haupt totally got me- and the rest of my Babyboomer girlfriends. Her monthly “Letter From the Editor” personally advised me on teen fashion, beauty and social life.

And it also included sound advice on how to be a better student and a better citizen.

But most important of all, Seventeen was the Bible of that magic teenage word…

Popularity.

There’s a word I haven’t used in a very long time. But when I was a teen, being “popular” was the Holy Grail.

And in my quest for this elusive popularity, I pored over Seventeen from cover to cover. And what covers they had.

Enter Colleen Corby.

For those of you, Dear Readers, who were not teen age girls in the sixties, let me now introduce to you to the fabulous Colleen.

She was THE superstar cover girl of the era. She was sweet-looking, big-eyed, and best of all for me, brunette.

She first appeared on Seventeen’s cover in 1963 when she was sixteen. Just two years older than me, btw. No wonder I adored her.

And I was not alone in my adoration. In 1965 she was on the cover five times. (She was also on covers of Co-Ed and Ingenue and the Spiegel Catalog.)

Take a look for yourself.

What can I say? This darling girl and these fabulous fashions still make me swoon- and it’s been fifty years.

Back then, Colleen and Seventeen represented everything that I wanted to be. Pretty in a wholesome way- and happy.

She always looked like she never worried about anything. Her life- unlike mine- didn’t seem fraught with problematic mothers, hormone-enthralled boyfriends, onerous junior themes, nettlesome curfews, exasperating allowance and wardrobe shortages or Geometry.

Colleen smiled and looked perfect. And it was her very perfection that comforted and encouraged me.

Ah, those were the days. I sure could use a magazine these days to cheer me up, encourage me and give me good advice on skin care.

(Somehow, AARP’s Magazine doesn’t do the trick.)

Take a look at this. I bet it will bring back memories of a simpler time.

Now where did I put that issue of Teen?

I can’t wait to see who Fabian is dating.

Posted in Magazines, Memoir, New Trier High School, Nostalgia, pop culture | 11 Comments

Easter Parade

Posted on April 5, 2015 by Ellen Ross

Happy Easter and Happy Passover, Dear Readers. In honor of Spring, I thought I’d tell you a love story.

A true one.

About the man who wrote the song “Easter Parade.”

Mr. American Songbook- Irving Berlin.

You are all familiar, of course, with the man and his music.

You may not know the story of his love life.

Born to a Jewish family in Russia in 1888 and named Israel Baline, his family emigrated to New York City. To earn money, Izzie became a singing waiter of all things.

But more importantly, playing by ear, he started composing.

By 1911, his “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” became an international sensation.

In 1912 he married Dorothy Goetz, the sister of fellow songwriter E. Ray Goetz.

Tragically, she died six months later from the typhoid fever she contracted during their honeymoon in Cuba.

So sad.

And Irving stayed sad- and a widower- until he met beautiful Ellin Mackay in 1925.

She was a debutante- daughter of millionaire Clarence Mackay.

And she was Catholic.

The famous Jewish Songwriter and the Fancy Catholic Society Gal’s romance made headlines.

And her father’s outspoken, bigoted opposition to their match made even bigger ones.

But they married despite him, and lived -more or less- happily ever after for the next sixty-three years.

Stock Market Crash Sidebar: Although he had publicly declared that he would cut his daughter off without a cent if she ever married Irving, Clarence Mackay was the one cut off without a cent, when five years later, the Depression wiped out most of his stock market holdings. He was bailed out by his Jewish songwriter son-in-law.

I’m writing this today in the ecumenical spirit of tolerance. As many of you know, I’ve been married a few times. Some of the husbands were Jewish. Some of them were not.

I’ve attended temple in my early years and church in my later ones.

And much to my surprise, I found the differences between the two negligible.

The Ten Commandments and the Golden Rule were the dominant leit motifs in both places of worship.

“Peace on Earth” and “Love Thy Neighbor” were the focus of many a moving sermon- whether the text was in English, Hebrew or Latin.

Tolerance, peace and understanding. We could all use a little more.

So today, on behalf of Ellin and Izzie, I bid you all a very happy, healthy, wonderful Easter Parade.

Here’s Fred and Judy (and Irving) to wish you all Godspeed.

Posted in Composers, Movies, Music | 8 Comments

It Happens Every Spring

Posted on April 2, 2015 by Ellen Ross

Photograph: Fred Nachman

Last Sunday, my brother Kenny and I were driving up Lake Shore Drive. It was a very blustery day. Cold and gray. An unpleasant kind of day. And then, all of a sudden, Kenny lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Look at those guys! They’re playing ball. I love it!”

My eyes followed his gaze, and sure enough, there out in Lincoln Park, a small band of hardy men were playing America’s National Pastime.

Time for this one, I think.

Baseball- and the movies.

The two activities were made for each. So here are some of my favorite players.

First up- well, why not use the title of this post?

It Happens Every Spring.

This adorable confection starred Ray Milland as a egghead chemistry professor who is crazy about baseball. Much to the chagrin of his girlfriend, Jean Peters. (Howard Hughes’s long-time inamorata).

When the prof accidentally invents a substance that makes balls “allergic ” to wood, he becomes an ace pitcher who propels his beloved St. Louis team into the World Series.

Number two in the batting order is The Stratton Story. It premiered in 1949, and starred Jimmy Stewart as ace White Sox pitcher, Monty Stratton. June Allyson paid his plucky and courageous (what else?) wife, Ethel.

This bio pic was an Oscar winner for Best Writing. It’s a great story. Monty- the winningest right-hander in the American League- has a terrible hunting accident, forcing the doctors to amputate his right leg.

Fitted with wooden leg, and aided by his devoted wife, he makes a successful comeback to the minor leagues.

I love this movie. It never fails to bring a lump to my throat.

Right about now I hear the ump calling for The Pride of The Yankees. What can I say? This is the definitive baseball tearjerker.

I have to show this. No baseball movie post would be complete without Lou Gehrig, Babe Ruth and Gary Cooper.

Next up in the lineup is a screwball.

Fear Strikes Out. It’s the story of the Boston Red Sox’s Jimmy Piersall and his mental breakdown.

Anthony Perkins is great as tortured Jimmy and Karl Malden is pretty damn chilling as his overbearing father, too.

Whew. I’m wiped out. Time for the seventh inning stretch.
(And no, it’s not Harry Carey singing “Take Me Out To the Ball Game.”)

It’s this.

Wasn’t that superb? And forget “Go, Cubs, Go.” “Heart” should be the official anthem of Cubs fans everywhere.

Now why should the boys get the playing field all to themselves? Time for Title IX to be enforced.

Ladies, play ball.

And now watch two real “old pros” in action.

Two fun movies. I hope you’d agree.

Well, we’ve just had Lady’s Day. Now how about giving two blonde ladykillers their turn at bat?

Next up, The Natural.

Starring Robert Redford as Roy Hobbs. Malamud based his novel on a true story about a woman who shot Philadelphia Phillies player Eddie Waitkus. This is a magical movie fable. Here are two “Wonderboys” in action.

This next blonde bomber is a personal favorite of mine. And the wonderful Bull Durham is right up there with the best ever. (And the fact that I’ve met Kevin Costner doesn’t hurt a bit. In real life, he is a grand slam of a guy.)

When Kevin and I met, I asked him about how he felt about Shoeless Joe Jackson being eligible for the Baseball Hall of Fame. He turned on his megawatt movie star charm, and with a grin as big as Chavez Ravine, he leaned in closer to me and breathed, “I think it’s just GREAT. What do you think?’

I have no idea what I answered. I think I must have fainted. Movie stars like him should be viewed from a pinhole in a pie plate. Not at close range.

But here’s a movie that takes on the “Black Sox” scandal close up and personal.

Eight Men Out.

Director John Sayles is GM over an All-Star roster of actors- including Studs Terkel. This flick captured the atmosphere of 1919 to a tee (ball), I think.

The last of the batting order is Fever Pitch.

Cribbed from a Nick Hornby book/movie about soccer, it stars Jimmy Fallon as a rabid Boston Red Sox fan. No, it’s not in the league of Major League, Bang the Drum Slowly, Field of Dreams or 61*.

It’s probably got stats even with Mr. Baseball and For The Love of the Game.

But it amused me no end.

Watch how Jimmy doles out his prize season tickets. I love this.

That’s the game, folks. Now let’s end it with some real big fireworks like the great Bill Veeck always did.

(Pssst, Kenny. Time for some batting practice with these guys.)

Posted in baseball, Movies, pop culture, Sports | 23 Comments