Letter From Elba

Pssst…

Posted on November 7, 2013 by Ellen Ross

Hey, buddy. Over here. Do you want to buy a blog? It’s great, I’m telling you. Really spicy, controversial stuff. The truth about marriage and divorce and passionate love affairs and stuff. You’re going to eat it up, I’m telling you. But there’s one catch. It ain’t free. Monetizing is the name of this game. If you’ve got the cash, I’ve got the content. But hey, what’s that to a big shot like you, right? Okay, here’s where you sign up. Thanks, buddy. You won’t be sorry. I’m telling you.

And then I snap out of it.

For months now I’ve been fantasizing about this. I stop people on the street and sell them a new, dishy, steamy, outrageous, adults only pay-per-view version of Letter From Elba 2.0

Sure it’s all just a pipe dream, but lately I have been thinking about a new, more private, less wholesome version.

When I first went into the blogging biz, I had no real game plan. I did it for my own amusement- and, hopefully, that of my would-be audience. Nothing more. It was a no-holds-barred proposition. No expectations. But more importantly, no rules.

Except those governing libel.

Sidebar Sidebar: When I first started writing for the Pioneer Press, my then husband had me meet with attorney Paul Levy of Deutsch, Levy and Engel. Paul gave me a complete tutorial in the subject of libel law. I think he represented The Star and other tabloids at the time, and he knew his onions. Even though I was protected by the Sun Times, Bill didn’t want to have someone come after us personally.

And I never wanted to slander anyone, so I listened carefully and played by the rules. The same rules that now hold true as I started up my new column on the Internet.

Although the technology had changed, basic libel laws hadn’t and you still couldn’t cause a person damage to his livelihood or say that he gave you a disfiguring disease or something. Common sense stuff like that.

And you can’t lie.

In libel law, the truth is your greatest ally- and your best defense.

No problem there. I didn’t have to lie. My own life story was compelling enough, I thought, without any embellishment. In fact, I have to leave stuff out all the time. No one would believe some of the things that happen to me on a regular basis.

And the blog was a hit. My subscriber list grew with every passing month and I was thrilled and touched by its acceptance into your hearts.

But then a funny thing happened.

As the readership grew, it started to change. And the subscribers went from a list made up of friends and family to friends-of-friends, and finally, complete strangers to me.

And the list got impressive, too.

I now had doctors, lawyers, foundations heads, prominent people in the arts, media types, business tycoons… and I started to feel a sea change.

My wild and wooly little venture had suddenly become respectable.

And I started to think twice before I typed. A deadly disease for a writer, believe me.

I wasn’t trying to second-guess my audience, but let’s just say that I was very aware that my readers were pillars of the community. Serious, responsible types who probably wouldn’t enjoy dish or a dig about an ex spouse- or two.

And trust me on this one. I now have more men readers than women. The LAST thing they want to read is some snarky, smart-alecky wisecrack from an ex wife early on a Sunday morning. (They probably have one of those of their own.) I get it.

Suddenly I was worried about what my new readers would think of me. I wanted them to like me and approve of me and I found myself writing about puppies and kittens and unicorns and rainbows and..

Well ok, maybe it never got that bad. But I got hamstrung creatively by the fact that I figured these successful big shots- who I didn’t know- probably only wanted to read about good news.

I just can’t do that. My life- and maybe yours- is not only about good news.

I don’t have to be a harridan or a harpy, and I don’t want to bully or embarrass anyone, but I’m no Pollyanna, either. Life isn’t always what we’d like it to be, and sometimes I just have to call a spade a spade.

And I don’t believe in unicorns.

So here’s my question:

Should I start a once a week “double secret probation for your eyes only” blog?

And would you want to read the new, less PG/PC version?

Oh, and one more thing, dear readers.

If I do start the secret beta version, I will be giving out one free subscription to Letter From Elba 2.0 to the lucky subscriber who best fills in this blank:

“Before Ellen Ross dies, she ___________.”

Illinois contest rules may apply. And the decision of the judge is final.

Enter now.

Okay, buddy?

Posted in pop culture | 12 Comments

Blinded by the Light

Posted on November 3, 2013 by Ellen Ross

Author’s Note: A very special congratulations goes out today to Ken “The Rocket ” Roffe and all his “Windy City” teammates. They are the 2013 Men’s Senior Baseball League Mountain Division World Series Champions. The six day national tournament was held in Arizona, and for anyone who still plays hardball, this is a very big deal. Way to go, guys!

But great baseball news aside, today is my least favorite day of the year. It’s the end of Daylight Savings Time. I simply hate it. And not because it signals that Old Man Winter is lurking just around the corner.

For the record, I love winter in Colorado. You can play on the snow there and it’s always sunny. They have as many VFR flying days there as they do in San Diego. That’s why the Air Force Academy is based in Colorado Springs.

But I do hate the gloom and the unvarying grayness of the days here in Chicago*** and the fact that you have to be under electric light all the time.

(***When I lived in Aspen, my brother Kenny and I used to play “Guess What Shade Gray Chicago Is Today?” I had lots of choices- from gunmetal to battleship to charcoal to pewter. And I was always right- because from November until April, Chicago is grayer than I am.)

But most of all, I really hate the fact that once the dark sets in at four in the afternoon, I’m trapped.

That’s because I’m night blind.

I can’t see a thing when the dimmers go on. I turn all Mr. Magoo when the lights are low.

This makes driving after four p.m. in the wintertime impossible for me. I can’t see the lanes, I am completely disoriented and the headlights of the on-coming cars blind me for minutes- not seconds.

My eye doctor tried to explain this condition- called “nyctalopia”- to me once. It’s usually hereditary and it has something to do with a vitamin A deficiency or something.

I’ve tried glasses, SUNglasses, eating more food with vitamin A in them, carrots. But nothing has ever worked. From as far back as I remember, it’s been Wait Until Dark for me once D.S.T. is cancelled.

If you’re among the lucky majority and your eyes expand and contract in the presence/absence of light, you have no idea what a pain in the neck this can be.

My ex never believed in it, for example. He just thought it was my shabby way of getting out of picking up the pizza after five in the wintertime.

But one night, despite my protests, he made me follow him on some kind of errand that involved two cars. He led the way, and all was well, until he saw from his rearview mirror that not only had I passed up our driveway on the return trip back, I had passed up our street.

He had to turn around and chase me, frantically honking and yelling as I blithely kept driving east on Hill Road. I would have probably ended up in Lake Michigan if he hadn’t caught up with me.

He never asked me to drive anywhere after dark again. He was convinced.

But that was many years after the problem had first made itself known to me.

I remember one poly sci class that I was taking at Goucher College in Towson, Maryland. I lived on a farm in Reisterstown, and that’s quite a stretch from school, so I commuted by car every day.

My professor wanted to show the class one of his favorite movies (mine, too) Born Yesterday, and he scheduled a movie-viewing lab for eight that night.

I had no problem getting to the campus. But when I came out, it was almost ten-thirty and I couldn’t seem to find my car in the parking lot.

Or the parking lot.

That should have been my first hint that the ride home was going to a white-knuckler.

I don’t remember how I found my way back home on that forty minute terrorfest.

But I was shaken up by all the near-misses with semi trailers and last-minute swerves to get off the right exit. And this was a route I had traveled every day for years. I should have been able to do it with my eyes closed.

Which was exactly the way it felt to me.

(Kids, do not try this at home but to simulate me behind the wheel in December at around six thirty p.m., just get out on Edens Highway and shut your eyes for a good three or four minutes at a time. Makes driving kind of interesting, doesn’t it?)

And I don’t have to be driving for this condition to mess me up.

If I happen to come into a movie theater as the house lights dim, I can’t see the seats. Forget that the exits have big, red lights or the stairways all have those little airplane emergency lighting gizmos to mark their way. They don’t help at all.

I inevitably end up in someone’s lap because, in the semi-darkness, it looks like an empty seat to me.

Men and women alike seem to take umbrage when I plop down on top of them. They are not amused. And I have to grovel my apologies and grope my way to another seat- hopefully unmanned this time.

But this embarrassment pales in comparison to a high school memory.

Andy Teton- a friend of mine from New Trier- had a house near the Wilmette Beach. As sophisticated, jaded and oh-so-brainy high school seniors, it was our habit to go for a Friday night stroll on the dunes and discuss Life.

(Life mostly being how cool Emma Peel looked in her black leather catsuit on that night’s latest episode of the The Avengers.)

One night, as we strolled along the sand, Andy espied an unusual driftwood formation and thought it would make a very good resting place for two world-weary sophisticates like us.

I concurred and we made our way over to it and sat down.

It was not driftwood.

It was two people behaving even more sophisticatedly than us- copulating wildly on the Wilmette Beach.

Did we scare the be-jesus out of them!

(Matched only by the sight and sounds of their moans, groans, and then startled exclamations, as the guy disengaged himself, got up with no pants on and started chasing us across the sand.)

We ran for our senior year lives.

And when, breathless and panting, we reached the safety of Andy’s house, he turned to me and said,”Well, let’s just hope he wasn’t using the withdrawal method.”

Miner’s cap anybody?

Let there be light.

And soon.

Posted in Memoir | 12 Comments

Boo!

Posted on October 31, 2013 by Ellen Ross

Because today is Halloween my thoughts naturally turn to the golden days when Nick and Natasha were small. Though they were born only nineteen months apart- Natasha being the prototypical older sister- they were light years apart on EVERYTHING else.

I won’t bother to waste my time and your eyesight on the list of things about which they violently disagreed. For brevity’s sake, just let’s say they only concurred upon three topics:

1. Homer’s strawberry ice cream. (They lost me there, pal. I am strictly a vanilla guy myself. Or peanut butter, if I can get it.)

2. Beinlich’s hamburgers.

3. Yann Beise. A boy with whom they went to boarding school. They both thought he was great.

That’s it.

EVERY other person, place or thing was up for debate. If she liked it, he’d hate it. And vice versa.

It made for constantly squabbling in the car, dissension at camp, and it’s finally manifested itself in frequent flier miles. She lives in Boston- loves that East Coast. He prefers Cali or Colorado. Detests the right side of the country.

It showed up in Halloween, too. As far back as I can remember, Natasha hated Halloween. She simply refused to dress in a costume. No fairy tale princess or ballerina tutu for her. Ever.

And woe be unto to them who tried to get her into one.

I have one photograph of Natasha- age three. ONE. In which my housekeeper had dressed her as a ballerina in a home-made crepe paper pink outfit. Her faced was painted like a china doll. And she looked precious.

(Or she would have- had not the baleful scowl on her face spoiled the overall Pavlova Swan Lake effect.)

Nick, on the other hand, was a clothes horse of an entirely different color. He loved the creativity and freedom that being someone else brought, and he looked forward to Halloween as a time when he could let his little freak flag fly.

He would always enlist my help, and together we would come up with some hot cultural pop icon of the moment that he could emulate.

In kindergarten, he brought the Avoca school house down dressed as Sonny Crockett from Miami Vice. Complete in every detail from the pastel tee shirt (borrowed from his sister for the occasion) powder blue sports jacket, loafers and no socks, candy cigarette clenched between his little teeth- and an Uzi.

(I would never try that accessory in a school these days. Sadly- before Laurie Dann, Columbine, or worse- Newtown, Connecticut- when five year old Nick brought the toy machine gun to school, it brought a smile. Not terror.)

Nick had his own unique approach to trick or treating as well.

When the kids were young we would troop around en masse- mothers and kids ringing local doorbells in a gang.

Then we would all adjourn to Indian Trail restaurant. (A Winnetka institution. Gone now. I will never get over the loss of its chicken kiev, chicken croquettes, turkey fricassee dinner and their great green goddess salad dressing.)

But before the group dinner, we would hit the local doorbells. All the kids knew the drill. They would expectantly shove their bags out and wait for the owner of the house to fill ’em up.

All the kids did this without fail – except little Nicky.

He would use the cover of darkness and the camouflage of the horde and then dart into the house as soon as the distracted owner would open the door.

And I wouldn’t notice that he was missing until about three houses down. Then I would have to backtrack, ring old door bells and go on recon until I’d find him.

(Usually under Shelly Zucker’s piano for some reason.)

There he’d be, happy as a clam, just chillaxing.

Nick never got the memo about eating the loot a little at a time, either.

One Saturday after Halloween Friday, when he was thirteen, I drove him to him to his scheduled morning tennis lesson. When I picked him up two hours later, Nicky greeted me with some very disturbing news.

“I’m blind,” he reported. “I can’t see.”

Huh? Repeat that, please.

“I’m blind. I can’t see.”

I drove home at top speed, threw him in bed and called his pediatrician from Nick’s bedside.

He came on right away.

“Oh, Fred, “I wailed. “I just picked Nicky up from a tennis lesson and he says he’s blind! What could have happened….”

And then my voice trailed off as I spotted Nick’s wastepaper basket FILLED to the brim with mini Snickers wrappers.

“Never mind, ” I informed the doc. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

And when I told him what I had just seen, he confirmed my diagnosis.

Nicky had given himself a “chocolate” migraine. His vision had split.

He was just going to have to sweat it out in a dark room for the rest of the day. There was nothing else Fred Cahan could do about it.

Nick had a miserable day, poor kid, and I don’t think he has ever touched Snickers- or chocolate- since.

On a personal note, let me just say that I enjoy Halloween myself. I, too, love being someone else for a change. Once I even won a Halloween costume party contest with a “fifties” theme.

All the rest of the women came dressed in poodle skirts, bobby sox and bouffant hair dos. They looked great but…

I came as a guy.

Wearing a letterman’s jacket, high top Converse sneakers, hair slicked back with pomade and smelling of Old Spice aftershave.

And the detail that clinched me the title and the prize?

A Trojan condom in my wallet.

Nick’s not the only one who knows how to Halloween around here.

Trick or treat.

Posted in Memoir, pop culture | 10 Comments

A gal who cain’t say no

Posted on October 27, 2013 by Ellen Ross

The legendary playwright and wit George S. Kaufman famously said that one should try everything once.

Except incest.

And folk dancing.

I subscribe to this philosophy whole-heartedly. I remember even giving folk dancing a shot. (Didn’t we all have to take lessons in the seventh grade?)

I don’t know exactly when or how it started but my mantra is “Say yes to everything.” I never say “no” because you never know what you’re going to miss out on if you decline an invitation.

If someone takes the trouble to actually ask you to something, you kind of owe it to yourself- and them- to jump in.

The same can also be said for a challenge.

Or a dare.

Some of you may recall that I started skiing at an advanced age because Bill dared me. And was he ever sorry. Turned out I loved it and spent tons of his hard-earned lettuce on ski lessons, ski clothes and ski vacations.

And a ski house.

But he was really in no position to complain because he had an expensive little hobby of his own. And it cost way more that my schussing ever did.

Bill was a pilot and he owned his own plane.

It started when he was the University of Illinois. He took a course in aviation and was bitten by the bug. From college on, he racked up hours, kept his license valid and always managed to get in some time in the cockpit.

And when Natasha and Nick were about ten and twelve he bought himself- and us- a snazzy little puddle jumper to zoom around in.

This purchase was met with varying responses from the Ross flight crew. Nick was intrigued. But prone to air-sickness. So he wasn’t wild about right-seating it.

Natasha didn’t like the score her father had gotten on his written exam. (When Bill told her he had racked up a very respectable 83 or something on the test, she still declined to go up with him. “I don’t fly with B- pilots,” was her judgmental response.)

That left yours truly.

(Who wholeheartedly shared Nick’s mal de mer and Natasha’s grading scale.)

But I went. Gritting my teeth and praying for good weather at every banked turn.

I remember once, in some dicey, not-so-hot visual conditions, I asked Bill to turn on the radio. I thought we’d get a weather update or a heads up about other aircraft in our airspace.

He did. To the Bears game. Not exactly what I had in mind…

But still I went with him. Because I don’t like to say the word “no.”

This was only the warm-up to the adventures that lay in store for me. My anti-no bias led me to paragliding when another guy wanted to give it a try.

For the uninitiated among you, paragliding is big in Aspen. Singly (no thank you) or in tandem with an instructor (yes, please) you can Jeep up the backside of Ajax- Aspen’s famous mountain- and jump off.

Depending on the winds- and how much you’ve eaten that morning-*** you can soar like an eagle for at least twenty minutes.

***When my man of the hour called to book the reservations, he listened to the instructor on the other end of the phone and then said “175.”

Then he listened again and turned to me.

“How much do you weigh?” he asked.

“90,” I reported.

Over the wires I could hear the instructor happily sing out, “She’s MY girl!”

And so I was.

The next morning, Jan- a veteran of the Norwegian Air Force- and I made a running start off the cliff- and kept going. We stayed up for what seemed like forever, circling, and swooping up again as each summer thermal caught us and launched us anew. It was fabulous.

And the photo op was only matched by the adrenaline rush.

Maybe that’s the downside to never saying “never.” You do become an excitement junkie- always looking for the next big thrill.

My last husband provided them. In spades.

He adored anything on wheels- go carts, ATV’s, sports cars.

And all of them going at warp speed.

Stuck with my “Say Yes to Anything” credo this meant that I:

1. Drove from Aspen to Moab where he tore through the canyons and precipices on an ATV- with me perilously hanging off the back. He’d take that dune buggy right up to the edge, too- in pursuit of a great picture.

(Is it any wonder that my hair turned gray before its time?)

2. Spent three days at the Panoz Racing School outside of Atlanta. At last, legitimately- and free from the menace of radar and traffic school- he could go as fast as he wanted in GT racing cars.

And, at the end of the course, I could finally beam with pride (instead of seethe with anger) as my protegé came in valedictorian of his class. With honors.

3. Took a turn on the “Big Shot” at the Stratosphere Casino in Las Vegas.

This ride is heinous.

I’m quoting straight from its advertisement now:

“Prepare to be shot 160 feet into the sky at 45 miles per hour as you overlook majestic Las Vegas valley. In a matter of seconds, the Big Shot thrill ride catapults sixteen riders from the 921-foot high platform up the tower’s mast to a height of 1,081 feet and down again. Before you catch your breath, you’ll be shot back up again at forces unmatched by other Vegas thrill parks. Experience a gut-wrenching four G’s of force on the way up, and feel negative G’s on the way down…”

OMG.

When I staggered off that thing I was ready for a hospital- or a criminal defense lawyer. If I wasn’t so freakin’ dizzy, I would have KILLED him.

In-N-Out Burger Side Bar: He did try to make it up to me by taking me to my fave In-N- Out Burger joint after my stomach relocated to its proper position. But as our taxi waited in the order line, a Vegas SWAT team burst in, cordoned off the place and closed it to all us non-criminals as they made some kind of drug bust. I never did get to place my order.

Oh well. When you can beat ’em, you might as well join ’em.

I’m not pushing my philosophy on all of you, mind. But I have to report that my anti-no mindset has brought me joy more often than not. Scary and stomach-churning though it’s been.

And it sure beats sitting it out on Life’s sidelines.

And George. A little do-si-do-ing never hurt anybody.

Come on, y’awl. Allemand left… allemand right…

Now who’s up for skydiving?

And who’s ready for In-N-Out Burger afterwards?

See me.

Posted in Memoir, Sports | 2 Comments

Joanie Pony

Posted on October 24, 2013 by Ellen Ross

Sorry, guys. This is going to be a sad one. I got some very bad news last week. My beautiful, gifted, fabulous cousin, Joan Hertzberg, died tragically of complications from a yet-to-be determined brain disease.

This is especially ironic because my cousin Joanie was brilliant. The smartest one of us all. She attended Niles West high school and then went on to Vassar. And then- as part of the historic first class to go co-ed at Williams College- she took on the guys head to head and became the valedictorian of the whole shebang.

She got her Ph.D at UC Santa Cruz and became a psychotherapist out in San Francisco. She was one smart cookie. Who would have ever dreamed that it would be her brain that would let her down?

Our mothers were sisters, and when we were growing up, my brother, Kenny, and I spent every Sunday with that side of the family. My grandmother, grandfather, my Aunt Anita- her mom- and her husband, my Uncle Herbie, and my two cousins, Stuart and Joanie, were together each and every week.

After dinner, the older generation broke out the omnipresent deck of cards for the inevitable game of hearts, gin or klaberjass– a Dutch/Hungarian card game. (My mother and my aunt were card sharks of major proportions. My mother still plays poker every day now.) Us kids were left to our own entertainment devices.

And hence, our dashing older cousins were our constant playmates, role models and partners in crime.

My handsome cousin Stuart was the oldest of all the grandchildren on that side. He was two years older than me and my cousin Joanie was seven months older than me. She was born on April 13th, and I November 14th. But for most of my early childhood, she always seemed about a foot taller, ten years older and whole lot bossier, too.

Example: Until I was about three or so, I had a beloved totem object- a security blanket, if you will. In this case, it happened to be a real blanket. And I called it my “bobbie.”

I clearly remember Joanie leaning over me and wagging her finger sternly in my little face.

“That’s not a ‘bobbie,'” she said scornfully. “That’s a banket.”

See what I mean? Destined for the Ivy League even then.

But as we grew older- although the height difference was never bridged. She topped out at a statuesque 5’9″- we became good friends, as well as cousins. We would double date, sleep over at each other’s houses. I knew her friends, she knew mine. She was tall, dark, imperious. A real glamazon.

Picture Sigourney Weaver. Fearless. Sarcastic. And funny.

If you made her laugh, you felt like you’d really accomplished something.

I remember one summer’s outing when we were both about twelve. Our great aunt and uncle took us to Ravinia. And, as we stood around gabbing and gossiping, my great uncle kept nagging us to go see some art exhibit that was currently featured in one of Ravinia’s pavilions.

Nether one of us bored pre-teenagers had the slightest interest in seeing the art exhibit. And so we told him so. Repeatedly.

But this great uncle had no children of his own, and although he was an opera expert, he was completely tone deaf when it came to micro-managing adolescent girls with mascara on their minds.

He kept interrupting us.

“Go see the art exhibit.”

“No.”

“Go see the art exhibit.”

“No!”

Finally on the last “go see the art exhibit” exhortation, I drew myself up to my then-height of four feet nine, and looking down at him, (did I mention that he was, um, really, really short?) I said:

“Make me.”

This put Joanie away. I can still see her laughing helplessly as our mean little great uncle fumed helplessly.

She took her turn being outrageous, too. I remember one outing at a shopping mall as we descended on the escalator and she gave a smiling benediction to all the other patrons riding up towards us.

She’d bow and smile and wave regally and say to them, “I’m not really a fairy princess, you know. Just a real pretty girl.”

And she was.

She was the sister of my childhood and maid of honor at my first wedding.

And when the officiant offered us – the bride and groom- a cup of wine during the ceremony, Cousin Joanie leaned in and said softly “I’ll have a frozen daquiri please.”

That cracked up the entire wedding party.

Later at the party, everyone asked me what was so funny.

She was.

And now to think that all that glamor and humor and intelligence is no more.

What a shame.

One last thing…

When she turned thirteen, it happened to fall on Friday the thirteenth of that year. Somehow, the local paper had picked up on the fact and coupled with the coincidence that her name contained thirteen letters, had her pose for a picture.

I remember that photo so vividly. There she was, standing under a ladder, sporting an open umbrella, and smiling to beat the band. She was young, beautiful and no bad luck could ever touch her.

Well it did. Her terrible luck.

And all of ours.

For all who knew and loved and lost her way too soon.

Her father was her greatest booster. He loved his “Joanie Pony” madly. He was simply crazy about his darling daughter.

He had good taste.

Posted in Memoir, Tributes | 22 Comments

To A Tee

Posted on October 20, 2013 by Ellen Ross

IMPORTANT AUTHOR’S NOTE: I love my comments section- and the people who write them. The comments add enormously to my enjoyment- and to that of all my other readers. To that end, I’ve always wanted to make the process quick and easy.

However this past week, Letter From Elba came under siege from cyber-spamming robots. My comments section was getting 300 spam emails a day (in Japanese no less) and it was impossible to constantly weed through and delete them all.

Thus I have had to add a captcha feature to the comments section of the blog.

Do not worry. Before you write a comment, all you have to do is fill in a number within a simple math formula. (Example 6 -?= 3. ) And then you can put in your wonderful comments as usual. So easy even I can do it. None of those goofy, slanted italic letters to try and read.

Please don’t let this safety measure put you off. Your comments are funny, thought-provoking, insightful, opinionated- and sometimes- in Bernie Kerman’s case- all four at once.

This blog is not an one-way street. Sometimes the comments are better than the post. So give it a try, guys. It’s a piece of cake. I promise. Thank you.

And now, back to our show…

For the first time in seventeen years, dear readers, I find myself back living in the city of Chicago. And it’s been quite an odyssey. First I was (unwillingly) relocated from my beloved house in Winnetka and transplanted on to East Lake Shore Drive. A tony street only one block long. (It’s the continuation of Oak Street east- after it crosses Michigan Avenue.)

An East Lake Shore Drive address is a status symbol- and a pain in the ass.

No one seems to know where it is, and I spent valuable me time endlessly arguing with cab drivers and air conditioner repairmen who insisted that Lake Shore Drive ONLY runs north and south.

After several minutes of listening to this pushback I’d get exasperated.

“Look,” I’d fume to who ever was on the other end of the phone-and the argument. “Do you know where you live?”

Yes, they’d concede. They did.

“Well, I know where I live and it’s on EAST Lake Shore Drive. Do you want my business or not?”

The Benjamins would always carry the day and they’d make that extra effort to find me.

Exotic Far East (Not Lake Shore Drive) Sidebar: After a year of this nonsense I was resigned that nobody- other than the privileged few that actually lived on East LSD- would ever know how to locate me.

But I was in Hong Kong- having a cheongsam made- when the tailor surprised me.

As he was measuring me for the dress and marking where the slit for the skirt would go (“Here, good,” he said, pointing to a scosh above my left knee. “Madame Chiang Kai-shek.” “Here,” he said pointing to my thigh. “No good. Suzie Wong.”) he asked for my address.

Reluctantly I gave it to him. And waiting for the inevitable “Lake Shore Drive only runs north and south” nonsense.

“I know exactly where you live,” he said. “I’m at the Drake Hotel all the time.”

Go figure.

Getting back to my wanderings…

A bad divorce (Redundant. Even when they’re civil, they’re still traumatic.) liberated Nick and me and we lit out for Colorado. Where we both lived happily ever after…

But Life is full of banana peels and never say “never.”

And thus, long story mercifully shortened, I have just moved into a beautiful new apartment in the city – and not on East Lake Shore Drive.

It’s sunny, charming and vintage. (Come to think of it, a pretty good epitaph for me. Kids, take note.)

And I love it.

But the move involved tons of packing and unpacking, and I’m still drowning in a sea of books. And paintings.

And lingerie.

La Perla Sidebar: My lingerie drawers- when done correctly by an expert- should be divided into four sections: White, nude, black, and Licensed To Kill Secret Weapon For Your Eyes Only.

(No one has seen the latter category. Ever. I bought enticing little lacy, satiny numbers in the hope that some day I would actually need to bring out the big artillery. Alas, that day has not dawned. Yet.)

Right now, all my gorgeous, provocative silken little nothings have been unceremoniously dumped willy-nilly into drawers in my dressing room.

But my tee shirts are faring a little better.

I don’t wear tee shirts. I collect them.

And as I started to put a stack of untouched-never-been-worn ones away, I realized that I was looking at an 100% cotton time capsule.

My life was there- courtesy of Hanes and written in curly script or sequins. And they took me back.

The first one I carefully re-folded has a transfer of a color photograph. It’s circa 1990 and I had it made as a party favor for all the little girls at Natasha’s twelfth birthday.

It’s a picture- snapped by her trainer- of Natasha at a horse show. She and her pony, Napoleon, are freeze-framed forever going over a jump.

Napoleon cleared it neatly. But Natasha flipped off from one side to another and then plunked right down in the saddle again. Amazingly, she did not fall off.

And this shot captured her with her left leg straight above her head as she careened off to the left side and a split second before she hit the saddle again.

It was a freak bit of horsemanship- and photography. A real “Sports Illustrated” moment.

And I have it preserved for all time on a white tee.

My next shirt proudly says “Very good. Very George. The official George Stephanapoulos Fan Club.”

This was a gift from the fan club’s founder and chairman- Polly Arenberg. After she made me the Aspen Correspondent for her official George S. Newsletter, that is.

I have no idea why this particular fan club was started. For that we will have to wait until Polly herself- and her impeccable communications skill- weighs in. I think that I was her Aspen roving reporter because I had spotted him there a few times.

After all, everybody comes to Aspen sooner or later.

(I have a theory that if you sit outside Doney’s ristorante on the Via Veneto in Rome and/or Paradise Bakery in Aspen, sooner or later, you will see everyone you ever knew.)

My last shirt simply says “Statue of Liberty New York.”

Five little words. But they speak volumes.

I took a ferry ride out to the Statue not long after 9/11- and straight from a visit at Ground Zero.

Although I had read and heard so much about the devastation done to New York City and its people by that horror, I had no real idea what it all meant until I went to the site and looked at the huge gaping hole where the towers had so recently stood.

It was as if you saw the foundation of the Hancock Building and the Sears Tower combined- with nothing there any more. Just smoke eerily still coming out of the ether.

It was a picture of unimaginable emptiness that spoke of unspeakable loss.

I was overwhelmed with sadness for all the lives lost and I needed that trip to Miss Liberty to recover.

You couldn’t go in her. She was still shut down tight due to security concerns. But my boat ride out there was uplifting and restorative enough to reaffirm how great it was to live in the USA.

Well, got to get back to the unpacking.

And Joan, O Organizer of Organizers: May Day! May Day! May Day!

Posted in Memoir, pop culture | 23 Comments

“What will you do when you get lonely?….”

Posted on October 17, 2013 by Ellen Ross

I had to buy a new phone recently. I had nursed my old Nokia along for eight years, but finally, it gave up the ghost. So over to T-Mobile I went and plunked down my hard-earned cash for a brainy little iPhone that does all my work for me.

(In fact, my new phone is writing this post today. I’m at my Malibu house playing beach volley ball with my twenty-five year old blonde surfer boyfriend as we speak.)

The new phone presented me with a new challenge.

Choosing a ring tone.

Now this is exactly the kind of test that I love. Given pretty much all the music in the world to pick from, what snippet of song would best:

1. Alert me to a new caller.

2. Put me in the proper frame of mind to answer the phone.

3. Represent me. Be my musical avatar, if you will.

This was going to take some hard thinking.

(But I adore hard thinking- almost as much as twenty-five year old blonde volley ball players.)

First I thought about singers I love.

Sam Cooke, Marvin Gaye,*** Reba McIntyre, Vince Gill, Hank Williams, John Raitt, Bonnie Raitt, Patsy Cline, Aretha Franklin…

Nope, the more I kept adding to the list, the more confused I got.

***Marvin Gaye Musical Sidebar: When I was race director for Michael Reese Hospital’s Medical Research Institute Council (read post “See Michael Reese Run” if you haven’t already) I used “Let’s Get It On” as my theme music for my race info hotline.

The only problem was no one ever left a coherent message. They would stay on the phone so long- enjoying Marvin as he cooed, wailed and musically seduced his fifteen year old inamorata- that there was never enough tape left to leave more than a first name and then… BEEP!

Then I tried the random “Pandora Radio” method. You know- a kind of a scattershot approach- a hit or miss sampling of some of the music I love. Maybe that would trigger a Rorschach ring tone.

I cycled through “Enlightenment” by Van Morrison, “Hey Baby,” by Bruce Channel (that harmonica opening was a real contender there for awhile), “Dream,” by the Everly Brothers, “What a Fool Believes,” by the Doobie Brothers, “Some Enchanted Evening” by Ezio Pinza, “Mr. Sandman,” by the great Chet Atkins, “That’s All” by Genesis, “Blackbird,” by the Beatles, “New York State of Mind” by Billy Joel, ” and “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?” by The Shirelles.

And still nada.

All groovy but no compelling spark of inspiration was ignited.

But then I went to the iTunes on my iPad, and as I casually scrolled through the albums…

Bingo!

I saw it.

The greatest opening guitar riff in history.

And no, it is not “Satisfaction.”

(Yes, I know. A BOLD statement. And yes, I am prepared to take on Rolling Stone Magazine, The Rolling Stones and every other person of my generation over this.)

I knew instantly that I had found my theme song.

Not only did I love the song and the singer, I completely identified with the subject of the song itself.

I had to have it on my new phone.

No sooner than I downloaded it than I got my first call. I was so enchanted by my new song that I let it play a little bit.

It was a friend from Aspen. Let’s let’s call him Eric.

“What’s up, E?” he asked. “How ya doing?”

“Oh, Eric. Glad you called. Cool news. I just bought a new phone and guess what my ring tone is?”

I could feel him blanche over the phone waves.

“Um, I don’t know. I’m afraid to guess. That could be anything.”

“I’ll give you a hint,” I said magnanimously. “I totally identify with the song’s subject. You know, the person about whom the song was written.”

“OMG,” he gulped. “Again, that could be anybody. I have NO idea. Uh, Napoleon? Mickey Mantle? Was there a song written about John Le Carré?”

“You’re not even close, Eric. I’ll get back to you.”

My new phone sang out again. It was Charlotte, my BFF and lifestyle guru. (if you’re not acquainted with her please read my No Sex and the City post.)

“Charlotte? I’ve got a new ring tone and I want you to guess what it is!”

“How can you care about something as banal as a ‘ring tone?’ I was only calling to tell you that because Eugene Fama, Lars Peter Hansen and Robert Shiller won the Nobel Prize in Economics this week, I’m giving a small soirée in their honor…”

“Ooh, I’d love to come to that. Thanks. When is it?”

“Who said anything about you attending?” she said (sweetly.) “I need you to write me a casual- yet brilliant- welcoming speech. And I need it by three this afternoon. I’m meeting with the florists now. Get to work.”

No sooner had she hung up when…

“Hey, E. It’s Miranda.” (Another bestie. See “No Sex…” if you haven’t already. And why haven’t you?)

“Hey, Miranda. Guess what? I’ve got a new phone and I just downloaded the greatest ring tone and…

“Hold on a minute, E. Brunhilde, now be a good girl and go lie down. Mommy will walk you when she’s off the phone with Auntie Ellen. Now, Brunhilde, stop whining. I mean it! I just walked you. You couldn’t possibly have to go out again. Oh, alright, wait a minute. I’ll get your leash. Stop pulling! I’m hanging up now. Please sweetie, be a good girl for Mommy….”

And she was gone.

All afternoon my phone gave forth with its new dynamite ring tone. And I posed the same question to anyone who called. (Including the guy scheduling my new window coverings delivery.)

No one knew the answer. No one even came close.

And then I got an email from Nick.

(He seldom uses the phone.)

And so I typed: “What’s my new ring tone? Hint: I completely identify with the subject of the song.” And in three seconds flat came back his response.

“Layla. Easy one, Dude.”

That’s my boy.

Got to go now. My iPhone is demanding a pay raise and health insurance.

And a blonde California surfer/volley ball player boyfriend.

Later, dudes.

And call me.

Posted in Memoir, Music, pop culture | 13 Comments

Mi Mi Mi Mi Mi

Posted on October 13, 2013 by Ellen Ross

Remember in the movie Moonstruck when Nic Cage, besotted with love, wants to take Cher to an opera (La Bohème) at the Met? (She agrees to meet him there and then sticks her head back in his apartment and asks, “Where’s the Met?”)

Or in Pretty Woman when tycoon/perfect hair avatar Richard Gere wants to swank it up for his call girl/princess in a tower, Julia Roberts? What does he do? He private jets her to San Francisco and takes her to – the opera. (La Traviata- about another call girl/princess. The original Pretty Woman, in fact.)

Well all that opera-going back then whetted my appetite for some tenor, soprano, mezzo, coloratura, baritone and basso action myself. But try as hard as I could, I could never find anyone to go to the opera with me.

And to make matters worse, lately every week, I found myself walking right past the regal Lyric Opera house in Chicago, and my thoughts would turn to arias and runs and glissandi and Italian.

Sigh.

My twin loves- music and Italian.

Of course, I wanted to go to the opera.

And so I kept at it.

Asking everyone I knew if they had any desire to see Aida or Tosca or Madama Butterfly con me.

The answer was sempre “no.”

Poverina.***

(***”Poor little me” in Florentine dialect. Somehow opera just calls for subtitles, don’t you think?)

And then one day, as I was leaving the Northwestern University campus, I was struck by La Forza del Destino. (An opera by Giuseppe Verdi. And conveniently- for the purposes of this post- “The Force of Destiny.”)

I met a guy in a crosswalk. Yep, a crosswalk (!?!) and we started talking, and before we had made it to the other side of the street, I had found myself…wait for it…

A tenor in the Main Street Opera Company.

Ta da.

His name was Evan and he had been taking a lesson with his voice coach at the university’s music department. One thing led to another, a flyer was proffered, and quicker than you could say “Rigoletto,” I had promised to show up at the final performance of the twi-night double header- Gianni Schicchi and Suor Angelica by the maestro, Giacomo Puccini.

(And the fact that he was tall, dark and “Rodolfo” handsome had niente to do with it, ti giuro. Translation: “I swear to you.”)

True to its name and its mission, the Main Street Opera wants to bring grand opera to the street. These two one-acters were being performed at various locales around Chicagoland. And though the ensemble was made up of “Diamond Horseshoe” voices, the audience wasn’t going to have to don white tie, tiaras and fork over a kidney to hear them.

My chosen performance was held at St. John Cantius, a dazzling Chicago church built in high style in 1893. I wandered into a service looking for the stage but soon realized that the performance was going to be down below in its cavernous basement.

So down I went. Now accompanied by Javier- a charming English major at DePaul University with a love of French, good food, and an eye to a great seat.

Courtly Javier led the way and soon we were all ready to go. The house lights dimmed….

The first short opera was Suor Angelica. An all-female cast singing about the the trials and tribulations of a nun- who just happens to be an unwed mother.

Back in the day of il convento (and not Jerry Springer and the Kardashians) this was a BIG peccato. (Trans: sin) The fates- and a mean, rich relative- decreed that poor Angelica be told that the child she was forced to abandon years before- if that wasn’t harsh enough- was now DEAD. Except that he really wasn’t. A cruel fake-out for Sister Angelica.

Poor Angelica did what any grief-crazed mother/nun would do and drank poison- shrieking and dying and acting the heck out of the part.

It sounds awful to hear me tell it.

It was awesome.

As soon as the ladies opened their mouths, the church basement faded away and glory came unto the land.

Oh, their voices. Angelic, demonic, crystal clear, beautiful, terrible, thrilling.

And you didn’t have to be Italian to understand the tragic goings-on. All you had to be was human.

Wild applause and a standing O for all the players.

Then intermezzo. (I needed it. Those chairs were harder than Angelica’s punishment.)

And then on to the scherzo- (translation: joke) Gianni Schicchi.

This was Puccini’s last work and it’s fun. The story revolves around the greedy family of a dying Florentine nobleman who has threatened to disinherit them all and leave his estate, the mills, his house and his best mule to the good friars of Firenze.

Each family member takes umbrage at this unwelcome idea of disinheritance and they collude to bring in a big-time conniver, Signor Schicchi, to pose as their dying rich relative and leave them the loot instead.

But before the dictation of the false will, comes the most bellissima aria in all of opera- “O mio babbino caro.”

In this aria, Gianni’s daughter pleads with her father to help her land the scion of the house. And she begs- and threatens him in turn- that if she can’t go buy a wedding ring presto, she will throw herself off the Ponte Vecchio.

(It may sound overly dramatic, but trust me. I saw worse histrionics out of my then-sixteen year old daughter, Natasha, when a hurricane threatened to close off Bermuda and cancel her long-planned summer reunion rendezvous with her prep school Romeo.)

And the music of that aria…

So hauntingly beautiful that Merchant-Ivory productions used the Kiri De Kanawa version as its leit motif in their dazzling A Room with a View.

And the voices- now female and male.

OMG.

Opera singers are the Olympic athletes of the vocal chords. They’re the heavy lifters of the singing world. Remember that these vocalists are NOT miked and yet they filled that hall with such mighty, soaring sound that I was overcome.

It was glorious.

And fitting that it all happened in a church.

Their gorgeous voices combined with Puccini’s heavenly music?

A gift from God.

Grazie, Evan. That was one fortuitous crosswalk. (And just listened to Jussi Björling’s “Nessun dorma.” Whoa. It’s a real barn-burner.)

And to the ladies and gentlemen of the Main Street company- on the stage, behind the podium, in the pit, and wherever the magic was made- Bravo!

And grazie tanto to all of you for coming to the opera with me.

(And if you want a transformative musical experience, just go to the Main Street Opera Company for further info.)

Now you’ll have to excuse me.

I feel an aria coming on.

Posted in Music, pop culture, Theater, Tributes | 18 Comments

Hot Diggetty Dawg

Posted on October 10, 2013 by Ellen Ross

I always watch what I eat. I don’t like junk food. Empty calories are an anathema to me. I can say no to every dessert on the planet. (Except Chuckles.) Chocolate leaves me cold. Coffee? Never tasted it. Booze? Don’t touch the stuff.

But I can’t resist a good hot dog. I’m a sucker for a great Chicago dog every time.

As far back as I can remember, I was “dog” crazy. But it wasn’t always about David Berg or Vienna at the beginning of my gastronomic career.

Growing up in Wilmette, Illinois as part of the first real TV generation, I was constantly bombarded with images of Little Oscar and the Weinermobile.

In those by-gone fifties days, commercials for Oscar Mayer products ruled the airwaves. They seemed to dominate every ad break I can ever recall.

And so according to their game plan, I craved Oscar Mayer hot dogs. And my mother- always on her way out the kitchen door to a bridge tournament, “maj” game or ladies charity board meeting- was only too glad to let me boil them up.

They were quick and easy and really hit the spot.

Until I discovered Lerner’s.

I couldn’t have been more than eight when my father really upped the ante when he took me there. Located at Kedzie near Bryn Mawr in Chicago (currently the site of Northside Prep I think) it was the full-on Chicago dog experience.

In one leap, I graduated from mustard only to mustard, relish, pickle, tomato- and for me the most timid of all eaters- chopped onions. (I thought of them as “white, square onions.” A kind that was indigenous only to Lerner’s and not found any other place growing in Nature.)

And it was “later” to Oscar Mayer ever since (I do still dig the Weinermobile, however.)

From Lerner’s it was a normal progression to Big Herm’s and Hershey’s on Dempster. (Although honesty compels me to say that I mostly always ordered the cheeseburger at Hershey’s instead of the hot dog. I was wild about his secret sauce.)

And then came Fluky’s on Western Avenue in Chicago.

I was bonkers for their hot dogs. And their hot dog gum. But then they made a tragic move to the other side of Western and I swear the hot dogs never tasted the same to me again. (They must have had to thrown out the old boiling water or something.)

But in 1975, Bill motorcycled me to Superdawg at Milwaukee at Devon. Freaked out over it. What was not to love? Nestled in its cozy box, blanketed by yummy fries and neon green relish…a masterpiece on a bun.

But again, I don’t always indulge in a dog there. Their Superburger with grilled and raw onions is my favorite Chicago hamburger. I order it practically every time I go.

And I also have to admit that the Superdawg is a little on the large size for me. It is “Super” after all.

When it comes to hot dog noshing, these days I like Portillo’s and I used to like Weiner Circle on Clark.

Yeah, I said it. “Used to like.”

I had an unfortunate experience there just a few weeks back at lunch. (No, I don’t go there for their famed late night theater of abuse and customer-razzing. I don’t eat anything late at night. For reasons of diet and/or heartburn.)

I was at Weiner Circle for a business meeting and I was buying. I ordered two hot dogs, one order of fries and two small diet drinks.

And the lady behind the cash resister said, “Eighteen seventy-five, please.”

(Although I don’t think she said “please.”)

Huh? As bad as I am at math – and see Story Problem when you’re done with this post if you haven’t read it already- two hot dogs, one order of fries and two drinks could not be almost twenty dollars.

I glanced at the menu. A hot dog was $3.20. Let’s see, times two plus $2.15 for fries plus $1.60 a drink came to came to $11.75. Not $18.75. It was daylight robbery and I knew it.

But like I said, I was on business, the woman was large, gruff and in a hurry, and I didn’t think I’d come out the “weiner” in that argument. And so I reluctantly handed her a twenty.

And didn’t even ask for the change.

Later that night I went on Yelp to check them out.

Yup, there were other people complaining that the same thing had happened to them. It still made me feel totally suckered and it will be the last money they will ever get from yours truly. I will NEVER go there again.

There’s always Clark Dogs and Flub-a-dub Chub. (Although I hate the name and don’t like eating in their basement.)

Besides, I do always have one ace in the hole.

My brother, Kenny, grills the BEST hot dogs in the universe. When the mood strikes him and he fires up, all bets are off. The char is perfect, the size ditto. His condiments don’t miss a trick either. Right down to the neon relish and chopped onions.

Ben Casey E/R. Sidebar: On one of his last bbq outings, Nick and I eagerly convened on his apartment hungrily awaiting another triumph of charred deliciousness when we were greeted at the door by Mary Lu with the news that Kenny was at the Northwestern Hospital emergency room awaiting treatment for a stray knife slice to the hand after a disagreement with an onion. (Or was it a tomato, Kenny?)

That was bad news. Our faces fell. But the good news was Kenny knew some doc in the emergency room, got seen right away, and was back and cooking (with stitches) in practically no time!

I hate to sound so heartless, but if you ever had one of his fabulous barbecues, you’d want him back and grilling ASAP, too.

There are still unchartered waters in my quest for the perfect dog.

I have heard strange and wondrous tales about Gene and Jude’s (no relish?) and I’m almost tempted to get in line at ten thirty a.m. for Hot Doug’s. No scratch that. I wouldn’t wait in line for anything- except maybe a crack at another Hershey’s long-gone secret-sauced burger.

But, now, as the fall is finally upon us, I’m feeling a slight char in the air.

“Hello, Kenny? I know that it’s your birthday this Sunday and it’s supposed to be your special day and all. But I was thinking that it’s getting to be that time again…

“And how are you fixed for relish?”

Posted in food, Memoir, pop culture | 33 Comments

Thank You Note

Posted on October 6, 2013 by Ellen Ross

Thursday, October 3, 2013

Dear Lynn,

You might not remember me but I am a friend of Lili Ann Zisook, Terri Lind and Joan Himmel Freeman. We met at a party at Lili Ann’s house- around 1982 I think. (I can’t be sure, but I can tell you that if Lil gave the party it was a smash.)

You were one of her oldest friends. I was one of her newest. And I also remember that we had something else in common. September 16. We both had darling daughters born on that day- your precious Halee and my cherished Natasha. I hope she and Laura are doing swell. My kids are fine, I’m happy to report.

The reason I’m writing is that I just came back from the fabulous Lynn Sage Cancer Research Foundation luncheon at the Hilton this afternoon. Would you believe 1200 women- all glammed up and looking great- turned out to buy purses, hear Diane Keaton gossip and spend cold, hard cash to beat breast cancer?

They were there because you wanted them to be. Twenty-eight years ago, when you passed away, you made a wish. And your friends never hesitated for a moment. They collectively decided to wipe out that awful scourge of women and destroyer of families.

And they have been doing this monumental job ever since.

Over the past twenty-eight years, the gals have raised a ton of money, btw. Like $27 million dollars for cancer research. The doctors keep giving them their shopping lists and your friends just go to town and don’t let up until every item on that list is paid for.

How great is that?

You might also be interested to know that the next generation of our girls has jumped stiletto heels-first into the fund-raising pool. Your dear friend Charlene Lieber’s beautiful daughter, Stephanie, is now chairman of the foundation, and to that end, she spoke eloquently about the need to do more.

Two gals I didn’t know- (I’ve been in Aspen these last seventeen or so years. Real long story.) Julie Barrish and Nancy Resnick- were the event’s co-chairs. They were also gorgeous- and efficient, too. The room and the purse auction looked incredible. My hat’s off to both of them.

Bill Zwecker, our resident Chicago celebrity columnist and tv star, was the master of ceremonies of the event. It was his job to introduce the speaker- Diane Keaton- and he did it with his usual aplomb.

Diane Keaton was …well very Diane Keaton. Quirky, human, approachable. You remember her from Annie Hall, right? Well, she IS Annie Hall. Woody didn’t have to write that part. He just had to live with her- which he did- and take notes.

Her speech/film clips were wonderful, but don’t tell anyone this. As endearing and open as she was, I think she had already been upstaged.

By Terri Lind’s beautiful daughter-in-law, Sarah Nemerovski.

I’m sad to report that this adorable girl has had breast cancer. And at the luncheon she was featured in a short video in which she narrated the awful events of her diagnosis, terrible fear, arduous treatment and finally, triumphantly, her happy ending.

Dry-eyed, charmingly, and without a drop of self-pity, this lovely gal showed us cancer’s remorseless and relentless toll as it preys on women of any age- and their loving families.

And Lynn, she was radiant. Lit from within by a special glow, as she recounted her- and so many other women’s- ordeal at the hand of this monster.

I was impressed by her candor, her fight, her courage, her grit. And I was so touched by her husband, Scott, and his love and concern for her.

I’m sorry this dear family had to suffer so. But your research foundation- and the monies your besties have tirelessly raised over the years- saved her life. At least she thinks so.

Well, that’s about it. I just thought I’d drop you a line and tell you how it all went down.

(Would you believe that I heard that the parking at the Hilton was $36! Glad I took a cab. That’s inflation for you.)

And Lynn, just one more thing.

All these women who were there on Thursday, the ones who came because of you?

They weren’t there because of the way you died.

They were there because of the way you lived.

Thank you and God bless.

Your friend, Ellen Ross

Posted in Tributes | 21 Comments