Letter From Elba

LuJoe

Posted on May 5, 2013 by Ellen Ross

Romeo and Juliet. Napoleon and Josephine. The Duke and Duchess of Windsor. I only have to mention these three couples and you’ll instantly know I’m thinking about legendary love stories. These names, inextricably linked together, have gone down through the ages as bywords of passion and devotion.

Countless plays, books and movies have limned their love. And we lesser mortals, not equally as blessed by Eros and/or Fate, can only be mere spectators. This rarest of human conditions can only be admired from afar. Like the Monarchy, it’s probably best not to let too much daylight intrude upon the magic.

I have seen only one couple that I think should be added to this list. Joseph and Lucille, my sister-in-law’s grandparents. (I put his name first because tradition has it that the man’s name leads off. This might be hierarchy. This might just be poetry. But try reversing the names at the top of this post and you’ll see what I mean.)

But because it was always “ladies first” with Joseph, they coined a name for themselves that gave her top billing. LuJoe. And she ended every missive and thank you note I ever got with this special sign-off. It symbolized, of course, that they were one entity. Two people sharing the same heart.

And they did.

I don’t remember when I first met Mary Lu’s grandparents. I know that I met Mary Lu back in early 1970 when she and my brother began dating. On their second or third date, my teenaged brother showed up at my Astor Street apartment on a Satuday night and said, “This is Sam, this is Lori, this is Mary Lu. Get out.”

And so I did. Thus I have known her for forty-three years and I’m sure I must have met her grandparents very early on. They were doting, devoted and Mary Lu and her three younger brothers spent a lot of time with them. And, as she and I became friends ourselves, I was bound to run into them at her house.

This came as no big surprise to me- having the same kind of maternal grandparents myself. When we were growing up, our family spent every Sunday with my mother’s parents and my mom’s sister- and her family- as a matter of course.

(Btw, I thought everybody had the same wonderful kind of grandparents- especially grandmothers- that I did. I can recall how shocked I was when a high school beau flatly declared to me that his grandmother was a mean, old b-word, and that no one in his family liked her. I didn’t even know that was possible.)

Lucille and Joseph, in those days, did not strike me as anything but a handsome older couple who were kind and generous to all and sundry. No more no less. But I was still just a kid of nineteen myself. It would take many close encounters and years of observation- along with the maturity and insights these years bring- to make me understand just what rare thing I was witnessing whenever I was privileged to be with them.

I didn’t have long to wait. In 1975, newly-back from Baltimore, I was invited to join the rest of my family at their apartment for Thanksgiving dinner. I was coming stag, having just met my new boyfriend only two weeks before. (And who had just proposed to me earlier in the week.)

His unexpected entry into my love life hadn’t entitled him to a last-minute Thanksgiving dinner invitation, but it did mean that he was going to stop over after the meal to meet my entire family at one fell swoop. That Thanksgiving was a memorable one- for several reasons.

Joseph was an important man. How important? Well, he’d never tell you. That’s for darn sure. Beautifully brought-up, with impeccable manners and the skills of the diplomat he was born to be, he was always modest and self-effacing. But he was a captain of industry, a key player on the world industrial stage, and a major philanthropist here in Chicago.

He had been on the cover of Time and Forbes. He had schools and boats named for him. He commissioned one of the first post-war skyscrapers to go up in the downtown Loop, building an award-winning landmark and revitalizing the area at the same time. And his obituary- when he peacefully passed away at ninety after a Bears game one Sunday night- was in Time magazine. That’s impressive, folks. I will probably never know another person of whom that can be said.

And some of the telegrams he casually read out at his holiday dinner table confirmed this. He and Lucille got “Happy Thanksgiving” wishes from the President, for pete’s sake.

After dinner, Lucille and my mother hovered by a window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the guy they already knew was going to play an important role in my life. I remember them waiting for him like two giggling schoolgirls.

Finally Lucille spotted him streetside. “There’s a handsome man down there,” she announced. “That must be him.”

I started to get ready for the big introduction.

Alas, it was a false alarm. It was only Mike, her very own son-in-law, who had gone out earlier to retrieve something from his car. I relaxed.

But then she signalled that a new contender had been sighted. And it was indeed, Bill, who did, in fact, meet my whole group at one go. Quite a remarkable evening all ’round.

Back to Lucille. What you noticed, of course, was her beauty. In 1975 she would have been seventy-three years old, and it was still the first thing that struck you. Regal carriage, beautiful slim figure, turned out of a bandbox, silver-haired by then, and eyes of cornflower blue. She was a knockout for any age. Gracious, elegant, with charm to spare, she was of the old school, too.

It was easy to see why Joe adored her. And she him. To marry her, he had left Cornell and joined the family firm. His employment was his father’s condition placed upon their wedding.

And he treated her like a queen. She reciprocated his feelings and put him on an equally-lofty pedestal. They had a world of their own. They didn’t trumpet it or boast or try to prove how much they adored each other. Married for sixty-eight years, it stood the test of time. It was just the real deal. A true love match.

Two things I shall always remember about them as individuals:

Him. They were hosting a rather large party, and at the last minute, my son Nick had come down with something and had to stay at home. He must have been all of seven or eight at the time. It was nothing too serious and so we made his apologies.

But when Joseph lifted his glass to toast and thank those of us who were in attendance, he ended his salute by saying,”And let us not forget the ones who could not be here tonight. We wish him a speedy recovery and we miss him. Here’s to Nicky.”

My eight year old was remembered this way. I will NEVER forget how I felt. I had just witnessed the very definition of diplomacy in action.

Her. Whenever I saw her, she would extend both hands to me in a welcoming gesture. As I approached her, I always saw the same, quick little flick of her eyes, looking me up and down from head to toe. The once-over. Then her beautiful smile would widen and her sapphire eyes were sparkle even more, and she’d give a little nod. I had just been inspected and luckily for me, I always passed. Just being around her made me want to look and be at my very best.

She died when she was just shy of her hundredth birthday. And I never once saw her look anything but perfect herself. She had high standards- but she held herself to the highest. What a lovely advertisement for aging gracefully.

Long before there was Bennifer or TomKat or Brangelina, there was LuJoe.

Their romance was an inspiration and I was honored to have known them.

Love, ElRo

Posted in Memoir, Tributes | 7 Comments

Never Mind

Posted on May 2, 2013 by Ellen Ross

Will you ever wait in a restaurant? I don’t mean for a few minutes as they freshen your table or get rid of the dawdlers still lingering there. I mean would you, do you, hang around a long time in anticipation of a meal?

You can firmly put me in the “No Way, Jose” Club. I have never found a dinner that I thought worth waiting for. If a place honors my reservation, I’m there. If they won’t- bye bye now- as my friend Ricky Z. would say.

I must confess that I stick to a system that always helped me get seated right away in my restaurant of choice.

First of all, I only frequent a very small number of dining establishments. No foodie I- that’s for sure. I like to stick with what I know, and thus I get “preferred customer” status due to loyalty. I believe in a generous tipping policy, too. This system works like a charm but it does have its drawbacks.

For example: Bill was crazy about Gene and Georgetti’s. (For the uninitiated, this old-time Chicago steak house is our equivalent of Peter Luger’s in Brooklyn.) He loved the bartender- and the drink he poured. He loved the “man’s club” atmosphere, and the fact that it was expensive and that it was tough to get a good table there. It made him feel like a power player to be accepted at this venerable establishment and so we dined there a couple of times a week for twenty years.

I loved Pete, our waiter, and the fact that Bill was happy there. But I didn’t love the menu all that much, and soon it didn’t matter whether I ever loved it or not. If you eat at a place that many times a week and they never change the food, sooner or later you are going to burn out.

(Author’s note: They have, at long last, added on some new menu items at G&G. But from 1975 until 1996 they had not altered one thing. Trust me on this.)

Joe felt my pain. He even started buying me baking potatoes- only cottage fries were on the carte back then- when he knew that I couldn’t face another order of them.

Still G&G served a great purpose. Bill revelled in the joint. After a hard day’s work, he became expansive and happy under their ministrations- and their vodkas on the rocks with a twist. It was a home-away-from-home for him and the surprise party I threw him was a real humdinger.

(For years a great photograph of me at that party- surrounded by a tan-coated chorus line of all the waiters- had pride of place at the bar. But don’t bother looking for it. When Bill gave me the boot I bet that picture went straight into the recycling bin.)

The other drawback to my system of always eating in the same three places is that it doesn’t transfer too well out of town. I could never be a regular at 21 or Chasen’s or Joe’s Stone Crab in Miami, no matter what.

So sometimes my system crashed and we would just have to suck it up and wait.

Even if we had a reservation.

One place, above all others, stands out as a major reservation policy violator. It was Alberto’s in Rancho Mirage, California.

They were famous, or should I say, infamous, for taking your reservation and then ignoring it-and you- and you waited and waited and got hungrier and hungrier, and checked with the girl on the reservations desk, and hovered purposefully by the podium, and looked pointedly at your watch, and stalked menacingly back from the bar, and glared at the hostess and…

Well, you get the idea. And we still wouldn’t get our promised eight o’clock table. And soon Bill would pull the plug and we’d leave- all the while swearing never to darken their door again.

But year after Palm Springs year, we’d give Alberto’s a reprieve and go through the drill from the top.

A dinner reservation for Mr. and Mrs. Ross could yield the smile, the table, and the Chicken Papagallo. The other half of the the time we’d get the shrug, the “Would you like to have a drink at the bar?” and then… we’d be out the door. At least fifty per cent of the time it was cannelloni alla casa. The other half it was enchiladas suizas at Las Casuelas Terraza or sand dabs at Sorretino’s.

You never knew which it was going to be when you had a reservation at Alberto’s.

One night we even got a floor show. A man, who, like us I think, had been through this aggravating waiting game on many, many occasions, flipped out. He actually took the hostess’ reservation book, tore it up right in front of us and stormed out.

We looked on in shock and awe. And that led us to a frank exchange of views about their refusal to honor their reservations policy with their owner/hostess.

“I have to be honest with you,” she sighed. “We don’t like twos in here. We don’t have that many tables, and we usually like to accommodate parties of four. People around here go out in groups and we hate to give up a whole table for a party of two. And large parties always linger.”

Well, it made sense- in a way. But Bill and I weren’t going to hook up with another couple just for the sake of the chicken.

When I came back to Winnetka, I was anxious to share this primal reservation book scene with my buddy, Henry X. (If you haven’t had the pleasure of meeting him yet, please read my post “X” December 20, 2012)

Henry was the perfect person to tell because, as an old Palm Springs hand, he was well-acquainted with Alberto’s- and all its quirks. He also had a healthy respect for the dinner table, and the doctrines of promptness and fair play. I knew that his sense of honor would extend to honoring restaurant reservations.

And he was loyal. I was certain that I would find him a most sympathetic listener. If he was your friend, he always took your side of an issue.

(Well, at least most of the time. We did have to agree to disagree about my faxing the kids at their summer camp in Maine. Henry was a Luddite when it came to letters from home. The fact that the camp ripped them hot off the fax machine and put them into envelopes and placed them daily on the child’s bed moved him not one whit. He needed that postage stamp to make it kosher.)

I called Henry first thing when we got back and told him the aforementioned Alberto’s saga. I expected pity and some tut-tutting. I got a different reaction.

Henry went berserk. No lie.

“That’s the most outrageous thing I’ve ever heard!” he fumed. “I am calling the Better Business Bureau and the ACLU and and the Anti-Defamation League and anyone else I can think of! I am going to close that place down!”

I love when my stories go over big but this seemed a little extreme- even for a right-fighter like Henry.

“Um, Henry, I don’t think you have to do that. After all, the hostess was just being honest with us. It’s just a dinner after all.”

“No. I am reporting this to the Desert Sun and anyone who will listen. Outrageous. Inexcusable. And this discrimination is against the law, of course.”

Things were getting out of hand.

“Henry, really, you’re over-reacting. Just forget I even told you about it. Bill and I will probably never eat there again. That’s all.”

“Eat there again?! How can you be so blasé? I’ve never heard anything like it in all my days. Imagine a restaurant hostess who has the nerve to say ‘We don’t like Jews in here.’ I am shutting them down!”

Ah. Did I happen to mention that Henry was a teensy bit deaf at this point in his life?

“Jews? Who said Jews? I said ‘two’s.’ She said she didn’t like two’s in there. Not Jews, Henry. Two’s.”

See post title.

Posted in Memoir, pop culture, Tributes | 12 Comments

My Dinner with Albie

Posted on April 28, 2013 by Ellen Ross

Author’s Note: This post is dedicated to the cherished memory of Barry Lind. He loved the movie Two for the Road as much as I did. I thought about him the whole time I was writing this. God bless you, buddy.

In 1986 the great English actor, Albert Finney, came to work at the Steppenwolf Theater here in Chicago. His old R.A.D.A. (Royal Academy for the Dramatic Arts) training shone through, because not only did he tread the boards in Lyle Kessler’s play Orphans, (it just opened on Broadway- with Alec Baldwin in his part) but he answered phones and even took tickets at the box office.

He was a regular bloke- for a celebrated Shakespearean, a future five-time Academy Award nominee and legendary heartthrob. (The on dit was that he broken up Audrey Hepburn’s shaky marriage when the two of them made Two for the Road together.)

He was hugely popular with the cast and crew, and when his run of the play came to an end, the Steppenwolf troupe wanted to honor him with a farewell dinner. They enlisted the aid of a big donor/board member/Society Hostess who had a suitably-impressive dining room in which to hold the festivities. Invitations went out to a very exclusive chi chi dinner chez her.

The RSVP’s came roaring in and now the hostess was faced with that ever-thorny task- placement. You know. Who sits where- and with whom. This is always tricky. Some big shots get mad when seated by the kitchen or near the loo at big public galas. There are always second and third marriages to consider or business deals that have gone bust. But this hostess was an old hand at the place card game and she easily seated all and sundry.

Until she came to the slot on the guest of honor’s left. (She had correctly snagged the seat on the right of him for herself.) Every time she offered the hallowed seat to its would-be rightful owner- important board member or generous angel- the potential nominee would get cold feet and opt out. They all wanted to be at her dinner of course. Just not right next to the illustrious Mr. Finney.

Now yours truly, safe and snug in my little nest in Winnetka, knew nothing of these musical chairs goings-on. I was blithely unaware of my hostess’s predicament until I got a frantic phone call from by the now-frazzled her.

“Ellen, I’ve been told on good authority that you are the only person I should put next to Albert Finney. Is that okay with you?”

Was that okay? I had been waiting for a phone call like this all my life. I tried to sound nonchalant.

“Of course, No problem whatsoever. Glad to be of use.”

Then we hung up- and I did that little dance that Laura Linney would later do in Love Actually.

The Big Night finally arrived.

What I wore: White silk Scaasi cocktail dress. With black polka dots, short cap sleeves, shoulder pads, and a little bustle-like thing that stuck me out at the hips. I know. I know. But it was the eighties, remember?

What we talked about: Horse racing. Women. Acting. More women. I didn’t have the bad manners to ask him about his rumored affair with La Hepburn or the recent demise of his marriage to stunning French charmer Anouk Aimée. But he did volunteer that he had once cast a wistful eye in another co-star’s direction once or twice.

“I rather fancied Jackie Bisset, actually,” he confided. “Made three movies with her.”

Yeah, great ones. Like my beloved Two for the Road, Murder on the Orient Express and Under the Volcano.

He went on record to say that his favorite actress and co-star was- wait for it- the great Dame Edith Evans. (Me, too. She was unforgettable in everything, but in Tom Jones she outdid even herself.)

He told me that his grown-up son had just moved back in with him. I asked if that presented any problems. You know, grown-up kid back under father’s roof once again?

“No, I rather like looking at his girlfriends,” he confessed with a devilish grin. Albert was a “bit of a lad,” as they say across the pond.

But I knew that already. And wasn’t that exactly why I had fallen so hard for him in Tom Jones and Two for the Road?

I was amazed that he flew his horses back and forth across the English Channel to compete. Easier, he said, than flying their trainers.

And he was gobsmacked when I told him that I owned the soundtracks to the two aforesaid movies. He didn’t. (In those long-ago digitally-challenged days, one could never even dream of owning a movie. Simply unheard of. The closest you could get to owning a film you adored was to buy the soundtrack. It was the only way, back then, to re-live the memory.)

The dinner flew by. He was easy to talk to, and I’d like to think that I kept my end up. All too soon it was over. But before we parted ways, I asked him if I could have his place card as a souvenir. Of course he said yes and of course I’ve still got it.

Albert Finney went on to make great movies like Miller’s Crossing, Erin Brockovich, The Bourne Ultimatum, Ocean’s Twelve and most recently Skyfall.

And these days he looks like a man who has lived hard and loved hard and drunk hard- and relished every minute of it. He has even had the brass to turn down a CBE and a knighthood. (He thought the honors system “perpetuated snobbery.”)

What a life he has had. And for a few moments he shared it all with me.

And now I’ve shared it all with you. A wonderful memory. Evergreen.

And much better than a soundtrack, eh, Tom?

Posted in Memoir, Movies, pop culture, Tributes | 8 Comments

“Is my Nicky.” Part Two

Posted on April 25, 2013 by Ellen Ross

Czesc. Welcome back. When last we left her, my housekeeper Klara was caught up in an ardent love triangle. Two guys in my house were constantly competing for her attention and affection. One was my dog, Egon. The other was my son, Nick.

Klara had been divorced years ago and had several boyfriends with whom she merrily danced Saturday nights away. She had a married son of whom she was immensely proud and an adorable and clever grandson. But the daily love of her life was my son, Nick. Or Nicky, as he was still known back then. She pampered him and spoiled him. Indulged him and praised him and laughed at everything he said and did.

Under this regime he flourished. Who wouldn’t? And he loved her. Who wouldn’t? Klara became Nicky’s chief cook-and-bottle-washer, biggest cheerleader, fairy godmother, undicted co-conspirator, and major partner in crime.

To wit: I wanted my son to keep his room clean. Not real big on his priorities list.

A sampling of Nicky’s youthful priority list: Snowboarding, skateboarding, wake boarding, boogie boarding, surfboarding. (I used to say he was vitally interested in every kind of board except “college.”) Also high on the list: video games, roller blading, Top Gun, Vanna White, Thrasher Magazine, The Simpsons, and playing his drums.

Uh, do you see “room cleaning” anywhere on that list? Neither did Nicky. Day after day, he refused to pick it up, and yet day after day, his bedroom remained an advert for House Beautiful. No big mystery here, Sherlock. Klara- in direct violation of my express orders- would sneak in and give it the old Krakow once-over.

“Why do you do it?” I’d wail. “He has to learn to clean his own room. He’s eleven and he’s never made a bed, for pete’s sake. I refuse to have a spoiled brat around here. Stop doing it.”

“But I can’t stand to see the messy room,” Klara would counter.

“So just shut the door,” I’d counter her counter. “When the room gets bad enough, he’ll clean it, I promise you.”

But Klara would just smile sheepishly, shrug her shoulders and say, “I can’t. Is my Nicky.”

“Is my Nicky.”

This three word phrase bailed my son’s (and Klara’s) dupas out more times than I can count. It was her go-to line whenever either one messed up.

Take the great Great America Outing. I gave Klara money and a curfew and she and her boyfriend, Nicky, took off for the day. At five they weren’t back. At six, still no sign of them. By seven, I was starting to get concerned. They were three hours MIA at that point. (And no cell phones, remember? Nick was thirty-three on Sunday so this is ancient telecommunications history.)

When they did finally pull in, I was relieved but I had to ask.

“Where were you guys? What took you so long?”

“We went on every ride in the park twice and used up all the money,” she explained. “We didn’t have any left for the toll road. Not one dime even. So I had to come back the slow way.”

“You went on everything twice? Even the big roller coaster? Don’t you hate that one?”

“I had to,” Klara replied simply. “Is my Nicky.”

She’d smuggle him up late-night snacks. Strictly verboten on every level. I’d confront the culprit.

“Klara, he is fourteen years old. He can make his own peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I don’t want you bringing him room service at midnight. I forbid it. He’s six feet tall, for pete’s sake.”

The same shoulder shrug. The same explanation. “Is my Nicky.”

Klara was just putty in his hands. I could never get her to discipline or control him in any way. But I never stopped trying. Like during the infamous episode of the learner’s permit.

Nick had turned fifteen in April, and as luck would have it, his driver’s learner’s permit showed up just when his father and I were away in Snowmass. I had successfully guided Natasha through her driver’s license paces the year before and fully expected the same job assignment when it came to my youngest offspring. So when Nick phoned and excitedly told me of the mail’s bounty, I asked to speak to Klara. STAT.

“Yes, Pani Ellen? Are you having a good time in Colorado?” she asked sweetly.

“Now look, Klara. I don’t care how much he begs and whines. DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT get in a car with him.” I was insistent. “I want you to promise me that you won’t. I’ll be home in two days and I will teach him. He can wait. It’s only two days. Now swear to me that you will wait until I get home.”

She swore on a stack of pierogis and my mind was at ease. I spent the next two days having my usual, carefree Snowmass fun.

A wild-eyed Klara met me at the front door upon my return.

“Oh, Pani Ellen, thanks God you are back!” she cried.

Sidebar: I had never seen Klara lose her composure- ever. One of the things I most loved about her was her cheerful unflappability. She could cope with any situation. Nothing fazed her. Except that time I was doing a “Salute to Poland” Thanksgiving extravaganza and had forgotten to borrow compote bowls from my mother. (I always tried to do two Thanksgiving dinners. The traditional one and a nod to another culture to enhance it. My tribute to the fall of the Berlin Wall was great, and I remember a Cajun one that was a roaring success.) This compote bowl contretemps really was the only other time I ever saw Klara freak out. And that included the time I unexpectedly broke my leg and pelvis skiing.

“What happened?” I cried. “Is everybody okay?”

“Pani Ellen, you were right. I never should have gotten in the car with him.”

“What happened?” I asked again.

“I JUST got out! Nicky threw me in the car two days ago and kept driving. My feet haven’t been on the ground since. He drove all day and all night and he wouldn’t stop! We drove on the highway and to Chicago and everywhere! I told him I was tired of the car but he said he wanted to practice. I was prisoner!”

I grinned. I couldn’t help it. “Didn’t I tell you to wait until I got back? I told you so. Why didn’t you tell him no?”

I saw the sheepish smile and the shrug starting to form around her shoulders. I already knew the answer.

“Is my Nicky,” Klara sighed.

Thanks, Klara, for doing all the prep work for me. He didn’t need me to teach him how to drive- or anything much else- after you got through raising him. He’s grown up to be a nice guy and a good driver and, he finally knows how to keep his room clean, too.

He’s your Nicky, alright.

But is it okay if Missy and I borrow him every once in awhile?

Do widzenia, my friends.

Posted in Memoir, Tributes | Leave a comment

“Is my Nicky.” Part One

Posted on April 21, 2013 by Ellen Ross

Author’s Note: Today is my son Nick’s birthday. Happy birthday, Sweetie. This two-pack is for you. Love, Mom

In 1988 my beloved housekeeper, Mary, told me she was taking a leave of absence to be with her ill husband. She’d be back when she could. This was bad news on every level, and since I had no intention- or ability- of taking care of the physical plant myself, I called Barbara Traycee STAT.

Sidebar: Barbara Traycee. She ran a domestic employment agency on the North Shore and she hooked up desperate housewives like me with women who could cook, clean, and diaper with varying degrees of skill. Sometimes I got lucky. Sometimes I’d wipe out. It was always a crap shoot. But this time she told me to come in right away. She had a great candidate.

I was skeptical, but the next day I showed up at her agency. I can remember exactly what I was wearing. Bleached blue jeans cut-offs, a yellow WTTW t-shirt and beige suede flats. (Not exactly your Jackie O. look.)

Barbara hadn’t arrived yet- no surprise because I am always early. (I believe that promptness is the courtesy of kings. If I’m ever late, you’d better call the morgue because I’m dead.) Her second-in-command motioned me over to a bench to wait for the boss.

I sat there for a few minutes and then Barbara breezed in. She took one look and freaked out.

“Why is MRS. ROSS sitting with the housekeepers?” she demanded of her hapless aide-de-camp. “She is a CLIENT! She should have been shown into my office the moment she arrived!”

I felt bad about this mistaken-identity crisis. It was all my fault because I didn’t know that I should have worn a Chanel suit to the meet-and-greet. But then two Polish women walked in. One did all the talking and I naturally assumed that she was the candidate. I was wrong. The silent one was the candidate.

The expediter explained that her friend’s English was good but that she was self-conscious. I explained that I wanted was a “test day” to see if the candidate’s skills were up to Mary’s high standards. Did she drive? Yes. Did she like kids? Check. Dogs? No problem. Could she cook? You betcha.

Okay. I told both of them to have her at my house on Sunday. I would see how she did on-site, and if I liked her and she liked the job, we’d have a deal. If not, I’d pay her and never see her again. No harm no foul. Oh and her name? Klara.

That summer Sunday morning I had the house to myself. Bill and the kids had gone to the club and I was miffed because I was going to have to judge a cleaning talent contest. What an awful way to spend a beautiful Sunday.

Klara arrived at the appointed time and I showed her into Natasha’s room. Bed unmade, room slightly disordered. (Natasha hated mess and Mary hadn’t been gone long enough for her housework to have disintegrated.) I waved my hand around the room in some general way and left her to it. The door was half ajar so I could keep an eye on her- and her cleaning progress.

I waited for Klara to re-emerge into the hallway so I could show her the next room assignment. I waited- but she didn’t come out. An hour went by. I peeked in. The bed had not yet been made. This was not a good sign. How slow could this woman be?

Then another hour went by and I peeked in again. Still the bed was disheveled. Surely if someone could not make a bed in two hours she was going to be way too slow to ever please me.

I girded my loins and got ready to give Klara her walking papers. As I strode purposefully into Natasha’s room, I was greeted by an equally-purposeful Klara. Before I could open my mouth she had something to tell me.

“I like organizatia,” she declared firmly. “This starts from the inside. A room can not be straight if the drawers and closets are not in order.”

She stood aside and I got to see what she had been doing. Every item of clothing from Natasha’s drawers and closet had been removed, re-folded, and placed back in an order only seen in Polo stores. Her closet now looked like a centerfold for Architectural Digest.

I was staggered. This was only a test day after all. But Klara had already taken charge and demanded perfection in the home if she was going to call it her own.

I hired her on the spot. Or to be more accurate, she graciously accepted my job offer- with one caveat. She told me she had to have Saturday nights off.

Uh oh. That was a deal-breaker. Bill and I went out every Saturday night and somebody had to hold down the fort. (Even after the kids were grown, I never liked leaving the house empty. I had had floods, fires, leaks, freezes, and other natural disasters and I always wanted a house-sitter on site.)

I was crushed. I told her that we needed Saturday nights to conduct our very North Shore social life. Klara thought about it for a moment.

“Okay. I’ll stay until you come back home on Saturdays. Then I leave. And if it’s ever important I will ask for a special night off.”

Done. And I may add that this arrangement worked perfectly because our social life was a lot less hectic than Klara’s. We were always home early enough for her to gussy up and take off. She liked to go dancing with some of her fellow countrymen and their favorite ballroom didn’t even heat up until after eleven.

Two women living in the same house can be a real power struggle. But in our case I had already been well-trained by Mary- who immediately came over to check out the new arrival. (Klara and Mary became fast friends and allies in running the Ross family business.) Klara was in charge. No contest. She knew more about managing a household than I ever would.

She was an inspired cook and, as a major bonus, she had been an intensive care nurse in Poland. (Her credentials and language skills hadn’t transfered and her first job in the United States had been mopping nursing home floors.) What a waste. But what a stroke of good luck for me.

And, after she correctly diagnosed Natasha’s pneumonia, (when all the doctors insisted that it was bronchitis) and took charge of my rehab after a serious ski accident, my family’s health care was always in the capable hands of Dr. Klara.

We all loved her. But she had two special boyfriends. One was my dog, Egon. Egon was a black standard poodle and he adored Klara. Klara spoiled him tirelessly and on Sundays and Mondays he’d sulk- champing at the bit for her to return.

They hung out so much that he became bi-lingual. He knew the word for leash- “smycz” in English and Polish, and he understood the rest of her native tongue much better than I did. And another reason for their big romance? Klara smoked.

Try as hard as she could- the patch, hypnosis, cold turkey, you name it- she couldn’t kick it. I worried and nagged her but at least she never smoked in the house. Summer or winter, she would just head outside when the nicotine spirit moved her.

And Egon would go with her. In fact, when he thought it was time to mosey outdoors, he would grab the pack of her smokes and gesture “Hey, Babe, do you want to step outside?” with his curly, handsome head.

It was a real love affair. But Egon had a rival for Klara’s affections.

Tune in Thursday to see who it was.

And see you later, Nick. 6:30 and be hungry.

Posted in Memoir | 13 Comments

The Middle

Posted on April 18, 2013 by Ellen Ross

I hate pie crust. I only like what lies between. When I was a kid I would eat the filling – leaving the empty crust to collapse onto itself on the plate. (A practice which my mother decried as wasteful.) And I dreamed of the day when I could just eat the middle

So when I was a newly-wed back in 1969, my very first grocery store purchase was a Burny Brother’s pumpkin pie. There I stood at my own kitchen counter, drunk on my new-found independence, defiantly eating half of the pie filling- and none of the crust. It was a triumph for “middle earthers” everywhere.

To this day, I only like desserts that wobble- pudding, cream pie fillings, even jello. Nursery food. If you don’t need teeth to enjoy it, I’m there.

Growing up in the fifties, long before Julia Child raised our kitchen consciousness, I was fed typical labor-free desserts. My mother was always hurrying to or coming back from her latest “maj,” bridge or canasta game. Thus convenience was key. The back of the jello box provided most of her confectionary inspiration.

Jello, tapioca, or a melange of miniature marshmallows, canned fruit cocktail and sour cream called “Heavenly Hash” held regular sway at our dinner table. Many a night, Sara Lee came to my rescue with her cheesecake. Maybe because I had never met a dessert that fought back, I didn’t see the need for the packaging. Many people would disagree. The crust is their favorite part of the pie.

I can’t invite you back to my childhood kitchen but I want to offer up some prime examples of dessertus wobbleus. To crust or not to crust? You be the judge.

Remember Jimmy’s Place on Elston Avenue? It was run by the late, great Jimmy Rohr, an eccentric autocrat who banned chicken and perfume from the premises and worshipped the genius of Maria Callas. He loved a dessert called Floating Island.

And although he was not the pastry chef, when the spirit moved him, Jimmy would create an ethereal meringue pouf gently nestled atop a creamy custard floating on a pool of creme anglaise. It was sublime- and not a crumb of crust in sight.

Jimmy is gone now but memories of his beautiful little temple of gastronomy and opera still linger on. This dessert was a work of art- and so was he.

At the opposite end of the spectrum, there was the old Bub City on Weed Street. It was a Lettuce Entertain You enterprise devoted to stick-to-your-ribs grub. It was “y’awl come back now” charm. And it had a chocolate pudding that made you want to slap yo’ mama. It was not a mousse or a ganache. It tasted like real, old-fashioned chocolate jello-box pudding and I was wild about it.

Bub City has recently been reincarnated and modernized. Note to Rich Melman and/or his kids: As a former neighbor and big-time bubba, I am begging you to reinstate this pudding.

Nostalgia doesn’t have to rule the day. There are some restaurants extant that can satisfy my middle fixation.

Denver’s Brown Palace hotel restaurant, the Ship Tavern, has a fantastic claim to fame. They say they invented a magnificent piece of pastry known as Signature Black Bottom Pie. It’s a chocolate pudding dream so delicious I almost consider eating its oreo cookie crust. It’s my exception to the “no crust”rule and worth the Rocky Mountain high you’ll hit on the scale if you eat this dessert enough.

Closer to home, Gibson’s on Chicago’s Rush Street used to serve a banana cream pie that did me nicely. It was huge, and the creamy banana filling was loaded with gigantic pieces of banana. One piece could feed a whole table. But I think that’s been off the menu for awhile.

These days, they are showcasing a variation on the Brown Palace theme- a chocolate mousse pie extravaganza that caught my eye when I was there the other night. Dark and decadent-looking, and enough middle to feed an army. Does it have a crust Who knows? I’ve never met anyone hungry enough to eat their way to the bottom to find out. Go for Mario, the greatest waiter on earth, and the ribs. But stick around for the decadent finale.

For all local suburbanites, Abigail’s, in Highland Park, trots out a little number- a chocolate peanut butter mousse tart, with a peanut brittle hat and a side of banana ice cream. The middle is peanut butter whip and the bottom “crust” is oreo-cookie crumb. The top is a disk of bittersweet chocolate.

(Even better, when I was in there for lunch just the other day, they had chocolate bread pudding as the special. I swooned when I saw it on the chalkboard menu and all thoughts of pie flew right out of my head. They had me at the pudding.)

For a completely different dessert experience I happened to be at Lillstreet Art Center on March fourteenth this year. I had been invited to lunch and the twenty-five cent tour by its founder, Bruce Robbins- a friend from high school.

This was a thrill- even for an intensely art-challenged person like me. All that rampant, electric creativity with mud, kilns, jewelry, ceramics, painting, drawing, sewing, photography- you get the idea- art in every form, was inspirational, and the Cobb salad we grabbed at the in-house First Slice Cafe was a tasty bonus. But I could see that the pies were the gastronomic thing to do here. I made a mental note to check them out further.

But, after a tour of his new art space a few doors down, Bruce and I were greeted by a long line of people snaking out the front door.

“What’s this?” I asked. (The line hadn’t been there just fifteen minutes before when we went to look at the performance annex.)

“It’s Pie Day,” Bruce told me. “And on Pie Day, we give away free pie.”

Huh? Was this a regular thing at Lillstreet? I knew they were philanthropy-minded and gave back to the community, but how could they stay in business if they gave away free pie?

“It’s 3/14. You know. 3.14. Pi.”

Oh, that kind of Pi Day. And what free pie. They had Michigan sour cherry and good old-fashioned apple but my appestat was instantly engaged by the lemon meringue and French silk offerings.

Give one a try. A portion of all their pie sales goes to charity. So when you’re in the mood to eat well, do well and throw a pot, Lillstreet is the only place to be.

Honesty compels me to admit that I actually eat this stuff about twice a year. These days, I am mostly a pie voyeur. I look but do not touch. If I caved to all my cravings then I would have no middle.

Still I’ll see you around the sweet table, sweeties.

You’ll know me right away.

I’ll be the only one there desperately seeking the tapioca.

Posted in food, Memoir | 16 Comments

The Bottom Line

Posted on April 14, 2013 by Ellen Ross

It’s that time of year again. The Ides of April. Tax Season. By now you’ve all probably been to your accountants, reviewed your financial situations and sent in your signed forms. Or filed for an extension at the very least.

Well, this post is way overdue. I filed its extension sometime in 2004 when I first walked into his office and met my new accountant, Kevin.

At that time, my finances were in shambles due to the triple whammy of a four year nightmare of a trial in domestic relations court- and the debilitating mental and physical issues that had occasioned it in the first place. My old accountant was just that- old. And too preoccupied with a sick wife to effectively come to the aid of this damsel in distress.

I knew that I needed SuperCPA. And call it God or Fate or Divine Intervention, but when I needed the offices of a terrific accountant ASAP, my eye fell on an ad in the telephone book and I just dialed.

It turned out that the firm I had called was the most prestigious on Colorado’s western slope. Honesty and precision were its twin watchwords. But all that was unbeknownst to me. I just took the first available appointment they offered- and prayed.

I dreaded having to go. I was distraught and completely undone by the thought that I was now going to have to share my most personal autobiographical details with a total stranger.

(It occurs to me that, as with our florists, our accountants are always in the loop about the most intimate events in our lives. Along with our lawyers and our shrinks, they know chapter and verse about our latest great business deals, our terrible investments, our newest little “tax deductions,” and all the devastating details and repercussions of the break-ups of our professional and personal partnerships.)

I would like to tell you that at our very first meeting Kevin was the answer to this non-maiden’s prayer. How I can recall in minutest detail how wonderful he was to me and how relieved I felt when he promised to save my ass(ets) from total disaster.

But I can’t. Because I have little recollection of the meeting. And that’s odd because Mr. Memory here can usually tell you what she ate on every April fourteenth for the last twenty years. (And what she was wearing.) But that’s what happens sometimes when one is so thoroughly overwhelmed by trauma and worry.

But I do recall that he was kind and non-judgmental. (And never forget that I hadn’t been referred by anybody and I wasn’t exactly coming in with Bill Gates’ tax implications. Think how you might have responded if a distraught woman suddenly careened into your office?)

My tale of woe may have struck a chord in his very kind heart- at first. But soon, as he went over my tax records and divorce docs, his kindness turned to righteous anger. The numbers never lie and he could clearly see that I had been taken to the cleaners by some very slick folks.

The threat of a libel suit forbids me from saying much more. (And if you are a regular reader of this blog you may have gathered that Cruella, my ex husband’s latest life partner, sues people for a living.) Let us just say that, from that moment to this, Kevin has become my white knight- with a Sharp ten key calculator.

Our relationship has morphed into a close friendship over the years, and I can see how much he cares about providing his clients with the security that financial peace of mind brings. Deftly aided by his lovely assistant Michele, he tirelessly tames the ever-changing tiger of a tax code in order to make all of his clients’ lives more profitable places to be.

And though he demands perfection as a matter of course in his tax returns, these days he has been working like a fiend seven days a week. He wants to insure that his roster is getting the full benefit of his expertise with a deduction so that their estate plans will always be things of beauty. He looks out so they don’t have to.

But he is much more than a numbers cruncher. He’s a devoted son and brother. He loves travel, the Denver Broncos, SNL, movies and poker- and the television show Dallas. (You’ve lost me on that one, K. And you know how hard I tried, pardner.)

Kevin’s mild-mannered bean-counter countenance also hides a quick wit and a keen intelligence. And he’s a sarcastic, snarky obsever of la condition humaine. Best of all, he can always make me laugh. And how many people do you know who can say that after a visit to their accountant? (Every time I saw my former one, I cried.)

He has a million friends. No surprise there. He loves his boat. And he is so modest and unassuming that I’m sure he is mortified that I have dragged him out from behind his desk and into the limelight.

But I wanted you all to meet him. And no, we are not dating and this is not a paid endorsement of his firm. (Although I am always open to a barter arrangement for future accounting services, gentlemen…)

The short form is that I am just crazy about him. And yes, Kev, I have been saving all my receipts from the cabs, and the office supplies and the lunch meetings- just like you told me- for next year’s reckoning.

It’s almost April fifteenth, everybody.

Have you hugged your accountant today?

Posted in Memoir, pop culture | 22 Comments

Never Again

Posted on April 11, 2013 by Ellen Ross

This past Monday, April eighth, was Holocaust Remembrance Day. And today I am remembering.

I was eleven when I came upon Leon Uris’s Exodus on my parents’ bookshelf. (A voracious reader as a kid, I had already plowed my way through practically everything in the children’s room of the Wilmette Library and now had turned my attention to the grown up book section.) Nobody stopped me. Or warned me. I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

Reading Exodus changed me forever. I was one person before I started that book. I came out the other side another. Now I knew what depravity and cruelty were. And that human beings practiced them on each other.

I’m sure my experience was not unique. The biggest best-seller since Gone with the Wind, I bet that book was in every Jewish home in the United States. It raised Jewish political consciousness- and much-needed money- for Israel at every turn of the page.

I am not going to do a book review. I know that many of you have read it. It is enough to say that, though I thrilled to the story of Jordana and David, and was proud of the exploits and daring of the handsome and courageous Ari Ben Canaan, I identified most closely with the little girl, Karen Hansen. If I had been unlucky enough to have been born in Europe a decade earlier, she could have been me.

But I was haunted by all their stories. The rape, mutilation and murder of Dafna, Ari’s fiancée, Dov Landau’s tragic ordeal in the Warsaw ghetto, the unimaginable terror and despair of concentration camps, Leon Uris brought these stories alive in vivid, haunting detail. He was on a mission and he spared no horrific detail. He wanted the readers to be outraged.

Imagine. I had never heard a word about any of this before. (Even though one paternal great uncle and his family had been wiped out during the war. My father just recently spoke of it to me. He said they had found out the same way so many families found out. There were letters, then there were letters that were cries for help, then there were no more letters.)

I had never heard of Bergen-Belsen or Auschwitz or Ravensbruck or Dachau. And now, here they all were right in my pre-teen, lilac bedroom. I doubt I had even heard the word “Nazi” spoken aloud back then in my safe, Beaver Cleaver 1950’s suburban utopia.

And then I opened the book. It was the end of my innocence.

I am remembering because CBS Sunday Morning just did a piece on the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, D.C. They, too, ran the story this past Sunday to commemorate Holocaust Remembrance Day.

To honor its twentieth anniversary, the Museum is holding a two-day tribute to Holocaust survivors and World War II veterans at the end of April. President Bill Clinton and founding chairman of the museum, Elie Wiesel, will be the keynote speakers at the event.

But in the CBS piece, they focused on the museum building itself and some of its exhibits. The reporter showed us how the museum has kept a sacred trust as they keep the cherished toys of so many murdered children. Thousands of memento mori. The detritus of the methodical asassination of millions of people. All mute witnesses now to what happened not very long ago and not very far away.

As long ago as just last Saturday morning, in fact. I happened to be reading the New York Times on Twitter- a post about Tom Hanks and his close friend, the late Nora Ephron. He is appearing on Broadway in Nora’s new (and last) play “Lucky Guy,” and last week, during his curtain speech, he was overcome with emotion when he spoke of her.

Readers of this blog already know how I feel about both of them. And to see their names coupled together, regardless of the melancholy reason, made me open the post and read it. It highlighted the touching tribute that Tom paid to his wonderful Nora, and the story that the Times had run about their relationship was elegiac and beautiful in itself.

And then I scrolled down to read the comments. I don’t know why. I don’t always. And there it was. The very first comment.

It said “who cares about one more dead jew? why waste any more space?”

I actually jumped. It made my skin crawl. There it was in black and white on my iPad. Not in some museum or in an old, grainy newsreel. I had it right in my hands- like I did when I read Exodus all those years ago.

Don’t bother looking for it. I’m sure that somehow it slipped though the editorial cracks and it was probably taken down shortly after I saw it.

But I am remembering.

Evil is alive and well, my friends.

And the writing’s on the New York Times’ Twitter wall.

Posted in books, Memoir | 14 Comments

Thumbs Up

Posted on April 7, 2013 by Ellen Ross

Stop the presses! Only one other time in Letter From Elba history have I made a post switch. Today’s post was supposed to be about the one enchanted evening I spent with the fabulous Albert Finney. But I’m sure he won’t mind being bumped today. It’s only fitting, after all, that one movie legend make way for another.

I’ve come to say ave atque vale to an idol and a role model- the brilliant newspaperman and Pulitzer-prize winning movie columnist, Roger Ebert, who passed away at the age of seventy on Thursday.

I hate to write a post so close to its publication time. It doesn’t give me a chance to refine the final product to my satisfaction- or yours. But I think it’s only right today that I am working on deadline. It’s my tribute to him- as one fellow employee of the Chicago Sun Times to another.

His career of forty-six years there was storied. The paper devoted six pages to his life and achievements. My career as their humor columnist lasted ten, and I spent them working for the Pioneer Press- twenty-six suburban newspapers owned and operated by the Sun Times. (At my death, I’m hoping for six inches of column space.)

But we had more in common that a name on the bottom of our paychecks. We shared a deep, profound, reverent, (and sometimes irreverent) love of the movies. This was a bond that brought us together in the 1970’s when I first met Roger.

I heard somehow that he was offering a movie class. Can you imagine how excited I was? To be able to sit at the feet of the undisputed master of film criticism and study with him. What a glorious opportunity for a cineaste like me.

I had been a movie buff virtually my entire life. One of my very first vivid memories is that of seeing Peter Pan at the State and Lake Theater downtown with my grandmother. (I just ran it by IMBD and I would have been barely four at the time.) I loved Nana the dog.

(This was the second attempt at seeing that movie, btw. The first time around it had been sold out, and my poor grandmother, simply unaware of what she was getting both of us into, took me into the nearest downtown movie palace to see the next available feature. It turned out to be Them, you know, the one about the giant ants. I had nightmares for YEARS. But that’s the fate of an ardent movie-goer. Sometimes it’s Nana dogs and sometimes it’s giant ants. You’re never quite sure when you lays down your money and you takes your chance.)

And I also vividly recall going to a drive-in movie and seeing No Time for Sargeants in my parents’ car when I was around seven. And that started a love affair with Andy Griffith that continued unabated even today. And when those latrine toilets “saluted,” that was it, brother. Right there and then, I fell hook, line and sinker for the movies in toto.

I read everything I could about them. I saw every “Saturday Night at the Movies,” and “Movie Matinee” on television. I listened carefully to my father, and when he spoke of his affection for Citizen Kane, Laura, The Maltese Falcon, Casablanca, Flying Down to Rio, The Gay Divorcee, Dinner at Eight, The Philadelphia Story, His Girl Friday, Bringing Up Baby, I watched- and loved- them too. A great start for any budding cinephile, by the way.

Cary Grant, Bette Davis, Humphrey Bogart, Fred Astaire, these were just some of my dad’s screen idols, and I eagerly adopted them as my own. (And I had to be the only eight year old on the planet who was crazy about Eric Blore and Edward Everett Horton.)

I was mad about the movies. Their history, too. And because I had a quirky brain that retained practically everything I read, I became a real expert in the field of early Hollywood and movie lore in general.

Which puts me right back in Roger’s class in 1976. He was going to teach us all a thing or two about 1946’s Notorious, one of his favorites- and mine. It had a stellar pedigree. Story by Ben Hecht, directed by the maitre, Alfred Hitchcock, and what a love and acting triangle- suave Cary Grant, the beauteous Ingrid Bergman, and the superb Claude Rains. It even had Madame Konstantin to give it a camp, gothic flavor. And it had a fabulous MacGuffin.

But did Roger focus on any of that? Nope, he just assumed that we already knew all about those elements. Instead he showed us Notorious frame by frame. And discussed Ingrid Bergman’s wardrobe- and what it signified.

Yep, I learned all about the moral ambiguity of stripes. Of her character’s journey from black dresses to white ensembles- and salvation. It was heady, brainy stuff and it absolutely forever changed the way I watched that movie.

Now all I see is Ingrid Bergman’s midriff-skimming top.

But I don’t have to ponder its meaning. Roger had already thought about it for me. He did all my movie legwork, in fact. Whenever I was undecided about what to see or what I had just seen, I turned to him and his scintillating, insightful movie reviews. If I couldn’t always trust my own judgement I knew that I could always rely on his.

A word here about his partner in crime, Gene Siskel. He too, passed away, much too soon, in 1999. And he, too, was a terrific critic and a great guy. These frenemies might have disagreed about movies throughout their long association, but they were united by twin qualities of brilliance and menschmanship. I like to think of them now, reunited once more and attending the Greatest Film Festival Ever Run.

Roger Ebert was a hero. He faced horrible medical realities with unflinching courage and a great sense of humor. And with the unflagging devotion of his wonderful wife Chaz, he managed to keep typing all the way.

I will forever be grateful to him. And he will be forever with me whenever I watch a movie.

I’ll give him his usual seat on the aisle. My father can grab another.

I’ll take the one in the middle.

Posted in Memoir, Movies, pop culture, Tributes | 6 Comments

The Answer is Sudbury. Part II

Posted on April 4, 2013 by Ellen Ross

When last we left our newly-weds, Husband Number Two and I had just hastily departed Mackinac Island in a huff and we were, once again, on our way on our great North American road adventure. All told it would be over three thousand miles. In a Corvette. Next destination: the Chateau Frontenac, Quebec City, Canada.

But now our carefully-laid travel plans and AAA trip tix were of no earthly use to us. Our truncated stay at the Grand Hotel had completely messed up our itinerary, and we had to head north with no reservations- and way ahead of schedule.

Without a real game plan we hopped into the ‘Vette and started to drive.

770 miles later H.N.T. was done driving. “I can’t go another mile,” he admitted. “I’m beat and I’ve got to stop. Check the guidebook and see where we can stay for the night. I think we’re coming to a town called Sudbury.”

It was dark now, and by the dim dashboard light I made out exactly one lodging entry for the town of Sudbury. It was all the way at the bottom of the guidebook page and it touted the charms of a motel about three miles up the road. Suddenly there it was- dead ahead.

Gratefully we pulled into the parking lot and looked around. It was seedy, but beggars can’t be choosers and it was for one night only. He checked us in and wearily we dragged in the mountain of his luggage into the crummy room. (The bellmen were either off for the night or non-existent.) We both fell face down into the bed’s lumpy mattress and went down for the count.

Early the next morning we were both more than ready to bid the dump- and Sudbury- adieu. We paid the bill, jumped into the ‘Vette and… nothing. He tried the engine again. Nothing. A third time. Rien. (This is a very French-speaking part of Canada.)

Mon Dieu! The car was now completely mort.

I don’t remember the ugly details. I do remember the tow truck coming and hauling the car- and my second husband- away. I was left back at the motel but I was okay with it. The weather wasn’t great but I looked forward to a day of nothing to do. I longed to take a hot bath, read and watch the tube in peace and quiet.

I had just settled in with a book when the phone rang. It was the manager. “I have to tell you that, due to some scheduled renovations, we are turning off the electricity from nine to five for the next three days. And there won’t be any hot water, either. No way to heat the boiler. Sorry.”

It was a long day. And when Hubby Numero Deux finally returned, he looked none too pleased himself.

“There isn’t a new Corvette part in all of Canada. They’re going to have to order it. And it’s going to take two more days to ship it here.”

I lost it. “Two more days in this dump?” I shrieked. “Do you have any idea what I did in the room today without electricity and hot water? Nothing!”

Our night wasn’t any better. The garage didn’t have a loaner for us and the dump didn’t have a restaurant. I think we walked across the way to some awful roadside cafe for our meals. This jerkwater little town was a nightmare and we couldn’t wait until the car was repaired and we were out of there.

For two more days H.N.T. hitched a ride to the garage early every morning to hang around with the mechanics, kibbitz, and not be in the same room as me. I have absolutely NO idea what I did to make the time pass. Read, I guess. With no electricity my options were limited.

After an eternity, the part came in, the car was fixed, we packed up and said goodbye and lotsa luck to that awful motel and that terrible one-horse town. We sped away, grateful to never have to see its one crummy street again.

As we drove a mile up the road I saw it. A great big, new, shining Holiday Inn. What the what? Surely my eyes were playing tricks on me. I grabbed the guide book. Nope, no Holiday Inn anywhere on the page.

But then I turned it.

There on the next page were listed hotels and motels of all descriptions and room rates. From pricey to Tobacco Road. (The place in which we had just sojourned.) Sudbury, it turns out, was a booming little metropolis with plenty to see and do. Lots of places to stay. Many good restaurants to eat at. Decent garages with loaners. The works. But in my exhaustion from the long car trip from Mackinac Island, I had neglected to just turn the guidebook page.

Question: What is the worst place in Canada to get stranded with a broken-down Corvette, an arrogant new husband and an incompetent navigator, Alex?

Well, Yukon King, this case is closed.

Posted in Memoir | 5 Comments