Letter From Elba

Happy Easter, everyone.  It’s always a welcome reminder that Spring is finally here.  I hope this season is a lovely one for you all.  Now back to our show…

I was watching Jeopardy recently when I happened to hear Alex Trebek mention that he is from Sudbury, Ontario. That startled me- because I’ve actually been there.  And I haven’t thought about it in forty-two years.

The summer I saw Sudbury I was on a road trip in a Corvette Stingray.  Husband Number Two had planned the itinerary: Baltimore to Chicago.  Chicago to Eagle River, Wisconsin.  Eagle River to Mackinac Island, Michigan.  Mackinac Island to the Chateau Frontenac, Quebec, Canada.  And then back to Baltimore.

All told 3183 miles- and that didn’t include the vitally-important side trips to Flukey’s and Gino’s East.  (My all-time favorite hot dog- until they moved across Western Avenue.  It was never the same after that. Don’t ask me why.  And in those days, I would alternate favorite pizza joints- Gino’s East or Due’s.  I deeply missed my native Chicago cuisine.  Baltimore’s culinary expertise was strictly restricted to crabs.)

This entire trip was to be undertaken in a Corvette, remember?  And because H.N.T. was quite the clothes horse, we were taking a whole lot of luggage on this safari.  But I was a newly-wed, and with one marital flop already under my belt, I had incentive to put on my game face and go along for the ride.

Like I said, our first stop was my old home town- Chicago.  This was a necessity because I missed my family, friends, and food. (Not necessarily in that order.  See above.)  Then it was on to Eagle River to visit my brother at Camp Ojibwa.

After a day of Catfish Lake fun, we said good bye to Kenny and headed to Michigan.  After the cramped confines of the ‘Vette, I was really looking forward to our home away from home- the storied, expensive Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island.  We had heard so much about it, and I couldn’t wait to relax in a sumptuous room, work on my tan at the great swimming pool, and dine in its four star restaurant.

The problems started at the famous veranda.

It was a scene straight out of Some Like it Hot- the one in which Joe E. Brown and the rest of the rich geezers all rocked in unison and waited for the next bevy of young beauties to show up.  At twenty-one and twenty-nine, we didn’t want to hang out at the old folks’ home.  And that’s exactly what this place looked like- before we even walked in.

Our front desk experience was right out of Lost in America.  The reservations clerk clearly didn’t like us from the get-go.  We weren’t his usual blue-haired, frost-topped, wide load, WASPY guest demographic.  And Lord Baltimore was a spoiled prima donna-  a brat who had been born with a silver spoon in his Maryland mouth.

He was used to only the best, and was more than willing to pay for what he demanded in good service and nice accommodations.  Instantly there was tension between the high-handed front desk guy and my then-husband.  I could tell right away that this was going to get ugly.

But not as ugly as the room the sullen bellhop showed us to.  The reservations clerk had gotten his revenge on my entitled spouse.  It was a broom closet.  A whisk broom, that is.  Faster than you could say “Punked,” Husband Number Two reached for the phone.  And believe me, that desk clerk was all ready for him.

“No, sir, we do not have any other rooms.  The hotel is completely sold out.  As it is every week in high season.  I am terribly sorry.  I’d be more than happy to see if there are any rooms available anywhere else on the island for you.”

I shook my head “no.”  I couldn’t face another move.  He had us.

“Well, at least we can get out of this foot locker and go enjoy a great dinner.  I hear the dining room is famous.  Let’s grab some dinner,” H.N.T. suggested.

But as we strolled out of the room in search of the dining room, we were stopped by an anxious-looking bell hop.  “Sorry, sir.  But you can’t be seen like that,” he said worriedly.

“Like what?” said my guy.  (He looked perfectly fine.  Not wearing shorts or a t-shirt or a trucker’s cap or anything.  In fact, he looked like a GQ ad.  He was very particular about his clothing.  He was the first man I knew to buy ties from a guy who used to be named Ralph Lifshitz in New York.  And then Baltimore Guy became one of his best customers after he followed him to Britches in Georgetown.)

“There is a dress code, sir.  After 6:30, gentlemen are required to wear a coat and tie in all areas of the hotel.”  (Author’s note:  I checked their website.  A policy still in force in 2013.)

“What?!  I wear a suit every day.  This is my summer vacation.  Do you mean to tell me that I can’t even walk around the hotel unless I am wearing a jacket and tie?”

That’s exactly what he meant, and so it was back to the broom closet and dinner in the room.  When the room service waiter wheeled in the trolley, we couldn’t shut the door.  Does that give you an idea of the space? The ‘Vette was bigger.

At least we had the pool the next day to look forward to.

Wrong again.

First there were the pool rules.  And I don’t mean the usual ones against running or splashing or bringing glass anywhere.  Guests were alloted two mingy towels.  And these weren’t beach towels. They looked exactly like the small, stiff, dingy old ones that we had just used in our room.  No matter how he beseeched, bribed or threatened the kid running the pool deck, my then husband could not liberate so much as one extra towel.  You had to make a choice.  Did you want to lay on your towels or use them to dry off?  Up to you.

But H.N.T. didn’t have to suffer the strict towel quota for very long.  After one brief dip, he was banished from the pool completely.  It seems that in his fashion-forward way, he had chosen to swim in blue jean cut-offs.  (Remember when that was considered cool instead of swim trunks?)  That was in violation of the swimming pool dress code and he was promptly ordered out until such time as he could don something seemly.

That tore it.

“That tears it!” he fumed.  “I am not going to be bossed around by resort Nazis when I am spending a ton of dough in this joint.  World’s longest porch? (The Grand’s claim to fame.)  Who cares?  Full of old farts.  And this whole island smells of horseshit and fudge.  Let’s go.  We’re leaving.”

I honestly couldn’t blame him.  And so we found ourselves back in the ‘Vette and headed North.

Mush, you huskies!  On Yukon King!  Tune in Thursday for the exciting finale of our Northern adventure.

Schadenfreude Alert:  If you have weight issues, body dysmorphia, or just plain scale-phobia, please skip this one.

I come from a thin family.  My mother, father and brother are all thin.  And I was a very picky eater as a kid.  Meat, fat, dark meat chicken and turkey, milk, water, butter, cheese, eggs, ham, bacon, pork, fish, seafood, most fruits, and every vegetable except canned corn- the list of things I wouldn’t touch was endless.

I found eating to be a chore and a bore.  I just didn’t get it.  In fact, I nicknamed my maternal grandmother “Chowhound” because she loved to put it away, and teased her because I didn’t share her preoccupation with the dinner table.  I didn’t even like ice cream.  (My father would tease me and say that this was un-American.)

But back then being skinny was awful.  I was forced to be the top of the pyramid in gym class.  I was “sacrificed to the water gods” i.e. thrown into a rain puddle on the playground, and I was always the target of big boys aiming dead at me as they ran full bore into my wrists during Red Rover at recess.

I couldn’t wear sleeveless dresses and I was the last girl to get a bra.  At junior high slumber parties, I would have to sneak into the bathroom to change so that all the other giggling girls wouldn’t see that I still wore an undershirt.  (I would often run into Marilyn already changing in there. She was the poor gal in seventh grade who wore a C cup and her life was miserable, too.)

And I still can remember how humiliated I felt when I overheard a teenaged would be Lochinvar refuse to dance with me at Mrs. Woolson’s “On to New Trier” dancing school class.  “That board?” he snorted.  “Never!” (One of my gal pals also overheard this indictment and  said “Maybe he thought you looked bored” to cheer me up.  But neither of us was fooled.)

And when The Beach Boys had a big hit with “409,” the joke that went around school was that it was about Ellen Roffe’s measurements.  Thinness was the bane of my childhood existence, and if anyone ever told me that some day it would be something to be admired, I NEVER would have believed them.

But don’t get me wrong.  I know what it’s like to be overweight.  I met Bill after eating my way around Italy for a year and although I wasn’t fat, I sure wasn’t skinny any more.  The Italians I met were always calling me “magra,” (thin) and making it their special business to give me second helpings of panna montata– whipped cream- and other forbidden fruits all the time.

And when we got married all bets were off.  He plied me with food.  “We’re happy and we’re celebrating,” he used to say as he reached for the Lido cookies.

And did we ever.  You would have gotten fat too if you went to Gene and Georgetti’s twice a week and your dinner date ordered an entree- Chicken Joe- for you, an entree- a steak- for himself, and a third entree- linguini with white clam sauce- for the table.  And heavy on the cottage fries, please.

We went to Eli’s The Place for Steak all the time. (Now closed.  Management’s favorite mantra was “Can I get that out of your way?”- whether you were finished or not.  They were ruthlessly dedicated to turning tables at that joint, remember?)  Bill had been introduced by the girl he dated before me to the decadent delight of mixing chocolate mousse with their cheesecake, and he loved forcing this icky concoction down me like a Strausbourg goose.

We feasted at the Peking Duckling House on Howard. (Great.  Gone. Too bad.)  Nakanoya in Lincoln Park. (Ditto.)  Maxim’s- where I loved their Veal Prince Orloff.  (Also au revoir.)  We took his motorcycle to Superdawg, hit Beinlich’s all the time, and were on a first name basis with the maitres d’ at Crickets, (Jean Pierre) Chasen’s (Julius) and Le Titi de Paris (Christian.)

And in between restaurant visits, I cooked.  I was anxious to show off my new-found Italian culinary skills to my new-found husband, and I enthusiastically threw myself into creating a gourmet meal every night we ate at home.

After a couple of years of this binge, I was fat.  I couldn’t believe it, but the mirror- and the fact that I was now wearing Bill’s jeans after Natasha was born- were proofs positive.  But before I could go on a diet, I got sick during my pregnancy with Nick and lost twenty-five pounds.  (All due to gall stones. Which they removed- along with my gall bladder.)

And from my first baby steps down the hospital hall in search of a scale post-cholecystectomy, I have weighed myself religiously ever since.  I never wanted to be fat again.  It wasn’t a hard choice for me.  I have never found a brownie that tasted as good as a Lagerfeld suit looked.

The scale serves as my first line of defense.  It’s like balancing your checkbook.  The proof is there- incontrovertible- and you can’t argue with numbers.  I love my scales and have had several madly co-dependent relationships with them.

I had an awesome travel scale.  It was perfect- lightweight, easy to pack, and no matter how much I slipped up at the Apple Pan or Fatburger or The Teepee or Las Casuelas or Columbia, the needle never moved.  The scale seemed to understand that I was on vacation and deserved a break.

That wonderful scale made many a trip with me- until Bill carelessly left it under a pile of towels at the Grand Bay Hotel in Coconut Grove.  I made frantic call after call to try and retrieve it but they wouldn’t hand it over.  And I could never find another one to take its place.  After its loss, I always had to seek out the nearest spa on the hotel premises for my daily away-from-home weigh-in.

Irony Alert: I read that they just blew up the posh Grand Bay Hotel to make way for a new condo development.  I have had my revenge on those scale-swiping bastards!

Before I ever went to Europe I learned my weight in kili.  I knew exactly how many signalled “Pericoloso!”- “Danger!”- and when to hold back on the pasta at Harry’s Bar.  I was always on guard. When we boarded the Sea Goddess years ago, I was greeted by the entire staff who had mustered out to meet me.  I thought it was part of their legendary royal treatment- until they assured me that it wasn’t.

“Our clientele usually pre-orders Beluga and Dom,” the purser told me.  “We wanted to see who ordered the popcorn and the Diet Coke.  No one in the history of the Sea Goddess has ever requested that before. We just had to see who you were.”

And don’t talk to me about doctors’ scales.  Oooh.  I get excited.  My very favorites.  I have two- although one is still living in my ex co-op.  I bought it at Conney’s Pharmacy in Winnetka thirty-some years ago and it sure would come in handy now that I have started a new campaign to get back into a slinky Azzedine Alaia number (is there any other kind?) from a few seasons back.  But I’m up for it.  After all, who’s the boss around here?  Food or me?

But as I started on my quest for my “lucky number,” my Lauren Bacall-no-nonsense girlfriend Joan drily injected a note of caution into my enthusiastic diet proceedings.

“Careful, my dear.  Don’t lose too much.  At your age, it’s either your face or your derriere.  You simply can not afford it.  Trust me.”

Hey, I never said wrinkles and gray hair didn’t run in the family, did I?

Just don’t look at my brother.  He doesn’t have either one.  I got landed with both of them.

Even if you own the perfect scale, Life doesn’t always balance out, I guess.

When Sonny Bono was killed in a ski accident, his widow Mary graciously allowed his ex wife to give the eulogy.  It had been Sonny, after all, who had turned the skinny, ugly caterpillar Cherilyn Sarkisian into the exotic, striking performing arts phenom known as Cher.  She was distraught, but through her tears she acknowledged this unrepayable debt when she referred to him as her “most unforgettable character.”

We all knew to what she was referring.  It was that series in that god-awful Reader’s Digest Magazine.  “The Most Unforgettable Character” was a cultural touchstone.  And it came to my mind the other day.

It was triggered by the word “character.”  I have known many wonderful people in my life- some of whom I have already introduced to you.  But that particular word conjures up someone larger-than-life, a rogue, a rascal, a Peck’s bad boy, someone Damon Runyanesque.  You know- a character.  Which instantly makes me free associate to my buddy Skip.

If you looked up the word “character” in the dictionary there he’d be- lounging at the Snowmass Club pool.  Lord of all he surveyed.  Covered in suntan oil, and wreathed in a great big grin.

Everything about him was big.  Profane.  Funny.  Generous.  Spontaneous.  Reckless.  Fearless.  Burly.  High-living.  Out-spoken.  Clever.  Street-smart.  Self-made and on the level business-wise.  But nevertheless, a real-life Tony Soprano- minus Carmela.  (Long-divorced when I first met him, Skip was the hands-on, devoted dad of two great kids.)

And minus the mob connections and the murders-for-hire.  But not the mayhem.  Skip caused trouble wherever he went- and liked it.

I met Skip one summer’s day in Colorado.  It was inevitable that our paths would cross because, like him, I had “frequent flyer miles” doing time around the Snowmass Club swimming pool.  Every morning I’d show up by ten and order a “Ross Special.” (That’s a Diet Coke with a garnish of orange slice, maraschino cherry, lemon and lime twists.  A Diet Coke with fruit salad.  I would nurse the drink all morning- breakfast- and eat the cola-flavored fruit salad for lunch.)

It was hard to miss Skip.  He was always holding court.  He was a good buddy of my good buddy, Hays, and formal introductions were dispensed with pool-side.  Soon the three of us were meeting up daily to shoot the breeze.  Mostly Hays and I would just listen as Skip waxed lyrical about his philosophy of winning the Game of Life.

Half the time it was good, cold-eyed business sense.  Half the time it was Keystone Kop Comedy of Errors.  Skip’s well-known tendency to shoot from the hip- and the lip- got him in a lot of trouble.  He’d have to scramble to do damage control.  And Skip in a scramble was a thing of beauty- and hilarity.  Hays and I would endlessly trade “Skip ” stories to see whose could top whose.

The stories weren’t all fun and games, however.  Like Tony Soprano, Skip could be a bad guy to cross.  You wouldn’t end up dead or anything but if he ever took a deep breath, looked his opponent- a bad waiter, a rude desk clerk, an incompetent ski lift operator- square in the eye and said, “Now let me get this straight…” you knew that you’d better duck.  You wouldn’t want to get caught in the crossfire that was going to ensue.

Or you could secretly grin and watch Mr. Mt. Vesuvio have to back peddle as his “I want to talk to your supervisor” technique sometimes blew up in his face.  Because of his low boiling point, this happened just as frequently.  It was always a toss-up when Skip threw down.  An innocent bystander never knew how the eruption was exactly going to go.  This made it all the more exciting.  Some service person who had just crossed Skip could end up fired.  Or he could end up with an apology and a big raise.  With Skip it could go either way.

Two true Skip stories.

Skip’s niece was getting married out of town.  Because her father- Skip’s beloved older brother- was dead, Skip acted as pater familias to the entire family.  So in that role, he flew down a few days early to the destination wedding site just to make sure that everything would run like clockwork.

The problems began at the front desk of the local hotel.  Not exactly the Four Seasons and not exactly what Skip was used to in terms of service- or promptness.  Remember the episode on 30 Rock when Liz Lemon and Jack went to see the comedians at the Chuckle Hut in Stone Mountain?  It was just like that.

The guy at the front desk was less than helpful, the bellman was lazy or dilatory or something, his room wasn’t clean.  I don’t remember all the gory details.  All I do know is that at the end of his very first day, Skip had gotten pretty much the entire staff of the little, carelessly-run hotel fired.

That was AOK until his niece, the bride-to-be, flew down and told her Uncle Skip that the wedding was going to be held there on Saturday.  Oops.  Everyone was immediately re-hired with raises and abject apologies from the mischief-maker-in-chief.  Skip had to eat his wedding cake with a huge side order of crow.

And then there was the Rolling Stones’ Voodoo Lounge concert of 1994.  Skip had been rubbing it in about his VIP tickets and finally, I got envious enough to ask him to bring me back a t-shirt.  Done.  The day after, I got my concert recap from Skip.  It had been great- but no souvenir shirt would be forthcoming for me.

Skip had, in fact, purchased the shirt for yours truly- along with a couple of hundred dollars more swag.  Then he stowed the bag under his primo seat and rocked out to the Stones.  But as he was up from his seat and dancing, he noticed a very suspicious character lurking off to one side and clutching a bag.  Skip described the guy to me as a “hippie freak.”  Who clearly didn’t belong in Skip’s very select VIP section.

Quickly, he checked under his seat- and no bag.  It was gone.  Hippie Freak had a bag.  Skip had none.  Skip did the math and the ushers were called.  The freak protested loudly.  The security guards were called.  Still more protests.  The hippie freak was now actively fighting back and so were the guards.  A melee ensued.  Riot batons were used.  The bag was forcibly removed and given back to Skip.  The freak was dragged away. The concert got back to normal.

Then Skip opened the bag.  It wasn’t his.  Someone else had stolen his swag and Skip now had the hippie freak’s concert souvenirs.

Another oops.  I loved this story and immediately went to “You Name It” in Glencoe and had a t-shirt made up for him.  It said “I went to the Rolling Stones’ Voodoo Lounge concert and I had to beat up a hippie freak to get this shirt.”

He framed it.  Very Skip.

Unforgettable.

Now did you get all of that straight?

Even though many of my friends vacationed in Palm Springs over Christmas, it’s my unshakeable opinion that the weather there doesn’t turn perfect until after what used-to–be-called the Bob Hope Desert Classic in January.  Arnold Palmer won the very first one- and that ought to give you all an idea about how long I have been going to Palm Springs.

The fact that the tourney has had more name changes than me doesn’t dampen my enthusiasm for it- or this wonderful town. Over the years I’ve had a lot of fun in the sun- a great candy store, btw.  (Remember their festive red and white striped boxes?) and with the last of winter still stubbornly hanging around here, now seemed a good a time to share my memories of my very first trip there.

I made my first P.S. visit in  February 1970.  My girlfriend Vicki’s parents were warming a house on Via Estrella and they were going to throw a bash to end all bashes.  Vicki wanted someone under sixty to represent.  I was tapped.

OMG!  The house.  It was my first experience with modern architecture meets Dick Himmel’s “the sky’s the limit” design budget.  Every where you looked was a Warholian feast for the eye.  The furniture was lucite. The pop art priceless.  The rugs were designed by Vasarely.  And the setting was great- smack dab on a fairway of the Canyon Country Club.  Our twenty-year-old feet never touched a gas pedal- unless it was attached to a golf cart.

We would wake up late, zip over to the club and lunch deliciously (and on the cuff of Vicki’s folks’) as we watched the party prep.  Workers drained the family pool, built a dance floor over it, and pitched a gigantic tent to cover the gala proceedings.

And as we watched, the rest of the club watched too. Half of the club was invited to the shindig, and watching the tent go up replaced gin rummy as the favorite afternoon club activity.

But when a sudden gust of desert wind blew the tent down, the other half- the half that hadn’t been invited- cheered nonstop for five minutes.  It was mortifying- yet really funny.  It was my first experience with party schadenfreude.

It was my first experience with other things, too.  It was the first time I saw a personal bodyguard at a private event.  The night of the party, guest Bobo Rockefeller was sporting some major ice and a flatfoot shadowed her all evening.  The party also coincided with Vicki’s twenty-first birthday and her parents had lavished upon her a diamond and sapphire bracelet that Peggy Hopkins Joyce would have been proud to flaunt.  I had never seen that before either.

They drove a Mercedes-Benz.  First time in one of those.  (All the rich people I heretofore knew had Lincoln Continentals, Chrysler Imperials or Cadillacs.)  Vicki had a darling Yorkshire terrier named Samantha.  First time I had ever seen one of those up close and personal, too.

We wined and dined all over town.  Went to Dominick’s.  Feasted at Ol Blue Eyes’ favorite hangout- the late, great Ruby’s Dunes- where we did see Frank and his buddy, Jilly Rizzo.  Vicki loved Le Vallauris.  I loved the Billy’s double burger at Billy Reed’s.  (Along with their cream of chicken soup and Boston cream pie.  Ah, the appetite and basal metabolism of youth. Those were the days…)

I met movie stars.  I even necked with one very minor, very handsome one- before he went on to marry a much bigger movie star.  I drank my very first Bullshot at the Racquet Club.  The two events were not unrelated.

We went out to The Nest in Indian Wells for dinner.  To get there you needed a passport.  This was as far and as uninhabited as Mars in those days.  Miles and miles of absolutely nothing on 111 back then.  No malls, no housing developments, no car dealerships, no hotels, no golf courses.  They hadn’t even started building Bob Hope’s famous house yet.  (Just on the market for $50 million- in case you’re interested.)

There was Smoke Tree Ranch, the Elephant Car Wash, Tamarisk Country Club, and then the end of the line- La Quinta.  The drive took so long that I thought I was in Mexico.

Our days were spent dolce far niente.  Mostly us girls just worked on our tans. One day however, Vicki, who was kind of a jock, wanted to play some golf.

“Watch Sam (the teensy, precious Yorkie) for me, El.  I want to get in a fast round,” she called over her shoulder to the dog and me as we both lay on her back patio that abutted the Canyon golf course.

“No problem,” I replied.  “I’ll take good care of her.”

And I meant to.  Honest.  But the hot desert sun, and the late night partying, and Tom Jones on the radio, and that Bullshot from two days ago were all too much for me and soon I drifted off.

When I woke an hour later… no dog.  She was nowhere to be found.  As I frantically gazed around I realized that the only place she could have gone was the golf course.  It was enormous and I didn’t even know where to begin to look.  I seriously thought about packing my bags and slinking back to Chicago, but loyalty to my friend, the dog and that very handsome, minor movie star got my ass in gear.

I combed the course for an hour, (quietly) calling her name.  And finally, I saw her, huddled in terror by the cup of the seventeenth hole.

I don’t know which one of us was more relieved.  I smuggled her back to the patio and resumed the positon. Vicki strolled in moments later and was none the wiser.  My vacay was saved.

I was destined to return to Palm Springs many more times.  Once on a honeymoon.  Once for an entire winter. We had rented Frank’s old house on Via Alejo and the house was still on the route of the Hollywood bus tour of movie star homes.  I would wave to the tourists rubbernecking to get a glimpse of Frank or Ava- or even Jilly. But it was only me and Natasha- a three month old infant at the time.

The Nest’s cannelloni remained my favorite destination meal.  I never stopped loving it.  And I’ve never stopped loving the desert, either.  The  purple mountains, the incredible climate.  (I know.  I know. Unrelentingly dry.  But my ski-broken leg and pelvis love that.)

And next winter, if any of you guys send me one more Instagram or Facebook pic showing me what a good time I have been missing, …consider yourself warned.  You’d better get your guest room ready.  I can dog sit for you.  (I promise to stay away from Bullshots and minor movie stars.)

But not until after January fifteenth, if you don’t mind.  I like my Palm Springs the way I always remember it.

Perfect.

My maiden name is Roffe.  As in “coffee.”  You pronounce the final “e.” It’s not silent. We’ve been told that the name was corrupted from the Hebrew word that means “doctor.”  I don’t really know.  (Are there any Hebrew scholars in the house?)

But I do know that my father was very proud of it and encouraged my brother, Kenny, and me to feel the same way. (I’ll never forget how insulted he was when a rabbi accusingly said “Roffe?  What kind of name is that?”  My father, the kindest of men, and the most respectful, was deeply hurt by this.)  Okay.  So it wasn’t traditional.  Not a “Stein” or a “Berg” or a “Cohen” in the place.  But we liked it- despite its singularity.  But I also know that everyone left off the “e” and called me “Ellen Roff.”

It started at the Avoca School in Wilmette, Illinois.  First day first grade.  Mrs. Dale was taking attendance.  “Susan Rasmussen?”  “Here.”  “Butch Ream?”  “Here.”  “Ellen Roff?”  And without even thinking I answered “E. Here.”

This teacher mispronunciation took place every September whenever I entered a new grade.  It was a real fall ritual. Mrs. Carmichael: “Ellen Roff?”  “E. Here.”  Miss Ostlund: “Ellen Roff?”  “E. Here.”  Mrs. McLaughlin: “Ellen Roff?”

But by now, the other kids had learned the drill.  They’d wait and in unison- in a show of support and boredom- (things weren’t all that lively in our little fourth grade class) they’d all shout out “E. Here!”

It was great.  It made me feel special on every first day of school.  And the practice continued through high school.  Even though I went from a class of eighty-three into a class of twelve hundred at New Trier, there was always someone who, whenever attendance was taken, would chime in with me “E. Here.”

That came to a halt in college.  Not the dropping of the “e.”  Having someone around who knew what to say when they called my last name.

University of Wisconsin, Madison.  First day freshman English 101 class.  Our professor, Mr. Grande (Italian, and ironically, I was the only one in class who knew how to pronounce his name) gave the class a writing assignment.  He had us read a longish paragraph and then summarize it in one sentence.  After a few minutes, we handed in our papers and watched as he read them.  I waited.  I knew what was coming.

Dutifully, and by rote, I saw his bowed head as he scanned each entry, and with a sigh, put it into a discard pile.  Then he got to one, read it, stopped, read it again, and put it off to one side.  He looked up, his eyes sweeping the classroom.

“Where is Ellen Roff?” he asked.

“E. Here,” I replied.

“See me after class.”  I did.  I knew.

“What are you doing in here?” he demanded.  “This is English 101.  You clearly belong in 181- the honors class.  What happened to you?”

I didn’t really know.  I knew a mistake had been made.  I had been in the honors English class ever since Mrs. Dale’s Blue reading group.  I had always been in four level English at New Trier and had aced it most of the time.  I had been teacher’s pet of the Great Books class and that was tough.  But I didn’t know what happened exactly.  Maybe I hadn’t done well enough on my English Achievement AP Test or something.  Like I said I didn’t know.  All I did know is that when I got my fall class schedule, I had been put into English 101 and now I was stuck.

“Well, there is only one way out for you, Miss Roffe,” Mr. Grande told me.  “If you get an A this semester you will automatically be placed in English 182 for the next semester. But I must warn you that it’s very difficult.  People who are here usually belong here and never get an A in my class.  But I think you can do it.”

I did.  And second semester, when I caught up to my old New Trier four level English buddies- now in English 182- I was greeted by a chorus of catcalls of “Where have you been?” and  “Nice detour!”  and “We’ve missed you!” and “Welcome home.”

It felt great to be back.  And I was kind of famous again for having gotten that rare, elusive A in English 101.

I left Madison and the Roffe name behind in 1969.  And I have been Ross since 1976.  So I’ve been Ross much longer than Roffe by now. Well, that’s okay by me.  I like Ross.  It’s short, my by-line, and an homage to my maiden name.

Yeah, that’s right.  On the phone, whenever I say it, people mis-hear it all the time.  Somehow the “ss” gets lost in translation.  The person on the other end of the telephone usually asks “Roff? Roff?” until I spell it out.  (“R-O-S- as in Sam-S as in Sam” I  have tell them.)

But I’m always tempted to say E. (still) Here.

Author’s Note:  This post involves tons of luxury automobile name-dropping.  If you suffer from car-envy, you’d better skip it.

In 1976, after a whirlwind courtship, my then husband Bill marched me into Howard Orloff’s foreign car dealership, spread his arms expansively and said, “What color do you want?”  (That question would go down in history as one of the best ever directed at me.)

I picked silver.  Jaguar threw in the rest- an XJ6L with a blue interior.  Bill plunked down $14,000 hard cash. (Can you believe that?) And I waltzed out on cloud nine with an incredibly beautiful car.  I LOVED that car.  It was a knockout- so sleek, so elegant.  I had never owned anything that nice in my life- and I took it as a symbol of Bill’s love and esteem, too.

I gingerly drove it home to the garage in our apartment building.  I nervously parked it.  Would it be okay down there with all the other cars?  Bill read my mind, and the next day he brought me door “blankets”- thick protective padding that attached to the car’s sides by magnets.  This assured the Jaguar of a good night’s rest undisturbed by careless dings from other parkers who didn’t care about it with the same rabid devotion as me.

I pampered that baby daily.  (I hadn’t even dreamt of Natasha yet.  So all my maternal instincts were channeled into the Jag.)  I drove it with a hyper-vigilance of a paranoid demolition derby contestant.  And every night, when I pulled into my parking space, I would tuck it in with its protective bedding and give thanks that I had made it through another dangerous obstacle course of narrow city side streets, crazed taxi cabs, rogue Chicago buses and careless Coke delivery trucks.

This was my routine for the first month or so.  And then one morning my new husband dropped the bomb.

“I have to borrow your car today.  Switch cars with me.”

I didn’t hesitate for a second.  “No.”

“I need to borrow your car,” he patiently explained. “I am driving some customers around and my car only has two seats.”

“No.  I do not want anyone driving my car and I hate driving anyone’s else’s.  What if something happens?  I’m not comfortable and nothing you can say will make me change my mind.”

I stood firm.  I absolutely loathe driving other people’s cars.  I have a real phobia about it.

“The business paid for that car,” he reminded me.

“Here’s the keys.”

I spent the rest of that day in a cold sweat.  I had to drive out to the suburbs in his little Mercedes 450SL and I was a wreck.  All the buttons were different, all the markings were strange, and when it started to sleet, I actually had to jump out in the Winnetka ravines and clear off the windshield by hand because I couldn’t locate the wipers.  When I finally pulled into our garage unscathed I breathed a sigh of relief that heaved me all way up into our apartment.  I was still unwinding when I heard Bill at the door.  I ran to meet him.  (Those were the honeymoon days.)

“Hi, honey!” I said with a kiss. “How are you?”

He gave me a sheepish grin.  “Actually, I didn’t have a very good day today.”

“What’s the matter?  Did you lose at tennis?” I asked, very concerned for my new hubby’s state of mind.

“No, I didn’t lose at tennis.  A van ran a red light at Mid-Town Tennis Club and totalled your car.”

“That’s really funny,” I grinned.  “Come on, you can tell me.”

“No, I’m perfectly serious.  Some kids ran a light and t-boned your car.  It’s a wreck.”

I stood there blinking.  I could not take this in.  (And let me say up front that he looked fine. Not a hair out of place.  He clearly hadn’t been hurt.)

“Are you telling me my car is outside?  In the cold?” I was in a state of shock and denial.

“Outside?  What I’m telling you is that your car is now a twisted piece of junk in a gas station near Midtown.”

I swooned.  He had to take me out of town to revive me- and promise to restore my car to as good as new.

Two months later the shop called and told me to come get it.  All seemed fine as I was driving on the Outer Drive toward our love nest.  Until I noticed a strange fog that seemed to encapsulate my car.  Other people seemed to be noticing too.  Drivers were honking and waving and pointing.  They all seemed to be aware of what I decided must be that “Lake Effect” that I heard the weathermen talk about.

Finally I thought I had better pull off and see what the fuss was about.  The “Lake Effect” was smoke.  My engine was on fire.

I ran across the street to a pay phone and called Bill.  “My car is on fire!  What do I do?”

“Pop the hood and tell me how high the flames are,” he helpfully suggested.

Uh. No.  The rest is a blur.  Somehow the car fire was doused and I got home.  The Jaguar went back to the shop where it was discovered that they had neglected to hook up the radiator hoses.  It was gone again for a very long time but this time around Bill had it show-painted for me as a consolation prize and it looked great.

The car got returned just in time to spend the next winter in the garage.  We had recently moved to Barrington Hills, a bucolic suburb, and our new house had a very long driveway.  With a snow accumulation of more than an inch, the low-clearance Jag couldn’t negotiate it.  It sat idle until spring.

After Natasha was born, I asked Bill to bring the Jag to take me home from the hospital because I knew its very cushy ride would be just the thing the ob-gyn ordered.  Then we all moved to Winnetka.  The next year I was driving my stepdaughter, Patti, around when a little old man hit us.  We weren’t hurt but the car was a mess.  Again.

“Look what you did!” I screamed at him.  “This car is a Jaguar!  This car has a custom paint job!  Do you have any idea how long that took?”

He shrugged.  And the car was gone again for months.  This time to Imperial Motors in Wilmette.  After another body shop eternity, they called and told me it was as good as new.  I picked it up, drove it 0.76 miles (according to Mapquest) and it died at the Kenilworth train station two minutes later.  They flat-bedded it back to their body shop.

When I finally got the car back it never worked perfectly again.  The electrical system was screwed up, it was always over-heating, I couldn’t run the AC for more than ten minutes and the power windows refused to cooperate.  I had to open the door to toss in change at toll booths.  But it was gorgeous.

By 1981 I still loved it but I was tired of the never-ending adventure that driving the Jag had become.  I reluctantly traded it in for the most dependable tank of a car I could find- a Mercedes 300D.  D as in diesel.  Driving that car was always a dull moment.

(This was definitely not the car I was supposed to be driving however.  Bill, in his frenzy to have a boy after four daughters, promised that he would buy me a Rolls Royce Corniche convertible if I delivered.  On April 21, 1980 I did.  But he didn’t.)

Post script:  I walked into the Mercedes dealership a couple of months after the trade-in and I was greeted by our salesman, Bob.  “How do you like the car, Mrs. Ross?’ he asked.

“It’s fine, Bob, but it’s no Jaguar.  I miss it every day,” I sighed.

“Oh, that reminds me,” he said.  “We sold your car the same day you brought it in.  It was so beautiful that it flew off the lot.”

“No surprise there,” I agreed.

“Yeah, but three days later it blew up on the lady who bought it.  Was she angry!  It’s the first time the State’s Attorney’s office was ever called in on us.  You got out just in time.

Ah well.  Looks, as we all know, can be deceiving.  Guess I’m a sucker- in cars and in men- for a pretty face.

Safety Tip to self:  Always remember to check with previous owner before buying.

In 1978 my then husband had a Mercedes-Benz he wanted to sell.  It was a ’75 forest green 450SL in pristine condition and he knew he could get more for it in a private sale than in a trade-in. So he placed an ad in the paper and parked it at his office.  He didn’t have long to wait.  The very next day he reported back.

“Some guy walked in first thing this morning and bought the car for his vacation house in Palm Springs.”

End of story.  But in 1979, when we were in Rancho Mirage buying baby duds for Natasha, he suddenly nudged me and nodded towards another couple in the store.  They were accompanied by two cute tow-headed little boys.

“There’s the guy who bought my Mercedes,” he said.

They had spotted us at the same time.  “Small world!” was exclaimed by all and the coincidence led the four of us to a dinner date which led to a friendship that lasted until Anne and Noel moved full-time to California and my husband pulled the plug on train-wrecked me.

But the many years we did have together were great.  They were a lovely couple- kind and generous- and the chance reunion resulted in a wonderful charity partnership between the blonde, cooly-efficient Anne and myself.  We successfully co-chaired many events for Steppenwolf Theatre Company together.  I particularly remember one highly-creative ad book, one semi-exciting movie premiere with guest star Richard Gere, (mean, standoffish, bored, but all the while looking like a human Armani poster) and a great party that paired me with Albert Finney as a dinner partner.  (Fabulous raconteur.  Dishy- in both senses of the word. Down-to-earth.  Memorable.)

And Anne and Noel were generous in another way, too.  The sale of that car bought one other wonderful lagniappe into my life.  The beautiful- both inside and out- Karen.

Anne and Noel and Karen and her husband, Danny, were long-time best friends.  (I think  three of them had lived in the same apartment complex when they were all still single.  Help me out with the backstory here, guys.) In any event, they were a very tight foursome, and it was inevitable that the new friends of Anne and Noel would get to meet the old friends of Anne and Noel one day.

It was 1983.  Return of the Jedi.  The six of us met up for a movie date. And though the movie was fun and exciting, Danny was more so.  See the cartoon that heads up my blog?  I’m sure you all recognize Napoleon by now.  But long before I ever dreamt of blogging, that’s what I had christened Danny.  Napoleon.

Short on stature, long on personality.  Full of opinions, feisty, funny, tough, quick, never to be ignored. Even in the dark of that long ago movie theater, he sparkled with electricity.  He and I hit it off right away.  Our personalities played off one and other and he made me laugh.  A sure road to my good books. And he and my husband bonded too- over deals, investments, golf, life- two savvy businessmen sharing a hard-nosed world view.

But my reaction to Karen- also immediate- was very different.  From the first moment I saw her, I fell in love.  Not just with her face, as lovely as it it is, but with her temperament.  She simply radiated goodness.  And her mood never varied.  She always smiled.  Now don’t get me wrong.  That is not to say that her life- or any of ours for that matter- has been untouched by problems and challenges.  But somehow, Karen remained serene.  I have never once seen her angry, testy, piqued or even miffed.  She has never been, to my knowledge, even cranky.

And this sweetness of spirit is reflected in her face.  It’s beautiful- and not because of creams or potions. Karen’s face shines with an inner glow.  It is the mirror of a happy heart.  Chaos in a personality like mine is drawn to calm.  And her aura drew me like a magnet.  I always felt better just by being around her.

Now none of this has anything to do with the fact of her undeniable generosity to me and my causes.  Her unwavering support of my endeavors was wonderful and truly appreciated but they were always kind of beside the point.  I just reacted viscerally to Karen’s nature.  She made me feel tranquil and okay.  She was like sunshine for my soul.  A balm upon troubled waters.  She didn’t have to do or say anything.  Just being near her was like a vacation from angst.

I have no explanation as to why I always felt this way.  But I bet I’m not the only one.  Her husband would agree, I think.  And her two great daughters, although, they might tell me that she had- on rare occasion- gotten a teensy bit miffed with them as they grew up.  (Maybe.)

And I would guess that her sons-in-law would probably have to second my emotion.  I bet they never chime in with the awful mother-in-law jokes.  How could they?  And she has to be the sweetest grandmother ever.  If we all get the face we deserve, Karen got a beauty.  And I get to gaze upon it from time to time and feel great myself.

Pretty good deal on a used car, wouldn’t you say?