Duly Noted
My Memory Of Jackie Robinson
NOTES – FEBRUARY 2019
January 31, 2019 was Jackie Robinson’s 100th birthday and the NY Times published a special section with stories about him and almost every nightly newscaster spoke about him. And it struck me that none of them ever actually met him. But I did. And thought it about time to tell the story. My father, John Martin, managed the Bear Mountain Inn where the Brooklyn Dodgers came for spring training during the war (1942-45). We became close friends of many of the Dodgers, especially their travelling secretary Harold Parrott and his family. So close that Harold and his wife Josephine became my sister’s Godparents. When the Dodgers began going south every spring we went along and in 1946 the team trained in Daytona Beach, Florida. One-day Branch Rickey insisted a group of us go with him to see a baseball game in a “colored” ball park. There was a player he liked. 
This picture, taken in the bleachers of that ball park, is of me (age 14) and Anne Mulvey (age 16) in our Dodger jackets and penny loafers. Then Connie Desmond the Dodger radio announcer (who shared the booth with Red Barber), and Jim Mulvey, Anne’s Dad who was a major owner of the Dodgers. On the seats above us were Jack Smith (the NY Daily News sports writer) and my Dad, John Martin. This was the first time any of us met Jackie Robinson.
I didn’t meet the amazing Rachel until she and Jackie moved to Brooklyn and came to visit the Parrotts at their home in Rockaway and we all went to the beach. Jackie saw me watching him put on sun tan lotion and said, with a twinkle in his eye, “Bet you thought we didn’t burn”. He was right. I was mortified. 
In ’49 the team trained in Vero Beach and we were staying with the Parrotts at Dodgertown. Mom and I planned to drive to Palm Beach, do some shopping, and see the exhibition game. And Harold asked Mom if she would bring Jackie (Robinson) and Roy (Campanella) back home after the game since the team bus was stopping for dinner on the road in a restaurant where they would not be served. So it was me and Mom who picked up the guys at the stadium players’ entrance and it started an uproar. I witnessed a hate I’d never imagined but was all too familiar to Roy and Jackie. They were horribly embarrassed for us and apologetic and it was a scary few minutes but we got back to Vero without incident. Besides the horrid calls aimed at two blonde women driving away with two black men, what I remember most was the decency and dignity of Jackie and Roy compared to the profound ignorance of the men shouting at us. And it pains my heart that 70 years later too much of that prejudice still exists.
In 1976 Harold wrote a great book about those times called THE LORDS OF BASEBALL with a foreword from the Times Red Smith. I will always treasure my copy of that book signed by Rachel Robinson “To Terry, with many happy memories”.
In 2013 scenes lifted from that book were played out in the movie “42” where Harold was shown as Mr. Rickey’s bespeckled assistant and Anne Mulvey’s husband, the pitcher Ralph Branca, was portrayed as the sympathetic teammate who befriended Jackie. So here is my true story. Which I wanted to document because I am now 87 and when Jackie Robinson’s name comes up and I say “I knew him” someone invariably says “Sit down dear and I’ll get you a glass of water”. The Adventure Continues
Well those tv shows my granddaughter Casey and I did have finally been aired and the response is mostly positive. They were fun to do and the talk was lighthearted and we giggled a lot. But the underlining dichotomy is more profound.
We discussed the change in rules of dating and sex in two generations. In terms of modern civilization that is a short time and what’s clear is that my old fashioned views which had held for centuries had quickly morphed into more loose attitudes toward dating and sex. The question being is this good or bad? The easy answer is probably both. Casey was asked at what point in a date did a guy suggest a sex act. Her reply was sometime it was after he bought you two beers. A low threshold. When I was asked that question the answer was NEVER…no young man dating an Irish Catholic girl in the fifties would dare be so brash. Because I would be horrified and tell my Mother and she would call his Mother and all hell would break loose. |
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The generation between Casey’s and mine had a breakthough in that couples lived together before they married. That is something I applaud because I knew too many couples back in the day who married without full disclosure and those were not happy unions. But sex as a part of casual dating still seems unfortunate to me. Males love it but females often feel used and abused. And deeper, committed relationships can get lost along the way.
Or maybe I am subliminally being affected because I missed out on all that recreational sex. I was a typical bride when most honeymoons were described as The Original Amateur Hour! Although my Mother’s brother, Uncle John, often complained that the sexual revolution came just as he ran out of ammunition I am grateful for all I missed. Having been born in 1932 and preceding to a traditional family life, I also missed a bikini wax or a breast pump. It wasn’t all bad!
Or maybe I am subliminally being affected because I missed out on all that recreational sex. I was a typical bride when most honeymoons were described as The Original Amateur Hour! Although my Mother’s brother, Uncle John, often complained that the sexual revolution came just as he ran out of ammunition I am grateful for all I missed. Having been born in 1932 and preceding to a traditional family life, I also missed a bikini wax or a breast pump. It wasn’t all bad!
Researching current sexual mores as part of this column I asked a man-about-town why when men can pick up a woman in bar so easily do they still frequent prostitutes. He said they don’t pay them for sex they pay them to go away afterwards.
Which reminded me of my favorite humorist Groucho Marx who claimed, “I remember the first time I had sex. I kept the receipt.”
Which reminded me of my favorite humorist Groucho Marx who claimed, “I remember the first time I had sex. I kept the receipt.”
New Adventure
My granddaughter Casey who is 27 and lives in Manhattan called me a few weeks ago having been contacted by a tv producer friend with an offer. A new show being put together involves a grown granddaughter and grandmother discussing dating and sex. Casey is beautiful and poised and game for this…all she needed was a grandmother. That would be me.
We auditioned via skype and heard nothing until last week when were emailed “call sheets” indicating we would have to be at a Brooklyn studio at 1pm on a Saturday. We got there on time and the next 10 hours are a blur. Three times, to get us out of the way because they were way behind schedule, we were sent off into what best can be called a “dicey” neighborhood. Lest you think I exaggerate the nearest decent restaurant we were shuttled to for dinner was 24 blocks away.
My granddaughter Casey who is 27 and lives in Manhattan called me a few weeks ago having been contacted by a tv producer friend with an offer. A new show being put together involves a grown granddaughter and grandmother discussing dating and sex. Casey is beautiful and poised and game for this…all she needed was a grandmother. That would be me.
We auditioned via skype and heard nothing until last week when were emailed “call sheets” indicating we would have to be at a Brooklyn studio at 1pm on a Saturday. We got there on time and the next 10 hours are a blur. Three times, to get us out of the way because they were way behind schedule, we were sent off into what best can be called a “dicey” neighborhood. Lest you think I exaggerate the nearest decent restaurant we were shuttled to for dinner was 24 blocks away.
The crew were unfailingly kind and considerate despite being tired and hot especially since the air conditioner had to be turned off when filming because it impacted the delicate sound equipment. We finally began taping at 9pm and the gobs of makeup applied to our stunned faces quickly melted under hot lights in a room already at tropical degrees. Filming was halted several times so the make-up girl could attempt to powder off our sweat. She eventually surrendered and just blotted us with paper towels.
We shared an adventure. We were questioned on our approach to sexuality. Don’t ask! One question was what we each would look for in a blind date. Casey is tall and wanted a tall Democrat. I said I would like him to actually be blind and I’d be happy to act his guide all the while assuring him that I am young, slim and blond.
We shared an adventure. We were questioned on our approach to sexuality. Don’t ask! One question was what we each would look for in a blind date. Casey is tall and wanted a tall Democrat. I said I would like him to actually be blind and I’d be happy to act his guide all the while assuring him that I am young, slim and blond.
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It was 11:15 pm when we were loaded into an Uber for a ride home but our adventure wasn’t over. Our friendly driver while familiar with his own neighborhood spoke little English and was lost trying to locate Manhattan. We now toured areas of Brooklyn totally unknown to me (who not only was born there but went to college there).
Our driver began praying out loud. We finally got to Manhattan which is the easiest place to navigate…the streets are numbered east to west and the avenues are pretty much numbered south to north. It isn’t easy to get lost but he managed it. |
It had become stunningly clear that the odds on his finding my home in Nyack, 30 miles north, were slim to non existent so Casey called my daughter who was at an event at Lincoln Center with her husband. They waited there and with me navigating our driver got us there. I hope he got back home.
At my age having a new adventure is a treat…sharing it with my granddaughter made it a hoot. I am grateful that I’ve lived to watch and share the changing world. Who know where this goes but it got me thinking how dramatically sexual mores have changed in two generations and wonder if those transformations are making life better? Easier? More fulfilling? Better for men? Better for women?
Stay tuned!!
At my age having a new adventure is a treat…sharing it with my granddaughter made it a hoot. I am grateful that I’ve lived to watch and share the changing world. Who know where this goes but it got me thinking how dramatically sexual mores have changed in two generations and wonder if those transformations are making life better? Easier? More fulfilling? Better for men? Better for women?
Stay tuned!!
Surviving Old Age
As some of you know, I have spent time researching the positive side of advanced age . . . a project I titled “Surviving Old Age” which may seem like an oxymoron. But since all survival is temporary . . . not so much!
To facilitate this project I have moved to Florida for the winters, which given the weather in New York, has proved providential. I wanted to be in the state most often referred to as “God’s Waiting Room” to understand why older people want to be with other older people. Answer. They don’t. They just want to be warm. And not risk important bones on icy sidewalks.
To facilitate this project I have moved to Florida for the winters, which given the weather in New York, has proved providential. I wanted to be in the state most often referred to as “God’s Waiting Room” to understand why older people want to be with other older people. Answer. They don’t. They just want to be warm. And not risk important bones on icy sidewalks.
What I’ve discovered is that given reasonable health, most old (75+) people are thoroughly enjoying life. Age, like distance, offers perspective. Liberated from the expectations of others, free to explore new territory, seniors are often happier than younger people. The NY Times actually had a front page article about seniors who see old age as a “never ending adventure”, even pursuing risky sports (because, let’s be honest, they haven’t much to lose). They can concentrate on the present because there’s not a lot of future. Like the song says, “forever more is shorter than before.”
We who were born before 1940 may seem to be circling the drain but in fact we are more optimistic than we were in our youth. Our lives are simplified. We have nothing left to prove. Men who were expected to produce more than they consumed have that weight lifted off their backs. Women who took responsibility for child care and the rigors of homemaking are liberated. For me, just the absence of small faces turned to me every day asking “What’s for dinner?” is a get-out-jail-free card. When you’re over the hill you’re allowed to coast.
We’ve been educated about the survival of the fittest but we are testament to the truth that survival is the reward of the most adaptable . . . so just the fact that we’re still here proves we’ve mastered some handy tricks. And old age is harvest time. You are reaping what you sowed. Your children are raised, the grandchildren are undisguised blessings and your family’s expectations of you are limited. Although in these troubled times they fervently hope you don’t run out of money before you run out of breath.
Recently the Times’ David Brooks wrote a column that generated enormous response. It was titled “The Geezer Crusade” and portrayed a rosy picture of life after retirement. Where Freud claimed that old people aren’t educable, current studies prove older people retain abilities and continue to develop. And Brooks ends his column with a plea for the elderly to lead a generational revolution to make life better for their grandchildren. His last line was “The elderly. They are our future.” Who would have thought!!
I tell friends hitting 80 “You won”. In the often unfair game of life you have what money can’t buy. Time. So at 84 I remain encouraged and optimistic and grateful that of all the rules I’ve been told about old age only one immutable one remains. “If someone offers you a breath mint, take it.”
Recently the Times’ David Brooks wrote a column that generated enormous response. It was titled “The Geezer Crusade” and portrayed a rosy picture of life after retirement. Where Freud claimed that old people aren’t educable, current studies prove older people retain abilities and continue to develop. And Brooks ends his column with a plea for the elderly to lead a generational revolution to make life better for their grandchildren. His last line was “The elderly. They are our future.” Who would have thought!!
I tell friends hitting 80 “You won”. In the often unfair game of life you have what money can’t buy. Time. So at 84 I remain encouraged and optimistic and grateful that of all the rules I’ve been told about old age only one immutable one remains. “If someone offers you a breath mint, take it.”
What no one tells you
Have you ever noticed how many things no one ever tells you? Universal truths exist but for some reason, in accordance with some unwritten law, you have to find them out for yourself. And then when you finally do figure it out you’re expected to keep it to yourself.
There are the lies we were told as children. “Good things come in small packages.” Small things come in small packages. “It hurts me more than it hurts you.” No Way! “The best things in life are free.” But the tragic things like sickness and death cost a bundle. “A friend in need is a friend indeed.” Actually a friend in need is a pain in the ass.
My current concerns are the myths about old age which I approached more rapidly than I’d expected. Having been warned that when you’re over the hill you learn to coast, I felt fully prepared to slow down a bit but no one told me that after eighty short years the warranty on my parts would run out. That past my sell-by-date, my pipes would clog and I’d need all new washers. That eyes and ears would become inept, gums less gummy and teeth wobbly. That a waist that heretofore had only stretched horizontally would begin inching upward vertically like a badly tuned TV picture, threatening a rather nasty collision with a simultaneously falling bust. And that knees would commence to malfunction, working well enough to lower me down but failing dismally to boost me back up again.
Worse yet the old age I was assured would make me more mellow has not worked out. In fact it has further diminished my chronically weak resolve to set a good example. I blurt out truths because whatever filter used to keep me politically correct has also degraded. Opinions best kept to myself are now shared with anyone within earshot. Discretion has evaporated altogether and worst of all, I (who actually knew the identity of Deep Throat) blab ceaselessly about the most confidential information. I’m becoming like my friend Doris who claimed “C’mon tell me. You know I can keep a secret. It’s just those loudmouths I tell it to that can’t.” My grandchildren tease that I have one foot in the grave and the other in my mouth.
Notwithstanding all these complaints, I am thoroughly enjoying old age and concur with Groucho Marks who declared . . . ”Dying is the LAST thing I want to do”.
Have you ever noticed how many things no one ever tells you? Universal truths exist but for some reason, in accordance with some unwritten law, you have to find them out for yourself. And then when you finally do figure it out you’re expected to keep it to yourself.
There are the lies we were told as children. “Good things come in small packages.” Small things come in small packages. “It hurts me more than it hurts you.” No Way! “The best things in life are free.” But the tragic things like sickness and death cost a bundle. “A friend in need is a friend indeed.” Actually a friend in need is a pain in the ass.
My current concerns are the myths about old age which I approached more rapidly than I’d expected. Having been warned that when you’re over the hill you learn to coast, I felt fully prepared to slow down a bit but no one told me that after eighty short years the warranty on my parts would run out. That past my sell-by-date, my pipes would clog and I’d need all new washers. That eyes and ears would become inept, gums less gummy and teeth wobbly. That a waist that heretofore had only stretched horizontally would begin inching upward vertically like a badly tuned TV picture, threatening a rather nasty collision with a simultaneously falling bust. And that knees would commence to malfunction, working well enough to lower me down but failing dismally to boost me back up again.
Worse yet the old age I was assured would make me more mellow has not worked out. In fact it has further diminished my chronically weak resolve to set a good example. I blurt out truths because whatever filter used to keep me politically correct has also degraded. Opinions best kept to myself are now shared with anyone within earshot. Discretion has evaporated altogether and worst of all, I (who actually knew the identity of Deep Throat) blab ceaselessly about the most confidential information. I’m becoming like my friend Doris who claimed “C’mon tell me. You know I can keep a secret. It’s just those loudmouths I tell it to that can’t.” My grandchildren tease that I have one foot in the grave and the other in my mouth.
Notwithstanding all these complaints, I am thoroughly enjoying old age and concur with Groucho Marks who declared . . . ”Dying is the LAST thing I want to do”.
Cialis?!?
I am an 84 year old grandmother and due to some pulmonary problems I have been ordered to take Cialis. You should have seen the expression on my pharmacist’s face when I handed him the prescription. Somehow word got out and I have been inundated with emails offering me male enhancement products (some would make your skin crawl). Which altogether has made me especially conscious of what seems to be a plague.
I am an 84 year old grandmother and due to some pulmonary problems I have been ordered to take Cialis. You should have seen the expression on my pharmacist’s face when I handed him the prescription. Somehow word got out and I have been inundated with emails offering me male enhancement products (some would make your skin crawl). Which altogether has made me especially conscious of what seems to be a plague.
I have begun to think of this as an epidemic like the swine flu (there is a piggy element). This particular scourge is the one that transforms intelligent, accomplished older men into victims of testosterone eruptions they should have outgrown decades ago.
And while this phenomenon is attested to almost daily as politicians and high profile CEO’s are caught, literally, with their pants down, they are simultaneously urged by the advertising media to keep it up. Again, literally. By the incessant promotion of drugs guaranteed to keep them firm in one spot while their brains get mushy.
Why don’t these drugs carry accurate warnings? A four hour erection is NOT the worst side effect. These drugs prompt guys to indulge in “stupid geezer tricks” with unsuitable partners in questionable locations with ruinous results, often costing them their jobs, marriages and reputations. And should be labeled to accurately reflect these potential consequences.
Clearly what is called for here is not medication to exacerbate the problem but medication to diminish the incongruous urgency afflicting these poor devils. As the antithesis of Viagra, an appropriate name for this new drug might be Niagara which conjures up images of honeymoons/marriage and/or starch. And the starch as in “stiffen your resolve/backbone”. Period!
I haven’t the heart to bring up the litany of names of men in public life who might have benefitted from such medication. Their wives have suffered enough. But one prominent casualty of this lack-of-control syndrome was a 60++, former Republican legislator who was serving as a deputy asst. attorney general in the great state of South Carolina. A while back on his “lunch break” a police officer found him with an 18 year old stripper and a supply of Viagra and sex toys in his sports utility vehicle parked in a downtown cemetery.
In an attempt to verify that Casanova worked, as he claimed, in the State Attorney General’s Office, the policeman called there and spoke to a co-worker who happened to be Mrs. Casanova. She reported the news to her supervisor the Attorney General, and by the close of business Casanova was unemployed. And probably homeless.
One must speculate why over-sexed politicians in South Carolina are drawn to wacky settings like Buenos Aires and cemeteries? But I digress.
These guys with their lives and careers in shambles are not young bucks with testosterone surging through their bodies to insure the survival of the species. They have artificially inflicted exigent desires on themselves that are as inappropriate as they are ludicrous.
Viagra is a prescription drug so why shouldn’t a physician be required to ask the patient why he needs this drug and what lucky woman might be the recipient of his new-found prowess? Wanda Sykes has suggested that before a man over 65 is given Viagra he must produce signed affidavits from three women who expect to benefit. I might add that if he has a wife she could be granted veto power.
So pharmaceutical companies looking for profitable new products should really figure out a formula for Niagara. And if it proves unpopular with older men that’s no problem. Older women will buy it in bulk, especially if it’s soluble in orange juice.
And while this phenomenon is attested to almost daily as politicians and high profile CEO’s are caught, literally, with their pants down, they are simultaneously urged by the advertising media to keep it up. Again, literally. By the incessant promotion of drugs guaranteed to keep them firm in one spot while their brains get mushy.
Why don’t these drugs carry accurate warnings? A four hour erection is NOT the worst side effect. These drugs prompt guys to indulge in “stupid geezer tricks” with unsuitable partners in questionable locations with ruinous results, often costing them their jobs, marriages and reputations. And should be labeled to accurately reflect these potential consequences.
Clearly what is called for here is not medication to exacerbate the problem but medication to diminish the incongruous urgency afflicting these poor devils. As the antithesis of Viagra, an appropriate name for this new drug might be Niagara which conjures up images of honeymoons/marriage and/or starch. And the starch as in “stiffen your resolve/backbone”. Period!
I haven’t the heart to bring up the litany of names of men in public life who might have benefitted from such medication. Their wives have suffered enough. But one prominent casualty of this lack-of-control syndrome was a 60++, former Republican legislator who was serving as a deputy asst. attorney general in the great state of South Carolina. A while back on his “lunch break” a police officer found him with an 18 year old stripper and a supply of Viagra and sex toys in his sports utility vehicle parked in a downtown cemetery.
In an attempt to verify that Casanova worked, as he claimed, in the State Attorney General’s Office, the policeman called there and spoke to a co-worker who happened to be Mrs. Casanova. She reported the news to her supervisor the Attorney General, and by the close of business Casanova was unemployed. And probably homeless.
One must speculate why over-sexed politicians in South Carolina are drawn to wacky settings like Buenos Aires and cemeteries? But I digress.
These guys with their lives and careers in shambles are not young bucks with testosterone surging through their bodies to insure the survival of the species. They have artificially inflicted exigent desires on themselves that are as inappropriate as they are ludicrous.
Viagra is a prescription drug so why shouldn’t a physician be required to ask the patient why he needs this drug and what lucky woman might be the recipient of his new-found prowess? Wanda Sykes has suggested that before a man over 65 is given Viagra he must produce signed affidavits from three women who expect to benefit. I might add that if he has a wife she could be granted veto power.
So pharmaceutical companies looking for profitable new products should really figure out a formula for Niagara. And if it proves unpopular with older men that’s no problem. Older women will buy it in bulk, especially if it’s soluble in orange juice.
Hypocracy Run Amock
Like many of you I am obsessed with the 2016 presidential election. But unlike TV pundits I have no special insight into the problems on the table. Except one that I am too, too familiar with.
Donald Trump has been pressured by his guru Rudy Giuliani to go after Hillary Clinton as “stupid” for staying with her philandering husband. The irony staggers me but you’ve got to concede they are true connoisseurs of marital fidelity. With 6 wives between them, they seized the moral high ground, feeling qualified to evaluate how a betrayed wife should comport herself. But the more light they throw on this subject the more pronounced the hypocrisy.
My expertise on this subject is both personal and anecdotal. When my husband left me for a younger woman after 38 years and 5 children, I had no choice but to let him go. I wrote about it for the Modern Love column in the NY Times in January ’06 and was flooded with emails from fellow dumped wives.
Some stories were tragic, some bordered on funny, but each of these wounded women helped me understand and accept my own feelings. And I kept in touch with many of them through the years. And learned something astounding. Most wives who threw their husbands out wrote about regretting being so rash. Many found themselves living with their children in cramped apartments while Himself was sharing a spacious house with his new wife and children.
And all of them felt their children suffered, becoming distant from their father and tougher yet, coping with his new family… often acquiring a step-mother, step-siblings and new grandparents while every family occasion became riddled with tension.
My pen pals who stayed in their marriages were not ecstatic but were usually content. One wife confided that her husband was still involved with his secretary but was otherwise a considerate and generous spouse and father. And I became aware of how very many long-term “happy” marriages depended on wives turning a blind eye to their husbands’ peccadillos. And generally the smarter women did what Hillary did . . . forgave and moved on and kept their family intact and cared about, even loved their husbands warts and all.
And one revealing fact about Mr. Trump’s first divorce it that for all his devotion to the Second Amendment, he made more practical use of the Fifth Amendment regarding self-incrimination. Back in 1990 he invoked it 97 times in answer to questions about his infidelity as he tried to wiggle out of paying proper alimony to his first wife…the Mother of the three oldest children he is so proud of.
What a guy! Encouraged by his aging frat boys, Gingrich, Ailes and Giuliani, he chooses to vilify a steadfast wife which only focuses attention on his own dismal marital history. Now that’s what’s known as stupid.
Like many of you I am obsessed with the 2016 presidential election. But unlike TV pundits I have no special insight into the problems on the table. Except one that I am too, too familiar with.
Donald Trump has been pressured by his guru Rudy Giuliani to go after Hillary Clinton as “stupid” for staying with her philandering husband. The irony staggers me but you’ve got to concede they are true connoisseurs of marital fidelity. With 6 wives between them, they seized the moral high ground, feeling qualified to evaluate how a betrayed wife should comport herself. But the more light they throw on this subject the more pronounced the hypocrisy.
My expertise on this subject is both personal and anecdotal. When my husband left me for a younger woman after 38 years and 5 children, I had no choice but to let him go. I wrote about it for the Modern Love column in the NY Times in January ’06 and was flooded with emails from fellow dumped wives.
Some stories were tragic, some bordered on funny, but each of these wounded women helped me understand and accept my own feelings. And I kept in touch with many of them through the years. And learned something astounding. Most wives who threw their husbands out wrote about regretting being so rash. Many found themselves living with their children in cramped apartments while Himself was sharing a spacious house with his new wife and children.
And all of them felt their children suffered, becoming distant from their father and tougher yet, coping with his new family… often acquiring a step-mother, step-siblings and new grandparents while every family occasion became riddled with tension.
My pen pals who stayed in their marriages were not ecstatic but were usually content. One wife confided that her husband was still involved with his secretary but was otherwise a considerate and generous spouse and father. And I became aware of how very many long-term “happy” marriages depended on wives turning a blind eye to their husbands’ peccadillos. And generally the smarter women did what Hillary did . . . forgave and moved on and kept their family intact and cared about, even loved their husbands warts and all.
And one revealing fact about Mr. Trump’s first divorce it that for all his devotion to the Second Amendment, he made more practical use of the Fifth Amendment regarding self-incrimination. Back in 1990 he invoked it 97 times in answer to questions about his infidelity as he tried to wiggle out of paying proper alimony to his first wife…the Mother of the three oldest children he is so proud of.
What a guy! Encouraged by his aging frat boys, Gingrich, Ailes and Giuliani, he chooses to vilify a steadfast wife which only focuses attention on his own dismal marital history. Now that’s what’s known as stupid.
Mr. Lombardi
It’s February 1st and it’s SUPER BOWL SUNDAY one of this nation’s major events. The winner gets the Vince Lombardi Trophy. Who would have thought!!!
Here’s the story. My Father ran concession stands in NY City parks and the Palisades Park which meant every spring he had to hire dozens of high school boys to work from Memorial Day to Labor Day. He found the perfect solution by contracting with high school coaches to run the two jobs who could bring their teams along. Now no budding athlete is going to goof off in front of his coach so the system worked.
For the Bear Mountain Inn/Palisades concessions he conscripted Leo Paquin, the distinguished football coach of the prestigious Xavier High School who ran the stands magnificently for two decades. Back in the late thirties Leo Paquin had been one of Fordham University football’s iconic SEVEN BLOCKS OF GRANITE, as had another local high school coach Vinnie Lombardi who, like Leo, became a close family friend.
He was Mr. Lombardi to me and was nothing like the tough intrepid figure that he’s perceived today. He was warm and funny with a roaring laugh and even back then he lit up a room. Vinnie (I never heard him called Vince) was coaching at Fordham in ’47 and when Dad heard from the West Pont coach Red Blaik that they needed an offensive line coach he recommended Vinnie who took that job in ’49. With West Point so close to the Inn, Vinnie and Marie spent more time with my parents and, in,54, when the NY Giants were training there Dad suggested to the coach, Jim Lee Howell that Vinnie might be an asset to his team.
Having done that Dad cornered Vinnie and forewarned him the Giant’s offer might be coming but he added that he honestly believed there wasn’t a future for a guy like Vinnie in professional football. We always thought that advice was right up there with the guy who told the Wright brothers “That thing won’t get off the ground”.
After moving to Green Bay Vinnie got in touch every spring when he came to NY for the Football League meetings and always brought along the great Lou Spadia from the San F. 49ers. In ’61 my parents, my husband and I met them for dinner at Toots Shor’s and then on to see the musical HOW TO SUCCEED IN BUSINESS. The show featured Rudy Vallee singing a football fight song, “Grand Old Ivy” for which Vinnie gave a standing ovation and when the cast recognized him (he’d become quite the celebrity by then) they saluted and sang an encore.
During dinner it came out that Vinnie and Lou and my Mother all had immigrant parents who entered the USA through Castle Garden . . . an arena in lower Manhattan that preceded Ellis Island. So Dad had Toots send over champagne and we drove to Castle Garden (through the gate and onto the grass). A furious mounted cop chased us but when he recognized Vinnie he calmed down and had some champagne as we toasted our brave forefathers.
I used to love football. I know times change and you can’t go back but I prefer to remember the Giants I knew who had a team Chaplin (Fr. Rowley). A game whose players didn’t have agents or personal trainers because they had Doc Sweeney who personally trained everyone. When Coach Lombardi would never have fielded a player who abused his spouse or carried a gun into a night club or disrespected the reporters or the fans.
One of his famous quotes is “Football is like life. It requires perseverance, self-denial, hard work, dedication and respect for authority.” How many of those qualities are present in today’s over-paid and too often ethically challenged players? And what changed the game? How did a sport played by heroes become so contaminated?
HL Mencken had the answer . . . ”When someone says it’s not about the money, it’s about the money”.
It’s February 1st and it’s SUPER BOWL SUNDAY one of this nation’s major events. The winner gets the Vince Lombardi Trophy. Who would have thought!!!
Here’s the story. My Father ran concession stands in NY City parks and the Palisades Park which meant every spring he had to hire dozens of high school boys to work from Memorial Day to Labor Day. He found the perfect solution by contracting with high school coaches to run the two jobs who could bring their teams along. Now no budding athlete is going to goof off in front of his coach so the system worked.
For the Bear Mountain Inn/Palisades concessions he conscripted Leo Paquin, the distinguished football coach of the prestigious Xavier High School who ran the stands magnificently for two decades. Back in the late thirties Leo Paquin had been one of Fordham University football’s iconic SEVEN BLOCKS OF GRANITE, as had another local high school coach Vinnie Lombardi who, like Leo, became a close family friend.
He was Mr. Lombardi to me and was nothing like the tough intrepid figure that he’s perceived today. He was warm and funny with a roaring laugh and even back then he lit up a room. Vinnie (I never heard him called Vince) was coaching at Fordham in ’47 and when Dad heard from the West Pont coach Red Blaik that they needed an offensive line coach he recommended Vinnie who took that job in ’49. With West Point so close to the Inn, Vinnie and Marie spent more time with my parents and, in,54, when the NY Giants were training there Dad suggested to the coach, Jim Lee Howell that Vinnie might be an asset to his team.
Having done that Dad cornered Vinnie and forewarned him the Giant’s offer might be coming but he added that he honestly believed there wasn’t a future for a guy like Vinnie in professional football. We always thought that advice was right up there with the guy who told the Wright brothers “That thing won’t get off the ground”.
After moving to Green Bay Vinnie got in touch every spring when he came to NY for the Football League meetings and always brought along the great Lou Spadia from the San F. 49ers. In ’61 my parents, my husband and I met them for dinner at Toots Shor’s and then on to see the musical HOW TO SUCCEED IN BUSINESS. The show featured Rudy Vallee singing a football fight song, “Grand Old Ivy” for which Vinnie gave a standing ovation and when the cast recognized him (he’d become quite the celebrity by then) they saluted and sang an encore.
During dinner it came out that Vinnie and Lou and my Mother all had immigrant parents who entered the USA through Castle Garden . . . an arena in lower Manhattan that preceded Ellis Island. So Dad had Toots send over champagne and we drove to Castle Garden (through the gate and onto the grass). A furious mounted cop chased us but when he recognized Vinnie he calmed down and had some champagne as we toasted our brave forefathers.
I used to love football. I know times change and you can’t go back but I prefer to remember the Giants I knew who had a team Chaplin (Fr. Rowley). A game whose players didn’t have agents or personal trainers because they had Doc Sweeney who personally trained everyone. When Coach Lombardi would never have fielded a player who abused his spouse or carried a gun into a night club or disrespected the reporters or the fans.
One of his famous quotes is “Football is like life. It requires perseverance, self-denial, hard work, dedication and respect for authority.” How many of those qualities are present in today’s over-paid and too often ethically challenged players? And what changed the game? How did a sport played by heroes become so contaminated?
HL Mencken had the answer . . . ”When someone says it’s not about the money, it’s about the money”.
Goodbye 2014
2014 was a transformative year. Ebola left the headlines and Ferguson claimed them. Meanwhile Turkish president Erdogan, a devout Muslim, declared that women shouldn’t be considered equal to men and since pregnancy and motherhood are sacred in Islam, Turkish women should bear at least three children. He proposes to limit cesarean births and abolish abortions. His grasp of reality was evidenced as he also claimed that the Americas were discovered by Muslims more than 300 years before Columbus.
New York City voted in Bill DeBlasio a tall man who claims to be dedicated to animal rights. Within weeks after taking office, on Feb. 2nd, he picked up and then dropped the prescient celebrity Ground Hog. It died within days from the internal injuries. He might now view that mortification as one of his better days.
The French President Hollande who provided aid to Mali was thanked by the grateful country with an elegant camel. It bit him. He decided to leave it in Mali in the care of an esteemed local farmer. Returning months later he inquired after his trophy camel and was assured, “it was delicious”.
There has been extensive study of Mars after America sent drones to check it out. Afterwards a dozen of scientists commented in the Times on the meaning if this venture. There were deep feelings as to the social etc. repercussions of this scientific breakthrough. My favorite comment came from the insightful Wanda Sykes . . . who mused that the probes we planted on Mars would probably be seen by giant Martians as we would see germs threatening to bring the flu and their response would be “We’d better spray again”.
We probably have heard the last of Congressman Weiner’s wiener, Benghazi, Donald Sterling and Oscar Pistorius. But that’s where the good news ends. Because regrettably we haven’t heard the last of the Kardashians. Speaking of Kardashians, back in the day people paid money to see freak shows. Right now the Broadway play ELEPHANT MAN demonstrates our past fascination with these unfortunates. Now we get to ogle freaks who have become reality television stars . . . freak shows where the freaks exploit themselves and get rich doing it. That’s called progress.
Join me in praying that 2015 may be better.
2014 was a transformative year. Ebola left the headlines and Ferguson claimed them. Meanwhile Turkish president Erdogan, a devout Muslim, declared that women shouldn’t be considered equal to men and since pregnancy and motherhood are sacred in Islam, Turkish women should bear at least three children. He proposes to limit cesarean births and abolish abortions. His grasp of reality was evidenced as he also claimed that the Americas were discovered by Muslims more than 300 years before Columbus.
New York City voted in Bill DeBlasio a tall man who claims to be dedicated to animal rights. Within weeks after taking office, on Feb. 2nd, he picked up and then dropped the prescient celebrity Ground Hog. It died within days from the internal injuries. He might now view that mortification as one of his better days.
The French President Hollande who provided aid to Mali was thanked by the grateful country with an elegant camel. It bit him. He decided to leave it in Mali in the care of an esteemed local farmer. Returning months later he inquired after his trophy camel and was assured, “it was delicious”.
There has been extensive study of Mars after America sent drones to check it out. Afterwards a dozen of scientists commented in the Times on the meaning if this venture. There were deep feelings as to the social etc. repercussions of this scientific breakthrough. My favorite comment came from the insightful Wanda Sykes . . . who mused that the probes we planted on Mars would probably be seen by giant Martians as we would see germs threatening to bring the flu and their response would be “We’d better spray again”.
We probably have heard the last of Congressman Weiner’s wiener, Benghazi, Donald Sterling and Oscar Pistorius. But that’s where the good news ends. Because regrettably we haven’t heard the last of the Kardashians. Speaking of Kardashians, back in the day people paid money to see freak shows. Right now the Broadway play ELEPHANT MAN demonstrates our past fascination with these unfortunates. Now we get to ogle freaks who have become reality television stars . . . freak shows where the freaks exploit themselves and get rich doing it. That’s called progress.
Join me in praying that 2015 may be better.
I Won!
Have you noticed how much is being written about the problems of old age, mostly by people under fifty? Well I was born during the Hoover administration so my view is not abstract. And I am thoroughly enjoying old age. I see no value in age-defying products and never wished to be forever young because each year brought me new challenges and rewards. I haven’t lived right by society’s standards. I have acquired what Alexander McCall Smith refers to as “a traditional build”. I don’t look my age because I actually look older which serves to alarm me when well-meaning strangers rush to help me across the street. I don’t exercise because living in a third floor walk-up is enough of a challenge. I don’t color my white hair because I’m grateful to still have hair.
Have you noticed how much is being written about the problems of old age, mostly by people under fifty? Well I was born during the Hoover administration so my view is not abstract. And I am thoroughly enjoying old age. I see no value in age-defying products and never wished to be forever young because each year brought me new challenges and rewards. I haven’t lived right by society’s standards. I have acquired what Alexander McCall Smith refers to as “a traditional build”. I don’t look my age because I actually look older which serves to alarm me when well-meaning strangers rush to help me across the street. I don’t exercise because living in a third floor walk-up is enough of a challenge. I don’t color my white hair because I’m grateful to still have hair.
The trick with advancing age is acceptance. And gratitude that you made it when so many marvelous people die young. If you see life as a lottery, living past eighty makes you A WINNER. Growing old is a majestic blessing and it baffles me that advanced age might be viewed as a burden. Or something to be tolerated while serenity becomes confused with surrender.
Being old is liberating in that no one expects much of you. You can throw away the alarm clock because there is no place you really have to be. There is time to visit your few remaining friends (half of the names in my address book (aka The Cemetery) have already been crossed out). You understand what Noel Coward meant when he claimed all he asked of his friends was that they live through lunch.
We have the twin safety nets of Medicare and Social Security and with modest advanced planning we probably won’t run out of money before we run out of breath. There are downsides. Your body begins sprouting little knobs (think old potato) and your skin has moved from silky to seersucker. Your senses are refined even if when you feel it in your bones it’s probably arthritis. My Aunt Lizzie claimed that in her eighties she went to bed every night with three men. Arthur Itis, Ben Gay and Johnny Walker.
While it has become politically correct to make fun of the elderly no one sees the absurdity more than the old trouts themselves. We talk about senior moments but in fact our heads are like old computers . . . the information is there but it takes time to bring it up. The limitations of age force us to adapt and alter the ways we conduct our lives and these are not without absurdity. In England it is common for seniors to be referred to as Twirlees because whatever the event they arrive “too early’.
If you’ve been lucky enough to have children, it’s harvest time. Dessert time in the banquet of life. At a time when your days can be plagued by loses (your friends, your teeth, your marbles) grandchildren bring enthusiasm and excitement. And mine rather expect me to speak my mind, teasing that I have one foot in the grave and the other in my mouth. As a group we old folks are amazingly cheerful although there is that specter of humiliating illness and death which hangs over us. Which is why our country should embrace the right of the elderly to decide when they’ll “leave the building.” We’re not afraid of death . . . we’re afraid of being kept alive. This is a contentious issue and I recently had a discussion with a very religious friend who claims that time of death should be left to God. And only God. My response to her was it was God’s decision to give you an A cup bra size and a nose like a macaw so why did you mess with Him about those assessments. Case closed!
Being old is liberating in that no one expects much of you. You can throw away the alarm clock because there is no place you really have to be. There is time to visit your few remaining friends (half of the names in my address book (aka The Cemetery) have already been crossed out). You understand what Noel Coward meant when he claimed all he asked of his friends was that they live through lunch.
We have the twin safety nets of Medicare and Social Security and with modest advanced planning we probably won’t run out of money before we run out of breath. There are downsides. Your body begins sprouting little knobs (think old potato) and your skin has moved from silky to seersucker. Your senses are refined even if when you feel it in your bones it’s probably arthritis. My Aunt Lizzie claimed that in her eighties she went to bed every night with three men. Arthur Itis, Ben Gay and Johnny Walker.
While it has become politically correct to make fun of the elderly no one sees the absurdity more than the old trouts themselves. We talk about senior moments but in fact our heads are like old computers . . . the information is there but it takes time to bring it up. The limitations of age force us to adapt and alter the ways we conduct our lives and these are not without absurdity. In England it is common for seniors to be referred to as Twirlees because whatever the event they arrive “too early’.
If you’ve been lucky enough to have children, it’s harvest time. Dessert time in the banquet of life. At a time when your days can be plagued by loses (your friends, your teeth, your marbles) grandchildren bring enthusiasm and excitement. And mine rather expect me to speak my mind, teasing that I have one foot in the grave and the other in my mouth. As a group we old folks are amazingly cheerful although there is that specter of humiliating illness and death which hangs over us. Which is why our country should embrace the right of the elderly to decide when they’ll “leave the building.” We’re not afraid of death . . . we’re afraid of being kept alive. This is a contentious issue and I recently had a discussion with a very religious friend who claims that time of death should be left to God. And only God. My response to her was it was God’s decision to give you an A cup bra size and a nose like a macaw so why did you mess with Him about those assessments. Case closed!
The Honest Truth About Aging
There were so many comments regarding last month's notes on Dr. Emanuel's silly "only living to 75 manifesto" that I was prompted to vigorously research the aging process. And not a moment too soon. At 82 this is no longer an abstract problem. I was directed to the book, BEING MORTAL, by Dr. Atul Gawande (currently on the Times Best Seller list) and was blown away by his grasp of the many faceted problems of an aging society. Here are just a few of the factors he scrutinized.
Times have changed EVERYTHING. In terms of longevity, the subjects of the Roman Empire had an average life expectancy of 28 and death before 30 was the norm for centuries. Now life expectancy has more than doubled but old age offers its own pitfalls. After 85 almost 40% of us have no teeth at all. More than half of us develop hypertension by 65. The peak output of the heart decreases steadily after 30 so no wonder we're huffing and puffing. By age 85 working memory and judgment are sufficiently impaired that 40% of us have textbook dementia. We optimistically think our mortality is genetic but whereas your parent's height gives you a 90% chance of being that tall, only 3% of how long you live is tied to your parents longevity.
As life expectancy increased other issues surfaced. Dr. Gawande details the impact of "rectangularization . . . a recent phenomenon in a society where there are more seniors than children. In 1950 children under five were 11% of our population and over eighties were 1%. Today we have as many fifty year olds as five year olds and in thirty years there will be as many over 80 as under 5. Regarding social mores, in early 20th century America 60% of those over 65 resided with an adult child. By 1960 it was 25% and by 1975 it was below 15%. Now the average American spends a year or more of old age disabled and living in a nursing home at more than five times the yearly cost of independent living.
In the United States 25% of all Medicare spending is for the 5% of patients in their final year of life and most of that goes for care in the last couple of months with no apparent benefit. Death usually comes only after a long medical struggle with an ultimately unstoppable condition. In most cases death may be certain but timing isn't so we must deal with how and when to accept that the battle is lost.
As a medical professional Dr., Gawande makes this brave assessment of the troubles we face as we age. He writes "The problem with medicine and institutions it has spawned for the care of the sick and old is not that they have an incorrect view of what makes life significant. The problem is they have no view at all . . . They concentrate on repair of health not sustenance of the soul . . . You don't have to spend much time with the elderly or those with terminal illness to see how often medicine fails the people it is supposed to help. The waning days of our lives are given over to treatments that addle our brains and sap our bodies for a sliver's chance of benefit. They are spent in institutions . . . where regimented, anonymous routines cut us off from all the things that matter to us in life . . . Lacking a coherent view of how people might live successfully all the way to the very end, we have allowed our fates to be controlled by the imperatives of medicine, technology and strangers."
I urge anyone who is over 65 or has an aging parent to read this book. As an old woman not afraid of death but terrified of being kept alive I deeply admire his humane view of life, death and dying. And the brilliant alternatives he suggests offer welcome and unanticipated hope.
There were so many comments regarding last month's notes on Dr. Emanuel's silly "only living to 75 manifesto" that I was prompted to vigorously research the aging process. And not a moment too soon. At 82 this is no longer an abstract problem. I was directed to the book, BEING MORTAL, by Dr. Atul Gawande (currently on the Times Best Seller list) and was blown away by his grasp of the many faceted problems of an aging society. Here are just a few of the factors he scrutinized.
Times have changed EVERYTHING. In terms of longevity, the subjects of the Roman Empire had an average life expectancy of 28 and death before 30 was the norm for centuries. Now life expectancy has more than doubled but old age offers its own pitfalls. After 85 almost 40% of us have no teeth at all. More than half of us develop hypertension by 65. The peak output of the heart decreases steadily after 30 so no wonder we're huffing and puffing. By age 85 working memory and judgment are sufficiently impaired that 40% of us have textbook dementia. We optimistically think our mortality is genetic but whereas your parent's height gives you a 90% chance of being that tall, only 3% of how long you live is tied to your parents longevity.
As life expectancy increased other issues surfaced. Dr. Gawande details the impact of "rectangularization . . . a recent phenomenon in a society where there are more seniors than children. In 1950 children under five were 11% of our population and over eighties were 1%. Today we have as many fifty year olds as five year olds and in thirty years there will be as many over 80 as under 5. Regarding social mores, in early 20th century America 60% of those over 65 resided with an adult child. By 1960 it was 25% and by 1975 it was below 15%. Now the average American spends a year or more of old age disabled and living in a nursing home at more than five times the yearly cost of independent living.
In the United States 25% of all Medicare spending is for the 5% of patients in their final year of life and most of that goes for care in the last couple of months with no apparent benefit. Death usually comes only after a long medical struggle with an ultimately unstoppable condition. In most cases death may be certain but timing isn't so we must deal with how and when to accept that the battle is lost.
As a medical professional Dr., Gawande makes this brave assessment of the troubles we face as we age. He writes "The problem with medicine and institutions it has spawned for the care of the sick and old is not that they have an incorrect view of what makes life significant. The problem is they have no view at all . . . They concentrate on repair of health not sustenance of the soul . . . You don't have to spend much time with the elderly or those with terminal illness to see how often medicine fails the people it is supposed to help. The waning days of our lives are given over to treatments that addle our brains and sap our bodies for a sliver's chance of benefit. They are spent in institutions . . . where regimented, anonymous routines cut us off from all the things that matter to us in life . . . Lacking a coherent view of how people might live successfully all the way to the very end, we have allowed our fates to be controlled by the imperatives of medicine, technology and strangers."
I urge anyone who is over 65 or has an aging parent to read this book. As an old woman not afraid of death but terrified of being kept alive I deeply admire his humane view of life, death and dying. And the brilliant alternatives he suggests offer welcome and unanticipated hope.
I’m Still Here
This picture taken in the early nineties, was just sent to me by a good friend (actually the handsome man with the moustache . . . my dentist). The occasion was the after-party for the only play I ever produced. It was A.R. Gurney’s two character play LOVE LETTERS which oddly enough is currently being revived on Broadway. You might recognize my pal Elaine Stritch who co-starred with Jason Robards and there was Helen Hayes sitting with them. In a white blouse I am standing behind them (distressed to now detect the first stage of my second chin).
This picture taken in the early nineties, was just sent to me by a good friend (actually the handsome man with the moustache . . . my dentist). The occasion was the after-party for the only play I ever produced. It was A.R. Gurney’s two character play LOVE LETTERS which oddly enough is currently being revived on Broadway. You might recognize my pal Elaine Stritch who co-starred with Jason Robards and there was Helen Hayes sitting with them. In a white blouse I am standing behind them (distressed to now detect the first stage of my second chin).
Helen Hayes is long gone as is Jason Robards. Elaine died a few months ago and there will be a celebration of her life in November at one of the big Broadway theaters. If I could carry a tune I would now break out with one of her favorite songs . . . Sondheim’s I’M STILL HERE.
Which brings me to the well-publicized current Atlantic magazine article by Dr. Ezekiel Emanual titled, “Why I Hope to Die at 75”. He writes of the decay of old age, the futile attempts to ward off the Grim Reaper, the terrible expense of keeping people alive past their sell-by date.
Sadly having been born during the Hoover administration I am way past his cut off age. And enjoying every minute. If I had died at 75 I wouldn’t have seen three grandchildren graduate from college. I would have missed going para-sailing with nine of them last year. I would have missed watching old enemies die before me (don’t let anyone tell you that isn’t gratifying!)
Dr. E. writes “How do we want to be remembered by our children and grandchildren? We wish our children to remember us in our prime. Active, vigorous, engaged, animated, astute, enthusiastic, funny, warm, loving. Not stooped and sluggish, forgetful and repetitive, constantly asking “What did she say?” We want to be remembered as independent, not experienced as burdens. Living the American immortal’s dream dramatically increases the chances that we will not get our wish—that memories of vitality will be crowded out by the agonies of decline . . . But the most-recent years—the years with progressing disabilities and the need to make caregiving arrangements—will inevitably become the predominant and salient memories.
Helen Hayes acted well into her late eighties. Elaine wasn’t killed off on THIRTY ROCK until she was 89. I’ll give the good doctor this. I don’t want to live as an invalid requiring a care giver and have made that abundantly clear to my five children and twelve grandchildren. But since I am still able to live alone in a three storey walk-up, taking care of myself and enjoying all the magnificent gifts life has to offer, I’m not ready to shout sayonara.
Please dear Dr. E. put your amazing intelligence into figuring out how we old coots can take control of our happy lives. There are some old codgers hanging on to life at any cost, hoping to postpone death with ludicrous treatments and pills. Burdening their near and dear. But most of us oldies able to live independent, fulfilling lives are not afraid of death. We are afraid of being kept alive. Here’s where you come in! Wait until you hit 75 . . . you’ll see!
Which brings me to the well-publicized current Atlantic magazine article by Dr. Ezekiel Emanual titled, “Why I Hope to Die at 75”. He writes of the decay of old age, the futile attempts to ward off the Grim Reaper, the terrible expense of keeping people alive past their sell-by date.
Sadly having been born during the Hoover administration I am way past his cut off age. And enjoying every minute. If I had died at 75 I wouldn’t have seen three grandchildren graduate from college. I would have missed going para-sailing with nine of them last year. I would have missed watching old enemies die before me (don’t let anyone tell you that isn’t gratifying!)
Dr. E. writes “How do we want to be remembered by our children and grandchildren? We wish our children to remember us in our prime. Active, vigorous, engaged, animated, astute, enthusiastic, funny, warm, loving. Not stooped and sluggish, forgetful and repetitive, constantly asking “What did she say?” We want to be remembered as independent, not experienced as burdens. Living the American immortal’s dream dramatically increases the chances that we will not get our wish—that memories of vitality will be crowded out by the agonies of decline . . . But the most-recent years—the years with progressing disabilities and the need to make caregiving arrangements—will inevitably become the predominant and salient memories.
Helen Hayes acted well into her late eighties. Elaine wasn’t killed off on THIRTY ROCK until she was 89. I’ll give the good doctor this. I don’t want to live as an invalid requiring a care giver and have made that abundantly clear to my five children and twelve grandchildren. But since I am still able to live alone in a three storey walk-up, taking care of myself and enjoying all the magnificent gifts life has to offer, I’m not ready to shout sayonara.
Please dear Dr. E. put your amazing intelligence into figuring out how we old coots can take control of our happy lives. There are some old codgers hanging on to life at any cost, hoping to postpone death with ludicrous treatments and pills. Burdening their near and dear. But most of us oldies able to live independent, fulfilling lives are not afraid of death. We are afraid of being kept alive. Here’s where you come in! Wait until you hit 75 . . . you’ll see!
The Good Old Days
During a beautiful if too short summer there was a lot of porch talk about the good old days . . . happy memories of simpler times. Nostalgia galore. It’s so comfortable to long for those good old days when the world was better. And it’s hard to envision that today’s world is actually an even better one. But it is. The good old days were not all they’ve been cracked up to be.
When I married in the mid-fifties it was against the law for negroes to use the same bathroom as whites in Virginia where I lived and a crime to marry a person of another race. A homosexual had to hide his or her lifestyle to hold a job especially if it involved teaching children. There was discrimination on every level. My in-laws lived in a community that didn’t accept Italians. When my Irish Aunt went to our pastor to arrange the wedding to her Italian fiancé he refused claiming he didn’t do mixed marriages. Most country clubs excluded Jews so they had to form their own clubs. Pregnant women were not supposed to have jobs. Married women were not supposed to have ideas. Few, very few, women held elective office or became doctors or lawyers.
Besides discrimination the fact is life was much harder before and during the war and well into the fifties. Furnaces fueled by coal needed constant attention. Laundry had to be washed in a tub with a wringer and dried outside on lines. There was no such thing as frozen food . . . fresh or canned was the choice. Summers were sweltering before air conditioning. There was no TV to amuse a family that gathered around a radio (which was great fun as I remember). My Brooklyn family never owned a car and a trip to visit Aunt Nellie in New Jersey took longer than it now takes to fly to California.
There is a word, retronym, which means a noun that didn’t used to have an adjective attached but now requires one. An oven can be a toaster oven, convection oven etc . . . you get the picture. Milk was milk . . . now it’s 2% or almond or a dozen other permutations. Coke was coca cola . . . not a drug and not calorie or caffeine free. Almost every standard product now has an adjective attached. This is a piece of modern life that is very confusing. But a small price to pay for convenience.
During a beautiful if too short summer there was a lot of porch talk about the good old days . . . happy memories of simpler times. Nostalgia galore. It’s so comfortable to long for those good old days when the world was better. And it’s hard to envision that today’s world is actually an even better one. But it is. The good old days were not all they’ve been cracked up to be.
When I married in the mid-fifties it was against the law for negroes to use the same bathroom as whites in Virginia where I lived and a crime to marry a person of another race. A homosexual had to hide his or her lifestyle to hold a job especially if it involved teaching children. There was discrimination on every level. My in-laws lived in a community that didn’t accept Italians. When my Irish Aunt went to our pastor to arrange the wedding to her Italian fiancé he refused claiming he didn’t do mixed marriages. Most country clubs excluded Jews so they had to form their own clubs. Pregnant women were not supposed to have jobs. Married women were not supposed to have ideas. Few, very few, women held elective office or became doctors or lawyers.
Besides discrimination the fact is life was much harder before and during the war and well into the fifties. Furnaces fueled by coal needed constant attention. Laundry had to be washed in a tub with a wringer and dried outside on lines. There was no such thing as frozen food . . . fresh or canned was the choice. Summers were sweltering before air conditioning. There was no TV to amuse a family that gathered around a radio (which was great fun as I remember). My Brooklyn family never owned a car and a trip to visit Aunt Nellie in New Jersey took longer than it now takes to fly to California.
There is a word, retronym, which means a noun that didn’t used to have an adjective attached but now requires one. An oven can be a toaster oven, convection oven etc . . . you get the picture. Milk was milk . . . now it’s 2% or almond or a dozen other permutations. Coke was coca cola . . . not a drug and not calorie or caffeine free. Almost every standard product now has an adjective attached. This is a piece of modern life that is very confusing. But a small price to pay for convenience.
Without modern medicine to replace worn out parts most seniors (me for instance) would be in wheel chairs and half blind with cataracts. Our premature babies wouldn’t stand a chance. Illnesses that once ended lives prematurely are now cured with pills. Inarguably most of us today live fuller lives than our forefathers. More stressful perhaps. Busier. And undoubtedly more bewildering.
But taking in all the negatives, we still have better lives. And instead of grieving for the past we should adopt the anthem from the finale of LA CAGE AUX FOLLES . . . The Best of Times is Now.
But taking in all the negatives, we still have better lives. And instead of grieving for the past we should adopt the anthem from the finale of LA CAGE AUX FOLLES . . . The Best of Times is Now.
My Best Friend
The ultimate Broadway Baby and my best friend Elaine Stritch died on July 17th at the age of 89, and I am at a loss for words.
My daughter, Annie Hekker Weiss posted this on Facebook and it says it all.
"I want to thank everyone who reached out to give their condolences to my family about Elaine Stritch. She and my Mom became the best of friends when she moved across the street from us in Nyack with her lovely husband John Bay during the 70s. She spent many a Christmas at our house, sang at family weddings and was just such a good friend to my Mom. They traveled together, held hands when each other needed support, talked at 2am but most of all they laughed . . . and they laughed. She asked me to call her "Tanta Lanie" and she called our family "the Waltons with drinks". I found a few pictures: The 1st one was taken at my Mom's book reading in Nyack (Elaine and Arlene Dahl both read excerpts). The second was at my brother Jack's wedding and the 3rd was Christmas -- with my Dad, my brother Tom and Julie. Thanks so much for the happy memories, the laughter and the love Elaine."
The ultimate Broadway Baby and my best friend Elaine Stritch died on July 17th at the age of 89, and I am at a loss for words.
My daughter, Annie Hekker Weiss posted this on Facebook and it says it all.
"I want to thank everyone who reached out to give their condolences to my family about Elaine Stritch. She and my Mom became the best of friends when she moved across the street from us in Nyack with her lovely husband John Bay during the 70s. She spent many a Christmas at our house, sang at family weddings and was just such a good friend to my Mom. They traveled together, held hands when each other needed support, talked at 2am but most of all they laughed . . . and they laughed. She asked me to call her "Tanta Lanie" and she called our family "the Waltons with drinks". I found a few pictures: The 1st one was taken at my Mom's book reading in Nyack (Elaine and Arlene Dahl both read excerpts). The second was at my brother Jack's wedding and the 3rd was Christmas -- with my Dad, my brother Tom and Julie. Thanks so much for the happy memories, the laughter and the love Elaine."
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More Father Stories
Although I still contend that Fathers are too often mocked on television I must admit that there is a grain of truth there. Because I was overwhelmed with the reaction to my June piece about my Father and by how many people wrote telling funny stories about their Dads. Let me share a few.
One daughter of a former army major wrote that her Dad believed in rules. For everything. Each new appliance or bicycle, the answering machine, the cell phone, the computer etc. etc. required a new set of strict rules. Drove his family crazy. I wrote back that my Father bought a motor boat and for the first time had rules written out for us. Life jackets, life preservers etc. etc. He forgot “Don’t play with the motor”. So in attempting to bring to life a reluctant fan belt he sliced off his index finger which flew irretrievably into the Hudson. Every subsequent attempt to bring up rules was met with a four-fingered salute from his children.
An aunt reminded me that my Irish Grandfather, the fireman, was never able to get the outdoor grill going . . . said he could only put fires out. And although having many medals for bravery, tracking down the occasional mouse horrified him. His line was, “I’ll need a few hookers (whiskey) before I tackle that joshkin.” A non-drinker he soon became functionally unable to tackle anything. Grandma claimed she heard the mice laughing.
A woman told about her Father attempting to snare a squirrel from his attic. He bought a HAVE-A-HEART trap to pursue a humane removal but when he opened the attic door the squirrel jumped out at him. Startled, he waved the trap in the direction of the beast and struck him. Actually killed him with that blood stained trap. Hardly what the HAVE-A-HEART PEOPLE had in mind. The children wailed at first and finally began to laugh…conceding that their Dad’s intentions were noble but the squirrel failed to cooperate.
So it follows that Father’s missteps become the stuff of family legends. My children never get tired of reminiscing about the time their Father tried to make them the smoothies he’d loved in Hawaii. His efforts required ice, pints of ice cream and bowls of fresh fruit but his well documented impatience prompted him to try to speed up every batch by pushing the contents of the blender downward into the blade with a wooden spoon. This resulted in five mangled wooden spoons and five batches of smoothies riddled with splinters. We never did get to try a smoothie but the sound effects more than made up for it. Whosh whosh, grind grind, d***, s***. As he went past the family room where we were all huddled, convulsed with laughter he said. “I am going to bed now and we will never speak of this again”. Fat chance!
Although I still contend that Fathers are too often mocked on television I must admit that there is a grain of truth there. Because I was overwhelmed with the reaction to my June piece about my Father and by how many people wrote telling funny stories about their Dads. Let me share a few.
One daughter of a former army major wrote that her Dad believed in rules. For everything. Each new appliance or bicycle, the answering machine, the cell phone, the computer etc. etc. required a new set of strict rules. Drove his family crazy. I wrote back that my Father bought a motor boat and for the first time had rules written out for us. Life jackets, life preservers etc. etc. He forgot “Don’t play with the motor”. So in attempting to bring to life a reluctant fan belt he sliced off his index finger which flew irretrievably into the Hudson. Every subsequent attempt to bring up rules was met with a four-fingered salute from his children.
An aunt reminded me that my Irish Grandfather, the fireman, was never able to get the outdoor grill going . . . said he could only put fires out. And although having many medals for bravery, tracking down the occasional mouse horrified him. His line was, “I’ll need a few hookers (whiskey) before I tackle that joshkin.” A non-drinker he soon became functionally unable to tackle anything. Grandma claimed she heard the mice laughing.
A woman told about her Father attempting to snare a squirrel from his attic. He bought a HAVE-A-HEART trap to pursue a humane removal but when he opened the attic door the squirrel jumped out at him. Startled, he waved the trap in the direction of the beast and struck him. Actually killed him with that blood stained trap. Hardly what the HAVE-A-HEART PEOPLE had in mind. The children wailed at first and finally began to laugh…conceding that their Dad’s intentions were noble but the squirrel failed to cooperate.
So it follows that Father’s missteps become the stuff of family legends. My children never get tired of reminiscing about the time their Father tried to make them the smoothies he’d loved in Hawaii. His efforts required ice, pints of ice cream and bowls of fresh fruit but his well documented impatience prompted him to try to speed up every batch by pushing the contents of the blender downward into the blade with a wooden spoon. This resulted in five mangled wooden spoons and five batches of smoothies riddled with splinters. We never did get to try a smoothie but the sound effects more than made up for it. Whosh whosh, grind grind, d***, s***. As he went past the family room where we were all huddled, convulsed with laughter he said. “I am going to bed now and we will never speak of this again”. Fat chance!
Father's Day Memories of my Father
John Martin 1907-1968
Probably the most unappreciated job in our culture is “father”. He is the butt of jokes calling him clueless. He shows up in TV commercials as the one asking the stupid question or behaving like a dimwit. A man’s home may be his castle but he’s regrettably portrayed as more court jester than knight in shining armor. In our family the role of a husband had been defined by my grandmother O’Donohue whose infamous line was “It’s not a fit night out for man or beast. Let your Father go.”
But in truth and in life, a Father is most often that knight. He struggles to make money he almost never sees as it flies out to cover family bills. He carries you when your ankle is sprained, comforts you when bad dreams terrify and confronts your mean teacher/coach/boss. He refinances his house to pay for your education and foregoes the new car to pay for your wedding. He is your life-long safety net and most trusted advisor. And when he’s gone there is a void no one can ever, ever fill.
John Martin 1907-1968
Probably the most unappreciated job in our culture is “father”. He is the butt of jokes calling him clueless. He shows up in TV commercials as the one asking the stupid question or behaving like a dimwit. A man’s home may be his castle but he’s regrettably portrayed as more court jester than knight in shining armor. In our family the role of a husband had been defined by my grandmother O’Donohue whose infamous line was “It’s not a fit night out for man or beast. Let your Father go.”
But in truth and in life, a Father is most often that knight. He struggles to make money he almost never sees as it flies out to cover family bills. He carries you when your ankle is sprained, comforts you when bad dreams terrify and confronts your mean teacher/coach/boss. He refinances his house to pay for your education and foregoes the new car to pay for your wedding. He is your life-long safety net and most trusted advisor. And when he’s gone there is a void no one can ever, ever fill.
My own Father was the original alpha male. A child of the depression his first job (while still in fifth grade) was as a look-out for a floating crap game. He never did finish high school when he married he had to supplement the income from his Hell’s Kitchen diner by pushing a hot dog wagon down by the NY docks. One sweltering day, when the fleet was in, he realized that families in line who couldn’t afford his Orange Crush were parched so he began going up the line giving out small cups of water. Free. Now here comes an anomaly . . . a good deed that wasn’t punished. The iconic Parks Commissioner Robert Moses rode by and noticed this kind act and had an aide contact Dad to offer him concessions in some of the city parks. Soon, with umbrellered carts all over the metropolitan area, he’d built such a fine reputation that in 1941 he was offered the Tiffany of concessions . . . the state owned historic Bear Mountain Inn up in the Hudson Valley, which he managed magnificently for the next 25 years.
But think about taking over a country hotel in September ’41. Three months later war was declared and with it came gasoline rationing, food rationing and ruination. Then Dad saw an item in the Daily News that the major league ball clubs would no longer be able to travel south to Florida for spring training so he found the Dodger office in Brooklyn and offered them a deal . . . come north instead. But the boss, Branch Rickey, thought it wouldn’t work because the weather would confine the team indoors.
So Dad then drove the few miles from the Inn to West Point where he assured the Commandant that his cadets were about to be perceived as draft dodgers and the Academy needed some good publicity like giving over their huge indoor Field House to the Brooklyn Dodgers. With that deal done the Dodgers trained at Bear Mountain for the next four years. The football Giants came too and the Knicks and the Golden Glovers and they stayed on into the sixties.
Along the way my Father was considered such a friend to West Point that he was made an honorary graduate and to this day an award in his name is given out at graduation. (An honor that proved more enduring than his solid gold pass to Ebbetts Field.) Providentially his connection to West Point gave him the chance to recommend an old friend (who’d been coaching high school football) for a job with the Army team. His old friend was Vince Lombardi who later got to know the NY Giants as they trained at Bear Mountain. And the rest, as they say, is history.
Still in the game of modern fatherhood my Dad would have struck out. He never read any of his six children a bedtime story or helped with homework. He never came to our school events although Dad was once blackmailed into attending my brother John’s high school graduation because he was valedictorian. And later proclaimed it was the best speech given since the Gettysburg Address. And he should know!
Dad took care of us all . . . Mother, her mother, his mother and was a soft touch for all who knew him. His motto was “Never resist a generous impulse” which has infused his children and their children with their remarkable generosity. In his later years he was a millionaire and knew three presidents and dozens of celebrities. He had friends in high places and not so high places and treated them all the same. And his faith demanded that no priest or nun ever got a dinner check and that the many groups of disadvantaged children who visited the park were guaranteed free drinks and ice cream.
He believed that to run a business there was only one rule . . . you had to be good to your customers and be good to your employees. His was one of the first corporations to offer profit sharing to employees who knew they could always come to him for help and advice. As the biggest venue in the area, the Inn specialized in huge banquets which made for a crushing work load for the employees. So at the end of every big event, when he knew his staff was bone weary, Dad would take off his tie and jacket, roll up his sleeves and help mop the floors. I heard that when a union representative attempted to organize his employees the poor fellow was lucky to get out alive.
While he demanded that each of his children got a college education and insisted that the boys get advanced degrees from Ivy League universities, Dad brilliantly educated himself with books. And since he came to learning later in life he brought an unusual perspective. One night as he was immersed in the Greek classics he shouted to Mother, “That Socrates was one smart son of a bitch”.
As a Father he was our gallant protector and bountiful provider. And he did the most important thing a man can do for his children . . . he loved their Mother. Not that they were a perfect couple. My Father was, to say the least, mercurial, and Mother’s patience was stretched. But she often had occasion to look at him lovingly and say a line I used a lot in my own marriage. “I’m so glad I didn’t murder him yesterday.”
But think about taking over a country hotel in September ’41. Three months later war was declared and with it came gasoline rationing, food rationing and ruination. Then Dad saw an item in the Daily News that the major league ball clubs would no longer be able to travel south to Florida for spring training so he found the Dodger office in Brooklyn and offered them a deal . . . come north instead. But the boss, Branch Rickey, thought it wouldn’t work because the weather would confine the team indoors.
So Dad then drove the few miles from the Inn to West Point where he assured the Commandant that his cadets were about to be perceived as draft dodgers and the Academy needed some good publicity like giving over their huge indoor Field House to the Brooklyn Dodgers. With that deal done the Dodgers trained at Bear Mountain for the next four years. The football Giants came too and the Knicks and the Golden Glovers and they stayed on into the sixties.
Along the way my Father was considered such a friend to West Point that he was made an honorary graduate and to this day an award in his name is given out at graduation. (An honor that proved more enduring than his solid gold pass to Ebbetts Field.) Providentially his connection to West Point gave him the chance to recommend an old friend (who’d been coaching high school football) for a job with the Army team. His old friend was Vince Lombardi who later got to know the NY Giants as they trained at Bear Mountain. And the rest, as they say, is history.
Still in the game of modern fatherhood my Dad would have struck out. He never read any of his six children a bedtime story or helped with homework. He never came to our school events although Dad was once blackmailed into attending my brother John’s high school graduation because he was valedictorian. And later proclaimed it was the best speech given since the Gettysburg Address. And he should know!
Dad took care of us all . . . Mother, her mother, his mother and was a soft touch for all who knew him. His motto was “Never resist a generous impulse” which has infused his children and their children with their remarkable generosity. In his later years he was a millionaire and knew three presidents and dozens of celebrities. He had friends in high places and not so high places and treated them all the same. And his faith demanded that no priest or nun ever got a dinner check and that the many groups of disadvantaged children who visited the park were guaranteed free drinks and ice cream.
He believed that to run a business there was only one rule . . . you had to be good to your customers and be good to your employees. His was one of the first corporations to offer profit sharing to employees who knew they could always come to him for help and advice. As the biggest venue in the area, the Inn specialized in huge banquets which made for a crushing work load for the employees. So at the end of every big event, when he knew his staff was bone weary, Dad would take off his tie and jacket, roll up his sleeves and help mop the floors. I heard that when a union representative attempted to organize his employees the poor fellow was lucky to get out alive.
While he demanded that each of his children got a college education and insisted that the boys get advanced degrees from Ivy League universities, Dad brilliantly educated himself with books. And since he came to learning later in life he brought an unusual perspective. One night as he was immersed in the Greek classics he shouted to Mother, “That Socrates was one smart son of a bitch”.
As a Father he was our gallant protector and bountiful provider. And he did the most important thing a man can do for his children . . . he loved their Mother. Not that they were a perfect couple. My Father was, to say the least, mercurial, and Mother’s patience was stretched. But she often had occasion to look at him lovingly and say a line I used a lot in my own marriage. “I’m so glad I didn’t murder him yesterday.”
Joy and Fun
There is massive attention given to the fact that the present generation will not have better lives than their parents based on income and growth potential. It’s true I suppose but income and job opportunities are not the only major issues. Let’s talk about quality of life for today’s families, especially Mothers.
My eight granddaughters have advantages I never imagined. They play varsity sports, travel to exotic places as part of college (I never left Brooklyn). They can have love lives I was too scared to even contemplate. And they aim at careers unavailable to most women of my generation. But they and their parents also have stress . . . not enough hours in the day to do what’s compulsory, pressured by expectations that are practically unachievable.
So let’s set aside opportunities and talk about happiness. Here’s where 50 years ago I had it all over them. Not that I had it easy . . . not that I didn’t work hard. My full time homemaking job was demanding but it kept me in constant touch with the people I loved most. Other than getting five kids out to school most mornings, I had no inflexible deadlines. No wardrobe issues. Absolutely no one else was angling for my job and no job performance reviews except from my mother-in-law but that’s another story. (She disapproved of my serving fresh vegetables when everyone knows that canned ones have all the nutrients packed in).
I saw my husband through law school and he used that education to support me and our children. We always felt that it was his responsibility to make money and mine to disperse it suitably by paying the bills, feeding and clothing the kids and keep our home comfortable. He worked hard, putting in long hours, and never was expected to do anything but relax when he finally got home. His relaxed home life would be the envy of today’s sharing-the-childcare Fathers.
In view of modern threats, my children had safe and carefree childhoods. When we finally sold our home we had to have keys made for the closing because in 25 years it had never been locked. And when I’d sent those five children off to school the only physical harm they might anticipate was Sister Rita striking their knuckles with a ruler. When we all went to see the NY Marathon our biggest worry was pickpockets.
I just finished the book ALL JOY NO FUN by Jennnifer Senior and considered it a clear and compelling picture of the tribulations of today’s mothers. And it compelled me to acknowledge how lucky I’d been. With no stress getting off to a paying job and keeping it, no expectations that I might succeed in a career, no juggling child care, I only had to focus on my near and dear.
And distance allows me to rate our parental performance. All my children are grown…most of them over 50 . . . and they are decent adults. Caring, honest, hard working and excellent parents who love me and each other. And when together we all laugh a lot.
I laugh the loudest because parenting in the sixties and seventies allowed me both joy and fun.
There is massive attention given to the fact that the present generation will not have better lives than their parents based on income and growth potential. It’s true I suppose but income and job opportunities are not the only major issues. Let’s talk about quality of life for today’s families, especially Mothers.
My eight granddaughters have advantages I never imagined. They play varsity sports, travel to exotic places as part of college (I never left Brooklyn). They can have love lives I was too scared to even contemplate. And they aim at careers unavailable to most women of my generation. But they and their parents also have stress . . . not enough hours in the day to do what’s compulsory, pressured by expectations that are practically unachievable.
So let’s set aside opportunities and talk about happiness. Here’s where 50 years ago I had it all over them. Not that I had it easy . . . not that I didn’t work hard. My full time homemaking job was demanding but it kept me in constant touch with the people I loved most. Other than getting five kids out to school most mornings, I had no inflexible deadlines. No wardrobe issues. Absolutely no one else was angling for my job and no job performance reviews except from my mother-in-law but that’s another story. (She disapproved of my serving fresh vegetables when everyone knows that canned ones have all the nutrients packed in).
I saw my husband through law school and he used that education to support me and our children. We always felt that it was his responsibility to make money and mine to disperse it suitably by paying the bills, feeding and clothing the kids and keep our home comfortable. He worked hard, putting in long hours, and never was expected to do anything but relax when he finally got home. His relaxed home life would be the envy of today’s sharing-the-childcare Fathers.
In view of modern threats, my children had safe and carefree childhoods. When we finally sold our home we had to have keys made for the closing because in 25 years it had never been locked. And when I’d sent those five children off to school the only physical harm they might anticipate was Sister Rita striking their knuckles with a ruler. When we all went to see the NY Marathon our biggest worry was pickpockets.
I just finished the book ALL JOY NO FUN by Jennnifer Senior and considered it a clear and compelling picture of the tribulations of today’s mothers. And it compelled me to acknowledge how lucky I’d been. With no stress getting off to a paying job and keeping it, no expectations that I might succeed in a career, no juggling child care, I only had to focus on my near and dear.
And distance allows me to rate our parental performance. All my children are grown…most of them over 50 . . . and they are decent adults. Caring, honest, hard working and excellent parents who love me and each other. And when together we all laugh a lot.
I laugh the loudest because parenting in the sixties and seventies allowed me both joy and fun.
The Legacy of Hirro Onoda
May I recommend the book THIS TOWN by Mark Leibovich for a current look behind the scenes in Washington which will astonish even the most cynical voter. If I ever thought he exaggerated the boldness of big business’s control of government the front page of the NY Times on March 28th reinforced his facts reporting that Senator Lindsey Graham brazenly introduced legislation actually drafted by a donor’s lobbyist. Remember when the sport of kings was horse racing? Well that seems to have taken a backseat to politics. Why own a thoroughbred when for less money you can buy a senator? With the return on investment more guaranteed.
Which solves the puzzle about who these people in congress are listening to. It can’t be to the working middle class citizens of their home towns. They can’t be that of touch with the real concerns of the people they are sworn to represent. It appears they are more inclined to listen to lobbyists who donate and dictate. (read the book). How else can you explain that 90% of Americans want stronger gun laws but not even 50% of their representatives will vote for them.
Why can’t these non-progressive law makers see what my Aunt Adelaide used to call “the handwriting in the hall”? Democrats are getting stronger because of young voters. While Republicans have cornered the market with the 60+ crowd, Dems have captured the 18-29 year olds. A recent Pew poll reveals that most Americans between 18 and 33 (68%) think gays should be allowed to marry. 56% think abortion should be legal. 55% believe people living illegally on the US should be allowed to stay and apply for citizenship. 54% feel the government should be responsible for Americans health. This magnificent country is driving forward while the Republican leadership is fixated on the rear view mirror.
Aunt Adelaide used to claim she was all for progress she just didn’t like change. That seems to be the mindset of the more conservative elected officials. They should speak to their children or talk to their chauffeurs or barbers. Most of the biggest bones of contention in todays politics will not be an issue for their children and grandchildren. Gay marriage, abortion, creationism, resistance to climate change won’t be issues. Educational prospects, equal opportunities, level playing fields will be their concerns. Dignity and fairness in the job market will be important. The environment and universal health care will be paramount.
Why can’t conservatives accept that the world is changing, the good old days are gone and the best of times is now. Instead, they seem to have embraced the attitude of the late Hiroo Onoda, the Japanese soldier who defended his post in the jungle of the Philippines for 29 years after the war ended, refusing to believe Japan had surrendered. He meant well. He just couldn’t see the handwriting in the hall!
May I recommend the book THIS TOWN by Mark Leibovich for a current look behind the scenes in Washington which will astonish even the most cynical voter. If I ever thought he exaggerated the boldness of big business’s control of government the front page of the NY Times on March 28th reinforced his facts reporting that Senator Lindsey Graham brazenly introduced legislation actually drafted by a donor’s lobbyist. Remember when the sport of kings was horse racing? Well that seems to have taken a backseat to politics. Why own a thoroughbred when for less money you can buy a senator? With the return on investment more guaranteed.
Which solves the puzzle about who these people in congress are listening to. It can’t be to the working middle class citizens of their home towns. They can’t be that of touch with the real concerns of the people they are sworn to represent. It appears they are more inclined to listen to lobbyists who donate and dictate. (read the book). How else can you explain that 90% of Americans want stronger gun laws but not even 50% of their representatives will vote for them.
Why can’t these non-progressive law makers see what my Aunt Adelaide used to call “the handwriting in the hall”? Democrats are getting stronger because of young voters. While Republicans have cornered the market with the 60+ crowd, Dems have captured the 18-29 year olds. A recent Pew poll reveals that most Americans between 18 and 33 (68%) think gays should be allowed to marry. 56% think abortion should be legal. 55% believe people living illegally on the US should be allowed to stay and apply for citizenship. 54% feel the government should be responsible for Americans health. This magnificent country is driving forward while the Republican leadership is fixated on the rear view mirror.
Aunt Adelaide used to claim she was all for progress she just didn’t like change. That seems to be the mindset of the more conservative elected officials. They should speak to their children or talk to their chauffeurs or barbers. Most of the biggest bones of contention in todays politics will not be an issue for their children and grandchildren. Gay marriage, abortion, creationism, resistance to climate change won’t be issues. Educational prospects, equal opportunities, level playing fields will be their concerns. Dignity and fairness in the job market will be important. The environment and universal health care will be paramount.
Why can’t conservatives accept that the world is changing, the good old days are gone and the best of times is now. Instead, they seem to have embraced the attitude of the late Hiroo Onoda, the Japanese soldier who defended his post in the jungle of the Philippines for 29 years after the war ended, refusing to believe Japan had surrendered. He meant well. He just couldn’t see the handwriting in the hall!
Three Little Words
There are many opinions about what are the most beautiful three words in the English language. Many say I LOVE YOU. My friend Alma says REDUCED FOR CLEARANCE. Another old standby, my personal favorite, is TOLD YOU SO.
That one springs to mind given that last month I blabbered on about not putting anything of the least importance in an email. Alex Rodriquez didn’t listen. Gov. Christie’s staff didn’t listen and several Wall Street traders are heading for prison because they didn’t pay attention either. Had the aforementioned put their ideas in their diaries (the ones with the locks) as I suggested, they would have avoided losing millions, sinking presidential aspirations and going to the slammer.
Emails would also indicate that Jamie Dimon, the feisty CEO of JP Morgan Chase, didn’t have a good year. An internet trail resulted in his company being fined 20 billion (yes BILLION) dollars in penalties but its Directors recognized this disgrace by giving him a 74% raise . . . 20 million dollars. A checkout clerk at Target who misplaced $100 would have been fired. Clearly Main Street and Wall Street have dissimilar criteria. And by the way what ever happened to “A rising tide lifts all boats”?
When we consider big money, let’s not forget the Koch brothers who spend millions pushing conservative ideals promoting the reduction of social services (luxuries like food stamps and medical care) while indignantly suing a wine merchant who sold them a $9,000 bottle of counterfeit hooch. Which they unquestionably needed since one of the brothers only has 40,000 bottles in his wine cellar. As the Irish are fond of saying, “Thirst is a terrible thing”.
One of the elected officials the Kochs supported was the Florida conservative Congressman Trey Radel who insisted that poor people shouldn’t get food stamps until they pass drug tests. He managed to take the word “hypocrisy” to a new level. Soon after throwing down this gauntlet he was arrested in DC while buying cocaine but nevertheless returned to Congress until their ethics folks suggested he resign to “spend more time with his family”. When I hear that ubiquitous phrase I wonder if anyone bothered to ask the family. You can only just imagine what fun it must be to have 24/7 time with a jobless disgraced man in withdrawal.
There are many opinions about what are the most beautiful three words in the English language. Many say I LOVE YOU. My friend Alma says REDUCED FOR CLEARANCE. Another old standby, my personal favorite, is TOLD YOU SO.
That one springs to mind given that last month I blabbered on about not putting anything of the least importance in an email. Alex Rodriquez didn’t listen. Gov. Christie’s staff didn’t listen and several Wall Street traders are heading for prison because they didn’t pay attention either. Had the aforementioned put their ideas in their diaries (the ones with the locks) as I suggested, they would have avoided losing millions, sinking presidential aspirations and going to the slammer.
Emails would also indicate that Jamie Dimon, the feisty CEO of JP Morgan Chase, didn’t have a good year. An internet trail resulted in his company being fined 20 billion (yes BILLION) dollars in penalties but its Directors recognized this disgrace by giving him a 74% raise . . . 20 million dollars. A checkout clerk at Target who misplaced $100 would have been fired. Clearly Main Street and Wall Street have dissimilar criteria. And by the way what ever happened to “A rising tide lifts all boats”?
When we consider big money, let’s not forget the Koch brothers who spend millions pushing conservative ideals promoting the reduction of social services (luxuries like food stamps and medical care) while indignantly suing a wine merchant who sold them a $9,000 bottle of counterfeit hooch. Which they unquestionably needed since one of the brothers only has 40,000 bottles in his wine cellar. As the Irish are fond of saying, “Thirst is a terrible thing”.
One of the elected officials the Kochs supported was the Florida conservative Congressman Trey Radel who insisted that poor people shouldn’t get food stamps until they pass drug tests. He managed to take the word “hypocrisy” to a new level. Soon after throwing down this gauntlet he was arrested in DC while buying cocaine but nevertheless returned to Congress until their ethics folks suggested he resign to “spend more time with his family”. When I hear that ubiquitous phrase I wonder if anyone bothered to ask the family. You can only just imagine what fun it must be to have 24/7 time with a jobless disgraced man in withdrawal.
Lastly, back to the subject of words (every writer’s obsession) I am constantly befuddled by the way words are twisted and rearranged so that bank tellers become customer service personnel, secretaries are administrative assistants and that formally deadly sin of “greed” is merely “irrational exuberance”. But there’s a new phrase popping up in government circles that takes the cake. “Revenge” is out . . . now called “negative reciprocity”. Gov. Christie take note.
Hello Again
I have missed too many opportunities to keep in contact with my email friends although you have been more faithful in keeping touch with me. And although I try to answer every one there are things that fall through the cracks. So my only New Year resolution is to keep connected. And this last holiday season offered me a chance to reminisce about my past Christmases which many of you may remember.
Today, post holidays, the reality of looming charges on their credit cards are overwhelming families. Whereas back in the day we had Christmas Clubs. For a year we regularly deposited a portion of our paychecks in a special account (with a passbook) and early in December we cashed out and bought gifts. Credit cards had not yet been invented. Lucky us.
We also didn’t have “black Friday” or indeed any reason to stop eating on Thanksgiving Day. My Mother was the Christmas shopper and as my four brothers got older she not only bought gifts for them but gifts from them . . . appropriate gifts they could give to other family members. She tended to be incredibly generous with these. My brother John claimed the real surprise on Christmas wasn’t what you got but what you gave.
One concern these past few months that we never dealt with was the huge international issue of privacy. It amazes me that so many citizens are troubled by the idea that they are being watched when most of them regularly post astonishingly intimate things about themselves on the internet for all to see. I tediously warn my grandchildren not to put on facebook anything they might regret later. Because emails, like zombies, never really go away. It’s shocking that titans of industry are going to jail because of what they wrote in emails. Which gives a depth of meaning to the word “schadenfreude”.
Because we didn’t have the internet we kept track of our lives by writing everything down in diaries. And years later when we applied for college or jobs we didn’t have to speculate if those secrets might sabotage our chances. Everyone I knew kept a diary albeit with a lock and these private thoughts were guarded . . . kept hidden away in a drawer behind your sweaters lest your Mother pick the lock. Young girls kept track of their crushes and boys tended to record the size of their genitals. There is even an episode of EVERYBODY LOVES RAYMOND about this guy/diary thing. Which prompted me to send this along.
I have missed too many opportunities to keep in contact with my email friends although you have been more faithful in keeping touch with me. And although I try to answer every one there are things that fall through the cracks. So my only New Year resolution is to keep connected. And this last holiday season offered me a chance to reminisce about my past Christmases which many of you may remember.
Today, post holidays, the reality of looming charges on their credit cards are overwhelming families. Whereas back in the day we had Christmas Clubs. For a year we regularly deposited a portion of our paychecks in a special account (with a passbook) and early in December we cashed out and bought gifts. Credit cards had not yet been invented. Lucky us.
We also didn’t have “black Friday” or indeed any reason to stop eating on Thanksgiving Day. My Mother was the Christmas shopper and as my four brothers got older she not only bought gifts for them but gifts from them . . . appropriate gifts they could give to other family members. She tended to be incredibly generous with these. My brother John claimed the real surprise on Christmas wasn’t what you got but what you gave.
One concern these past few months that we never dealt with was the huge international issue of privacy. It amazes me that so many citizens are troubled by the idea that they are being watched when most of them regularly post astonishingly intimate things about themselves on the internet for all to see. I tediously warn my grandchildren not to put on facebook anything they might regret later. Because emails, like zombies, never really go away. It’s shocking that titans of industry are going to jail because of what they wrote in emails. Which gives a depth of meaning to the word “schadenfreude”.
Because we didn’t have the internet we kept track of our lives by writing everything down in diaries. And years later when we applied for college or jobs we didn’t have to speculate if those secrets might sabotage our chances. Everyone I knew kept a diary albeit with a lock and these private thoughts were guarded . . . kept hidden away in a drawer behind your sweaters lest your Mother pick the lock. Young girls kept track of their crushes and boys tended to record the size of their genitals. There is even an episode of EVERYBODY LOVES RAYMOND about this guy/diary thing. Which prompted me to send this along.
LITTLE KNOWN FACTS
Women....will be finished reading this by now. Men....are still looking at their thumbs. Happy New Year!!! |
Mother's Day Circa 2012
I was born during the Hoover administration so I know something about change having seen my shoes go in and out of fashion thirty times and forget about swanky hats. And I’m not one of those relics who say “I believe in progress. I just don’t like change.” Especially when astonishing progress has given me a cell phone, Netflix and a cherished GPS (which lately, truth be told, mostly guides me to funeral homes).
Age does not guarantee wisdom but it does offer perspective. In addition to societal and technical changes I’ve also survived five wars and the feminist and sexual revolutions. And now, late in the day, with eight granddaughters to consider, I’m confronted with the recent War Against Women, a conflict which targets mothers inasmuch as the explicit issue is women’s reproductive health. I see progress threatened to be reversed by adversaries who are not turbaned Talibans but misogynistic white collared Christian men trumpeting their “family values”.
Historically women’s only significant advantage was first crack at the lifeboats. We’ve slogged through a protracted uphill battle to achieve parity with men and recently, bewilderingly, we’re sliding back down that slippery slope as birth control is being challenged. Birth control being the hard fought linchpin of women’s progress having factored opportunities our grandmothers never, ever, imagined. When women had no control over their own bodies their prospects were also beyond their control. Now we see priapic men in high places proclaiming that Viagra deserves to be covered by health insurance but women’s birth control must regress to a bewildering version of Russian Roulette.
If family values are at stake we must first appreciate that mothers are the backbone of every family. As a species we are mammals receiving our first food from the bodies of our mothers. Whose survival depends on mother and child being nourished and sheltered. Lip service is given to motherhood as “the most important job a woman can have” and children as “the hope of the future” but government subsidies go elsewhere.
In this new assault on women it doesn’t help that the feminist movement appears to have lost its mojo. For instance, in 1978, 100,000 women marched on Washington demanding equal rights. Currently called “The Women’s Equality Amendment” it still hasn’t passed. Also “feminism” egregiously overlooked the protection of mothers working outside the home. NOW has yet to address the embarrassment that, according to the National Geographic, 170 countries offer paid maternity leave and 98 of them offer at least 14 weeks off with pay. The United States is not one of them. In fact we are one of only four countries with no mandated paid family leave placing us in the fashionable company of Papua New Guinea, Liberia and Swaziland. How’s that for equality and “family values”?
Because you really can’t fool Mother Nature, I’m not convinced that leaders of the feminist movement respected the gravitational pull of motherhood for most women. Just look at the incredible lengths women these days go to trying get pregnant. Fertility specialists. In vitro fertilization. Surrogates. Thousands of dollars spent to achieve what, ironically, most of their mothers tried to avoid.
It also seems the height of hypocrisy that “family values” politicians have the effrontery to come up with unlimited funds for warfare while simultaneously trumpeting their commitment to the intrinsic value of every human life. Actually most of their positions are spectacularly incoherent inasmuch as they cut services to children and the poor while positing themselves as “Christians”. Makes you wonder how much they understand the compassionate nature of Jesus Christ. Or better yet, have figured out whose side He’d be on.
In the matter of faith, having been raised a Catholic, the niece of a Jesuit, I am particularly frustrated by the Church’s empirical disregard for women’s reproductive health. Saddened by a church that traditionally treats women as second class citizens (even their own devoted nuns). The prescient Fr. Charles Curran claimed, “Many men in the Church are only comfortable with their mothers or with the Blessed Mother especially if she’s an unmoving statue with glass eyes and a marble body.” Amen! And what celibate man could appreciate pregnancy and childbirth and the 24/7 care of a child? I absolutely believe that if bishops could get pregnant, objection to birth control would go the way of meatless Friday.
And then there’s the doctrinal dilemma. While the Vatican also vociferously opposes surrogate mothering is it concomitantly grateful that there was no such decree when Jesus was born?
Because I miss Andy Rooney who said it better than I ever could
Notes – December 2011
60 Minutes Correspondent Andy Rooney (CBS)
Women over 50!
As I grow in age, I value women over 50 most of all. Here are just a few reasons why:
A woman over 50 will never wake you in the middle of the night & ask, 'What are you thinking?' She doesn't care what you think.
If a woman over 50 doesn't want to watch the game, she doesn't sit around whining about it. She goes and does something, she wants to do, & it's usually more interesting.
Women over 50 are dignified. They seldom have a screaming match with you at the opera or in the middle of an expensive restaurant. Of course, if you deserve it, they won't hesitate to shoot you, if they think they can get away with it.
Older women are generous with praise, often undeserved. They know what it's like to be unappreciated.
Women get psychic as they age. You never have to confess your sins to a woman over 50.
Once you get past a wrinkle or two, a woman over 50 is far sexier than her younger counterpart.
Older women are forthright and honest.. They'll tell you right off if you are a jerk or if you are acting like one. You don't ever have to wonder where you stand with her.
Yes, we praise women over 50 for a multitude of reasons. Unfortunately, it's not reciprocal. For every stunning, smart, well-coiffed, hot woman over 50, there is a bald, paunchy relic in yellow pants making a fool of himself with some 22-year old waitress. Ladies, I apologize.
For all those men who say, “Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?” Here's an update for you. Nowadays 80% of women are against marriage. Why? Because women realize it's not worth buying an entire pig just to get a little sausage!
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Andy Rooney is a really smart guy!
Oligarchy, American Style
Notes – November 2011
Many readers have emailed me about the anti-Wall Street protestors here in New York. Several suggested they should “get a job”. Think about it . . . that’s what the protests are about . . . there are no jobs. That’s why it’s being supported by trade unions, teachers, social workers . . . no one is looking for a handout. They want to work. Jobs are the compelling problem and painful housing issues . . . people who can’t sell their homes, or have them foreclosed. But mostly the protest is about the inequality in a great country where the rich are getting richer and the poor getting more poor. The stock market is booming but that rising tide is not lifting all boats.
I am with them because I have twelve grandchildren and want a better future for them than I see on the horizon. I don’t own any stocks but I know when something is unfair. The situation that bothers me right now began with the ethos of Wall Street but is about Main Street. It involves my local newspaper . . . a business I do understand. We once had a local paper that kept us informed of the goings-on in our community. What the Village Board was up to, what new parking fees were being considered . . . information important to our lives. Their office was in the center of our village. Then it was bought by the Gannett chain and moved out to the highway. Then it moved across the river into another county. On the way it made cutbacks and jettisoned most of its reporters resulting in minimal local news. An inconvenience for our community and a blow for a democratic process depending on an informed citizenry. Advertizing rates became prohibitive for local business. Another blow to our economy but Gannett insisted that the financial situation of newspapers demanded cut backs.
This week’s NY Times reports that Gannett’s Chief Executive, Craig Dubow, resigned. In the six years he ran the company the stocks fell from $75 a share to $10 a share and 20,000 employees were fired. So why was he rewarded with a $37 million package on top of the $16 million he’s received in the past two years? To quote the Times media reporter David Carr, “Forget about occupying Wall Street: maybe it’s time to start occupying Main Street, a place Gannett has bled dry by offering less and less news while dumping and furloughing journalists in seemingly every quarter.”
All last year we heard about the deficit and the budget, huge problems but not the ones most Americans have the luxury of worrying about. The protestors, in casting an eye on economic inequality, shouted a message that resonated with millions of people all over the world who picked up banners and marched. The media took notice and suddenly they stopped focusing on the deficit and began reporting the hard fact that the top 10% of American earners share 25% of all income. An elite few, the top .01%, snags 5% of all U.S. income. This unconscionable inequity being the result of the incestuous liaison between elected officials and financial powers who use their lobbyists to engage in legalized bribery. Oligarchy is a form of government in which power is vested in a few and was once the provenance of Latin American dictatorships. Nobel Prize winning economist Paul Krugman gave this brilliant assessment. “Inequality is back in the news, largely thanks to Occupy Wall Street.” And concluded we now have such a society where money is increasingly concentrated in the hands of a few people and in which that concentration of wealth threatens to make America a democracy in name only.
That ends my rant. Because I was travelling this posting is late which allowed me to include two recent events and, at least, end on an up note.
Sadly Andy Rooney died yesterday leaving behind two terrific comments. He observed that “there are more beauty parlors than there are beauties” and that “if dogs could talk, it would take a lot of the fun out of owning one.”
Not so sadly Kim Kardashian announced that she was getting a divorce after 72 days of marriage. Which prompted one of my granddaughters, headed for Manhattan, to wonder if she bought something in the highly touted Kardashian boutique, DASH, would they now offer a 72 day return policy.
Happy Thanksgiving!!!!
NOTES – October 2011
New York Times – September 26, 2011
“Boston – Gov. Deval Patrick signed into law new limits on alimony in Massachusetts. It sets limits, based on the length of a marriage. A marriage of five years or less that ends in divorce could require alimony payments for up to half the length of the marriage. Those lasting between 15 and 20 years could require payments for up to 80% (of the number of years) of the marriage. He is making a series of changes to a system that critics consider outdated.”
Now this is a good beginning but fails to address the issue of stay-at-home mothers who have left the work force to raise their children. And the problems of older wives ditched by long-time husbands. I courteously propose a more evenhanded arrangement which I have sent to Gov. Patrick for his consideration.
Dear Governor Patrick,
While I applaud your efforts to make divorce more equitable there are several issues that demand further attention. My thinking, backed by almost 8 decades of experience, suggests that in childless marriages, just divide the assets. In decades-long marriages with children the working wife gets 3% of her husband’s income for every year difference between her age and the age of the woman he leaves her for. The stay-at-home wife with no means of support, gets 5% meaning a ten year age difference will cost her ex 50% of his income. A twenty year differential wipes him out completely. Forget marriage counselors . . . couples will be kept together by their accountants. How many younger women would want these old guys if they came burdened with sexually transmitted debt?
And these husbands would be better off in the long run. Trust me, Governor, those about- to- stray men will thank you in the end. Spared the humiliation of hair plugs, the Nordic Track and Viagra prescriptions, they will, eventually, become your most fervent supporters. Because they will come to understand that younger wives of older men can mean trouble.
I offer, as example, the sad tale of Dennis Kozlowski, CEO of Tyco Corp., who divorced his first wife to marry a younger woman. He threw his new honey a birthday party in Sardinia featuring Michelangelo’s David carved in ice with vodka spewing out of his penis which cost 2 million dollars. He bought her an extravagant NY apartment featuring a $6000 shower curtain. Trouble was the money didn’t come from his pocket. It belonged to Tyco. And when his lavish life-style came to the attention of its Board of Directors an indictment was followed by a jail sentence. Having once made $170 million in a year he now makes $1 a day mopping floors in prison. Governor, you will not be surprised to learn that the second wife divorced him requesting alimony. And he was left with more than a few regrets.
Truth is when you see a high-profile business man or politician indicted, the newspaper picture rarely shows a matronly lady by his side. His arm candy, who undoubtedly caused this tribulation, will be a sleek high-maintenance trophy wife. And I mean sleek. One of my friend’s husband left with a young woman who looked like a stick figure (my Irish grandmother would have said, “There’s more meat on a butcher’s apron).” These poor suckers should also have taken into account the inevitable Donald Trump Syndrome. “A man who marries his mistress creates a job opening.”
Governor you’re on the right track. Carry on!
How I Spent My Summer Vacation
NOTES - SEPTEMBER 2011
three
two
one
Even thought I've just lived through an earth quake and Hurriane Irene, the pictures show the high point of my summer. Not because at age 78 I got to fly 500 feet up in the air above the Atlantic Ocean but because I got to share an unforgettable adventure with my family. Since, unless you are a public figure, in the end your legacy lies in the memories left with your children and grandchildren. I choose not to have them remember me when they see a dog drooling or sniff OPS. (old people smell). In fact they have been urged to let me know when chin hairs sprout or breath is foul, recognizing that the only absolute rule of old age is Never Decline a Breath Mint.
My sons beach house is on the path to the ocean. I sit on the wide porch for hours every day and the youngsters going by on their skate boards and bicycles wave and call out GRANDMA HEKKER. If the Queen of England granted me the title Duchess it could give me the joy I get from "Grandma". I begin every morning on that porch reading the New York Times and am assaulted by bad news. Terrible problems. Daunting obstacles. But I remain serene because I am surrounded by youngsters who will be more than up to the challenges the future presents. The young people at my part of the Jersey shore are nothing NOTHING like the reality television Jersey Shore misfits. And I bet that no one reading this knows any young people like the ones viewed on reality tv. Or any housewives like them either. Our children are the hope for the future. The future is in good hands.
All my life I have looked forward to summer. To not going to school. To not having to get up early and send children to school. To going to the beach. Now summers are even more precious since I don't have that many left. Happily I can still swim in the ocean although if the waves are rough I get help going in. For many years past I held the hands of small granddaughters helping them into the surf and now theyre helping me. The only thing that remains the same is the amount of material in their bathing suits.
More Rules That Don't Work
Last month when I wrote about lies you’re told and truths no one tells you, I received terrific emails back from friends sharing their favorites. The one that came up repeatedly was the old marital chestnut DON’T EVER GO TO BED ANGRY. There is universal estimation that this axiom doesn’t work at all. Which brings me to the following, an excerpt from an article I researched and wrote on this subject almost three decades ago for McCalls magazine. Which, I am assured, still resonates with married couples.
“When pressured not to go to bed angry you force yourself to contrive a reconciliation with that insensitive oaf/cow just because it’s bedtime. Then you’ll be awake all night, gnawed at by repressed rage and plotting revenge. Whereas if you go to bed furious you are lulled to sleep by the certain knowledge that your warming self-pity is justified inasmuch as you are truly the most undervalued wife/unappreciated husband.
The wily experts who gave you that goody two-shoes rule should have instead let you in on the more effective well established “Rubrics of Marital Fighting”. So you’re forced to discover them through trial and error, wasting valuable time. Actually these definitive regulations are quite elementary if you just keep in mind that all other rules of conduct between adversaries are simply reversed.
Unlike the guidelines established by the Marquis of Queensberry, in marital fights you must, verbally, aim to hit below the belt. Unlike legal disputes, there is no statute of limitations…no previous infraction is too far back in time to be dredged up and rehashed. Unlike the Geneva Conventions there is no safe zone marked by a red cross . . . marital fights are no-holds-barred. But not free- for- alls. Indeed they are as stylized as a Kabuki dance. And all battles end in a draw. There is no recorded instance where a husband or wife was declared a winner (or admitted being a loser).
Marital wars are generally fought along much the same lines as traditional warfare. Weapons are only and always words which can be flung out or simply aimed softly depending on the combat conditions. The only inhumane weapon that should be outlawed by international convention is silence.
As Phyllis McGinley wrote:
“Sticks and stones can hurt your bones
Aimed with angry art
Words can sting like anything
But silence breaks the heart”
Now to the pageantry. However distasteful, most seasoned couples can dispense with preliminary sparring and proceed promptly to the main event because each partner has recognized that one phrase guaranteed to set the other one off. They are able to push each other’s buttons having personally installed them.
Common phrases are androgynous and can be used by either partner with equal effectiveness although “nag” is customarily applied to the female and “needle” to the male. But most are unisex phrases like, “You never . . . ”, “You always . . . ”, “Your mother . . . ” And that old standby, “Once, just once can’t you admit you’re wrong”.
The initial skirmish may be different each time but once the battle lines are drawn the war is fought with conventional weapons and predictable tactics until both parties can’t remember how it started. At his point peace overtures are commenced and these are ritualistic and often couched in the interrogative: “Can I get you a drink?” “Did you notice I took out the garbage?” Or simply “How about it honey?”
Aunt Lizzie who’d been married more than fifty years told me, “I always told him his faults and he told me mine but we certainly never paid any attention to each other”. My own parents could fight like Kilkenny cats but when things were calm again Mama would voice the feeling every woman ever married to a man has known. “I’m glad I didn’t murder him yesterday”.
No One Tells You The Truth
Have you ever noticed how many things no one ever tells you? Universal truths exist but for some reason, in accordance with some unwritten law, you have to find them out for yourself. And then when you finally do figure it out you’re expected to keep it to yourself.
Then there are the lies we were told as children. “Good things come in small packages.” Small things come in small packages. “It hurts me more than it hurts you.” No Way! “The best things in life are free.” But the tragic things like sickness and death cost a bundle. “A friend in need is a friend indeed.” Actually a friend in need is a pain in the ass.
My current concerns are the myths about old age which I approached more rapidly than I’d expected. Having been warned that when you’re over the hill you learn to coast, I felt fully prepared to slow down a bit but no one told me that after seventy short years the warranty on my parts would run out. That past my sell-by-date my pipes would clog and I’d need all new washers. That eyes and ears would become inept, gums less gummy and teeth wobbly. That a waist that heretofore had only stretched horizontally would begin inching upward vertically like a badly tuned TV picture, threatening a rather nasty collision with a simultaneously falling bust. And that knees would commence to malfunction, working well enough to lower me down but failing dismally to boost me back up again.
Worse yet the old age I was assured would make me more mellow has not worked out. In fact it has further diminished my chronically weak resolve to set a good example. I blurt out truths because whatever filter used to keep me politically correct has also degraded. Opinions best kept to myself are now shared with anyone within earshot. Discretion has evaporated altogether and worst of all, I (who actually knew the identity of Deep Throat) blab ceaselessly about the most confidential information. I’m becoming like my friend Doris who claimed “C’mon tell me. You know I can keep a secret. It’s just those loudmouths I tell it to that can’t.”
On the plus side feel free to confide in me because the odds are that within hours I’ll forget altogether. Come to think of it maybe I was forewarned about old age but can’t remember. And with my Irish heritage I’m probably doomed to forget everything but the grudges.
Notwithstanding all these complaints, I am thoroughly enjoying old age and I have directed that the epitaph on my tombstone should be SHE DIDN’T WANT TO GO.
Sex and Powerful Men
I had planned to write this month about my love affair with Medicare, offering a pox on those who would tamper with it. But events involving sexual misconduct have over-ridden that proposal because so many deserted wives emailed me about Arnold Schwarzenegger, most of them claiming that his betrayal trumped even theirs. A fling with a hooker is one thing, an affair with a secretary is yet another but ongoing sex with someone in your own household hits a new high . . . or low. And a child with that woman, a secret that continued for more than a decade…that sent infidelity soaring to a whole new level. In terms of degrees of betrayal Arnold, to use a carnival weight-lifters metaphor, swung his hammer and hit the bell.
Then we heard about the French banker, Dominique Strauss-Kahn, the head of the International Monetary Fund for heaven’s sake, who sexually assaulted an innocent hotel maid because, according to the brilliant Maureen Dowd, he couldn’t tell the difference between “ a can-can and a can’t- can’t.” Triggering, back in France, an avalanche of aggrieved women coming forward to chronicle their sordid experiences with rapacious supervisors.
Although men across every social strata commit adultery, the current glut of rich and powerful men as sexual predators has brought fresh attention to the social and moral issue of seduction and morality. Success may produce serial philanderers but their arrogance often precedes power, not the other way around. Psychiatry professor Samuel Barondes explains, “If the person has this sense of superiority . . . he begins to think that the risk-reward ratio that applies to everyone else doesn’t apply to him because he’s so special.”
These guys share the unique advantage of having money and opportunity denied less affluent fellows. Usually they have “staff” to arrange their sleazy liaisons . . . think Tiger, John Edwards, Governors Spitzer and Stanford, Italy’s tawdry Berlusconi . . . it’s such a long list. Their support systems frequently makes them sloppy about covering their tracks what with their hubris and sense of entitlement. But basically high profile wealthy men have no unique predisposition to sexual misadventures. They just generate more attention from the media and paparazzi.
Political sexual scandals are hardly new. Thomas Jefferson had children by his slave and Franklin Roosevelt managed liaisons with his mistress from a wheelchair. But my absolute favorite paradigm happened back in the 70’s and involved Congressman Wilbur Mills (D. Arkansas) who was 74 and Chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee. A pious family man and tough taskmaster he had made an issue of forbidding the elevator operators in the Capital from having little pull-down seats claiming that their duty, given the prominence of their passengers, called for them to stand up. All day.
Then on October 9, 1974, at 2am, he was pulled out of the Tidal Basin near the Jefferson Memorial, where he’d jumped in after his companion Fannie Fox, a stripper billed as the Argentine Firecracker. He was “drunk as a skunk” and the Washington Post proclaimed he’d “set the gold standard for dumb-ass behavior by an Old Guy.”
Now the former California Governor has not only managed to deceive and hoodwink his wife but he pulled off another impressive trick. He succeeded in making old Wilbur look like a pillar of rectitude.
THE NEW YORK TIMES - Memorial Day 2011
Page 4 - Kabul:
. . . a NATO airstrike killed 14 civilians, most of them women and children (it was accompanied by a photo of an Afghan man holding the bodies of two children).
Page 5 - AFGHAN BANK COMMISSION ABSOLVES PRESIDENT’S BROTHER IN FRAUD CASE
“A commission appointed by President Hamid Kazai to assess responsibility for the massive fraud at Kabul Bank issued its report absolving the President’s brother of any blame. The brother, Mahmoud Karzai was among the bank’s politically connected shareholders and insiders who took out a total of $925 million in loans, often with no collateral. Only $347 million of that amount is so far expected to be repaid.”
Further down page 5 - NAMES OF THE AMERICANS DEAD IN THE AFGHAN WAR
Thomas Bohall, 25
John Runkle, 27
Christopher Thibodeau, 28
Louie Velazquez, 39
Adam Patton, 21
John Runkle, 27
Joseph Hamski, 28
John Johnson, 28
Edward Mills, 29
Ergin Osman, 35
How better to honor these brave Americans on Memorial Day than to pledge that this atrocious and absurd war will end quickly.
FYI: The Department of Defense has identified 1,581 American service members who have died as part of the Afghan War and The Congressional Research Service reports that the Afghan War has cost $557 billion.
Real Life Among The Really Old
The brilliant Susan Jacoby writes about approaching old age from the perspective of her 65 years and her view is quite gloomy. She expects old age to be “an unremitting struggle” but it doesn’t have to be. So let me offer a little hope to someone who I consider young.
I was born during the Hoover administration so my view of age is as one living it rather than contemplating it. And I am enjoying old age. I see no value in age-defying products and never wished to be forever young because each year brought me new challenges and rewards. I haven’t lived right by society’s standards. Like I have acquired what Alexander McCall Smith refers to as “a traditional build”. I don’t look my age because I actually look older which serves to alarm me when well-meaning strangers rush to help me across the street. I don’t exercise because living in a third floor walk-up is enough of a challenge. I don’t color my white hair because I’m grateful to still have hair. The trick with advancing age is acceptance. And gratitude that you made it when so many marvelous people die young. If you see life as a lottery, living to an old age makes you a winner. Growing old is a great blessing and it baffles me that advanced age could be viewed as a burden. Serenity should not be confused with surrender.
It is liberating that no one expects much of you. You can throw away the alarm clock because there is no place you really have to be. There is time to visit your few remaining friends (half of the names in my address book have already been crossed out). You understand what Noel Coward meant when he claimed all he asked of his friends was that they live through lunch.
There are downsides. Your body begins sprouting little knobs (think old potato) and your skin has moved from silky to seersucker. While it has become politically correct to make fun of the elderly no one sees the absurdity more than the elderly themselves. We talk about senior moments but in fact our heads are like an old computer . . . the information is there but it takes time to bring it up. The limitations of age force us to adapt and alter the ways we conduct our lives and these are not without absurdity. In England it is common for seniors to be referred to as Twirlees because whatever the event they are “ too early’.
If you’ve been lucky enough to have children, it’s harvest time. Dessert time in the banquet of life. My five children are grown up and my twelve grandchildren are exceptional. At a time when your days can be plagued by loses (your friends, your teeth, your marbles) grandchildren bring enthusiasm and excitement. And they rather expect me to speak my mind, teasing that I have one foot in the grave and the other in my mouth. My father claimed that the great bond between grandparents and grandchildren is that they shared a common enemy. But I have found that our mutual devotion to the children has bound our family into a strong, if lumpy, tapestry.
The amazing Alexander McCall Smith, wrote “The realization of our mortality comes slowly . . . until we bleakly acknowledge that everything was on loan for us for a short time . . . the world, our possessions, and the people we know and love.” Watching your friends leave the building is tough.
As a group we old folks are amazingly cheerful although there is that specter of humiliating illness and death which hangs over us. Which is why our country should embrace the right of the elderly to decide when they’ll “leave the building.” We’re not afraid of death . . . we’re afraid of being kept alive. This is a contentious issue and I recently had a discussion with a very religious friend who claims that time of death should be left to God. And only God. My response to her was it was God’s decision to give you an A cup bra size and a nose like a macaw so why did you mess with Him about those assessments.
Your senses are refined even if when you feel it in your bones it’s probably arthritis. And, alas, sex is marginal. My mother-in-law claimed that in her eighties she went to bed every night with three men. Arthur Itis, Ben Gay and Johnny Walker.
An Ode To Books
In reading Pat Conroy’s MY READING LIFE I realized how significant an influence books have been in my own life. From Nancy Drew to Frank McCourt books have been friends. They informed, amused and enlightened me. But never more than fifteen years ago when, after forty years together, my husband divorced me. I felt betrayed and humiliated. And alone.
Then by some miracle I came upon a few books which comforted and inspired me. And miraculously made me laugh. Because I was not alone. And oddly enough for someone who fancies herself a rather high-brow reader, back then when the wounds were raw, these books that turned my heart around were tasty murder mysteries which had become escape devices in my new empty-bedtime reading.
My personal favorite, Susan Isaacs, began her book AFTER ALL THESE YEARS, with. “After nearly a quarter of a century of marriage, Richie Meyers, my husband, told me to call him ‘Rick. Then he started slicking back his hair (so) how come I was surprised when Richie told me he was leaving me for…Jessica.”
Sharyn McCrumb took as the title of her mystery a phrase overheard from a battered woman, IF I’D KILLED HIM WHEN I MET HIM I’D BE OUT OF JAIL BY NOW. It’s the story of a dumped wife who snaps and murders her ex-husband and his bitch (Golden Retriever) of a new wife. The unrepentant murderess suggests that middle-aged men get strange. “I think it’s testosterone poisoning. Do you suppose anyone’s working on a cure? We could organize a telethon…! Poor Baldy is doomed to a life of bimbos and Nordic Track unless you help.” Her rage fueled by the “cosmic double standard…the fact that men get more than one chance to live happily ever after.
In her witty novel, MURDERING MR. MONTE, the brilliant Judith Viorst describes a meeting of a group of wives in their fifties and sixties who’d been deserted by their husbands. “Urged by their counselors…to regard their new unattached status not as a loss but a chance to grow,” they call their support group “AFGO”…as in my husband walks out and gets a sexy new girlfriend and I get Another F**king Growth Opportunity.” That one rang a loud bell. AFGO became my mantra. It’s my license plate. My grandchildren believe the F stands for fantastic. And, as it turned out, they’re absolutely right.
NOTES – December 2010
One of my friends who is also a dumped older wife sent the superb email below and it struck a note since it humorously addresses two of the most serious subjects flooding current media. They are the emerging data on the institution of marriage and equally disquieting information on the growth of the internet and how it affects our thought processes.
On the subject of marriage, A NY Times column on its changing face quotes the National Marriage Project as charting the decline of the two-parent family. A Pew Research study revealed that in 2010 only 26% of men and women in their 20’s are married, while in 1960 68% in that age range were married. And that 39% of Americans think that marriage is obsolete.
On the subject of the internet, a study called, ‘Will Google make us stupid’, shows that 76% of the individuals polled believe that by the year 2020, the use of the internet will increase the intelligence of the population and will have a profound impact on the way humans think. But visual stimulation and constant distractions on the internet may also physically alter the brain leading to a loss of short-term memory. A brain addicted to the internet does not use deep thinking and contemplation so that many people today using the internet are living in reality and on the internet at the same time.
Here is a brilliant view of these two converging subjects. Probably sexist from the viewpoint of husbands but credible in its interpretation of wives.
Dear Tech Support:
Last year I upgraded from Girlfriend 7.0 to Wife 1.0. I soon noticed that the new program began unexpected child processing that took up a lot of space and valuable resources. In addition, Wife 1.0 installed itself into all other programs and now monitors all other system activity. Applications such as Poker Night 10.3, Football 5.0, Hunting and Fishing 7.5, and Racing 3.6.
I can't seem to keep Wife 1.0 in the background while attempting to run my favorite applications. I'm thinking about going back to Girlfriend 7.0, but the un-install doesn't work on Wife 1.0. Please help!
Thanks,
A Troubled User.
REPLY:
Dear Troubled User:
This is a very common problem that men complain about.
Many people upgrade from Girlfriend 7.0 to Wife 1.0, thinking that it is just a Utilities and Entertainment program. Wife 1.0 is an OPERATING SYSTEM and is designed by its Creator to run EVERYTHING!!! It is also impossible to delete Wife 1.0 and to return to Girlfriend 7.0. It is impossible to un-install, or purge the program files from the system once installed.
You cannot go back to Girlfriend 7.0 because Wife 1.0 is designed to not allow this. Look in your Wife 1.0 manual under Warnings-Alimony-Child Support. I recommend that you keep Wife1.0 and work on improving the situation. I suggest installing the background application "Yes Dear" to alleviate software augmentation.
The best course of action is to enter the command C:\APOLOGIZE because ultimately you will have to give the APOLOGIZE command before the system will return to normal anyway.
Wife 1.0 is a great program, but it tends to be very high maintenance. Wife 1.0 comes with several support programs, such as Clean and Sweep 3.0, Cook It 1.5 and Do Bills 4.2.
However, be very careful how you use these programs. Improper use will cause the system to launch the program Nag Nag 9.5. Once this happens, the only way to improve the performance of Wife 1.0 is to purchase additional software. I recommend Flowers 2.1 and Diamonds 5.0!
WARNING!!! DO NOT, under any circumstances, install Secretary With Short Skirt 3.3. This application is not supported by Wife 1.0 and will cause irreversible damage to the operating system.
Best of luck,
Tech Support
NOTES – October 2009
Two weeks ago I was asked to write a column for Expressen, Sweden’s biggest newspaper. They wanted me to comment on an article they’d run by Anna Aberg Anka who is featured on their popular television show SWEDISH HOLLYWOOD WIVES. An international extension of the dreadful American tv shows claiming to be about “Real Housewives.”
I confess to having issues with “Real Housewives”. Because I know housewives. In 1977 I wrote an article for the NY Times about the probability that I might end up the last American housewife … an endangered species. From what I’ve seen on television these women, whatever city they inhabit, are not real housewives. First, they hardly seem real. Even their breasts don’t seem authentic. And second the housewives in my world spend their days at home caring for their families. They are by definition “married women whose principal occupation is managing a household and taking care of domestic affairs.” “Women caring for a home and practicing thrift and economy.” Ha!
These so called “Real Housewives” are more accurately Real Social Climbers, Real Spendthrifts, Real Bitches. Let’s be honest. And they represent the worst unmerited clichés about women as being manipulative, back-biting, critical and profligate. The antithesis of the amazingly ordinary housewives I’ve been surrounded by … family, friends and neighbors … who’ve been encouraging, dependable and supportive, always putting their families first.
And now in Sweden there is a tv program which spun off our housewife shows, and celebrates Swedish women who have married affluent men in Hollywood. The aforementioned Anna, with astounding braggadocio, wrote that she aims to be a model for Swedish women, admonishing them not to settle for Swedish men when it is American husbands who know how to treat a wife, “buying expensive gifts.” She gloats that “If you employ someone in Sweden they have to have training and be qualified. In America the illegal Mexicans do the job … The list of people working for me is long … I can barely keep track of all those on my payroll.”
Who is this paragon of housewifery? She is a former model who is now the trophy wife of the singer-songwriter Paul Anka. His first wife of 39 years, was the mother of his five children. Sounds familiar! She trumpets the glories of an older husband and her glamorous life and urges Swedish women to follow her lead.
It gets worse. Many Swedish women, having read my response, emailed me about their rage not only at her put-down of them but of how sympathetically she has been treated in their country. One woman wrote, “I sent an angry email to the political secretary of the Swedish Christian Democratic Party who welcomed Anna Anka and her views into the Party … We really don’t need people like Anna Anka telling us to keep the men pleased at all times and that women are only made to be there for men. We have worked long enough to make people see that you are not worth more as a person just because you are born with a penis.”
Expressen was deluged with similar angry comments on Mrs. Anka’s diatribe and most were disturbed by the prevalence of older men ditching their wives for younger women. A well-documented and accepted phenomenon in America.
When will it end? I used to admire John Edwards and now he’s one of the worst. It seems that in an effort to keep his mistress from tarnishing his political image, he calmed the anxious Ms. Hunter (aptly named woman don’t you think?) by promising her that after his wife died, (oh God he actually said that?) he would marry her in a rooftop ceremony in New York with an appearance by the Dave Matthew’s band.” Do you think it was the band that nailed it for her? What an admirable value system. She’s dreadful and he’s a creep. A match not made in heaven.
I would tell Ms.Hunter what I told Mrs. Anka. Be aware of The Silver Rule … that a man who marries his mistress creates a job opening.
NOTES – September 15, 2008
Dear Senator McCain,
Your selection of Sarah Palin was inspired and the excitement around her meteoric rise has been astonishing. She certainly is the Edmund Hillary of political climbers. But it’s beginning to look like she may not be able to stay-the-course with all this egregious media attention. And just in case she drops out I humbly offer myself as an instant replacement. I want to get my resume into you now knowing how swiftly you like to make decisions. Frankly I envy you that because I tend to over-think things. It took me longer to pick out wallpaper for my bathroom than it took you to select this astonishing candidate.
I respect your criteria for a running mate and only presume to pitch for the job because I have the same critical credentials as Ms. Palin. I am a mother of five (and grandmother of twelve) and my sons all played hockey (albeit most recently in the “Fifty and Over League”). And I was the three term mayor of a community about the size of Wasilla. Amazing isn’t it?
And as your running mate I have a big advantage over Ms. Palin in that standing next to her makes you look dowdy and, let’s face it, old. Since I am seventy-five and a plus size woman, standing next to me you will not only appear younger but more fit. Perception matters! And keep in mind the press will have to be gentle with me since to do otherwise would make them appear not only sexist but ageist.
To my credit, unlike Ms. Palin I do know the duties of a vice-president and here again I have her beat. Breaking a tie in a vote is child’s play for a Mother of four sons (and sister of four brothers). But where I really shine is the funeral-attending piece. Being Irish I am a funeral mavin. No one knows funerals like the Irish. Although I’m not as good as my Aunt Bridee who could scan the room in the funeral parlor and calculate the cost of the coffin and flowers. To the penny. (Grandma O’Donohue said she had “the gift!”) Also I won’t be dipping into the petty cash for appropriate attire since I have already amassed black outfits (with matching support hose) for every season.
I must confess to being “a community activist” (Chamber of Commerce, Library Board, Hospital Board, Rotary etc. etc) and hope you won’t hold this against me. Especially since, like you, to get this nifty job I am willing to accept the unwritten dictum of conservative government that initiative and innovation are essentially subversive.
I am a registered Independent but would have no problem switching to Republican since I understand the Vice Presidency comes with a swell house and my poor old knees are getting worn out climbing to my third floor walk up flat. Yet another plus, I have a passport which shows I’ve visited Europe, Africa and China albeit with cheap senior tours but I can certainly claim a better sense of the larger world than Ms. Palin. Although I haven’t seen Russia from afar so she’s got me there.
Born and raised in Brooklyn I’ve never handled a gun and I’ll have to stretch it a bit to match Ms. Palin’s ability to field dress a moose. I can only proffer that I am celebrated for my turkey dressing which has stuffed six thirty-pound birds at each of the Thanksgiving dinners I’ve been preparing for my 80+ relatives for the last twenty-five years. That’s 4500 pounds of turkey to balance against several mooses. As I said it’s a stretch but we politicians have to do that sometimes.
I presently hold the title MIT (Matriarch in Training) of my large Irish family so my family values are unquestioned. Although in the interest of full disclosure your vetting guys may come across a scurrilous family legend about my pot roast killing Grandpa. I cannot begin to dredge up the apotheosis Ms.Palin has achieved but I believe I could be a splendid replacement should she choose to withdraw to Alaska.
And finally, there is one more gigantic plus for me. Since unlike Ms. Palin I am totally devoid of political ambition you won’t have to hire that taster.
Hoping to hear from you soon,
Terry Martin Hekker
I was born during the Hoover administration so I know something about change having seen my shoes go in and out of fashion thirty times and forget about swanky hats. And I’m not one of those relics who say “I believe in progress. I just don’t like change.” Especially when astonishing progress has given me a cell phone, Netflix and a cherished GPS (which lately, truth be told, mostly guides me to funeral homes).
Age does not guarantee wisdom but it does offer perspective. In addition to societal and technical changes I’ve also survived five wars and the feminist and sexual revolutions. And now, late in the day, with eight granddaughters to consider, I’m confronted with the recent War Against Women, a conflict which targets mothers inasmuch as the explicit issue is women’s reproductive health. I see progress threatened to be reversed by adversaries who are not turbaned Talibans but misogynistic white collared Christian men trumpeting their “family values”.
Historically women’s only significant advantage was first crack at the lifeboats. We’ve slogged through a protracted uphill battle to achieve parity with men and recently, bewilderingly, we’re sliding back down that slippery slope as birth control is being challenged. Birth control being the hard fought linchpin of women’s progress having factored opportunities our grandmothers never, ever, imagined. When women had no control over their own bodies their prospects were also beyond their control. Now we see priapic men in high places proclaiming that Viagra deserves to be covered by health insurance but women’s birth control must regress to a bewildering version of Russian Roulette.
If family values are at stake we must first appreciate that mothers are the backbone of every family. As a species we are mammals receiving our first food from the bodies of our mothers. Whose survival depends on mother and child being nourished and sheltered. Lip service is given to motherhood as “the most important job a woman can have” and children as “the hope of the future” but government subsidies go elsewhere.
In this new assault on women it doesn’t help that the feminist movement appears to have lost its mojo. For instance, in 1978, 100,000 women marched on Washington demanding equal rights. Currently called “The Women’s Equality Amendment” it still hasn’t passed. Also “feminism” egregiously overlooked the protection of mothers working outside the home. NOW has yet to address the embarrassment that, according to the National Geographic, 170 countries offer paid maternity leave and 98 of them offer at least 14 weeks off with pay. The United States is not one of them. In fact we are one of only four countries with no mandated paid family leave placing us in the fashionable company of Papua New Guinea, Liberia and Swaziland. How’s that for equality and “family values”?
Because you really can’t fool Mother Nature, I’m not convinced that leaders of the feminist movement respected the gravitational pull of motherhood for most women. Just look at the incredible lengths women these days go to trying get pregnant. Fertility specialists. In vitro fertilization. Surrogates. Thousands of dollars spent to achieve what, ironically, most of their mothers tried to avoid.
It also seems the height of hypocrisy that “family values” politicians have the effrontery to come up with unlimited funds for warfare while simultaneously trumpeting their commitment to the intrinsic value of every human life. Actually most of their positions are spectacularly incoherent inasmuch as they cut services to children and the poor while positing themselves as “Christians”. Makes you wonder how much they understand the compassionate nature of Jesus Christ. Or better yet, have figured out whose side He’d be on.
In the matter of faith, having been raised a Catholic, the niece of a Jesuit, I am particularly frustrated by the Church’s empirical disregard for women’s reproductive health. Saddened by a church that traditionally treats women as second class citizens (even their own devoted nuns). The prescient Fr. Charles Curran claimed, “Many men in the Church are only comfortable with their mothers or with the Blessed Mother especially if she’s an unmoving statue with glass eyes and a marble body.” Amen! And what celibate man could appreciate pregnancy and childbirth and the 24/7 care of a child? I absolutely believe that if bishops could get pregnant, objection to birth control would go the way of meatless Friday.
And then there’s the doctrinal dilemma. While the Vatican also vociferously opposes surrogate mothering is it concomitantly grateful that there was no such decree when Jesus was born?
Because I miss Andy Rooney who said it better than I ever could
Notes – December 2011
60 Minutes Correspondent Andy Rooney (CBS)
Women over 50!
As I grow in age, I value women over 50 most of all. Here are just a few reasons why:
A woman over 50 will never wake you in the middle of the night & ask, 'What are you thinking?' She doesn't care what you think.
If a woman over 50 doesn't want to watch the game, she doesn't sit around whining about it. She goes and does something, she wants to do, & it's usually more interesting.
Women over 50 are dignified. They seldom have a screaming match with you at the opera or in the middle of an expensive restaurant. Of course, if you deserve it, they won't hesitate to shoot you, if they think they can get away with it.
Older women are generous with praise, often undeserved. They know what it's like to be unappreciated.
Women get psychic as they age. You never have to confess your sins to a woman over 50.
Once you get past a wrinkle or two, a woman over 50 is far sexier than her younger counterpart.
Older women are forthright and honest.. They'll tell you right off if you are a jerk or if you are acting like one. You don't ever have to wonder where you stand with her.
Yes, we praise women over 50 for a multitude of reasons. Unfortunately, it's not reciprocal. For every stunning, smart, well-coiffed, hot woman over 50, there is a bald, paunchy relic in yellow pants making a fool of himself with some 22-year old waitress. Ladies, I apologize.
For all those men who say, “Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?” Here's an update for you. Nowadays 80% of women are against marriage. Why? Because women realize it's not worth buying an entire pig just to get a little sausage!
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Andy Rooney is a really smart guy!
Oligarchy, American Style
Notes – November 2011
Many readers have emailed me about the anti-Wall Street protestors here in New York. Several suggested they should “get a job”. Think about it . . . that’s what the protests are about . . . there are no jobs. That’s why it’s being supported by trade unions, teachers, social workers . . . no one is looking for a handout. They want to work. Jobs are the compelling problem and painful housing issues . . . people who can’t sell their homes, or have them foreclosed. But mostly the protest is about the inequality in a great country where the rich are getting richer and the poor getting more poor. The stock market is booming but that rising tide is not lifting all boats.
I am with them because I have twelve grandchildren and want a better future for them than I see on the horizon. I don’t own any stocks but I know when something is unfair. The situation that bothers me right now began with the ethos of Wall Street but is about Main Street. It involves my local newspaper . . . a business I do understand. We once had a local paper that kept us informed of the goings-on in our community. What the Village Board was up to, what new parking fees were being considered . . . information important to our lives. Their office was in the center of our village. Then it was bought by the Gannett chain and moved out to the highway. Then it moved across the river into another county. On the way it made cutbacks and jettisoned most of its reporters resulting in minimal local news. An inconvenience for our community and a blow for a democratic process depending on an informed citizenry. Advertizing rates became prohibitive for local business. Another blow to our economy but Gannett insisted that the financial situation of newspapers demanded cut backs.
This week’s NY Times reports that Gannett’s Chief Executive, Craig Dubow, resigned. In the six years he ran the company the stocks fell from $75 a share to $10 a share and 20,000 employees were fired. So why was he rewarded with a $37 million package on top of the $16 million he’s received in the past two years? To quote the Times media reporter David Carr, “Forget about occupying Wall Street: maybe it’s time to start occupying Main Street, a place Gannett has bled dry by offering less and less news while dumping and furloughing journalists in seemingly every quarter.”
All last year we heard about the deficit and the budget, huge problems but not the ones most Americans have the luxury of worrying about. The protestors, in casting an eye on economic inequality, shouted a message that resonated with millions of people all over the world who picked up banners and marched. The media took notice and suddenly they stopped focusing on the deficit and began reporting the hard fact that the top 10% of American earners share 25% of all income. An elite few, the top .01%, snags 5% of all U.S. income. This unconscionable inequity being the result of the incestuous liaison between elected officials and financial powers who use their lobbyists to engage in legalized bribery. Oligarchy is a form of government in which power is vested in a few and was once the provenance of Latin American dictatorships. Nobel Prize winning economist Paul Krugman gave this brilliant assessment. “Inequality is back in the news, largely thanks to Occupy Wall Street.” And concluded we now have such a society where money is increasingly concentrated in the hands of a few people and in which that concentration of wealth threatens to make America a democracy in name only.
That ends my rant. Because I was travelling this posting is late which allowed me to include two recent events and, at least, end on an up note.
Sadly Andy Rooney died yesterday leaving behind two terrific comments. He observed that “there are more beauty parlors than there are beauties” and that “if dogs could talk, it would take a lot of the fun out of owning one.”
Not so sadly Kim Kardashian announced that she was getting a divorce after 72 days of marriage. Which prompted one of my granddaughters, headed for Manhattan, to wonder if she bought something in the highly touted Kardashian boutique, DASH, would they now offer a 72 day return policy.
Happy Thanksgiving!!!!
NOTES – October 2011
New York Times – September 26, 2011
“Boston – Gov. Deval Patrick signed into law new limits on alimony in Massachusetts. It sets limits, based on the length of a marriage. A marriage of five years or less that ends in divorce could require alimony payments for up to half the length of the marriage. Those lasting between 15 and 20 years could require payments for up to 80% (of the number of years) of the marriage. He is making a series of changes to a system that critics consider outdated.”
Now this is a good beginning but fails to address the issue of stay-at-home mothers who have left the work force to raise their children. And the problems of older wives ditched by long-time husbands. I courteously propose a more evenhanded arrangement which I have sent to Gov. Patrick for his consideration.
Dear Governor Patrick,
While I applaud your efforts to make divorce more equitable there are several issues that demand further attention. My thinking, backed by almost 8 decades of experience, suggests that in childless marriages, just divide the assets. In decades-long marriages with children the working wife gets 3% of her husband’s income for every year difference between her age and the age of the woman he leaves her for. The stay-at-home wife with no means of support, gets 5% meaning a ten year age difference will cost her ex 50% of his income. A twenty year differential wipes him out completely. Forget marriage counselors . . . couples will be kept together by their accountants. How many younger women would want these old guys if they came burdened with sexually transmitted debt?
And these husbands would be better off in the long run. Trust me, Governor, those about- to- stray men will thank you in the end. Spared the humiliation of hair plugs, the Nordic Track and Viagra prescriptions, they will, eventually, become your most fervent supporters. Because they will come to understand that younger wives of older men can mean trouble.
I offer, as example, the sad tale of Dennis Kozlowski, CEO of Tyco Corp., who divorced his first wife to marry a younger woman. He threw his new honey a birthday party in Sardinia featuring Michelangelo’s David carved in ice with vodka spewing out of his penis which cost 2 million dollars. He bought her an extravagant NY apartment featuring a $6000 shower curtain. Trouble was the money didn’t come from his pocket. It belonged to Tyco. And when his lavish life-style came to the attention of its Board of Directors an indictment was followed by a jail sentence. Having once made $170 million in a year he now makes $1 a day mopping floors in prison. Governor, you will not be surprised to learn that the second wife divorced him requesting alimony. And he was left with more than a few regrets.
Truth is when you see a high-profile business man or politician indicted, the newspaper picture rarely shows a matronly lady by his side. His arm candy, who undoubtedly caused this tribulation, will be a sleek high-maintenance trophy wife. And I mean sleek. One of my friend’s husband left with a young woman who looked like a stick figure (my Irish grandmother would have said, “There’s more meat on a butcher’s apron).” These poor suckers should also have taken into account the inevitable Donald Trump Syndrome. “A man who marries his mistress creates a job opening.”
Governor you’re on the right track. Carry on!
How I Spent My Summer Vacation
NOTES - SEPTEMBER 2011
three
two
one
Even thought I've just lived through an earth quake and Hurriane Irene, the pictures show the high point of my summer. Not because at age 78 I got to fly 500 feet up in the air above the Atlantic Ocean but because I got to share an unforgettable adventure with my family. Since, unless you are a public figure, in the end your legacy lies in the memories left with your children and grandchildren. I choose not to have them remember me when they see a dog drooling or sniff OPS. (old people smell). In fact they have been urged to let me know when chin hairs sprout or breath is foul, recognizing that the only absolute rule of old age is Never Decline a Breath Mint.
My sons beach house is on the path to the ocean. I sit on the wide porch for hours every day and the youngsters going by on their skate boards and bicycles wave and call out GRANDMA HEKKER. If the Queen of England granted me the title Duchess it could give me the joy I get from "Grandma". I begin every morning on that porch reading the New York Times and am assaulted by bad news. Terrible problems. Daunting obstacles. But I remain serene because I am surrounded by youngsters who will be more than up to the challenges the future presents. The young people at my part of the Jersey shore are nothing NOTHING like the reality television Jersey Shore misfits. And I bet that no one reading this knows any young people like the ones viewed on reality tv. Or any housewives like them either. Our children are the hope for the future. The future is in good hands.
All my life I have looked forward to summer. To not going to school. To not having to get up early and send children to school. To going to the beach. Now summers are even more precious since I don't have that many left. Happily I can still swim in the ocean although if the waves are rough I get help going in. For many years past I held the hands of small granddaughters helping them into the surf and now theyre helping me. The only thing that remains the same is the amount of material in their bathing suits.
More Rules That Don't Work
Last month when I wrote about lies you’re told and truths no one tells you, I received terrific emails back from friends sharing their favorites. The one that came up repeatedly was the old marital chestnut DON’T EVER GO TO BED ANGRY. There is universal estimation that this axiom doesn’t work at all. Which brings me to the following, an excerpt from an article I researched and wrote on this subject almost three decades ago for McCalls magazine. Which, I am assured, still resonates with married couples.
“When pressured not to go to bed angry you force yourself to contrive a reconciliation with that insensitive oaf/cow just because it’s bedtime. Then you’ll be awake all night, gnawed at by repressed rage and plotting revenge. Whereas if you go to bed furious you are lulled to sleep by the certain knowledge that your warming self-pity is justified inasmuch as you are truly the most undervalued wife/unappreciated husband.
The wily experts who gave you that goody two-shoes rule should have instead let you in on the more effective well established “Rubrics of Marital Fighting”. So you’re forced to discover them through trial and error, wasting valuable time. Actually these definitive regulations are quite elementary if you just keep in mind that all other rules of conduct between adversaries are simply reversed.
Unlike the guidelines established by the Marquis of Queensberry, in marital fights you must, verbally, aim to hit below the belt. Unlike legal disputes, there is no statute of limitations…no previous infraction is too far back in time to be dredged up and rehashed. Unlike the Geneva Conventions there is no safe zone marked by a red cross . . . marital fights are no-holds-barred. But not free- for- alls. Indeed they are as stylized as a Kabuki dance. And all battles end in a draw. There is no recorded instance where a husband or wife was declared a winner (or admitted being a loser).
Marital wars are generally fought along much the same lines as traditional warfare. Weapons are only and always words which can be flung out or simply aimed softly depending on the combat conditions. The only inhumane weapon that should be outlawed by international convention is silence.
As Phyllis McGinley wrote:
“Sticks and stones can hurt your bones
Aimed with angry art
Words can sting like anything
But silence breaks the heart”
Now to the pageantry. However distasteful, most seasoned couples can dispense with preliminary sparring and proceed promptly to the main event because each partner has recognized that one phrase guaranteed to set the other one off. They are able to push each other’s buttons having personally installed them.
Common phrases are androgynous and can be used by either partner with equal effectiveness although “nag” is customarily applied to the female and “needle” to the male. But most are unisex phrases like, “You never . . . ”, “You always . . . ”, “Your mother . . . ” And that old standby, “Once, just once can’t you admit you’re wrong”.
The initial skirmish may be different each time but once the battle lines are drawn the war is fought with conventional weapons and predictable tactics until both parties can’t remember how it started. At his point peace overtures are commenced and these are ritualistic and often couched in the interrogative: “Can I get you a drink?” “Did you notice I took out the garbage?” Or simply “How about it honey?”
Aunt Lizzie who’d been married more than fifty years told me, “I always told him his faults and he told me mine but we certainly never paid any attention to each other”. My own parents could fight like Kilkenny cats but when things were calm again Mama would voice the feeling every woman ever married to a man has known. “I’m glad I didn’t murder him yesterday”.
No One Tells You The Truth
Have you ever noticed how many things no one ever tells you? Universal truths exist but for some reason, in accordance with some unwritten law, you have to find them out for yourself. And then when you finally do figure it out you’re expected to keep it to yourself.
Then there are the lies we were told as children. “Good things come in small packages.” Small things come in small packages. “It hurts me more than it hurts you.” No Way! “The best things in life are free.” But the tragic things like sickness and death cost a bundle. “A friend in need is a friend indeed.” Actually a friend in need is a pain in the ass.
My current concerns are the myths about old age which I approached more rapidly than I’d expected. Having been warned that when you’re over the hill you learn to coast, I felt fully prepared to slow down a bit but no one told me that after seventy short years the warranty on my parts would run out. That past my sell-by-date my pipes would clog and I’d need all new washers. That eyes and ears would become inept, gums less gummy and teeth wobbly. That a waist that heretofore had only stretched horizontally would begin inching upward vertically like a badly tuned TV picture, threatening a rather nasty collision with a simultaneously falling bust. And that knees would commence to malfunction, working well enough to lower me down but failing dismally to boost me back up again.
Worse yet the old age I was assured would make me more mellow has not worked out. In fact it has further diminished my chronically weak resolve to set a good example. I blurt out truths because whatever filter used to keep me politically correct has also degraded. Opinions best kept to myself are now shared with anyone within earshot. Discretion has evaporated altogether and worst of all, I (who actually knew the identity of Deep Throat) blab ceaselessly about the most confidential information. I’m becoming like my friend Doris who claimed “C’mon tell me. You know I can keep a secret. It’s just those loudmouths I tell it to that can’t.”
On the plus side feel free to confide in me because the odds are that within hours I’ll forget altogether. Come to think of it maybe I was forewarned about old age but can’t remember. And with my Irish heritage I’m probably doomed to forget everything but the grudges.
Notwithstanding all these complaints, I am thoroughly enjoying old age and I have directed that the epitaph on my tombstone should be SHE DIDN’T WANT TO GO.
Sex and Powerful Men
I had planned to write this month about my love affair with Medicare, offering a pox on those who would tamper with it. But events involving sexual misconduct have over-ridden that proposal because so many deserted wives emailed me about Arnold Schwarzenegger, most of them claiming that his betrayal trumped even theirs. A fling with a hooker is one thing, an affair with a secretary is yet another but ongoing sex with someone in your own household hits a new high . . . or low. And a child with that woman, a secret that continued for more than a decade…that sent infidelity soaring to a whole new level. In terms of degrees of betrayal Arnold, to use a carnival weight-lifters metaphor, swung his hammer and hit the bell.
Then we heard about the French banker, Dominique Strauss-Kahn, the head of the International Monetary Fund for heaven’s sake, who sexually assaulted an innocent hotel maid because, according to the brilliant Maureen Dowd, he couldn’t tell the difference between “ a can-can and a can’t- can’t.” Triggering, back in France, an avalanche of aggrieved women coming forward to chronicle their sordid experiences with rapacious supervisors.
Although men across every social strata commit adultery, the current glut of rich and powerful men as sexual predators has brought fresh attention to the social and moral issue of seduction and morality. Success may produce serial philanderers but their arrogance often precedes power, not the other way around. Psychiatry professor Samuel Barondes explains, “If the person has this sense of superiority . . . he begins to think that the risk-reward ratio that applies to everyone else doesn’t apply to him because he’s so special.”
These guys share the unique advantage of having money and opportunity denied less affluent fellows. Usually they have “staff” to arrange their sleazy liaisons . . . think Tiger, John Edwards, Governors Spitzer and Stanford, Italy’s tawdry Berlusconi . . . it’s such a long list. Their support systems frequently makes them sloppy about covering their tracks what with their hubris and sense of entitlement. But basically high profile wealthy men have no unique predisposition to sexual misadventures. They just generate more attention from the media and paparazzi.
Political sexual scandals are hardly new. Thomas Jefferson had children by his slave and Franklin Roosevelt managed liaisons with his mistress from a wheelchair. But my absolute favorite paradigm happened back in the 70’s and involved Congressman Wilbur Mills (D. Arkansas) who was 74 and Chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee. A pious family man and tough taskmaster he had made an issue of forbidding the elevator operators in the Capital from having little pull-down seats claiming that their duty, given the prominence of their passengers, called for them to stand up. All day.
Then on October 9, 1974, at 2am, he was pulled out of the Tidal Basin near the Jefferson Memorial, where he’d jumped in after his companion Fannie Fox, a stripper billed as the Argentine Firecracker. He was “drunk as a skunk” and the Washington Post proclaimed he’d “set the gold standard for dumb-ass behavior by an Old Guy.”
Now the former California Governor has not only managed to deceive and hoodwink his wife but he pulled off another impressive trick. He succeeded in making old Wilbur look like a pillar of rectitude.
THE NEW YORK TIMES - Memorial Day 2011
Page 4 - Kabul:
. . . a NATO airstrike killed 14 civilians, most of them women and children (it was accompanied by a photo of an Afghan man holding the bodies of two children).
Page 5 - AFGHAN BANK COMMISSION ABSOLVES PRESIDENT’S BROTHER IN FRAUD CASE
“A commission appointed by President Hamid Kazai to assess responsibility for the massive fraud at Kabul Bank issued its report absolving the President’s brother of any blame. The brother, Mahmoud Karzai was among the bank’s politically connected shareholders and insiders who took out a total of $925 million in loans, often with no collateral. Only $347 million of that amount is so far expected to be repaid.”
Further down page 5 - NAMES OF THE AMERICANS DEAD IN THE AFGHAN WAR
Thomas Bohall, 25
John Runkle, 27
Christopher Thibodeau, 28
Louie Velazquez, 39
Adam Patton, 21
John Runkle, 27
Joseph Hamski, 28
John Johnson, 28
Edward Mills, 29
Ergin Osman, 35
How better to honor these brave Americans on Memorial Day than to pledge that this atrocious and absurd war will end quickly.
FYI: The Department of Defense has identified 1,581 American service members who have died as part of the Afghan War and The Congressional Research Service reports that the Afghan War has cost $557 billion.
Real Life Among The Really Old
The brilliant Susan Jacoby writes about approaching old age from the perspective of her 65 years and her view is quite gloomy. She expects old age to be “an unremitting struggle” but it doesn’t have to be. So let me offer a little hope to someone who I consider young.
I was born during the Hoover administration so my view of age is as one living it rather than contemplating it. And I am enjoying old age. I see no value in age-defying products and never wished to be forever young because each year brought me new challenges and rewards. I haven’t lived right by society’s standards. Like I have acquired what Alexander McCall Smith refers to as “a traditional build”. I don’t look my age because I actually look older which serves to alarm me when well-meaning strangers rush to help me across the street. I don’t exercise because living in a third floor walk-up is enough of a challenge. I don’t color my white hair because I’m grateful to still have hair. The trick with advancing age is acceptance. And gratitude that you made it when so many marvelous people die young. If you see life as a lottery, living to an old age makes you a winner. Growing old is a great blessing and it baffles me that advanced age could be viewed as a burden. Serenity should not be confused with surrender.
It is liberating that no one expects much of you. You can throw away the alarm clock because there is no place you really have to be. There is time to visit your few remaining friends (half of the names in my address book have already been crossed out). You understand what Noel Coward meant when he claimed all he asked of his friends was that they live through lunch.
There are downsides. Your body begins sprouting little knobs (think old potato) and your skin has moved from silky to seersucker. While it has become politically correct to make fun of the elderly no one sees the absurdity more than the elderly themselves. We talk about senior moments but in fact our heads are like an old computer . . . the information is there but it takes time to bring it up. The limitations of age force us to adapt and alter the ways we conduct our lives and these are not without absurdity. In England it is common for seniors to be referred to as Twirlees because whatever the event they are “ too early’.
If you’ve been lucky enough to have children, it’s harvest time. Dessert time in the banquet of life. My five children are grown up and my twelve grandchildren are exceptional. At a time when your days can be plagued by loses (your friends, your teeth, your marbles) grandchildren bring enthusiasm and excitement. And they rather expect me to speak my mind, teasing that I have one foot in the grave and the other in my mouth. My father claimed that the great bond between grandparents and grandchildren is that they shared a common enemy. But I have found that our mutual devotion to the children has bound our family into a strong, if lumpy, tapestry.
The amazing Alexander McCall Smith, wrote “The realization of our mortality comes slowly . . . until we bleakly acknowledge that everything was on loan for us for a short time . . . the world, our possessions, and the people we know and love.” Watching your friends leave the building is tough.
As a group we old folks are amazingly cheerful although there is that specter of humiliating illness and death which hangs over us. Which is why our country should embrace the right of the elderly to decide when they’ll “leave the building.” We’re not afraid of death . . . we’re afraid of being kept alive. This is a contentious issue and I recently had a discussion with a very religious friend who claims that time of death should be left to God. And only God. My response to her was it was God’s decision to give you an A cup bra size and a nose like a macaw so why did you mess with Him about those assessments.
Your senses are refined even if when you feel it in your bones it’s probably arthritis. And, alas, sex is marginal. My mother-in-law claimed that in her eighties she went to bed every night with three men. Arthur Itis, Ben Gay and Johnny Walker.
An Ode To Books
In reading Pat Conroy’s MY READING LIFE I realized how significant an influence books have been in my own life. From Nancy Drew to Frank McCourt books have been friends. They informed, amused and enlightened me. But never more than fifteen years ago when, after forty years together, my husband divorced me. I felt betrayed and humiliated. And alone.
Then by some miracle I came upon a few books which comforted and inspired me. And miraculously made me laugh. Because I was not alone. And oddly enough for someone who fancies herself a rather high-brow reader, back then when the wounds were raw, these books that turned my heart around were tasty murder mysteries which had become escape devices in my new empty-bedtime reading.
My personal favorite, Susan Isaacs, began her book AFTER ALL THESE YEARS, with. “After nearly a quarter of a century of marriage, Richie Meyers, my husband, told me to call him ‘Rick. Then he started slicking back his hair (so) how come I was surprised when Richie told me he was leaving me for…Jessica.”
Sharyn McCrumb took as the title of her mystery a phrase overheard from a battered woman, IF I’D KILLED HIM WHEN I MET HIM I’D BE OUT OF JAIL BY NOW. It’s the story of a dumped wife who snaps and murders her ex-husband and his bitch (Golden Retriever) of a new wife. The unrepentant murderess suggests that middle-aged men get strange. “I think it’s testosterone poisoning. Do you suppose anyone’s working on a cure? We could organize a telethon…! Poor Baldy is doomed to a life of bimbos and Nordic Track unless you help.” Her rage fueled by the “cosmic double standard…the fact that men get more than one chance to live happily ever after.
In her witty novel, MURDERING MR. MONTE, the brilliant Judith Viorst describes a meeting of a group of wives in their fifties and sixties who’d been deserted by their husbands. “Urged by their counselors…to regard their new unattached status not as a loss but a chance to grow,” they call their support group “AFGO”…as in my husband walks out and gets a sexy new girlfriend and I get Another F**king Growth Opportunity.” That one rang a loud bell. AFGO became my mantra. It’s my license plate. My grandchildren believe the F stands for fantastic. And, as it turned out, they’re absolutely right.
NOTES – December 2010
One of my friends who is also a dumped older wife sent the superb email below and it struck a note since it humorously addresses two of the most serious subjects flooding current media. They are the emerging data on the institution of marriage and equally disquieting information on the growth of the internet and how it affects our thought processes.
On the subject of marriage, A NY Times column on its changing face quotes the National Marriage Project as charting the decline of the two-parent family. A Pew Research study revealed that in 2010 only 26% of men and women in their 20’s are married, while in 1960 68% in that age range were married. And that 39% of Americans think that marriage is obsolete.
On the subject of the internet, a study called, ‘Will Google make us stupid’, shows that 76% of the individuals polled believe that by the year 2020, the use of the internet will increase the intelligence of the population and will have a profound impact on the way humans think. But visual stimulation and constant distractions on the internet may also physically alter the brain leading to a loss of short-term memory. A brain addicted to the internet does not use deep thinking and contemplation so that many people today using the internet are living in reality and on the internet at the same time.
Here is a brilliant view of these two converging subjects. Probably sexist from the viewpoint of husbands but credible in its interpretation of wives.
Dear Tech Support:
Last year I upgraded from Girlfriend 7.0 to Wife 1.0. I soon noticed that the new program began unexpected child processing that took up a lot of space and valuable resources. In addition, Wife 1.0 installed itself into all other programs and now monitors all other system activity. Applications such as Poker Night 10.3, Football 5.0, Hunting and Fishing 7.5, and Racing 3.6.
I can't seem to keep Wife 1.0 in the background while attempting to run my favorite applications. I'm thinking about going back to Girlfriend 7.0, but the un-install doesn't work on Wife 1.0. Please help!
Thanks,
A Troubled User.
REPLY:
Dear Troubled User:
This is a very common problem that men complain about.
Many people upgrade from Girlfriend 7.0 to Wife 1.0, thinking that it is just a Utilities and Entertainment program. Wife 1.0 is an OPERATING SYSTEM and is designed by its Creator to run EVERYTHING!!! It is also impossible to delete Wife 1.0 and to return to Girlfriend 7.0. It is impossible to un-install, or purge the program files from the system once installed.
You cannot go back to Girlfriend 7.0 because Wife 1.0 is designed to not allow this. Look in your Wife 1.0 manual under Warnings-Alimony-Child Support. I recommend that you keep Wife1.0 and work on improving the situation. I suggest installing the background application "Yes Dear" to alleviate software augmentation.
The best course of action is to enter the command C:\APOLOGIZE because ultimately you will have to give the APOLOGIZE command before the system will return to normal anyway.
Wife 1.0 is a great program, but it tends to be very high maintenance. Wife 1.0 comes with several support programs, such as Clean and Sweep 3.0, Cook It 1.5 and Do Bills 4.2.
However, be very careful how you use these programs. Improper use will cause the system to launch the program Nag Nag 9.5. Once this happens, the only way to improve the performance of Wife 1.0 is to purchase additional software. I recommend Flowers 2.1 and Diamonds 5.0!
WARNING!!! DO NOT, under any circumstances, install Secretary With Short Skirt 3.3. This application is not supported by Wife 1.0 and will cause irreversible damage to the operating system.
Best of luck,
Tech Support
NOTES – October 2009
Two weeks ago I was asked to write a column for Expressen, Sweden’s biggest newspaper. They wanted me to comment on an article they’d run by Anna Aberg Anka who is featured on their popular television show SWEDISH HOLLYWOOD WIVES. An international extension of the dreadful American tv shows claiming to be about “Real Housewives.”
I confess to having issues with “Real Housewives”. Because I know housewives. In 1977 I wrote an article for the NY Times about the probability that I might end up the last American housewife … an endangered species. From what I’ve seen on television these women, whatever city they inhabit, are not real housewives. First, they hardly seem real. Even their breasts don’t seem authentic. And second the housewives in my world spend their days at home caring for their families. They are by definition “married women whose principal occupation is managing a household and taking care of domestic affairs.” “Women caring for a home and practicing thrift and economy.” Ha!
These so called “Real Housewives” are more accurately Real Social Climbers, Real Spendthrifts, Real Bitches. Let’s be honest. And they represent the worst unmerited clichés about women as being manipulative, back-biting, critical and profligate. The antithesis of the amazingly ordinary housewives I’ve been surrounded by … family, friends and neighbors … who’ve been encouraging, dependable and supportive, always putting their families first.
And now in Sweden there is a tv program which spun off our housewife shows, and celebrates Swedish women who have married affluent men in Hollywood. The aforementioned Anna, with astounding braggadocio, wrote that she aims to be a model for Swedish women, admonishing them not to settle for Swedish men when it is American husbands who know how to treat a wife, “buying expensive gifts.” She gloats that “If you employ someone in Sweden they have to have training and be qualified. In America the illegal Mexicans do the job … The list of people working for me is long … I can barely keep track of all those on my payroll.”
Who is this paragon of housewifery? She is a former model who is now the trophy wife of the singer-songwriter Paul Anka. His first wife of 39 years, was the mother of his five children. Sounds familiar! She trumpets the glories of an older husband and her glamorous life and urges Swedish women to follow her lead.
It gets worse. Many Swedish women, having read my response, emailed me about their rage not only at her put-down of them but of how sympathetically she has been treated in their country. One woman wrote, “I sent an angry email to the political secretary of the Swedish Christian Democratic Party who welcomed Anna Anka and her views into the Party … We really don’t need people like Anna Anka telling us to keep the men pleased at all times and that women are only made to be there for men. We have worked long enough to make people see that you are not worth more as a person just because you are born with a penis.”
Expressen was deluged with similar angry comments on Mrs. Anka’s diatribe and most were disturbed by the prevalence of older men ditching their wives for younger women. A well-documented and accepted phenomenon in America.
When will it end? I used to admire John Edwards and now he’s one of the worst. It seems that in an effort to keep his mistress from tarnishing his political image, he calmed the anxious Ms. Hunter (aptly named woman don’t you think?) by promising her that after his wife died, (oh God he actually said that?) he would marry her in a rooftop ceremony in New York with an appearance by the Dave Matthew’s band.” Do you think it was the band that nailed it for her? What an admirable value system. She’s dreadful and he’s a creep. A match not made in heaven.
I would tell Ms.Hunter what I told Mrs. Anka. Be aware of The Silver Rule … that a man who marries his mistress creates a job opening.
NOTES – September 15, 2008
Dear Senator McCain,
Your selection of Sarah Palin was inspired and the excitement around her meteoric rise has been astonishing. She certainly is the Edmund Hillary of political climbers. But it’s beginning to look like she may not be able to stay-the-course with all this egregious media attention. And just in case she drops out I humbly offer myself as an instant replacement. I want to get my resume into you now knowing how swiftly you like to make decisions. Frankly I envy you that because I tend to over-think things. It took me longer to pick out wallpaper for my bathroom than it took you to select this astonishing candidate.
I respect your criteria for a running mate and only presume to pitch for the job because I have the same critical credentials as Ms. Palin. I am a mother of five (and grandmother of twelve) and my sons all played hockey (albeit most recently in the “Fifty and Over League”). And I was the three term mayor of a community about the size of Wasilla. Amazing isn’t it?
And as your running mate I have a big advantage over Ms. Palin in that standing next to her makes you look dowdy and, let’s face it, old. Since I am seventy-five and a plus size woman, standing next to me you will not only appear younger but more fit. Perception matters! And keep in mind the press will have to be gentle with me since to do otherwise would make them appear not only sexist but ageist.
To my credit, unlike Ms. Palin I do know the duties of a vice-president and here again I have her beat. Breaking a tie in a vote is child’s play for a Mother of four sons (and sister of four brothers). But where I really shine is the funeral-attending piece. Being Irish I am a funeral mavin. No one knows funerals like the Irish. Although I’m not as good as my Aunt Bridee who could scan the room in the funeral parlor and calculate the cost of the coffin and flowers. To the penny. (Grandma O’Donohue said she had “the gift!”) Also I won’t be dipping into the petty cash for appropriate attire since I have already amassed black outfits (with matching support hose) for every season.
I must confess to being “a community activist” (Chamber of Commerce, Library Board, Hospital Board, Rotary etc. etc) and hope you won’t hold this against me. Especially since, like you, to get this nifty job I am willing to accept the unwritten dictum of conservative government that initiative and innovation are essentially subversive.
I am a registered Independent but would have no problem switching to Republican since I understand the Vice Presidency comes with a swell house and my poor old knees are getting worn out climbing to my third floor walk up flat. Yet another plus, I have a passport which shows I’ve visited Europe, Africa and China albeit with cheap senior tours but I can certainly claim a better sense of the larger world than Ms. Palin. Although I haven’t seen Russia from afar so she’s got me there.
Born and raised in Brooklyn I’ve never handled a gun and I’ll have to stretch it a bit to match Ms. Palin’s ability to field dress a moose. I can only proffer that I am celebrated for my turkey dressing which has stuffed six thirty-pound birds at each of the Thanksgiving dinners I’ve been preparing for my 80+ relatives for the last twenty-five years. That’s 4500 pounds of turkey to balance against several mooses. As I said it’s a stretch but we politicians have to do that sometimes.
I presently hold the title MIT (Matriarch in Training) of my large Irish family so my family values are unquestioned. Although in the interest of full disclosure your vetting guys may come across a scurrilous family legend about my pot roast killing Grandpa. I cannot begin to dredge up the apotheosis Ms.Palin has achieved but I believe I could be a splendid replacement should she choose to withdraw to Alaska.
And finally, there is one more gigantic plus for me. Since unlike Ms. Palin I am totally devoid of political ambition you won’t have to hire that taster.
Hoping to hear from you soon,
Terry Martin Hekker
NOTES – June '07
I Went to a Marvelous Party
In The New York Post on May 24th Liz Smith wrote "NATHAN LANE proves again what a master he is of every word and nuance. His remarks before giving the National Corporate Theatre Fund award to the legend Elaine Stritch were a life-saver for the Tavern on the Green evening at which regional theaters were saluted. Nathan brought things up to super pro par, saying he is a "Stritchoholic" and adding, "Al Gore has also told me she is indirectly responsible for global warming, because wherever she goes, things tend to heat up!" His story of Stritch waltzing into theaters without paying, and only "Mamma Mia!" saying no to her, was priceless."
I was at that party at Tavern on the Green, one of the most beautiful restaurants in the world and better yet I was at the “family” table of the honoree, my old pal Elaine Stritch (who gave me the title “Disregard First Book"). And it was some table. The picture above is of (right to left) Shelia Nevins, the president of HBO Documentary who as Executive Producer has collected over 80 Emmys and 17 Oscars. She produced the documentary about Elaine that won both of them Emmy Awards two years ago. Next is the adorable Nathan Lane, then me, next the columnist Liz Smith and then the gorgeous Arlene Dahl. Not in the picture was Olympia Dukakis who was one of the presenters as was David Hyde Pierce.
It was one of the great nights of my long life and when I thought about it later what struck me was that at seventy-four I was one of the youngest women there. Shelia is much younger but Elaine Stritch, the toast of the town, is 82, Liz Smith shares her birthday but is a year older, Arlene is in her seventies as is Olympia. All of these great looking women are energetic, active and excited about plans for future projects. Arlene who is as bright and kind as she is beautiful has a motto, "Love life and life will love you back." And all of these women appear to buy into that as evidenced by the positive and joyful way they approach their work.
I keep a picture on my dresser of myself as a four year old with my grandparents and Grandma is every bit the “little old lady” but when I did the math she had to have been in her early fifties. Perhaps eighty is the new sixty and we who are on the far side of seventy can take heart. Gypsy Rose Lee may have said “I have everything now that I had twenty years ago except now it’s lower.” But more encouraging is a quote from my treasured friend Helen Hayes who claimed “The hardest years in life are those between ten and seventy.” She felt after seventy you had nothing left to prove, no one left to astonish. That age offered great compensations.
These compensations of getting older were put best by the brilliant Judith Viorst who wrote:
“We aren’t as self-centered as we used to be
We’re not as self-pitying – or as just plain dumb
We aren’t as uncertain as we used to be
We’ve learned to tell the real from the tinsel and fluff
We aren’t as compliant as we used to be
We choose our own oughts and musts and got-to’s and shoulds
We aren’t as judgmental as we used to be
We are quicker to laugh and not as eager to blame
There’s time left in this game
We’re deep in the woods yet we find
(Along with the inability to eat a pepperoni pizza at bedtime)
A few compensations"
