Don't Gel Too Soon

What Do You Get When You Cross Bruce Springsteen and Jon Stewart?

Well what else is there to say?

Ellen Goodman Doesn't Write there Anymore

As long as I've worked in media, which is a long time, Ellen Goodman's been there too.  Her Pulitzer-prize-winning column, originating in the Boston Globe, has been a beacon and a landmark and a treasure. 

And now it's ending.  No, nobody fired her, she still has a large audience and many adoring readers but she's decided to stop.  Here's part of what she said in her valedictory meditation on covering women in America - and I recommend you go read the entire thing:

My generation -- WOMEN -- thought the movement would advance on two legs. With one, we'd kick down the doors closed to us. With the other, we'd walk through, changing society for men and women.

It turned out that it was easier to kick down the doors than to change society. It was easier to fit into traditional male life patterns than to change those patterns. We've had more luck winning the equal right to 70-hour weeks than we've had selling the equal value of care-giving. We have yet to solve the problem raised at the outset: Who will take care of the family?

As a young mother and reporter, it did not occur to me that my daughter would face the same conflicts of work and family. Or, on the other hand, that my son-in-law would fully share those conflicts. I did not expect that over two-thirds of mothers would be in the work force before we had enough child care or sick pay.

Yes - those things are true.  My own sons expect (and one has) wives who keep their names and expect to remain in the workforce.  And yes, they still face issues of child care and equal pay and glass ceilings.  The sad thing is, they won't have the provocative, inspiring, funny and very gifted voice of Ellen Goodman to cheer them on.  Maybe she'll write another book though; if she does, I'll send a copy to each of them.

Repost - Best of Don't Gel 2009: Loving London

That old rascal Samuel Johnson told us that when we were tired of London, we'd be tired of life.  I know it's summer when any city is inviting but this week is cool and bright and breezy and London is full of British school groups and kids from everywhere else too, and we have an apartment right in the middle of Covent Garden (well NOT the market, God forbid, just the neighborhood) and our older son and his new wife are only 40 minutes away and we have friends here, too.  So how could we be tired?

What you see here is the view from Waterloo Bridge (and yes that's St. Paul's Cathedral in the background.)  This morning I went out and walked all along the Embankment, over where the trees are, then crossed a bridge just out of view on the right and returned via South Bank, London's wonderful (relatively) new arts and museum area.  My entire walk was around three miles and I'm realizing that it's much easier to do the walking when there are new things to look at, not just the old neighborhood or, as lovely as it is, Rock Creek Park. 

The wonder of a great city is that it's always changing, that even the most trivial journey is full of surprises.  On my way home tonight I came across a group of teenagers - one of dozens of g The wonder of a great city is that it's always changing, that even the most trivial journey is full of surprises.  On my way home tonight I came across a group of teenagers - one of dozens of groups we've been seeing ever since we got here.  The reason they're all sitting on the sidewalk is that they're exchanging addresses and spelling them out - different nationalities, different spelling.  Kind of an EU photo.

Of course there's lots else going on here.  Huge waves of immigration, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, what looks to me to be an appalling amount of youthful alcohol consumption and unemployment all take their toll.  There's something about the place despite those issues though.  The day after the 2005 subway bombing that killed 52 people, Londoners got back on the train and went to work.  They did that all during the Blitz as much of the rest of the world watched them face down Hitler almost alone.

Cities are supposed to change.  That's what makes them exciting.  Even so, London has seen more than its share: waves of immigration that have transformed it, an early history of wars and fires and plagues, contemporary royal scandals and of course the "troubles" between Belfast and the rest of Ireland and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.   After all, who would have believed before it arrived to help celebrate the Millennium, that there would be a ferris wheel right in the center of town?  They call it the London Eye to make it sound fancy but it's still a ferris wheel, here in same town that has a real live queen living in a real live palace?  It's pretty amazing.

I'm thinking that while we're here I can try to get past some of what I've written here and learn a bit of what it's like to truly live here.  It's got to be different from wandering around with no need to be on time or face the traffic or crowded mass transit and infinite numbers of tourists and, incidentally, deal with what appears to be an enormous amount of alcohol consumption - especially by men.  I'm hoping to keep you posted as I make my way.  I hope you'll come along.

Art Imitates Life and Dr. Horrible's Nemesis Is an Author!

I'm not sure who's on first, which chicken chased which egg or even how to tell you about this.  See this book cover?  It's a real book - and Entertainment Weekly says it isn't even bad.  But the author - well, the author isn't real!!!  He's a character on an ABC TV program called - guess what --- Castle! 

Played by Dr. Horrible's own Biggest Enemy Captain Hammer -- aka Nathan Fillion - he's a debonair, wealthy mystery writer with an actress mother and a typically New-York-wise daughter with whom he has a refreshingly healthy relationship  (Mom too, actually.) 

So there's nothing wrong with the show; it's slight, sweet and kind of funny although it could certainly be better written.  In fact, from the reviews I've read, it might be better if Richard Castle (who remember, doesn't exist - really) wrote the scripts as well as his books. 

Yes books because apparently this is the first of many.  And you can get it on Kindle and Castle even has a brief (equally fictitious) bio on Amazon "Richard Castle is the author of numerous bestsellers, including the critically acclaimed Derrick Storm series. His first novel, In a Hail of Bullets, published while he was still in college, received the Nom DePlume Society's prestigious Tom Straw Award for Mystery Literature. Castle currently lives in Manhattan with his daughter and mother, both of whom infuse his life with humor and inspiration."

Got that?  Fillion/Captain Hammer (this guy) also plays a fictitious writer on a lightweight TV show and somebody - whose name isn't anyplace and as far as I can determine hasn't played anyone (other than a ghostwriter) has written a novel in his name.

This isn't a scandal or a crime - it's just so damned funny.  Fillion seems like a fine fellow and Castle is certainly likable enough.  But it's hard to get books published these days - especially fiction. 

So all you struggling writers out there -- now you know how to sell your novel.  Make it into a TV show and your literary career is assured.

As my mom used to say, "Only in America!"

Oh No! Say It Isn't So!!

OK I know.  The world is ending, the climate is cooking, the economy is crashing and God only knows what else is happening in the "real world."  Even so - Twitter and Facebook and all points in between are so so sad.  This break up is just not fair.  Susan Sarandon and I are the same age and I once spent time with her (well, twice but both times in an elevator in our building where friends of hers lived and we DID talk...) and in some crazy way felt more in common with her than with most shiny people.  The politics of course didn't hurt either. And Bob Roberts may be my favorite political movie and so Bush-prophetic.

Because of all that, I too feel a floating sadness - nothing heart=wrenching - just sad.  These two  have always done what they believed and made us all happy.  And they deserve to be happy too.  Whatever it takes to get there.

Lovely, Silent, Beautiful Snow

Obviously because of the Sabbath I couldn't take pix of the storm during the day but ti's still coming down and looks just wonderful.  We haven't confronted the shoveling yet; walked through it this morning  - silent and lovely.  Enjoy these two; if I get outside to take more I'll add them.

New Years and Long Marriages: How Have We Done It?

It's very hard to be married.  This is no headline.  But the Sunday New York Times on December 13th carried a piece by David Sarasohn; a meditation on marriage, moving from the first lines:  "I have been married forever.  Well, not since the Big Bang but since the Nixon administration — 35 years — a stretch long enough to startle new acquaintances or make talk-show audiences applaud" to the last.

As you may deduce from the hair, we too married during the Nixon years, and we too are still together. We were married on September 12, 1971 and have survived more than 38 years of complicated marriage about which I've written before.  So why now?

Well, first of all because my husband asked me to write it.   Just to see what came out, I think.  How did we do it?  How are we still doing it?  Oh - and why have we bothered?  We've seen friends split over much less than what we've faced, so what was different?

Here's Mr. Sarasohn's theory:

I am somewhat better with words than my wife is; she is infinitely better with people. In different ways, we translate each other to the rest of the world, and admire each other’s contrasting language skills. Being married to someone you respect for being somehow better than you keeps affection alive. That this impressive person chooses you year after year makes you more pleased with yourself, fueling the kind of mutual self-esteem that can get you through decades.

Not bad.  I know we've been all over the world and I would never have had the nerve with out him; he is the one who was probably an airplane in a previous life.  And that we met an extraordinary number of wonderful people because of the work he chose to do.  And that he pushed me to write my book and never expected me to be anything but a working mom.  And among psychoanalysts in Manhattan in the 70s and 80s that was pretty amazing.  OH and he shoved and pushed and pulled me to spend money on myself once in a while, which was very hard for a girl from a Depression-scarred background.  I know he's got his own list for me as well.

Of course we've faced plenty of though stuff too.  His chronic illness is a rotten burden and one that has colored much of our time together.  And we've had professional and financial crises, and moved from Washington to Palo Alto to New York to another apartment in New York to Los Angeles to another house in Los Angeles to Washington and another house in Washington.  We've had some challenges as parents and as partners, other health issues including open-heart surgery, loss of our parents and very tough moments even now.  But leaving - that was never an option.  We have many young friends who wonder at the fact that we are still together and it's one of the few times I feel a distance from them. I'm so aware that it's something you know more than you say, despite the beauty and wisdom of the Sarasohn piece and despite my efforts here.   

Once my dad told me that he was sure we'd never be divorced; we were both too stubborn.  I guess that's true too, but it takes more than that.  We are never ever bored with each other.  We share basic values that we've been able to pass on to our kids even though we may have differed on the details.  We trust each other.  We have fun - and now, day-by-day, we share a history.

A collected set of joint memories is not a small thing.  I always say it's like quitting smoking - every day you accumulate increases the value of the commitment.  Just this morning, listening to the blizzard weather predictions, I recalled an orange outfit we had bought our toddler in Paris more than thirty years ago.  " Remember the orange snowsuit we bought Josh in au Printemps?" I asked him.  He smiled in fond recollection and said "Yeah, but it was Galeries Lafayette."  There are a lifetime of those moments. 

 That was, by the way, the same trip where Josh stared up at the Winged Victory of Samothrace towering at the top of the main staircase in the Louvre and said "pigeon."   

I'm telling you these small memories for a reason.  The big things are cool too - watching a son get married, fancy parties with high-profile people, trips around the country and around the world.  But within and surrounding the gigantic are those moments that make a marriage, tiny and still; a quiet loving word from a son, or the sharing of a meal he has prepared, the deck of a beach house while the sun goes down, wonder at a great performance or a great meal shared.  For the two of us, 38 years of those trump the aggravation and the stressful moments.

Frighteningly, I'm about to turn the age I always thought a subject for humor - after all, there is even a song. 

When I get older, losing my hair,

Many years from now.

Will you still be sending me a valentine

Birthday greetings bottle of wine?

 

If I'd been out till quarter to three

Would you lock the door?

Will you still need me, will you still feed me,

When I'm sixty-four.

We knew each other when this song was still part of FM rotation – when we counted our ages in fewer than half those years.  Between then and now, more has happened than I can describe – both in the “outside world” and in our home.  And I know the answer to the question.  Yes - from me and from him.  When we're sixty-four and, God willng, long after that.

Is There a Draft in Here? Should There Be a Draft?

 I can't believe I missed it!  Yesterday was the 40th anniversary of the first United States draft lottery drawing,  Every young man my age and many older and younger waited in front of their TVs with sweaty palms and pounding hearts (I'm not kidding) as the numbers came out of the barrel.  And those in this photo were the "old white guys" who did it.  The one drawing the number is Republican House Armed Serviced Chairman Alexander Pirnie (R-NY) and the man to his right is the (then) despised Chairman of the Selective Service (the Draft) General Lewis Hershey.

OH and one more thing:  just beyond that camera, over to the left, was me.  Sitting with a telephone and reading each drawn number to the CBS News studio where the number was then posted on the screen.  Each number was a birthday, and the order in which they were drawn determined the likelihood that the men in the list would be drafted and, most likely, go to Vietnam.  First birthday drawn - lottery number 1.  Last birthday drawn - lottery number 365.

As I read the numbers into the phone, I was reading death warrants.  Of men my own age.  And I knew it.  

Every number, every birthday, could be someone I knew - an old boyfriend, a cousin, someone's brother, a high school classmate, a teacher, another someone's son.  The war was real in a way it hadn't been before, even though there had always been a draft.  Up until the lottery, college students and graduate students were deferred and so were married men.  In fact, there were more than a few weddings to keep boyfriends home.  

Many of these rules, which were, after all, based on class since there were so many more white middle class men in college than other groups, were wiped out when the lottery began.

That meant that on a theoretical level, I should have been proud.  My country was spreading the risk, spreading the pain - and even if I opposed the war, I knew that others were not being asked to fight it for me and my peers anymore.  Those we loved were also at risk.  All I felt though was fear, and anger, and despair.  Which is probably not a bad way to feel when loved ones are about to be drafted to go fight in a "dirty little war" in Vietnam.

So today, after the President's speech last night, I wonder.  We know the military prefers a volunteer military even with all the re-deployments and disruptions.  It's building a "military class" in our country of people who know things we don't - won't learn.  And they're proud to be there, scared or not.  It's effective.  But is it fair?  Is it even productive, when it insulates so many of us from an imminent sense of loss?  When we never have to fear the husband in a wheel chair, the son whose PTSD will not fade and, worst of all, that dreaded knock at the door, 

Sisters and Aunts and Daughters and Nieces and Holidays

Thanksgiving always makes me think of the people who are missing.  By now that's almost an entire generation: my parents, aunts, uncles and grandparents.  We all came together at our house.  As the oldest cousin, I got to help in the kitchen and set the table. Sounds lame but it felt very grownup.  Not that that lasted for long.  Over the years we went from three to six to nine cousins, producing plays to perform after dinner, playing Sardines and Murder, telling secrets and wreaking civilized havoc.  

My favorite memory, though, was time with the sisters: my mom and my aunts.  One lived nearby but the other came with her family from Cleveland so when they were all together they wanted to talk.  They'd sit in my parents' room for ages; they let me hang around too.  In a way, all of us gathered on the bed those afternoons, and later in the kitchen after dinner, washing dishes, is women passing along stories and traditions, preserving the wisdom of the tribe.

I had no idea then of the value of those times.  It wasn't just being treated like "one of the girls," it was the sisterly warmth, the laughter and sudden emotion, eye welling up, when one aunt spoke of living so far from "home."    Now, probably 50 years later, I can see her leaning against the wall, her sisters looking toward her with understanding sympathy.  I can hear them talking about their parents, my grandparents, one difficult, both disappointed with their lives.  For a little while, the burden of worry lifted a bit as they shared it.

They were part of what is literally another world; hats and gloves, scars from the Depression, government service during World War II, an abiding sense of appropriateness.   Like Betty Draper, they left careers to stay "home with the kids."  Their lives were so different from ours, constrained and regulated -- lives that many daughters went to work to insure against.  

What we forget is that, even then, there was sisterhood.  Maybe it wasn't as powerful and certainly it wasn't as organized, but for me it still modeled a solidarity, loyalty and love of the company of women that I still cherish.  And it's so exciting to see us all now, taking that example along with the many farther afield, to enhance our larger community - still a family of sisters - from one end of the Internet to - well - to the whole wide world.

Cross-posted at BlogHer

So You Say You're Married, Eh?

Yesterday I went to a birthday party.  It was a serious birthday, a landmark, and even for a successful young mother with three kids, it had an impact.  So what did her sweet husband do?  He made her a present, with the help of his 5 year old son.  I don't want to violate their privacy with a description; just know that it was something that only someone who knew her well could have given her.

It was quite moving to watch her open her gift; presented in the 12th year of their marriage.  I kept thinking that I was already married for three years when she was born; that their journey still has such a long way to go and that we had learned so much in the years still before them.

We've been through chronic disease and heart disease, financial crisis and seven moves, two children, the loss of all four of our parents, extraordinary travel, deep friendships, huge lifestyle changes and daily complications.  And every one of them added a brick to the house.  Every child's birth, and birthday, and graduation and wedding; every torn knee, broken shoulder or opened heart -- all the things that make up a life -- they're what a marriage is made of.

Not very profound, but true.  The power of a shared history is the foundation - or at least a foundation, of a good marriage, and it gets stronger with every day.  That's all.

Except that those two on the left are celebrating their wedding, September 12, 1971.  And I'm one of them