Ford Street

The Year of Magical Thinking

Written on October 19, 2005

Joan Didion has received a lot of press coverage in the last two or three weeks for her new book, The Year of Magical Thinking, more coverage, I think, than any other book she’s ever written.  Why so much attention?  Because, obviously, it takes a tremendous amount of courage for a wife to write about the death of her husband, and if the wife happens to be Joan Didion, and the husband happens to have been John Gregory Dunne, the book is going to get some attention.  A writer for the Village Voice put it best; “The writer who famously cut to passages from her psychiatric report in "The White Album" here splices in her husband's autopsy and her daughter's CT scan.  Can we stand to read this book? What kind of mad fortitude did it take to write it?” 

What kind of mad fortitude, indeed?  John Gregory Dunne died of a massive heart attack sitting at his own dinner table, while his wife was preparing dinner, on December 30, 2003.  They had just returned from the hospital, where their only daughter was in a medically-induced coma.  Ms. Didion spent the next year researching grief; she finished writing last December, a year and a day after her husband’s death, and it is nothing short of incredible. 

The answer to the Village Voice writer’s question is, yes, we can stand to read this book, but only when we’re prepared to read it – only when it can be understood because you’re at a point in your life where no one else understands what you’ve been through.  Joan Didion gets it.  More to the point, she can describe it.   She can describe the craziness, what she refers to as “magical thinking” – she can’t throw away her husband’s shoes because he’ll need them if he comes back.  I have experienced similar craziness – I still have a closet full of my mother’s coats (it will be cold; she’ll need them?) and a drawer full of Chanel No. 5 products.  I simply haven’t been able to do anything with them. 

An excerpt:

“Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it.  We anticipate (we know) that someone close to us could die, but we do not look beyond the few days or weeks that immediately follow such an imagined death.  We misconstrue the nature of even those few days or weeks.  We might expect if the death is sudden to feel shock.  We do not expect this shock to be obliterative, dislocating to both body and mind.  We might expect that we will be prostrate, inconsolable, crazy with loss.  We do not expect to be literally crazy, cool customers who believe that their husband is about to return and need his shoes.  In the version of grief we imagine, the model will be “healing.”  A certain forward movement will prevail.  The worst days will be the earliest days.  We imagine that the moment to most severely test us will be the funeral, after which this hypothetical healing will take place.  When we anticipate the funeral we wonder about failing to “get through it,” rise to the occasion, exhibit the “strength” that invariably gets mentioned as the correct response to death….Nor can we know ahead of the fact (and here lies the heart of the difference between grief as we imagine it and grief as it is) the unending silence that follows, the void, the very opposite of meaning, the relentless succession of moments during which we will confront the experience of meaninglessness itself.”   

When I mentioned to my aunt that I had purchased Joan Didion’s new book, she moaned at me, thinking it would get me depressed.  (I fully admit that “Play It as It Lays” didn’t do a lot for my mental state – I was literally a child when I read it, and it may have done permanent damage.  I’m still not sure.)  “Don’t read it at night; read it on a bright sunny day,” she begged me.  I teased her that I’d watch Bugs Bunny cartoons when I was done reading it. 

When I finished the book, two nights ago, I didn’t need any Bugs Bunny cartoons.  I was fine; I felt better.  It’s good to know you’re not crazy.  What I did, instead of watching cartoons, was go downstairs and take all of my mother’s coats out of the closets, and box them up for Goodwill.  She doesn’t need her coats any more, and neither do I. 

As an awful postscript, the book was finished and ready for publication in August of this year.  Two weeks later, Joan Didion’s daughter died at the age of 39.  When she was asked if she wanted to re-edit the ending of the book, she said, no.  She said, it’s done. 

Go buy this book, and put it on a shelf.  Unfortunately, there will come a day when you’ll need it, and then, it will help you. 

The Animal

Written on June 19. 2005

About a week ago, my vacuum cleaner croaked in the middle of my upstairs hallway.  While most people would think this a nuisance, I jumped for joy and ran to Amazon.com, where I ordered a vacuum I’ve been lusting after for two years…the Dyson Animal. 

A neighbor of mine has had one of these suckers for a good while now, and I swear he waits till I am walking Clancy past his house to come out and gleefully empty his Animal into his trash can.  (You don’t touch anything except a button.)  He also lies in wait till I am on my porch, wrestling with my old vacuum to empty it, to casually say hello to me as I disappear, sneezing and cursing, into a cloud of dust and dander. 

So I ordered an Animal and waited, tortured, as the minutes ticked by till it arrived.  A friend asked me what I was doing this weekend and I said, well, Saturday I am going to vacuum with my brand-new vacuum, and he said, I swear, you’re such a girl. 

He is just so naive.  Wait till he sees the Animal in action. 

It arrived toward the end of the week, and yesterday I sat down on the floor to examine it carefully.  I took it out of the box, lovingly.  Clancy was lying next to me, anxious to help and to be on hand in case I happened to drop any spare bits of food.  (Food is Clancy’s hobby.)  I put the vacuum together, slowly, the anticipation building in my heart.  Clancy stayed by my side until I clicked the last piece into place, at which time the Animal suddenly became, without question, a Vacuum Cleaner.  Understand, please, that Clancy hates vacuum cleaners the way I hate the New York Yankees. 

He eyeballed it and brought himself to a sitting position, pulling his lips back into a sneer of defiance.  I sat next to him and didn’t move for about twenty seconds.  Then I slooooooowly raised my hand to the vacuum, held my finger over the “on” button.  Clancy’s lips began to twitch; his head began to shake, and his mouth began to open, the better to prepare for the nuclear explosion that would occur in his wretched little voicebox when I clicked the button.  Finally…I clicked it.  As the thing wasn’t plugged in, though, nothing happened.  His pupils dilated; his mouth opened wider and he turned his head toward me.  I paused for effect and then said, very quietly, “Boo.” 

You know those Bugs Bunny cartoons when one of the characters gets scared and ends up plastered to the ceiling?  That’s what happened.  It’ll take me forever to spackle the claw marks out. 

Well, now I had to actually use the thing.  I wheeled it over to the staircase, the most hairily problematic place in my house, and plugged it in.  I stood back, crossed myself, and turned it on.  Now, I’m not going to give you any happy horseshit about how I ended up with a full vacuum from what appeared to be clean carpets.  Except that I ended up with a (nearly) full vacuum from what appeared to be clean carpets.  I ran around the house like a woman possessed.  Twenty minutes later I stopped for a moment, worried that I was getting sexually aroused.  Is it wrong to love a vacuum?  Oh, screw it.  I looked around for something else to vacuum, and my eyes fell upon…Maggie.  Pretending to not notice me.  Well.  If cat hair contributed a great deal to what I ended up vacuuming, wouldn’t vacuuming her directly just eliminate a step?  I advanced, Animal in hand. 

Suffice to say that Maggie and I had a disagreement.  After an hour or so, I got her down from the top of the entertainment center with a treat, moved a cabinet to hide the hole in the wall and used electrical tape to fix the Animal right up. 

Now I looked around again, desperate for something to exercise the Animal on.  This time my eyes fall on…the sleeping puppy.  How could a puppy sleep through the previous cat/Animal attack, I wondered, then said, well, let’s just find out. 

Well.  The puppy LIKES being vacuumed. 

That was more fun that I’ve had in weeks. 

But now the thing really was full.  Time to empty!  I went outside to the trash to easily and cleanly empty the Animal by pushing the “eject” button while I held it over the trash can.  As I wiped the tears of joy from my eyes, two people passed by on their way to their car.  The wife stopped, looked at the object in my hand with reverence in her eyes, and said, “Is that a Dyson?”  I proudly put the lid on the garbage can and admitted that it was indeed a Dyson. 

She called her husband to point it out, and he, of course, replied with “Don’t start that vacuum crap again.”   He looked at me and asked “How much did that thing cost?” – I couldn’t lie – I admitted that I’d been forced to hock a kidney.  He glared at his wife and walked away.  Her shoulders slumped as she pictured the rest of her Dyson-less life.  I watched sadly as she got into her car and had the decency to try to hide the canister on my way back up my stairs.  (Once inside, of course, I hugged the canister and did a little Vacuum Dance.)

Next weekend, I’m going to vacuum the front porch.  And the grass alongside the house. 

Hunter Thompson

Written on February 21, 2005

“I do not advocate the use of dangerous drugs, wild amounts of alcohol and violence and weirdness -- but they've always worked for me."

Hunter Thompson said that, and tonight he killed himself.  Shot himself – which, is, if you’re Hunter Thompson and you’ve got to kill yourself, seemingly the logical way to go.  (He owned rather a lot of guns.)   

First of all, I’m fairly astounded that his internal organs lasted this long.  The thing is, though, I’m surprised he shot himself.  I know I have no business judging the man, but I’m a little disappointed.  I would have much preferred that he go out in a kind of “Thelma and Louise” blaze of glory, gobsmacked on twenty different kinds of substances, car full of drugs and guns and liquor, straight over the Grand Canyon with 78 police cars in pursuit. 

I started reading Hunter Thompson when I was about 13.  I hot-wired my brain that summer, reading him and Joan Didion and Flannery O’Connor (and “Doonesbury” – which contains a character modeled after Thompson) and listening to the Grateful Dead and Joni Mitchell and God knows what else.  There wasn’t a lot to do, summers, in Gerritsen Beach.  I was already regarded a strange child by most of the community, so I figured, what the hell.   

That fall, I went away with my parents and DC37, a labor union here in New York City.  We often traveled with those folks, since my Dad worked for them.  There were always a lot of medium-level politicians around, and also a fair number of medium-level, shall we say, Family guys.  Never a lot of kids around, so I was left to my own devices at a series of medium-level resorts in New York State.  My exchanges with adults mostly consisted of a “how’s school” or a “are you enjoying yourself” here and there, then I faded into the background. 

So, on this particular trip, after that heady summer, I found myself sitting with my parents and a large crowd at the lounge at Friar Tuck in Catskill.  (If you’re from New York, go ahead and laugh, it’s OK.  30 years ago, it was a nice place.)  I was bored out of my skull and feeling somewhat rambunctious, listening to people talking about where they’d like to go on holiday.  Someone made the dreadful mistake of asking me where I’d like to go, and I made the dreadful mistake of answering.  I can’t quote myself precisely because it was a very long time ago, but I said something like this:

“Vegas.  I want to go to Las Vegas.  I want to get in the car and drive there now, straight without stopping, and when we get there I want to arrive in the left-hand lane and pull over all four lanes of traffic in the 4 seconds before I exit.  Then I want to find a bar, and sit all the way at the end of the bar, in the dark, drinking very dry martinis and playing with my hotel room key like it’s an invitation to a dance.  I want to meet some drunken gambler who lives in a house in the desert and go there to live too.  There will be bodies buried in the backyard, though, so there will be trouble, and I’ll have to wear sunglasses all the time and avoid the police. 

That’s what I want to do.” 

By the time I got to the end of this soliloquy, I had attracted a fair amount of attention.  What a scene; every grown-up for miles around was staring at me like my hair was on fire.  (My parents in particular.)  One person said, what the hell have you been reading, and I showed them the book I had in my lap (I carried a book absolutely everywhere when I was a kid) – and the book was “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.” 

Well.  Try to imagine the uproar.  A friend of my father’s said “That’s not a kid’s book!” and my father promptly confiscated it.  (Me, faintly, above the roar, saying “but I’m not a kid…”)  He turned to my mother and gave her the book and one of those head motions that indicates “get the kid the hell out of here.”  My mother politely excused herself and if she could have dragged me upstairs by my ears, she would have.  It wouldn’t have been seemly, though.  As it was, I was hauled up, so I blurted “Good night!” and gave everyone a very toothy grin.  They were suitably shocked.  My mom gave me quite a talking-to upstairs, but she went back downstairs quickly enough, plus, she gave me back my book, and some good advice about who to share my reading tastes with.  It was a glorious night all around. 

I go to book signings when the mood strikes me, and twice I’ve shown up to see Hunter Thompson in Manhattan, and both times he blew off the signings.  The second time, I was pretty riled by the time I got there, even, thinking he wouldn’t show again, and of course he didn’t show.  I can’t believe I thought he would.  I wanted to set fire to his book, and may even have done so.  But, that was just him, I imagine. 

So the father of gonzo journalism is gone, by his own hand.  I am sorry for whatever demons finally caught up with him, in the end.  If I was writing his life, I’d be damned if I could come up with a good ending.  I never thought he’d shoot himself – but maybe he couldn’t think of a good ending either, and it killed him.

Rock 'n' Roll Heaven

Written on September 30, 2004

They don’t have good DJs any more.

They don’t have any real personality – some of them try to be as shocking as possible, some of them try to pretend as though they have an extensive knowledge of music.  Some of them just read the copy that’s provided to them, and supplement it with popular songs.  You don’t have to be smart to be a DJ today. 

When radio started, it reigned.  TV hadn’t come into its own yet.  It was different then.  It really was.  Even for me, born in the early 60s.  Look at the effect that Wolfman Jack had on a generation; Cousin Brucie, Harry Harrison, Alan Freed, Jack Spector, Dandy Dan Daniel, Murray the K…these people had the status of movie stars, and deservedly so.  DJs told stories and lured you in…a voice in the night coming from the radio, speaking directly to you.   It was more personal than TV; it was almost intimate.  A good DJ taught you something about the music you were listening to, and gave you a deeper appreciation for music history.   

Scott Muni, a.k.a. The Professor, passed away today.  He was 74, and still working, for Q104.3 in New York.  He had a one-hour show in the afternoon, just so we could keep in touch with that legendary gravelly voice, and stay educated about rock. 

One of his earliest jobs was as one of the “WMCA Good Guys” on Top 40 radio in New York.  Now, when I first started listening to Scottso, on WNEW, I had to overlook the WMCA thing because, for Pete’s sake, my MOM listened to that station.  I concentrated on the now: Scott Muni was already a legend, even in the 70s.  It didn’t matter that he didn’t have the sexy morning drive slot, or the nighttime slot.  What was a beautiful afternoon without Scott Muni and a perfect album side?  Before NEW, he worked at ABC, and much of the Beatles-arriving-in-the-US radio stock today consists of the Scott Muni ABC stuff. 

WNEW was always the place to be, for rock and roll radio.  Vin Scelsa!  Dave Herman!  Pete Fornatale!  Alison Steele!  Dennis Elsas!  Dan Neer!  Mark McEwen!  Carol Miller!  And, of course, The Professor, Scott Muni.  Rock and roll fans from around the country would beg friends in the NYC area to send tapes of Scott Muni at work; he was a walking encyclopedia of rock – he really was The Professor.  And I lived right here; I didn’t have to beg friends or scour obscure radio bands looking for bootleg re-broadcasts. 

This is from the CNN story announcing his death, “Muni was renowned for his interviews with artists such as Paul McCartney, Mick Jagger, Pete Townsend and Springsteen.  In one of his more memorable encounters, Muni was speaking with Led Zeppelin guitarist Jimmy Page when the musician suddenly collapsed to the floor in mid-sentence, wiped out by days of partying. The unflappable Muni simply put on a record, woke Page up, and conducted the rest of the interview with the guitarist lying on the studio floor.”

Scott Muni got me through a lot of tough times.  For example, 1984 was a really rough year for me; my brother was in a fair bit of trouble every time I turned around, and he died late that year.  I was trying to figure out what I was going to do with my life, into the second year of a rheumatoid arthritis diagnosis that I thought would last forever.  I would sit, in an apartment on 71^st and Broadway in Manhattan, trying to escape from finishing college and working as, of all things, a fragrance model.  WNEW was running a contest – you had to put together clues that they were broadcasting, guess what song the clues led to, and you win a Porsche.  Man, oh, man, I wanted that Porsche.  I just knew it would solve all of my problems. 

My friend Mike and I put a picture of that Porsche on our bedroom door – we’d look at it each morning on the way out and think, today’s the day we figure out what song they’re talking about, and we win.  Road trips!  In the Porsche!  We had it all planned.  I would come home in the middle of the day to hear Scott…I knew he would be the one to deliver that final clue that would enlighten me.  I would sit in that apartment and listen to The Professor.  It was kind of the bright spot of 1984 for me; Scottso’s Perfect Album Sides. 

The song, by the way, was “God Gave Rock and Roll to You” by Argent. 

We didn’t win the Porsche. 

Before that, though, something else happened that sealed my relationship with Scott Muni.  One night, specifically, December 8^th, 1980, I was doing homework for a Lit class when I heard, on the radio, that John Lennon had been shot.  It was a throwaway, as if, OK, he’s been shot, but he’ll be OK.  I thought, who would want to shoot John Lennon? and went back to my homework.  A bit later, if I recall correctly, somewhere about 11:20, I was listening to the song “Master Blaster” (Stevie Wonder) on, God forgive me, another radio station, when the song was cut off in mid-stream.  I sat right up and said, he’s dead.  I know he’s dead.  And the DJ confirmed it. 

Who the hell would want to shoot John Lennon? 

I didn’t want to hear some two-bit DJ attempt to immortalize Lennon; I shut the radio off and went to sleep.  I woke up, went to class, all the while thinking, “I read the news today, oh, boy…”  I came home to listen to Muni…and he did John proud.  I was profoundly affected by Lennon’s death, and so was Scottso.  In fact, thereafter, he began every show with a song associated with Lennon; a Beatles song, or a solo effort.  He became forever linked to the Beatles through John’s death.

The knuckleheads at WNEW decided to change their format in 1998, and sacked the entire crew of giants, including Dave Herman and Scott Muni.  They went all-talk and hired the likes of Opie and Anthony.  Guess which radio station has since gone down the tubes? 

Today the rock and roll world mourns one of its guardians.  There’s an old Righteous Brothers song called “Rock and Roll Heaven” – and the refrain goes,

“If there’s a rock and roll heaven, then you know they got a hell of a band.” 

Well, now they have a DJ, too.

June 6, 1944

Written on June 6, 2004

Today is the 60^th anniversary of D-Day. 

Now, I am a historian by avocation and have read a great many books on the subject of World War II.  Nearly every book I’ve read refers to June 6, 1944 as either the D-Day invasion, or the invasion of France, or Operation Overlord, or some such.  I was taught, in school, about the D-Day invasion.  It’s part of American history. 

Recently, when I was in France, I went to Normandy and visited some of the landing beaches.  I went to the Peace Museum at Caen.  I talked to a lot of people from the area, and in some of the local towns around the landing beaches. 

Not one of those people used the word “invasion.”  Not one. 

They used the word “liberation.” 

See, we didn’t invade France; we freed it.  We saved France from the grip of the Nazis; they were damned happy to see the D-Day forces arrive.  Every town along the route of the landing beaches had its own memorial or museum; some of them were very small indeed – but each town pays tribute to the men that risked so much that day.  Nearly every town proudly displays a Jeep or a landing craft, hauled out of the water and spiffed up some. 

This “invasion” was no surprise.  Hitler knew that the Allies would try to liberate France, and he placed Field Marshal Erwin Rommel – The Desert Fox himself – in charge of coastal defenses.  Rommel was no fool (Sidebar: I wonder if Patton actually said “Rommel, you magnificent bastard -- I read your book!”)  Anyway, Rommel made sure that the coastal defenses were formidable; the bunkers that the Allied troops faced were incredible; small stone homes with tunnels that connected them so that German troops could travel across the coastal defense line in safety. 

Hitler and his forces were kept guessing for months as to where the Allies would land.  An entire fake army was created (through radio transmissions) across from Pas-de-Calais.  (Operation Fortitude; General Patton was the commander of the fictitious force.)  Would they land there?  Another fake fleet was seen crossing the Channel the night before the invasion.  Who knew where they would land?  Rommel was on leave on June 6^th.  Home visiting the family.  (heh)  Hitler, upon hearing of the invasion itself, didn’t believe it (he thought it was a diversion) and, thank Heaven, did not release troops or materiel in support of the Germans on the beaches. 

Unfortunately, though, what the Allies didn’t know was that there was an entire battalion of Germans in the Normandy area for maneuvers.  An entire battalion that shouldn’t have been there was waiting to greet the Allied forces.  Fully 50 percent of the men who landed at Juno that day were killed.  The troops at Omaha had about the same casualty rate but there were more of them overall, so many more died there than at Juno.  10,000 troops in total died that day; Churchill had estimated twice that number of casualties. 

At the Peace Museum, there is a fascinating film, about 45 minutes long, that depicts, split-screen, what the Germans were doing to fortify the French coast, at the same time it shows us what the Allies were doing to prepare for D-Day.  It’s an amazing film.  It’s so well-produced that at times you sort of forget which side you’re rooting for; you watch the Germans build bunkers and plant mines very, very efficiently and you think, man, no one is gonna get past that beach in one piece. 

Wait: no one was gonna get past that beach in one piece…   

Here’s what the great Ernie Pyle said, about waiting to land in one of the many boats offshore. 

“We were in the very vortex of the war – and yet, as we sat there waiting, Lt. Chuck Conick and I played gin rummy in the wardroom and Bing Crosby sang "Sweet Leilani" over the ship's phonograph.  Angry shells hitting near us would make heavy thuds as the concussion carried through the water and struck the hull of our ship.  But in our wardroom men in gas-impregnated uniforms and wearing lifebelts sat reading Life and listening to the BBC telling us how the war before our eyes was going.  But it wasn't like that ashore.  No, it wasn't like that ashore.”

As if the horror of what happened on the beaches wasn’t enough, the men who descended on Normandy by air had their own horrors, too.  The winds were unpredictable that day, and many men drifted so far away from their designated landing zone that the maps they were given were rendered useless.  They landed (if they landed without getting shot by Germans) then gathered themselves and their equipment together and raced for the cover of the nearest hedgerow.  They were each issued a child’s toy – a metal “cricket” that makes a loud noise when pushed, like a click-clack noise.  The idea was, find cover, wait, and sound your cricket.  One click-clack meant, I’m looking for a friend out here.  Two meant, advance, friend.  So.  Guess what sounds exactly like a cricket being pressed twice?  A German Mauser rifle being armed.  Thus, they survive the drop, find cover, sound their cricket, and come out to the barrel of a Mauser. 

Many, many things went wrong that day.  But, obviously, many things went right.  The Allies held on, and steadily advanced, until they cornered the Germans and finally liberated all of France. 

We honored the heroes of D-Day today; many books have been written, many news reports have been filed, many images have been sent from the American Cemetery and the landing beaches.  They were all heroes, every one.  More than 150,000 men parachuted in or arrived in landing craft, and more than 10,000 of them died, right there on that day.  The beaches today look like ordinary beaches.  When I was there, there were children playing on them.  For a moment, I was horrified; how could they be playing on those beaches?  But, that’s life.  The men who died there were sent to free the parents and grandparents of those kids, so that there could be French kids on the beaches today, instead of German kids.  I took a walk on Omaha, and stood for a long time, and I swear I could see the whole thing.  I could see the planes, I could smell the smoke, I could hear the screams; an army rising up out of the sea to take back a country. 

I took some of the sand home with me in a film canister. 

I was going to apologize for writing a long and perhaps boring email.  But I changed my mind.  You have to read it, because you have to remember.  You have to remember because there are 10,000 American guys buried too far from home who died defending a place they’d never heard of, and they did it proudly and bravely.  They were all heroes, every one.  I’ve enclosed a photograph of one who didn’t make it home. 

I thank him tonight.  And all of his buddies, be they American, British, Canadian or Polish. 

An American in Paris

Written on May 20, 2004

I am sitting in a courtyard in my hotel in Paris. The weather is lovely, the sky is clear, it's 8:50 pm and I've just taken off my sunglasses.

What's all this hooey about Parisians being snotty? A little bit of the local language and a big smile go a long way - everyone I've met has been very friendly.

Many of you have likely been here before, but this is my first time.  What an amazing city this is; I am definitely on overload right now.  But I've had a wonderful time, and I know that I'll be back again.

An excellent friend of mine has been giving me some good advice of late; she reminds me to "stay in the now" - that is, don't get stuck in the what might have been, or don't think about what is down the road.  This has been difficult advice for me to take, because I am constantly thinking of my mother - but I know that it's advice worth taking, so I've been thinking about it a lot.  Stay in the now, she says. Look to each day and appreciate it for what it is.

So.

I sat next to two ladies at dinner last night.  They were American, with distinct Midwestern accents.  It was a woman traveling with her mom.  They had been in Paris for about a week, I'd say, and were recapping their trip, which included side excursions to Versailles and Normandy (pretty much the same trip I've taken, but I did it in less time - NUTS! - I'll be back.)

They moaned all through their dinner that they couldn't understand the menu (I have made it a point to not eat in a restaurant with English on the menu.  There are plenty of those, however, so they could have chosen an easier place, and have been here long enough to know that.)  The food was too rich.  (Ha!)  They'd read in some guidebook that it wasn't good form to order coffee with your dessert, and they wanted coffee with their dessert.  (I am sure it would have been just fine to order coffee with dessert.)  The younger woman went over everything they'd seen and done, and asked her mom if there was anything she was particularly impressed by, and wanted to see more of?  The mom said, nah, not really.

The mom said, nah, not really.

Me, I am stunned by this town.  I am in attention deficit disorder paralysis at times, literally unable to move for the beauty of my surroundings.  I want to stop at each building and find out when it was built, and what it was built for.  I am flummoxed; I don't know what to do next (but I certainly find things to do.)  I am rendered mute.  And these ladies can't think of anything that particularly impressed them.

Toward the end of the meal, the younger woman said, well, we've seen Paris.  We can go back home and say we've seen Paris.  Now, these were very well-traveled ladies.  They had been to very many places around the world (so I heard) - but - when the woman said, we've seen Paris, I began to wonder how many places they'd actually seen.

These women came to see Paris in order to go home and report that they'd seen Paris, and I don't think they saw anything at all.

Stay in the now. I get it!  And I'm very pleased that I've managed to do it, because otherwise, think of what I would have missed.

I love Paris. Every moment...

We're sure gonna miss you

Written on October 24, 2003

I was 15 years old the first time I saw her, and I fell in love straight away.  I was mesmerized...I couldn't take my eyes off of her.  Sure, she had a weird-looking nose, but that only made her more mysterious in my eyes.  She didn't simply do the job, like all the other ones.  She soared.  She didn't lift off, she leaped into the air.  She made a different kind of noise than all the others.  That noise, for the past 26 years, has made me stop what I was doing and look to the sky, with a huge smile on my face. 

Today I saw her for the last time. 

This was not just another airplane.  She made the Earth move; she woke you up whether you wanted to be awake or not.  On very overcast days, it felt like she was coming in for tea.  The house rattled, my brain along with it, and I loved every minute of it.  Newcomers to the neighborhood always reacted as if we were being invaded.  They would duck in terror, looking up and waiting for the bombs to hit.  I once saw a neighbor, who served during World War II, literally hit the deck. 

When the Concorde first started flying, I was constantly preoccupied with her.  True story: being raised Catholic means that one blesses oneself when passing in front of a Church.  I was in the car with my parents one day, that first year or so that she was in service, and we passed a Church.  I was engrossed in a book, so my Mom called my attention to where we were, and I absent-mindedly crossed myself and went back to the book.  A minute or so later, Concorde was approaching, and I guess I hadn't picked my head up yet.  My mother called my attention to the airplane, and this time there was nothing absent-minded about the way I crossed myself.  I was downright reverent. 

My eyes widened in horror instantly, as my mother's eyes narrowed into murderous slits.  Supreme sacrilege!  I sat in the back of that car waiting to die.  A moment passed and I (clearly approaching a career in PR) said something about how we bless ourselves to give God both our thanks and his due, and that I blessed myself because I wanted to thank God for that airplane.  My mother's eyes were still slits, but she said, "You know, coming from anyone else, I'd never buy that, but I believe you."  And I wasn't lying, either.  I did, and do, feel reverent about that plane. 

A couple of days ago, I mentioned Concorde's last flight to a someone, and she said, "Oh, is that a big deal?"  I had to laugh.  A big deal?  It kind of brought me back down to Earth, you should pardon the pun.  We all find our passions in different places; is it silly to love an airplane?  Maybe.  Color me silly.  I've been dreading this day for six months.  My friend Dan and I both knew exactly where we'd be today; saying farewell to a good friend.  I suppose in the overall scheme of things, it's not a big deal.  But today I am sad, and Dan is sad, and I know a lot of other people are sad too. 

Concorde, you see, was extraordinary.  Like deciding to go to the moon, and actually getting there.  It was an everyday reminder of our capabilities.  I've become very enamored of a TV show called "The West Wing" -- the writing knocks me out.  A recent rerun discussed the importance of trying to reach beyond our limits; the importance of raising your hand and going to the blackboard, as it were.  The Concorde is what happens when we raise our hands and go to the blackboard.  CNN's Richard Quest, a passenger on today's flight, said: "This is the first time in history that aviation history is taking a step backwards.  Everyone on today's flight is well aware of that fact."  Will we ever see another supersonic passenger jet in our lifetimes?  I think not.  and that's a shame.  Because we all need daily reminders of the accessibility of the impossible.  We need it so that we can find solutions and find ways to make peace with each other, and find ways to make peace with ourselves. 

So, Dan and I, along with his girlfriend Gloria, left at the crack of dawn this morning.  We drove to a spot just beyond the runways of JFK, and Dan turned on his scanner, and we waited.  It was COLD out!  Just before her scheduled departure, one of the controllers, a fellow named Sam Kohn, (and these folks simply DON'T "chat") came on the frequency and addressed her crew, and said, "I was lucky enough to be in this tower when the very first Concorde arrived in 1977 -- I gave her clearance to land."  He mentioned how it had been a pleasure working with the plane, and its crews, over the years.  Then Sam paused and said; "We're sure gonna miss her."  (You could just about hear every crew member on the plane and in the tower choke up at that point.)  A couple of minutes later, we heard the words we'd been waiting in the dawn to hear; "Speedbird 2, you're cleared for takeoff."  We got out of the car then, and stood and looked at the sun, at the spot in the sky where we knew she'd be when she took off.  We shivered, and chatted, and commented on the other people who'd been waiting in the parking lot as well.  When we saw her, though -- when she climbed out of JFK for the last time -- there wasn't a sound from us.  She roared up and banked left and headed for home.  We stood and watched until she was a speck in the sky.  Then we got back in the car and went on with our day, with a little less magic in our lives.

Hell, yes!  I wanted to say, earlier this week -- it's a big deal!  It was among my daily miracles.  She's off to airplane heaven now, where the skies are always blue and the tailwinds are always strong.  I will miss her terribly; there will be a hole in my heart and a hole in the southeastern sky above Brooklyn. 

Fare thee well, Connie.  We're sure gonna miss you.

At least the roof won't leak anymore

Written on July 12, 2003

The house I used to live in was torn down yesterday. 

I thought it would hurt a lot to see it, laying there in splinters.  About half of its outer shell is still there, but everything else is gone.  I knew when I moved out of it that it was going to be torn down, but knowing it and seeing it are entirely different things.  And, after all, it wasn’t my house; I didn’t own it.  I rented it from someone else, and those people were, well, a little nuts. 

I spent a lovely afternoon yesterday with some friends – sitting in a Brooklyn backyard eating barbequed burgers and drinking beer.  Basically, the reason why summers were invented.  On my way home I glanced over at the old house, as I always do, and – gone.  I drove over there and parked the car.  All of my old neighbors were sitting around on one porch, watching the machinery do its work.  I sat down wordlessly and watched for a while with them.  One of them, a lovely lady who’s 80 or so, said suddenly; “You were the nicest tenant those freaks ever had.”  Of course, we all laughed over that one, and the mood lightened up considerably. 

When I go to Coney Island today, I pass what’s known as the West 8^th Street projects, and I know that the entire neighborhood that my mother grew up in is gone – razed to make way for enormous apartment buildings.  The street that she lived on, Kister Court, is gone.  As a child, I always felt sorry for my parents, knowing that a place where they spent so much time together is just gone.  They seemed sad when we drove by it, but they always looked at each other and smiled. 

So, now, the house I lived in is gone.  It was just an OK house, it wasn’t built very well.  It stood on a double lot, so they’re building six condos on that spot.  I’ll drive by there with friends and family years from now, and I’ll say, oh, look, I used to live in a house there.  Maybe they’ll feel bad for me, the way I felt bad for my parents.  But…

But maybe it’s not about the house.  Maybe what you take away from someplace that you live stays with you, regardless of whether or not the place is still there.  My family tells lots of stories about the Kister Court days in Coney Island, and that place feels very real to me, even though it was gone by the time I was born. 

I’ll remember that house on Batchelder Street.  I’ll remember the friends who came over to visit; sitting on the front steps on weekend mornings reading the Times; the succession of amazing people who populated it when my Mom was ill, helping me out and taking care of her; trying to get the cat off the china cabinet all the time; the way the roof leaked during a bad rainstorm; the wall with the pretty tile on it in the kitchen; the time Dan broke up with Samantha and he thought his life was over and he became a fixture on my couch for, what, 3 or 4 days?; lugging my bike up and down the steps; the crazy Irish family who lived downstairs, and the way I’d run to the front window every time the Concorde passed over.  It was the place where my mother and I reversed roles; I became the mother and she, the one who needed taking care of.  It was the place where I grew up, I guess. 

And I guess it doesn’t matter that it’s gone, because I have it with me.  I know why my parents smiled at each other.  Because, even though there will be six new condos, the house at 2833 Batchelder Street will be there in my heart.

Good afternoon, Ms. Hepburn

Written on June 30, 2003

I saw her once, on the East side.  She was standing in the doorway of her home.  It was a stunner of a spring day, and she was just standing there, enjoying the shade and talking to someone who was sweeping the sidewalk in front of the brownstone.  She was elderly by then, but she was still gorgeous.  She could have been Tracy Lord, still. 

I've met a lot of celebrities in my life, both in the course of work and because I live in New York.  Generally, I am not impressed by them; they're just people who have visible occupations, as far as I'm concerned.  There have been a few who've rendered me speechless; Harrison Ford, for example, just because he's so good-looking.  But in the "star" category, only one has left me speechless, and that was Hepburn.  I'm certain I went weak in the knees that afternoon; I didn't know what to do, or say.  I don't think I was able to move: I'm sure I stopped right there on the sidewalk and stared like a fool. 

What would I have said?  That I had "Stage Door" memorized when I was 12?  I used to walk around the house doing the calla lily speech, to the utter despair of my parents.  I refused to read "Little Women" as a child, because I thought it sounded dopey -- then I saw the movie, and was Jo March for an entire summer.  I think "The Philadelphia Story" was my favorite, though -- I think it's still my favorite.  As far as I'm concerned, I'll always remember Hepburn as Tracy Lord...

...or I'll remember that afternoon.  I eventually pulled myself together, you see, and mustered all the grace I could, and said; "Good afternoon, Ms. Hepburn." 

She nodded back at me, and smiled.  I walked back to work with my head in the clouds, and didn't get a damn thing done all day.  How could I?  She smiled at me. 

I'll bet, when she knew that she was going, when she realized that her time had come, she said to herself; "Damn it, if Hope made it to 100, I could have..." 

Here's to you, Kate.  You were the best.

I knew they would be there

Written on April 13, 2003

As most of you know, I moved two weeks ago. I’ve been lost among boxes for the last two weeks, reluctantly going to work when I’d rather be unpacking.  I hate the boxes; I want them gone.  I’m so focused on the boxes and getting them gone that I don’t notice as much as I usually do.  About two days after I moved in, I met up with two of my new neighbors – small, blonde girls.  They are sisters, about 5 and 9, the small one a carbon copy of the bigger one. 

They were glaring at me.

I mean glaring.  I smiled; nothing in return.  The glares got worse.  I couldn’t think what I’d done.  Clancy was with me; I thought maybe it was him but I try to be a good citizen and I always pick up after him.  I see the two of them fairly often, and they are always glaring at me.  I have begun to think of them as the Rotten Little Blondes, and I have begun to dread seeing them. 

Anyway.

I like everything else about where I live now.  I like this house; it feels good.  I like the sound, believe it or not, of the cars that I can hear from the Belt Parkway.  I wonder where they are all going.  It’s still a very short walk to the beach, and I still take the dog there most weekend mornings.  Not much about life changes when you move around the block.  My mom is doing well, still living at a very nice assisted living facility, with lots of friendly, caring people around her all day.  She gets regular visits from me, and some of my friends, and some of my family.  She came to visit me here last weekend, and we spent a lovely afternoon together while I showed her the house.  Lest I begin to think that perhaps she’s not as sharp as she used to be, she zaps me occasionally with a genuine Mom zinger.  Like last weekend; I drove down the length of the block, pulled into the driveway and shut off the car.  I turned to my Mom, and she said; “Every single tree on this block has a yellow ribbon around it except ours.”  I got of the car and checked.  Every tree, plus the odd telephone pole, lots of banisters, almost everything vertical about the street is wrapped up in yellow.  I turn around to my house.  Naked.  See?  So busy unpacking, I hadn’t noticed that. 

So I went to the mall yesterday, because I knew that at least three or four stores would have recognized this phenomenon and have nice big yellow ribbons in stock.  I knew they would be there.  Before I left the house, I watched a bit of the news and heard that there would be a rally for U.S. troops in Marine Park at 1:00 (it was now 9:30).  That’s right on the way to both the mall and the salon where I was going for a haircut.  I made a mental note to maybe stop by, and left the house.  As I drove, I noticed that every single tree I passed – and that’s a lot of trees – was beribboned.  Most houses also have American flags.  Stop lights, stop signs, street signs – ribbons.  It made me smile, and it made me proud.  I drove past Marine Park about five minutes later and turned to see if there was any indication that there would be a rally. 

Everyone was already there. 

Spring arrived yesterday in Brooklyn, you see.  It was a dodgy early morning but the late morning was a stunner.  I pulled the car over to the side and gaped at the crowds.  I spotted a dozen familiar faces without even trying hard.  But I had to go get a haircut – damn! – so I left.  After that, I went to the mall to get a boatload of yellow ribbons.  I went back to the rally, hoping to catch up with friends from the neighborhood.  I knew they would be there.  I spent most of the afternoon in the park, commuting from picnic to picnic, and then headed back home.

I worked in the house till dusk, and took all of the empty boxes out to the porch.  That reminded me of the yellow ribbon, and I went in to get it all.  Took care of the tree in front, as well as the stop sign on the corner, the street sign and a couple of trees along the side of the house.  Then I put some on the railings of the porch and banister.  It took me a while to get it the way I wanted it to look, and I stood up finally to rub my creaky back.  I heard a noise behind me and turned around to investigate. But, before I turned, I knew what I’d see.  I had realized in a flash why the Rotten Little Blondes were so rotten to me…

 

I knew they would be there.

It was the Rotten Little Blondes, in the flesh.  Not three feet from me.  Hours before, I would have gotten a garbage can cover and girded for battle.  I looked at the two serious little misses, and as if on cue, they both broke into dazzling smiles, adjusted that last yellow ribbon and gave me a thumbs-up.  The three of us stepped back and looked: the whole block was in step now.

I have been welcomed to the neighborhood.  It took me a while, but I’m here at last.  If any of you happen to be in Sheepshead Bay, you’re welcome to stop by.  I even have some ribbon left over for you, if you need it.