Nancy Davidoff Kelton's Blog

An Apple for Zoom Teaching

[image error]This was published September 8, 2020 in Next Avenue.[image error]WORK & PURPOSE33 Reasons Virtual Teaching Has Made Me a Better Writing InstructorAnd why the COVID-19 Zoom classes made my writing students better, tooBy Nancy Davidoff Kelton September 8, 2020Considered technologically inept by people who know me and by strangers who have heard my curses and cries for help in the “quiet” New School faculty room in New York City, I am as surprised as anyone that I’m not just Zoom teaching my advanced nonfiction class. I am digging it.So are my adult students.I am 72 years old and began teaching 50 years ago. I started with first grade in a New York City public school, then offered writing instruction at The New School, Hunter College and New York University and, for many decades, I’ve been teaching an advanced nonfiction workshop of personal essayists, memoirists and op-ed writers in my living room.My students now have more time, are reading more and have a greater sense of urgency in their writing.Some of my workshop students have been in the class for as many as 17 years, and not because they flunked. They are good writers and hard workers who stay with it revising and revising. Some have had essays and books published that came out of the class.How COVID-19 Changed My Students Writing and My TeachingThen came the pandemic.In March, when remote teaching was about to become a reality, a longtime student of mine volunteered to host our sessions virtually, sending the Zoom links and offering newcomers instructions beforehand. Another volunteered to digitally line up everyone’s manuscripts before each class for easy access.Frankly, I wasn’t sure how it would go. Turns out: it is terrific!The way I now teach and the way the students now learn is better than how we used to do it in person. In July 2020, two longtime students had essays they wrote during the summer session accepted for publication.The structure of our sessions hasn’t changed. The students still read their work aloud. The rest of us still follow along with our copies, write comments on the manuscript and then discuss it.What has changed: instead of a maximum of five pages as before, students now submit up to three pages by the morning of class. Those who can, and wish, have an opportunity to read the work before we start Zooming.33 Reasons Classes Are Better for UsBut I think there are 33 other reasons why the virtual writing classes have been so successful for my students and for me:I don’t have to clean my guest bathroom beforehandRecalling the training I received in 1970 that the teacher should immediately set the tone and let the class know what is expected and can ease up after, I am now stricter and more emphatic, beginning each session with very clear rules and boundariesI tell my students I do not want them to chitchatOr eatOr walk aroundI convey a mix of toughness and tenderness, as I remind them that writing is hard workHarder than discussing itHarder than having writtenI remind them, too, that the pandemic is probably giving them more to say and more to reflect upon which hopefully inspires them to dig deeper (it actually has)My students now have more time, are reading more and have a greater sense of urgency in their writingTheir writing is stronger because it is more urgentAfter many, many revisions; my students are now actually more eager and willing to revise and reviseThe pandemic publication success of two of the students inspires and excites everyoneAmong my strengths as a writing teacher is having what my grandmother called “good rappaport” with students, from those who are new to the process to seasoned pros; with Zooming, we have “greater rappaport”It helps that I can now look out and see everyone at the same time in their natural habitats with their dogs, cats and, if they have curious loved ones, their partners or childrenI can see what is on my students’ bookshelves and hear how their pets sound, which is fun for usAnd know at one glance, up close and personal, what their natural and dyed hair colors are — and if they have gray rootsIt helps that they can see my home officeWhich I declutter before we ZoomBy putting my piles of paper in a closet and under the sofa which I clear off except for the colorful throw blanket and decorative pillowsOur 7:00 pm restroom break has bonded us further when I’ve opened my window and we’ve participated in the New York City pandemic cheer for health care workersI’ve learned how to track changes in red in the emailed manuscriptsIt is getting easier and easierAs do most things one does over and overIncluding Zooming and other technological things that once threw meI am much quieter during class than in the past, letting students do more of the commentingI make more detailed comments on their manuscripts and when I send the pieces back, I tell students they can email me if they wish to discuss anything, giving them more time and individual attention than I did beforeThey want more of me nowI want more of themDespite the clarity and insistence with which I establish the ground rules each week, we sometimes find ourselves relaxing and chatting about books, family, struggles, haircuts, hair colors and moreWe laughThey are taking greater risks, continuing to be braver, more self-revelatory and more truthful in their writingI could not be more thrilled.Nancy Davidoff Kelton has written seven books including "Writing From Personal Experience" and a memoir, "Finding Mr. Rightstein," which she is adapting for the stage, and essays for The New York Times, The Boston Globe, Parents, Working Mother, The Baltimore Sun and other publications. She teaches writing at the New School, at the Strand Bookstore and privately.

Celebrations of Work and Friendship

Renee signing my copy of “Piecing Me Together” at her book launch at Langston Hughes House.My talented onetime student, now friend, Renee Watson, has written many fabulous books including “Piecing Me Together,” for which she received the John Newbery Honor and the Coretta Scott King Author Award. It is being adapted into a film for HBO. It is early in the process. There’s no word yet on a director or actors. I am so excited. Stay tuned.“A Beginning,” a 10-page section and a self-contained piece of my full-length play, “Finding Mr. Rightstein,” was selected as a finalist in The Chameleon Theatre Circle's 21st Annual New Play Contest. I am honored and excited.And honored and excited to have another essay in AARP. Here it is:The Evolution of a Sixty-Six Year FriendshipBy Nancy Davidoff KeltonThe 2020 school closings and openings take me back to 1953 to first grade and a life-changing experience. At my dentist’s office for a checkup, I saw a picture of his cute, smiling daughter, Sally. He said she also would start first grade at PS #66 in Mrs. Miller’s class. Fearful of sitting at a desk all day — and not knowing which of my kindergarten classmates, if any, would be there — I rejoiced. Arriving early and recognizing Sally when she appeared, I motioned her to the desk I saved across from mine. “Are you Dr. Berman’s little girl?” She smiled easily, maybe because she also wanted to meet me, and possibly because my calling her a little girl amused her. We laughed at something Mrs. Miller said. We were the only ones. At recess we went to the playground together, and virtually everywhere else for years, sometimes in identical clothing — including blue and white middy blouses and black pedal pushers to perform “Side by Side” at our charity carnival at her house. Our classmates labeled us “the twins.” I knew we were not exactly alike. Relatives and unrelated grownups called Sally “cute” and “pretty” and me “good in math.” I swallowed that. I loved our performances, imaginary worlds, made-up words and mischief. The day after Mary Martin flew across television screens as Peter Pan, Sally and I dragged her family’s housekeeper to the rec room, stood her on an expensive chair and attached a rope to the ceiling, tying the other end around her waist. She did not fly. The chair we broke was unfixable. At day camp, I overheard a male counselor tell ours that Sally was adorable. I pushed “little adorable” into the lake. By accident, I claimed. At age 11, when she came to my overnight camp, boys who had ignored me suddenly surrounded me the first night, wanting to meet my friend. My friend. What possessed me to share My Camp? Why, back home, did boys at dancing school race across the floor to Sally? Our distance widened in high school, as boys flocked to carry her books while I had lots of books to carry, and she became a cheerleader and loved partying. I did neither. In college, New York City and I became a fit. Sally became a Hare Krishna. Her boyfriend became her husband and a Krishna leader. “The music’s pretty. No meat is fine, but no sex?” my father said. “Imagine others’ rules governing your life.” I couldn’t. Not communal living, either. At age 38, Sally abandoned the orange robe. Divorced, still a Krishna, still exuding warmth and eager to get together — as was I, she visited. We picked up some pieces, not all. As a divorced single mother, teacher, writer, veteran of psychotherapy and happy with the life I created, I felt older. It irked me that she dallied dressing to go out, seemingly unaware of time and my waiting. It irked me, too, that she wanted to attend my class and did not understand my refusal and the confidentiality and trust with my students, whose personal writing and struggles were not to be shared. But our reminiscing, giggling and mainly not mincing words made me feel close to her. Bonded. After a brief time unattached, Sally dated Ben, who had loved her at camp. She moved to his Portland home with her children and married him. When I mentioned I visit my college roommate, Helen, in Portland yearly, she said, “Stay with me.” “No. We’ll play.” I reminded her she dawdled, and I wanted meals at a reasonable hour. Sally wore diamond stud earrings and looked very put-together when she and her family had dinner at Helen’s. We performed “Side by Side,” and laughed at things no one else found funny. “Mom talks about the great times you had together,” her daughter said. “You bring out each other’s spirit.” Years later, at a Portland bookstore event for my book Writing from Personal Experience, Sally — without asking — plopped herself beside me at the front table. Huh? “Go sit in the audience.” “I’ve known you forever. I should be up here,” she said. I told her to keep quiet during my presentation, then help me sell my book. She did. And I say nothing whenever she repeats a story. And nothing about the gap in our looks no longer existing. Or at least not in my eyes. In New York for our friend’s 50th birthday bash, Sally stayed with me and listened while I rehearsed the speech I was nervous to give. Walking up Park Avenue to the party backward like we used to walk to PS #66, sitting there together and seeing Sally smile when I spoke made me feel at home. When my father died, I called Sally right away. Her Krishna belief in an afterlife comforted me. So did her late-night reminders that “he’s in a better place” — knowing the challenges he had faced with my cognitively impaired mother. I asked her to help me clean out my father’s Florida closet, arranging a time when she would be at her mother’s nearby. When we finished, she accompanied me to the nursing home to see my mother. “Remember me?” Sally asked, bending over the wheelchair with a long, warm hug. “Remember you?” Mom said. “You two play together.” We do. We do. *****Sally's real name is Inez.Renee's is Renee.

Carl and Mel, Of Course

In honor of Carl Reiner, all he was, and all he will always be to us, it is fitting that I share the last page of my book, "Writing from Personal Experience"(Penguin Random House) here: I grew up in a house in which there was great respect for the word. And humorists got the last one. So it is only fitting that I give them the last words here.On a recent PBS Special about Sid Caesar's "Your Show of Shows," one of the writers told a story about the time he brought his mother there. After watching the first sketch, he asked her what she thought."That Caesar is amazing," she said."Ma, I worked on that sketch," the writer told her. She went on. "What a talent Caesar is!"In the next sketch, Sid used several different languages. When it was over, the writer's mother was again in awe."That man," she said. "There is no end to his talent." "I wrote that sketch," the son told her.But she wasn't done. "Caesar can make jokes. He can do languages. A fabulous talent."The next sketch was a musical number. Same thing. "Look at how he dances and sings," said the mother. "I wrote that one, too, Ma.""That guy Caeser can do anything," said the mother.It went on like that for the entire show. When it was over, the writer went backstage to tell Sid what a great job he did and to share the story about his mother .Sid listened. "You know," he said, "my mother was here just a few minutes ago, too. I asked her what she thought of the show. You know what she said? She said, 'Boy, you must have some writers.' " *****Carl Reiner will be with us for at least 2000 more years. Watch this wonderful video: Carl Reiner

My Father’s Truths and Lessons

LIVINGA daughter reflects on 6 ways her dad's examples had impactBy Nancy Davidoff Kelton June 19, 2020Credit: Courtesy of Nancy Davidoff Kelton Nancy Davidoff Kelton, then 19, with her parentsMy father died in 1997 at age 88, yet he wakes me up some mornings and guides me through my days. On Father’s Day, and every day, particularly now during this pandemic, I am grateful for his gifts of wisdom which include:1. A Sense Of HumorIt goes beyond tilting our heads upon seeing Aunt Bernice’s lopsided Jell-O molds and ribbing Uncle Joe for being a know-it-all; beyond teasing and clever retorts. It involves having a perspective, seeing the world from the longshot with its ridiculousness. It became a source of strength in dealing with my adolescence, school, divorce, single motherhood, nosy relatives, noisy neighbors and the pandemic.In college, when I worried I might fail Chemistry 101, Dad sent me the following ‘Don’t sweat it’ letter.Dear Nancy, I was upset by how upset you sounded on the phone last night, not only because you spent ten minutes of expensive long-distance time crying, but more because I have never known you to get worked up over something as idiotic as an exam. Just because some finky professor didn’t ask questions on the material you studied doesn’t make you a failure. Hopefully, the person who teaches you Chemistry 101 next semester will ask better questions. No two people come out the same from college. Some get A’s, some get B’s, some get F’s, some get Phi Beta Kappa keys, some get mono, some get knocked up, and some get thrown out. I have always been proud of you, but your panicking over a grade surprised me. I never expected a child of mine to be a whiz in science, but I do expect her to maintain her sense of humor as she has done in the past. Don’t sweat your finals. We love you no matter how it comes out.”I reread this letter often, particularly now.2. The Getting Is In Giving And Showing UpMy father heard what I said, loved my company,and made me feel special whether we talked to the animals at the Buffalo Zoo, painted by numbers, played gin rummy or other games I made up. During ‘beauty parlor,’ as I styled his balding brush cut, asking, “Do you want a bouffant or parfait?” he would laugh that I used those two words together and said it my way.For my school plays, he arrived early and sat in the middle of the front row. Each summer, as my bus to overnight camp pulled away, he remained at the window waving, sometimes crying, as the other parents headed to their cars. In college and after, whenever I flew home, he stood in front of those other people waiting at the gate and beamed.Our family was blessed by his presence. He attended to my chronically ill mother without acting burdened. On Sunday visits to my aunt’s, while I sat at her kitchen table eating homemade brownies, he gave her money, and advice and contacts to my cousins during their job searches.“Your aunt doesn’t earn much or have connections,” he told me. “Helping them feels good.”3. Find Work You Love; You Do It Every DayBefore the women’s movement got underway, during my childhood when the causes of my mother’s struggles became clearer, Dad insisted that, as an adult, I find meaningful work about which I would feel passionate and proud.I discovered the rewards of writing and teaching 50 years ago. I still feel passionate about both today.4. Enjoying One’s Own Company — Not Money — Makes A Person RichMy favorite childhood memories include my father alone on the sofa, reading, doing crossword puzzles or dealing and playing out four bridge hands on the cocktail table. His eyes sparkled when he figured out the plays, as well as when he quoted writers, particularly his favorites: Twain, Hardy, Voltaire, S.J Perelman and Dickens, whose books he regularly re-read. Dad showed me that books enrich us, feed our souls, deepen our empathy and broaden our worlds.Max Davidoff in his mid-to-late 70sWhen I began curling up on my bed and putting my feelings and thoughts on paper, I told him I felt less alone with a legal pad and pen than I did with many people. “You’re lucky,” he said. “You’re good company.”5. Don’t Try to Keep Up With The Joneses: They Don’t Know What They’re DoingStarting at age 12 and more in high school, when I felt pained, not being in the “in crowd” or eager to follow the herd, he repeated the Joneses wisdom. He reminded me of it when I became a mother, and then a divorced mother, feeling inadequate seeing moms who seemed to have it all under control.Learning to trust myself teaching, in my second marriage, with friends and with my grandchildren —rather than comparing myself to the Joneses — makes for a rich, full life.6. We Take Ourselves With Us Wherever We GoMy father left a lucrative business run by a man who demeaned his employees, and started from scratch on his own. My mother worried about his drop in income. “I have to take myself with me,” he told her.He reminded her again about our taking ourselves with us when she expressed envy that a wealthy relative was taking expensive vacations.He repeated this last truth to me my whole life. We are who we are, vacationing, at home, with family, everywhere. Kindness and giving bat last.Thank you, Dad!By Nancy Davidoff KeltonNancy Davidoff Kelton has written 7 books including "Writing From Personal Experience" and a memoir, "Finding Mr. Rightstein," which she is adapting for the stage, and essays for The New York Times, The Boston Globe, Parents, Working Mother, The Baltimore Sun, and other publications. She teaches writing at the New School and at the Strand Bookstore.

Mom's Lessons On Love

By Nancy Davidoff Kelton Photo: My mother, sister Susan and little me in front of our house at 703 Crescent Avenue, Buffalo New YorkThis essay in West View News (May) was originally published in the Boston Globe Sunday Magazine.It takes a village to raise a child. It took me forever to appreciate my mother. Now years after her death, I can embrace her spirit and legacy.In 2000, I brought my then beau, a well-dressed CEO with a fine coat of polish—a card-carrying mother-pleaser—to the nursing home to meet her. Sitting in the living area while he made calls, I asked, “Do you like him?”“"What I like doesn’t matter. You’re the one who has to go for him and maybe eventually sleep with him.”“Right.” I cracked up. At 52, I wasn’t about to spill the details of my present or “eventual” sex life, but I recognized how human my mother, a proper lady with a list of “shoulds,” truly was.She reminded me my gut was my best guide no matter who stuck in her two cents. I was eight and in a store, trying on a plaid dress I hated and she loved. “If you’re not sure, don’t buy it. You’re the one who’ll wear it.” We left without that dress.At 12, I was on the phone with my first boyfriend in my parents’ bedroom while Mom sewed. I had remembered her advising my older sister that she should end phone conversations with boys. When I told Danny I had to go, he said, “I love you.” I said, “I love you” too. When we hung up, I panicked.“Mom, I told Danny I loved him.”“So.”“When I said I had to go, I’m not sure if he said ‘I love you’ or ‘I do, too.’ Now I feel like a jerk. Even if he does love me, I was forward saying it.”“He probably said it. If not, it’s nice you could. It’s hard to express certain things. You let him off the hook.”And she did me. Another night years later, she told me to wait until I was married before going all the way.“What if I fall for a garage mechanic?”“You probably won’t.”“But say I do, Mom.” At the time, I viewed the opposite sex as bad boys or bespectacled dorks.“Then I guess it would be OK.”“To sleep with him before we’re married?“Just sleep with him,” she said.Photo: My mother and me at my 40th birthday partyThe desire for a bad boy was not all Mom understood. In 1963, when I was a sulky, sassy teenager, and angry she was neither Betty Crocker nor working at an interesting job, I was watching my stupid soap opera when she appeared with a book.“Read this instead. It’s important. You’ll understand me and figure out your life better.” It was The Feminine Mystique, the ground breaker I had read about. Wow! I ran to my room and dipped in.The following day, I showed it to my friends. “My mother would never read that or allow me to,” one said.I devoured the book, appreciating Betty Friedan’s message but my mother’s even more. We discussed it once while she cooked. I wish I had thanked her for sharing her frustrations and for guiding me to a fuller life.I understood her better when I became a mother, my most important and challenging job.After my divorce, when I began dating, I got that she understood me.“I see why you like him,” she said about my first post-marital beau, who was more garage mechanic than nerd.“I doubt I’ll marry him, Mom.”“I see that, too.” A pause. “If you tie the knot again, make sure that physical bond is there. Marriage is hard. That glue helps.""Do you have it with Daddy?”She nodded. Even in their 80's, the attraction was apparent in their eyes, their touch, their laughter. Lucky them, I thought. I have that now. I brought a richer, fuller woman to my present husband. That glue is there. Thank you, Mom.Nancy Davidoff Kelton, the author of a memoir, "Finding Mr. Rightstein" (Passager Books),six other books and numerous essays in the New York Times, New York Times Magazine, Boston Globe, Baltimore Sun, Parents, and other publications, teaches at the New School and Strand Bookstore. Photo: My parents

Gratitude

Gratitude emerges amid pandemic disruptionsThis was published April 28, 2020 in The Buffalo News. Love 'n Stuff 'n Good Health, NancyMy ViewBy Nancy Davidoff KeltonI was born and raised in Buffalo. Since college, I have lived in New York City, working at home as a writer, and talking to myself. Now my husband, Jonathan, works at home. I have to talk to him.Other than that, I have not much changed my routine. Or my clothes.The only people who have seen my early March haircut are Jonathan, grocery store cashiers and shoppers, including one who sneezed too close to me, and the Union Square Whole Foods security guard letting in senior citizens at 7:30 a.m. I am grateful I can shop without being near close sneezers.About my haircut, my mother would have said, “it falls into place nicely.” She and I talked about my hair and clothes. She called my black tops “dreary,” and urged me to wear bright colors with flowers and flamingos.I miss our talks about my dreary clothes. If she were alive, I would feel guilty that she is in the Weinberg Campus on North Forest Road. I would be sad I could not visit her.I miss my children and grandchildren, who live in California. I had hoped to go out there this month. Our FaceTimes now include bedtime stories. I put on earrings, lipstick and eye makeup for the first time in a month to read “Dog vs. Cat.” It is a funny, touching, sophisticated story. I bought myself a copy in December when I bought it for my grandson at his request. I love that he appreciates this book. I love him, his sister and parents more.Jonathan read them “Marvin K. Mooney Will You Please Go Now.” I still have the copy I bought for my daughter 39 years ago. I often read children’s books when I am alone. Dr. Seuss’ “Yertle the Turtle” about overthrowing a despicable ruler gives me solace now.I miss my New School classroom. I have been a writing instructor there since 1980. A technically competent substitute is teaching my April sessions remotely. My students are probably as grateful as I am that I do not have to Zoom.I do not miss my cleaning person. I have not had one in years. Unlike friends whose housekeepers are working remotely and sending them instructions, I clean more often, more thoroughly, and with more disinfectants than I did before. I clean more than I shower.I do not miss my vacation home. I do not have one of those either. A friend told me she is hunkering down “out east,” not in East Hampton, to avoid sounding like a snot nose. I reminded her that owning an East Hampton beach house is not what makes someone a snot nose and that she is a caring friend.I do not miss the gym. Squatting, lifting weights and staring at the bodies of women half my age never thrilled me. I love walking along the Hudson River with the Statue of Liberty in view. I think about my grandparents’ journeys, arrivals and quarantines. I think about Don Corleone’s, too.I miss hugging my family “out west.” I miss feeling safe back east. I am grateful Andrew Cuomo is our governor and that thousands of mental health care professionals have volunteered their services in New York State. I may voluntarily share my terror remotely. I am grateful my time is not yet up, and in between eating five daily meals, I often beat Jonathan at Scrabble.Nancy Davidoff Kelton, a Buffalo-born writer, is the author of seven books, including "Writing From Personal Experience," and her memoir, “Finding Mr. Rightstein,” which she is adapting for the stage.

My Pandemic Thoughts and Gratitude

Dear Readers: My below essay was in THE FORWARD. Stay well. XXX nancy April 23, 2020Nancy Davidoff KeltonDuring a pandemic too, I am grateful for these thingsI do not leave my apartment except to do laundry in the basement, walk to the grocery store or to the Hudson River to make sure the Statue of Liberty is still standing. I appreciate these life-affirming activities along with extra time at home to go within.The following includes what I have been thinking about and some ways I am blessed:I look better in a mask than without one.And best in the one my student, Jessie, made me with my name embroidered. Jessie is making masks for medical personnel and embroidering “Thank you, Hero” inside. Jessie majored in giving before the pandemic. She is among my heroes.People are who they are. More so now.Mixing and matching night and day pajama tops and bottoms is becoming fun.I am grateful 50 years ago I discovered the rewards of teaching.I am grateful three weeks ago I, a technically challenged person, discovered how to Zoom teach without losing my students or mind.Friends who make bread from scratch do not intimidate me because I am busy Zoom teaching and changing my pajamas. I am fine that my five daily meals do not include home-baked anything.I am cheered up by emails from my 84-year-old friend, Carol. Her husband, age 86, asked her if she would like to have sex. She said, “With whom?”I am grateful for my health, our health care workers, my wonderful husband, Jonathan, my wonderful family, Governor Cuomo, the courage and spirit of New Yorkers, and our 7:00 pm citywide gratitude cheer.I am grateful I am not childless, grandchildless, penniless, homeless, humorless.When I Facetime my California family, laugh with friends, caucus with my muse, connect with students or play Scrabble with Jonathan, I temporarily forget about our horror show of a president.And the coronavirus.Reality hits when I work with a longtime student who has it and when Jonathan’s friend, who had it, died.It hits every day and night when I watch the news.And hear Trump speak, look at his face, and see our nursing homes.I think about my mother’s last years in a nursing home.And all the hugs I wish I gave her.And all I did not say.I am grateful for my husband’s warm, bilingual Aunt Nelly, now my Aunt Nelly. She reminds me in English, not French, that: I am as valued a family member and human being as Jonathan, she is glad she knows me, my writing matters and so do I.I am grateful for everyone who makes me feel emotionally safe, grateful too for social distancing so I can legitimately avoid those who don’t.I remembered where I put the purple sweater I bought in February and how to apply eyeliner. I wore both for the first time in weeks to Facetime read “Dog vs. Cat” to my grandchildren.I bought myself “Dog vs. Cat” when I bought it for my grandson at his request. It’s a touching, hilarious, sophisticated book. I love that he wanted it. I love him, and his sister, and their parents more.I am comforted reading children’s books to them and to myself. My favorites now are “Yertle the Turtle” which is about overthrowing a despicable ruler and “Marvin K. Mooney Will You Please Go Now!” also a cry of anger to someone to go away.Friends from Buffalo, my hometown, bring me joy.So does the picture one posted on Facebook of Paul Newman with a story about him. No need for the story when we have Paul.I am terrified of the virus and our present world.I am grateful that thousands of mental health care professionals have volunteered their services.I may share my terror with one or more.I am grateful they are still nodding and my time is not yet up.Nancy Davidoff Kelton, a New School and Strand Bookstore writing instructor, is the author of essays in The New York Times, Hadassah Magazine and the Boston Globe among other publications and 7 books including a memoir, “Finding Mr. Rightstein” which she is adapting into a play with the same title. The Jewish Repertory Theatre of Western New York will have a staged reading June 8.

The Arch Up Ahead

“WASHINGTON SQUARE IS MY PARK”: Author Nancy Davidoff Kelton, above, poses with the park’s famous Arch. Photo by Jonathan Zich.The Arch Up Ahead (published in WestView News-April issue) Dear Blog Readers: I wrote this before the Pandemic. Stay well. xxx NancyBy Nancy Davidoff KeltonIn 1960, on my third New York trip from Buffalo, I went to Washington Square Park to see beatniks. My parents’ excitement explaining their unconventional clothing, values, and Greenwich Village homes aroused mine. “See that arch up ahead,” my father said, ten blocks away on the bus. “That’s where we’re going.” Growing up in a two-story house with a driveway, garage, backyard, swing set and two mulberry trees on the front lawn, I was surprised people lived in the tall buildings lining lower Fifth Avenue, but Washington Square looked like our Delaware Park and every other park I had visited. People walked and talked. Nothing and no one seemed different until a disheveled man approached us, asking for money. Frightened, my father grabbed my hand, hurrying to leave, but stopping at tables where men played chess. Watching their moves, Dad’s eyes brightened. “The unwashed members of society,” he said, appearing eager to join them. He loved chess, had no regular game and only played at the fancy eating club where my wealthy aunt belonged when we were her guests. Walking along MacDougal Street, we still did not see anyone wearing black turtlenecks. At a Howard Johnson’s on Sixth Avenue near Eighth Street, a man and woman walked in, laughing and kissing. They sat at the next table. He was white. She was black. The woman, seeing me stare, smiled and waved. My mother told them we were from Buffalo. The man said they lived nearby on Eleventh Street. Our sundaes came. “Those are beatniks,” Dad said.“Pretty wonderful,” added Mom. “We don’t get to see that in Howard Johnson’s on Delaware.”Or in the mahogany game room at the club. In the cab back to the Hotel Taft, I glanced out the rear window. I couldn’t wait to tell my friend, Jane, or return.My parents, reverse snobs, disapproved of doing things, as my mother would say, “by the book.” They showed me options and opened my eyes to a larger, more accepting world. Did they—did I—know me?During early 1960s New York trips, we saw “The Fantasticks” twice and roamed through Washington Square and the surrounding streets. A college friend lived on lower Fifth Avenue. I visited during vacations.In 1967, I transferred to NYU and lived in Rubin Hall on Tenth Street and Fifth Avenue. Alone my first day at Chock Full O Nuts on University Place across from NYU’s Main Building and diagonally across from the park, I asked the waitress for an ashtray. She brought me a little foil one. The man next to me said, “Ashtrays are a lot to ask for here.”Flinching, I remembered the panhandler and Dad’s fear. Initiations. Newness. That’s it. That’s all. New Yorkers voice their opinions, thank goodness. I felt at home.After classes and during those I cut, I sat on park benches, getting my real education. My chemistry lab partner explained chemistry and rolled us tight joints. We would laugh upon seeing our professor walk through. In class and in lab, he loved asking, “Is everything crystal clear?” What studying I did, I did at NYU Law School with my law school boyfriend, who eventually became my husband. At night, we played frisbee in Washington Square. We said ‘no’ to the guys selling loose joints, mumbling, “Smoke, smoke.” I sat with other mothers in the park playgrounds. When my marriage ended, one suggested I see my therapist twice a week. Another took off her sunglasses and showed me her black eye. Until my early 60s, I taught writing in Main Building on the floor below the chem lab I almost blew up as a college junior. When my grandson was little, my present husband, Jonathan, and I took him to the playgrounds I had taken his mother. For decades, I have been walking down Fifth Avenue through Washington Square to do errands. I walk laps around it as exercise, logging miles. On weekends, Jonathan and I watch the classical pianist at his baby grand, other musicians, and the acrobatic twins, Tic and Tac. Alone, I read and look around. Chess players are at the tables. I never learned to play. Not everything is crystal clear, but Washington Square is my park. I am comfortable there and living in a tall building ten blocks from the arch.Nancy Davidoff Kelton is the author of seven books and numerous essays that have been published in The New York Times, The New York Times Magazine, The Boston Globe, The Baltimore Sun, Parents, Writer’s Digest, AARP websites and elsewhere. On June 8, 2020 the Jewish Repertory Theatre of Western New York will present the first staged reading of her play, Finding Mr. Rightstein, which she adapted from her memoir with the same title. She teaches writing workshops at the New School and Strand Bookstore.

9 Truths About Later-in-Life Marriage

Here are the secrets to making it work by Nancy Davidoff Kelton, AARP Dear Readers: I am writing about the pandemic and will probably post what comes out of me here, but now want to share the below essay that was in AARP's Disrupt Aging on March 11, 2020. Stay safe. xxx n **********My husband, Jonathan, has a receding hairline. I have receding gums. I was 60 when I met him. He was 59. Between us, we have three ex-spouses, three adult children, four deceased parents, nine doctors and dentists, and too many deceased friends.Michael Caine attributes his marital happiness to two bathrooms. Two bathrooms help. So do the following:1. Therapy. As we lingered at my door at the end of our first date, Jonathan told me his age. I mentioned I was a little older. He said he would tell his therapist. On a subsequent date, I asked what made him let me know right away he was in therapy. He said he found it easy to talk to me, assumed I would be pleased and was in or had had therapy, and he thought it was no big deal. Right! Not only no big deal but important and useful for no-big-deal issues. We both believe in therapy, had much before we met and go for booster shots.2. Discussing discomforts and feelings as they arise. Despite our ease together, our marriage requires work — ongoing work. We share what bothers us right away (I do) and calmly (Jonathan does). We don't let things slide except when we should. For example, I am Oscar to Jonathan's Felix. Whether my clutter and piles don't bother him or he knows I'm not tidying up, he doesn't bring up my messiness. But when we feel unheard or erased by each other or by other people, we discuss that and how to deal with it, change it, and protect ourselves and each other. A blessing at our age and stage: We do not feel obliged to oblige family members when it is uncomfortable, and we avoid situations and gatherings that bring discomfort.3. Balancing intimacy and space. I love our time together. I love our time apart. Having lived on my own for years and requiring much solitude as a writer and human being, I constantly juggle the two and work on being present where I am. It requires planning, prioritizing, compromise and patience, like all aspects of our relationship. On our 16-day Southwest road trip, with hours of togetherness in the car and at each stop, I took out my laptop and caucused with my muse. Jonathan excused himself for long periods to take pictures. We planned hikes together and walks apart. At home, we juggle independence and togetherness.4. Self-acceptance. I would not call it self-love; self-acceptance or self-knowledge is more like it. Aging, reflection, therapy, just plain living, meditation, being too tired to beat up on myself, and embracing my quirks, idiosyncrasies and individuality allow me to embrace Jonathan. Maybe it is a chicken-and-egg thing. We get each other. We embrace each other. That helps us to embrace ourselves. 5. A sense of humor. My longtime friend Cindy, who had met most if not all of the men I dated, said upon meeting Jonathan, “He laughs at everything you say.” Jonathan appreciates how I see and say it — and vice versa. I saw the twinkle in his eyes right away. My parents were funny. They applauded funny. Cleanliness was hardly next to godliness in my family of origin or in the family I made. A sense of humor was and is on top, getting us through difficulties and pain.6. Compatibility. Our temperaments could not be more different (thank goodness), but our interests, values and food preferences are the same. Family comes first. We both love our work and love to work. We love reading, the theater and Scrabble.7. Chemistry. That inexplicable something was there the first time I saw Jonathan's face. Nothing more to say. Actually, there is, with the next two items.8. Kindness. Jonathan's sex appeal includes kindness. It's in his eyes. Oh, yes! He majored in giving and gives from his heart. I cannot think of a more powerful aphrodisiac than kindness and a generosity of spirit.9. Urgency. The lyric “Enjoy yourself/It's later than you think” is getting louder. Why spend time arguing, being right or proving a point? I am filled with gratitude every day and in every way that, at 60, I found my special someone. As Sinatra sang, “But now the days are short, I'm in the autumn of my year."Yes. And not many seasons to waste.

Uncancelled

Dear Readers,I hope you are in good health and good spirits. I hope you’re engaging in meaningful and joyous activities in between washing hands, taking temperatures, and watching CNN.The following are uncancelled joys here in addition to eating a lot of kale— cooking it a new way—and good home-cooked meals:1. Walking along the Hudson River. The Statue of Liberty makes me think of the generations before us. I wish I knew about my grandparents’ early lives. I think about their journeys and arrivals here. I think about Don Corleone’s.2. Laughing with my friend who calls moving her family to their Bridge Hampton house “going out east” because she doesn’t want to sound like a snot nose.3. Watching and listening to Yo-Yo Ma on YouTube since seeing him with Emanuel Ax and Leonidas Kavakos in a Beethoven concert March 8 a few days before Carnegie Hall closed.4. Reading: my neighborhood library, the Jefferson Market, which closed March 13, sent a notice earlier that week that the book I’d reserved, “Life isn’t Everything: Mike Nichols, as remembered by 150 of his closest friends” would be available through March 13. What luck! What a read! I loved hanging out with Mike Nichols, particularly during his time with Elaine May, “The Graduate” and “Angels in America.” I love what his friends—everyone was Mike Nichols’ friend—said about him, his work, intelligence, humor, and pain. I’m in the middle of “The Library Book” by Susan Orlean. So good.5. Writing: I work at home and haven’t much changed my routine. Or my clothes. 6. During a fun Facetime yesterday, a family member said he had to go shower. Shower?7. Family Facetimes/Family laughs-pure joy. Link to Bach Cello Suite (Music after four second ad)Stay in touch. Leave comments below. How are you doing? What are you reading? Who and what gives you pleasure? Have you also gone out east?Peace and Love to All, Nancy