Chris Bohjalian's Blog, page 52
December 6, 2009
The sacrifices still matter
If you visit the New England Holocaust Memorial in Boston, you will see six 54-foot-high glass columns, each one symbolizing one million of the Jewish citizens of Europe who perished in the Holocaust. Six million numbers are etched into the glass, as well as personal statements by survivors who experienced firsthand the systematic slaughter and institutionalized barbarity that marked Hitler's "Final Solution."
One of the passages is by Gerda Weissmann Klein, author of "All But My Life," her extraordinary 1957 memoir of her ordeal in slave labor camps and on the nightmarish forced marches that occurred in the final months of World War II.
The passage is brief but profound, chronicling a moment when another prisoner shares with Gerda a single, bruised raspberry: "Ilse, a childhood friend of mine, once found a raspberry in the camp and carried it in her pocket all day to present to me that night in a leaf. Imagine a world in which your entire possession is one raspberry and you give it to a friend."
It is one of those stories that is meaningful because of how simply but precisely it conveys the absolute degradation of a Nazi prisoner, yet still illuminates the resiliency of the human spirit. A single raspberry is a spectacular bounty, and Ilse selflessly offers it to her friend.
Last month I was speaking at the Jewish Community Center in Austin, Texas, on the very same day that Gerda was speaking at the Hillel on the University of Texas campus. My event was at 11 in the morning and Gerda's was at 7 at night, and so I was able to hear her speech. And I wanted to hear Gerda for many reasons, including the reality that a character in my novel, "Skeletons at the Feast," owes much to her.
Gerda is indeed an extraordinary speaker, eloquent and moving and very funny. She is 85 years old.
But what made her remarks even more powerful was something that had occurred that day in Texas while we both were visiting Austin. Little more than an hour away at Fort Hood, 13 innocent people would be shot, allegedly by deranged U.S. Army psychiatrist Maj. Nidal Malik Hasan. The incident has disturbed all of us in this country, but it was especially troubling for Gerda. She had been liberated by the U.S. Army at the end of the Second World War and would marry Kurt Klein, an American G.I. who was among her rescuers. Klein saw in the emaciated 68-pound skeleton the vibrant, intelligent, charismatic young woman Gerda had once been and would become again.
Consequently, Gerda was particularly shaken by the violence.
Listening to her speak about what she endured in World War II and the tragedy that had occurred at Fort Hood reminded me that it is easy for us to lose sight of two things. First of all, it is easy to take for granted the freedoms and privileges that come with being an American. Certainly our nation is far from perfect: Homelessness and hunger continue to stalk far too many of our neighbors and we remain far too oblivious to the environmental perils we have created. But the core principles on which the country was founded are capable of inspiring us even now.
Second, it is easy for those of us who are not in the military to forget the sacrifices that those women and men have made on our behalf over the years -- and continue to make daily around the world today. Like the nation it serves, that military might be imperfect. But were it not for the heavy lifting of the American military between 1941 and 1945, today there might be even more than the six pillars at the memorial in Boston -- and there might not be that tragic and revealing tale of one girl and one raspberry among the stories.
Nearly 1,500 Vermont National Guard soldiers soon will be heading to Afghanistan, the largest deployment of Green Mountain volunteers since World War II. As they leave us this holiday season, I doff my cap to them and to their families. May they all return soon.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on December 6, 2009.)
One of the passages is by Gerda Weissmann Klein, author of "All But My Life," her extraordinary 1957 memoir of her ordeal in slave labor camps and on the nightmarish forced marches that occurred in the final months of World War II.
The passage is brief but profound, chronicling a moment when another prisoner shares with Gerda a single, bruised raspberry: "Ilse, a childhood friend of mine, once found a raspberry in the camp and carried it in her pocket all day to present to me that night in a leaf. Imagine a world in which your entire possession is one raspberry and you give it to a friend."
It is one of those stories that is meaningful because of how simply but precisely it conveys the absolute degradation of a Nazi prisoner, yet still illuminates the resiliency of the human spirit. A single raspberry is a spectacular bounty, and Ilse selflessly offers it to her friend.
Last month I was speaking at the Jewish Community Center in Austin, Texas, on the very same day that Gerda was speaking at the Hillel on the University of Texas campus. My event was at 11 in the morning and Gerda's was at 7 at night, and so I was able to hear her speech. And I wanted to hear Gerda for many reasons, including the reality that a character in my novel, "Skeletons at the Feast," owes much to her.
Gerda is indeed an extraordinary speaker, eloquent and moving and very funny. She is 85 years old.
But what made her remarks even more powerful was something that had occurred that day in Texas while we both were visiting Austin. Little more than an hour away at Fort Hood, 13 innocent people would be shot, allegedly by deranged U.S. Army psychiatrist Maj. Nidal Malik Hasan. The incident has disturbed all of us in this country, but it was especially troubling for Gerda. She had been liberated by the U.S. Army at the end of the Second World War and would marry Kurt Klein, an American G.I. who was among her rescuers. Klein saw in the emaciated 68-pound skeleton the vibrant, intelligent, charismatic young woman Gerda had once been and would become again.
Consequently, Gerda was particularly shaken by the violence.
Listening to her speak about what she endured in World War II and the tragedy that had occurred at Fort Hood reminded me that it is easy for us to lose sight of two things. First of all, it is easy to take for granted the freedoms and privileges that come with being an American. Certainly our nation is far from perfect: Homelessness and hunger continue to stalk far too many of our neighbors and we remain far too oblivious to the environmental perils we have created. But the core principles on which the country was founded are capable of inspiring us even now.
Second, it is easy for those of us who are not in the military to forget the sacrifices that those women and men have made on our behalf over the years -- and continue to make daily around the world today. Like the nation it serves, that military might be imperfect. But were it not for the heavy lifting of the American military between 1941 and 1945, today there might be even more than the six pillars at the memorial in Boston -- and there might not be that tragic and revealing tale of one girl and one raspberry among the stories.
Nearly 1,500 Vermont National Guard soldiers soon will be heading to Afghanistan, the largest deployment of Green Mountain volunteers since World War II. As they leave us this holiday season, I doff my cap to them and to their families. May they all return soon.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on December 6, 2009.)
November 29, 2009
Dog gone. . .and found.
What I am about to tell you is a story that could begin with any number of canine puns: Every dog has its day. It's a dog's life. Here's a pup that was dog tired. The one thing it is not, however, is a shaggy dog story: A long rambling tale with a ridiculous ending.
Lila Silky Willow is the full name of Karen Lueders' and Jim Dumont's 6-year-old black and white cocker spaniel. She has three names because Lueders and Dumont have three children and whenever the family gets a pet each of the children contributes a name. The family lives in the hills south of Lincoln, their home surrounded on three sides by forest. Lila was the runt of the litter; the dog's owner had told Lueders that the puppy wouldn't survive. But Lueders thought she was adorable and said if the puppy did hang on, she would take her. Lila lived and came home with a litter mate the family called Pippen Miles Alexander in 2003.
This autumn, Oct. 15, just before dusk, Lila was tied by her leash to a small tree in the woods perhaps a quarter mile from the house while one of the children was climbing a nearby boulder. She was wearing her orange safety vest. Something excited Lila, and she broke free and raced into the darkening woods, dragging her leash behind her. The family searched long and hard that night. Dumont was so disoriented at one point in the forest that the family's youngest daughter had to honk persistently on the car horn to help guide him from the woods.
Over the next week, the family tried everything to find Lila. On Saturday, the 17th, a dozen neighbors joined them to methodically comb the surrounding woods. Lueders posted photos across Lincoln, Ripton and Bristol. She used Lincoln's Internet list-serve to share photos of Lila in the event someone spotted her. And on Oct. 22, she and her husband brought in a Plott hound -- a breed trained to track a scent relentlessly -- to try and find Lila. The animal tracked Lila to a nearby beaver pond ... and then to some coyote scat with hair in it that seemed to match Lila's coloring.
"I'd say that we now thought we were going to be a household without Lila. She was gone," Leuders recalls. "But I always found myself thinking, 'What if?' as I drove."
On the second day of deer season this month, a full 31 days after Lila had disappeared, Monkton's Aaron Labell was moving slowly through the woods perhaps a mile in from the Notch Road. It was Nov. 15. Up ahead he saw something and paused. "I saw the fur and the orange and I knew it was a dog," he says. The animal was caught by its leash to a sapling and couldn't escape. "The area around it was matted down in a circle from where it had been pacing."
The animal was skinny, her fur was a mess, one eye looked bad, and she was disoriented. But she was very much alive. The first thing Labell did was feed the ravenous dog his Rice Krispies Treat and his bologna sandwich. Then he freed the animal and carried her back to his truck, stopping when he came across a stream so the parched dog could drink. Labell hadn't heard about Lila, and so he brought the dog to the Bristol Country Store on Vermont 116. There Tim Gratton happened to be shopping and he agreed to take on the search for the dog's owner so Labell could return to the woods and his quest for a buck.
Vermont is a small state, and Bristol and Lincoln are small towns. Consequently, Gratton called the local pizza parlor, Cubber's, to see if anyone there had heard about a missing dog. Amanda Lee was working that day and she suggested that Gratton call Lueders and Dumont. He did.
Lueders says there had been false alarms throughout Lila's disappearance and she and her husband had followed up on all of them, even the ones that were merely someone phoning to say they had heard a dog barking in the woods. After the fur had been found in the coyote scat, she wasn't about to get her hopes up. But as she and Dumont were driving to the Bristol Country Store, her husband turned to her and said, "The dog is wearing an orange vest." And she realized she was about to see something pretty wondrous.
Indeed, there was Lila sitting on Gratton's lap in the driver's seat of his truck in the parking lot of the store. "I was shocked when I saw her, I was overcome," Dumont says.
The dog, though weak, recognized him. She kissed him on the lips, her habitual greeting. Then, as Dumont lifted her away from Gratton, she kissed him, too.
Lila's weight had plummeted from 27 pounds to 16. She had lived on melted snow and rain. She had probably depended on that vest more for warmth than visibility. And, Lueders believes, the human scent that was attached to the vest may have been what kept larger animals at bay.
In her first 48 hours home, Lila gained back over three pounds. Her eye will be fine.
On the afternoon that Lila was reunited with her family, Dumont had told Gratton that the dog had been gone for 31 days. Gratton smiled and said, "Well, Happy Thanksgiving."
For a family in South Lincoln and one cocker spaniel, it was indeed. Miraculously, Lila was home for the holidays.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on November 29, 2009.)
Lila Silky Willow is the full name of Karen Lueders' and Jim Dumont's 6-year-old black and white cocker spaniel. She has three names because Lueders and Dumont have three children and whenever the family gets a pet each of the children contributes a name. The family lives in the hills south of Lincoln, their home surrounded on three sides by forest. Lila was the runt of the litter; the dog's owner had told Lueders that the puppy wouldn't survive. But Lueders thought she was adorable and said if the puppy did hang on, she would take her. Lila lived and came home with a litter mate the family called Pippen Miles Alexander in 2003.
This autumn, Oct. 15, just before dusk, Lila was tied by her leash to a small tree in the woods perhaps a quarter mile from the house while one of the children was climbing a nearby boulder. She was wearing her orange safety vest. Something excited Lila, and she broke free and raced into the darkening woods, dragging her leash behind her. The family searched long and hard that night. Dumont was so disoriented at one point in the forest that the family's youngest daughter had to honk persistently on the car horn to help guide him from the woods.
Over the next week, the family tried everything to find Lila. On Saturday, the 17th, a dozen neighbors joined them to methodically comb the surrounding woods. Lueders posted photos across Lincoln, Ripton and Bristol. She used Lincoln's Internet list-serve to share photos of Lila in the event someone spotted her. And on Oct. 22, she and her husband brought in a Plott hound -- a breed trained to track a scent relentlessly -- to try and find Lila. The animal tracked Lila to a nearby beaver pond ... and then to some coyote scat with hair in it that seemed to match Lila's coloring.
"I'd say that we now thought we were going to be a household without Lila. She was gone," Leuders recalls. "But I always found myself thinking, 'What if?' as I drove."
On the second day of deer season this month, a full 31 days after Lila had disappeared, Monkton's Aaron Labell was moving slowly through the woods perhaps a mile in from the Notch Road. It was Nov. 15. Up ahead he saw something and paused. "I saw the fur and the orange and I knew it was a dog," he says. The animal was caught by its leash to a sapling and couldn't escape. "The area around it was matted down in a circle from where it had been pacing."
The animal was skinny, her fur was a mess, one eye looked bad, and she was disoriented. But she was very much alive. The first thing Labell did was feed the ravenous dog his Rice Krispies Treat and his bologna sandwich. Then he freed the animal and carried her back to his truck, stopping when he came across a stream so the parched dog could drink. Labell hadn't heard about Lila, and so he brought the dog to the Bristol Country Store on Vermont 116. There Tim Gratton happened to be shopping and he agreed to take on the search for the dog's owner so Labell could return to the woods and his quest for a buck.
Vermont is a small state, and Bristol and Lincoln are small towns. Consequently, Gratton called the local pizza parlor, Cubber's, to see if anyone there had heard about a missing dog. Amanda Lee was working that day and she suggested that Gratton call Lueders and Dumont. He did.
Lueders says there had been false alarms throughout Lila's disappearance and she and her husband had followed up on all of them, even the ones that were merely someone phoning to say they had heard a dog barking in the woods. After the fur had been found in the coyote scat, she wasn't about to get her hopes up. But as she and Dumont were driving to the Bristol Country Store, her husband turned to her and said, "The dog is wearing an orange vest." And she realized she was about to see something pretty wondrous.
Indeed, there was Lila sitting on Gratton's lap in the driver's seat of his truck in the parking lot of the store. "I was shocked when I saw her, I was overcome," Dumont says.
The dog, though weak, recognized him. She kissed him on the lips, her habitual greeting. Then, as Dumont lifted her away from Gratton, she kissed him, too.
Lila's weight had plummeted from 27 pounds to 16. She had lived on melted snow and rain. She had probably depended on that vest more for warmth than visibility. And, Lueders believes, the human scent that was attached to the vest may have been what kept larger animals at bay.
In her first 48 hours home, Lila gained back over three pounds. Her eye will be fine.
On the afternoon that Lila was reunited with her family, Dumont had told Gratton that the dog had been gone for 31 days. Gratton smiled and said, "Well, Happy Thanksgiving."
For a family in South Lincoln and one cocker spaniel, it was indeed. Miraculously, Lila was home for the holidays.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on November 29, 2009.)
November 22, 2009
Time to gobble up the real turkeys
Over the years I have shamelessly filled this space the Sunday before Thanksgiving with tales of my mother's inadvertent culinary sadism. The worst offense was her broccoli mold, a Thanksgiving tradition on our family's holiday tables that bore an uncanny resemblance to -- and here I am being kind -- dog vomit.
Recently readers around the country have tried to reassure me that my mother's annual kitchen cataclysm was actually very common. Sure, her broccoli mold was unique. But there are souls out there who have endured far worse on Thanksgiving than green slime with chunks in a Bundt pan. Here is a small fraction of the gastronomic nightmares that they shared with me:
• Joanne Mahannah: "My husband had an 'old maid' aunt who was one of a kind. One Thanksgiving, I was seated next to her and she passed this dish, telling me to try it. I thought it was cranberry sauce but it was actually tomato aspic. The recipe is tomato soup, gelatin and God knows what else. How do you get rid of this stuff once it's in your mouth without offending someone?"
• Libby Oppenheimer Johnson: "Limburger and blue cheese soup. My mother claims she found the recipe in 'Bon Appetit,' but I have my doubts."
• Marjorie Light: "Once we had Thanksgiving with a neighbor who was a notoriously bad cook. She opened one can of peas, dumped those little onions in with it, and threw some French's dried onions on top of that."
• Barbara Tkach Morris: "Back in his college days, one Thanksgiving my husband, J, opened a can of Franco American spaghetti, cooked it in a popcorn popper, and served it with a Coors beer."
• Diane Guertin: "My ex-sister-in-law offered Zarex-sauteed bananas, no doubt hastening her status as 'ex.' I believe this recipe started life as an honorable banana flambe and later fell into disrepute with the substitution of Zarex syrup for good brandy and a flame. The bananas were served right there between the mashed potatoes and the peas which seemed ill-timed and was disquieting to all traditionalists at the table." (Zarex is reminiscent of Kool-Aid, except syrupy -- and even sweeter.)
• Wendy Rifkind: "A lime Jell-O mold, with avocado slices and grapefruit squares floating in it."
• Kate Ahearn: "Curried sweet potatoes. Truly awful." (It is worth noting that Kate sent me a photo with the caption, "Sadly, they didn't taste better than they looked.")
• Margaret Reardon: "This happened to a friend. The turkey was just sitting there, and her new kitten, seeking warmth and comfort, crawled inside and settled down. She served it anyway (once the kitten relocated, of course)."
• Liz Grimes: "We were all sitting around the dining room table in anticipation, bowls of melted butter close at hand, when my father proudly carried a gigantic lobster out of the kitchen. It was literally falling off a full-size turkey platter and weighed 10-plus pounds. Impressive to say the least. After all the messy work of cracking the claws and tail and digging out the meat, it turned out to be rubbery, tough, and quite the disappointment. Due to its extreme size and age, Dad had overcooked it. There was no such thing as a giant lobster hotline to call for help in these situations."
• Wendy Burd-Kinsey: "Stuffing, creamed corn, stewed tomatoes, and creamed cabbage. It's a 20-year tradition of my in-laws. Some of the dinner guests would mix them together."
Finally, I offer this. View it as therapy for Dana:
• Dana Lorway: "A barbecue sauce that my dad made from scratch and put anchovies in it. He said he wanted to give it body. I do not think that was a Thanksgiving treat, however; but I have to share it because eating it was so traumatic, I have to deal with it by talking about it."
I thank you all. Have a Happy Thanksgiving. Be grateful you have steered clear of the broccoli mold.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on November 22, 2010.)
Recently readers around the country have tried to reassure me that my mother's annual kitchen cataclysm was actually very common. Sure, her broccoli mold was unique. But there are souls out there who have endured far worse on Thanksgiving than green slime with chunks in a Bundt pan. Here is a small fraction of the gastronomic nightmares that they shared with me:
• Joanne Mahannah: "My husband had an 'old maid' aunt who was one of a kind. One Thanksgiving, I was seated next to her and she passed this dish, telling me to try it. I thought it was cranberry sauce but it was actually tomato aspic. The recipe is tomato soup, gelatin and God knows what else. How do you get rid of this stuff once it's in your mouth without offending someone?"
• Libby Oppenheimer Johnson: "Limburger and blue cheese soup. My mother claims she found the recipe in 'Bon Appetit,' but I have my doubts."
• Marjorie Light: "Once we had Thanksgiving with a neighbor who was a notoriously bad cook. She opened one can of peas, dumped those little onions in with it, and threw some French's dried onions on top of that."
• Barbara Tkach Morris: "Back in his college days, one Thanksgiving my husband, J, opened a can of Franco American spaghetti, cooked it in a popcorn popper, and served it with a Coors beer."
• Diane Guertin: "My ex-sister-in-law offered Zarex-sauteed bananas, no doubt hastening her status as 'ex.' I believe this recipe started life as an honorable banana flambe and later fell into disrepute with the substitution of Zarex syrup for good brandy and a flame. The bananas were served right there between the mashed potatoes and the peas which seemed ill-timed and was disquieting to all traditionalists at the table." (Zarex is reminiscent of Kool-Aid, except syrupy -- and even sweeter.)
• Wendy Rifkind: "A lime Jell-O mold, with avocado slices and grapefruit squares floating in it."
• Kate Ahearn: "Curried sweet potatoes. Truly awful." (It is worth noting that Kate sent me a photo with the caption, "Sadly, they didn't taste better than they looked.")
• Margaret Reardon: "This happened to a friend. The turkey was just sitting there, and her new kitten, seeking warmth and comfort, crawled inside and settled down. She served it anyway (once the kitten relocated, of course)."
• Liz Grimes: "We were all sitting around the dining room table in anticipation, bowls of melted butter close at hand, when my father proudly carried a gigantic lobster out of the kitchen. It was literally falling off a full-size turkey platter and weighed 10-plus pounds. Impressive to say the least. After all the messy work of cracking the claws and tail and digging out the meat, it turned out to be rubbery, tough, and quite the disappointment. Due to its extreme size and age, Dad had overcooked it. There was no such thing as a giant lobster hotline to call for help in these situations."
• Wendy Burd-Kinsey: "Stuffing, creamed corn, stewed tomatoes, and creamed cabbage. It's a 20-year tradition of my in-laws. Some of the dinner guests would mix them together."
Finally, I offer this. View it as therapy for Dana:
• Dana Lorway: "A barbecue sauce that my dad made from scratch and put anchovies in it. He said he wanted to give it body. I do not think that was a Thanksgiving treat, however; but I have to share it because eating it was so traumatic, I have to deal with it by talking about it."
I thank you all. Have a Happy Thanksgiving. Be grateful you have steered clear of the broccoli mold.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on November 22, 2010.)
November 15, 2009
Time to bring Funny Face Home
Recently, someone sent me an Internet link to photos of cats wearing Lady Gaga wigs. I can't think of a better way to give my cats a good reason to kill me. My family has four cats and they are all good-natured, but none would tolerate a Lady Gaga wig. There isn't enough blood at the Red Cross to fill the Mississippi River-like channels the animals would gouge in my arms if I ever tried to slip one over their heads.
Two of my family's four cats have been with us 12 months now. It was this time last year that we brought home Lula and Seven from the Addison County Humane Society, and so we are celebrating their anniversary. We christened Lula, but Seven was the name the shelter had given her. ("Seinfeld" aficionados know that Seven is the name that George Costanza wants to use if he and his fiancee, Susan, should ever have a baby. It is, he explains, Mickey Mantle's number.)
Readers may recall that Lula owned our house almost from the day she arrived, but Seven was so skittish at first that I thought she might have been a hologram: She was a wisp with a permanently torn left ear who seemed to live behind the toilet and under the couch. I am happy to report that Seven is now a completely socialized member of the tribe who plays well with others and may become the goalie on my cats' turd hockey team. She's a gem who demands her time in my lap when I write and has a charismatic, Pavlovian squeal when I open a can of cat food.
I mention this because some cats and dogs simply take a little more time than others to transition from a shelter to a home -- which brings me to Funny Face. Funny Face just had an anniversary, too. He is a gray-and-white cat more handsome than his moniker would suggest who has been living at the Addison County Humane Society for four years. He is the cat who has lived at the shelter the longest. My wife volunteers Tuesday afternoons there and he is one of her very favorite cats to play with. She says he is lively and affectionate.
His problem? Why has he been there so long? He can't abide other cats (which makes him eerily compatible with a great many humans, who also have absolutely no interest in cats). He needs a feline-free home. My sense is that my wife would have brought him to live with us by now if it weren't for the reality that cats already outnumber humans in our house.
According to my wife, he is not unhappy at the shelter; but neither is he anywhere near as content as he would be if he weren't spending a significant portion of each day in a cage. He was adopted once before, but he scratched the owner and was returned to the Humane Society. "He has these little moments of panic or joy or excitement, and once in a while he'll go a little crazy," she says. After he was returned, he was depressed for more than a month.
Shelters across Vermont are filled with characters like Funny Face: lovable but flawed (dare I say human?) cats and dogs who for one reason or another are living out their lives in a cage. The solution isn't euthanasia, in my opinion, because the shelters are also filled with lots of employees and volunteers who, like my wife, spend hours a week helping to keep the animals sane and connected.
Rather, the solution is this: If you are considering adopting a cat or a dog, don't simply adopt the cutest kitten or the most enthusiastic puppy. Instead, choose the cat with that permanently wrecked left ear; the feline who has been there four years; the dog with the watery eyes.
The rewards are incalculable. Sometimes these animals take a little more work, but you just may find a perfect forward for your own turd hockey team -- or, perhaps, that one feline willing to wear a Lady Gaga wig.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on November 15, 2009.)
Two of my family's four cats have been with us 12 months now. It was this time last year that we brought home Lula and Seven from the Addison County Humane Society, and so we are celebrating their anniversary. We christened Lula, but Seven was the name the shelter had given her. ("Seinfeld" aficionados know that Seven is the name that George Costanza wants to use if he and his fiancee, Susan, should ever have a baby. It is, he explains, Mickey Mantle's number.)
Readers may recall that Lula owned our house almost from the day she arrived, but Seven was so skittish at first that I thought she might have been a hologram: She was a wisp with a permanently torn left ear who seemed to live behind the toilet and under the couch. I am happy to report that Seven is now a completely socialized member of the tribe who plays well with others and may become the goalie on my cats' turd hockey team. She's a gem who demands her time in my lap when I write and has a charismatic, Pavlovian squeal when I open a can of cat food.
I mention this because some cats and dogs simply take a little more time than others to transition from a shelter to a home -- which brings me to Funny Face. Funny Face just had an anniversary, too. He is a gray-and-white cat more handsome than his moniker would suggest who has been living at the Addison County Humane Society for four years. He is the cat who has lived at the shelter the longest. My wife volunteers Tuesday afternoons there and he is one of her very favorite cats to play with. She says he is lively and affectionate.
His problem? Why has he been there so long? He can't abide other cats (which makes him eerily compatible with a great many humans, who also have absolutely no interest in cats). He needs a feline-free home. My sense is that my wife would have brought him to live with us by now if it weren't for the reality that cats already outnumber humans in our house.
According to my wife, he is not unhappy at the shelter; but neither is he anywhere near as content as he would be if he weren't spending a significant portion of each day in a cage. He was adopted once before, but he scratched the owner and was returned to the Humane Society. "He has these little moments of panic or joy or excitement, and once in a while he'll go a little crazy," she says. After he was returned, he was depressed for more than a month.
Shelters across Vermont are filled with characters like Funny Face: lovable but flawed (dare I say human?) cats and dogs who for one reason or another are living out their lives in a cage. The solution isn't euthanasia, in my opinion, because the shelters are also filled with lots of employees and volunteers who, like my wife, spend hours a week helping to keep the animals sane and connected.
Rather, the solution is this: If you are considering adopting a cat or a dog, don't simply adopt the cutest kitten or the most enthusiastic puppy. Instead, choose the cat with that permanently wrecked left ear; the feline who has been there four years; the dog with the watery eyes.
The rewards are incalculable. Sometimes these animals take a little more work, but you just may find a perfect forward for your own turd hockey team -- or, perhaps, that one feline willing to wear a Lady Gaga wig.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on November 15, 2009.)
November 9, 2009
The first review of Secrets of Eden
The first review of Secrets of Eden came in today: A starred and boxed review in Publishers Weekly!
"Bohjalian (Law of Similars) has built a reputation on his rich characters and immersing readers in diverse subjects—homeopathy, animal rights activism, midwifery—and his latest surely won’t disappoint. The morning after her baptism into the Rev. Stephen Drew’s Vermont Baptist church, Alice Hayward and her abusive husband are found dead in their home, an apparent murder-suicide. Stephen, the novel’s first narrator, is so racked with guilt over his failure to save Alice that he leaves town. Soon, he meets Heather Laurent, the author of a book about angels whose own parents’ marriage also ended in tragedy. Stephen’s deeply sympathetic narration is challenged by the next two narrators: deputy state attorney Catherine Benincasa, whose suspicions are aroused initially by Stephen’s abrupt departure (and then by questions about his relationship with Alice), and Heather, who distances herself from Stephen for similar reasons and risks the trip into her dark past by seeking out Katie, the Haywards’ now-orphaned 15-year-old daughter who puts into play the final pieces of the puzzle, setting things up for a touching twist. Fans of Bohjalian’s more exotic works will miss learning something new, but this is a masterfully human and compassionate tale. (Feb.)"
— Publishers Weekly, Starred and Boxed Review
Thanks, PW!
"Bohjalian (Law of Similars) has built a reputation on his rich characters and immersing readers in diverse subjects—homeopathy, animal rights activism, midwifery—and his latest surely won’t disappoint. The morning after her baptism into the Rev. Stephen Drew’s Vermont Baptist church, Alice Hayward and her abusive husband are found dead in their home, an apparent murder-suicide. Stephen, the novel’s first narrator, is so racked with guilt over his failure to save Alice that he leaves town. Soon, he meets Heather Laurent, the author of a book about angels whose own parents’ marriage also ended in tragedy. Stephen’s deeply sympathetic narration is challenged by the next two narrators: deputy state attorney Catherine Benincasa, whose suspicions are aroused initially by Stephen’s abrupt departure (and then by questions about his relationship with Alice), and Heather, who distances herself from Stephen for similar reasons and risks the trip into her dark past by seeking out Katie, the Haywards’ now-orphaned 15-year-old daughter who puts into play the final pieces of the puzzle, setting things up for a touching twist. Fans of Bohjalian’s more exotic works will miss learning something new, but this is a masterfully human and compassionate tale. (Feb.)"
— Publishers Weekly, Starred and Boxed Review
Thanks, PW!
November 8, 2009
The vacuum makes the heart grow fonder
If the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, then the way to a woman's may be through the toilet. That sounds bad. Let me try again.
If the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, then the way to a woman's may be by cleaning the toilet -- or, perhaps, by taking the vacuum and doing manly battle with that dust bunny in the living room the size of a Mini Cooper. There, that's better.
Sue Shellenbarger of the Wall Street Journal recently wrote a terrific article about a study in the Journal of Family Issues. Nearly 7,000 married couples were interviewed. The researchers found that when men help with the housework, they are a whole lot more likely to get lucky in bed. Now, this won't surprise any guy who has been married more than a week. It certainly won't surprise photographer Susan Anderson and the Cambridge Women's Pornography Cooperative. Anderson and the CWPC are responsible for the 2007 book "Porn for Women," which is filled with photos of handsome guys doing ... laundry, vacuuming and offering to go to a craft fair. They're wearing clothes.
Since then, there have been all kinds of "Porn for Women" sequels, such as "Porn for New Moms" and "Porn for the Bride." Again, the guys are demonstrating a highly evolved desire for cleanliness. They are sensitive and thoughtful and kind.
My sense is that most men know that women want us to help with the housework. Most guys have a pretty good idea that scrubbing the tub is a low-cost aphrodisiac. And yet most men still dump the lion's share of the cleaning on women, regardless of how many hours the woman works outside of the home. This, in turn, suggests that one of two things might be true:
1. We are just not very smart as a gender.
2. We hate cleaning the toilet even more than we love having sex.
Speaking as a male, I can tell you categorically that it's No. 1. There is nothing we won't do if we think it will result in our having sex. Unfortunately, we are also just not the brightest bulbs in the tanning bed when it comes to some things. I'm an educated guy, but almost daily I know my mouth is moving and saying something spectacularly stupid. And yet I am powerless to stop myself. To wit: The other day I was sitting on a regional jet across the aisle from a young mom and dad and their 18-month-old daughter, Libby, who was sitting on her father's lap. I am writing a novel right now that has a scene in it of a plane ditching in water, and so I actually heard myself asking this very nice young couple, "If we ditch in Lake Champlain, which of you will be taking care of Libby? And did you know that they have special flotation devices for toddlers?"
Why was I asking this question? Was it because I was trying to make the mom turn pale with terror or because I was trying to make the dad slug me to shut me up? No. I thought I was conducting relevant research for my book. In reality, of course, I was asking the question because I simply wasn't thinking. It comes with being male. Sometimes, men just talk because that part of the brain that filters ideas must be more highly evolved in women.
Which brings me back to that study. I don't know whether it's having a clean house that is the aphrodisiac for the female or the reality that the male shouldered his half of the load for once and actually transferred that skyscraper of plates from the sink to the dishwasher. But it's clear that if the woman is working as many hours outside the home as the man, then the guy needs to step it up in the kitchen. The moral of this study, guys? Turn on the dryer if you want to turn on your wife.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on November 8, 2009.)
If the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, then the way to a woman's may be by cleaning the toilet -- or, perhaps, by taking the vacuum and doing manly battle with that dust bunny in the living room the size of a Mini Cooper. There, that's better.
Sue Shellenbarger of the Wall Street Journal recently wrote a terrific article about a study in the Journal of Family Issues. Nearly 7,000 married couples were interviewed. The researchers found that when men help with the housework, they are a whole lot more likely to get lucky in bed. Now, this won't surprise any guy who has been married more than a week. It certainly won't surprise photographer Susan Anderson and the Cambridge Women's Pornography Cooperative. Anderson and the CWPC are responsible for the 2007 book "Porn for Women," which is filled with photos of handsome guys doing ... laundry, vacuuming and offering to go to a craft fair. They're wearing clothes.
Since then, there have been all kinds of "Porn for Women" sequels, such as "Porn for New Moms" and "Porn for the Bride." Again, the guys are demonstrating a highly evolved desire for cleanliness. They are sensitive and thoughtful and kind.
My sense is that most men know that women want us to help with the housework. Most guys have a pretty good idea that scrubbing the tub is a low-cost aphrodisiac. And yet most men still dump the lion's share of the cleaning on women, regardless of how many hours the woman works outside of the home. This, in turn, suggests that one of two things might be true:
1. We are just not very smart as a gender.
2. We hate cleaning the toilet even more than we love having sex.
Speaking as a male, I can tell you categorically that it's No. 1. There is nothing we won't do if we think it will result in our having sex. Unfortunately, we are also just not the brightest bulbs in the tanning bed when it comes to some things. I'm an educated guy, but almost daily I know my mouth is moving and saying something spectacularly stupid. And yet I am powerless to stop myself. To wit: The other day I was sitting on a regional jet across the aisle from a young mom and dad and their 18-month-old daughter, Libby, who was sitting on her father's lap. I am writing a novel right now that has a scene in it of a plane ditching in water, and so I actually heard myself asking this very nice young couple, "If we ditch in Lake Champlain, which of you will be taking care of Libby? And did you know that they have special flotation devices for toddlers?"
Why was I asking this question? Was it because I was trying to make the mom turn pale with terror or because I was trying to make the dad slug me to shut me up? No. I thought I was conducting relevant research for my book. In reality, of course, I was asking the question because I simply wasn't thinking. It comes with being male. Sometimes, men just talk because that part of the brain that filters ideas must be more highly evolved in women.
Which brings me back to that study. I don't know whether it's having a clean house that is the aphrodisiac for the female or the reality that the male shouldered his half of the load for once and actually transferred that skyscraper of plates from the sink to the dishwasher. But it's clear that if the woman is working as many hours outside the home as the man, then the guy needs to step it up in the kitchen. The moral of this study, guys? Turn on the dryer if you want to turn on your wife.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on November 8, 2009.)
November 1, 2009
The next environmental battlefield
Led by activist and writer Bill McKibben last Saturday, people around the world, including me, spent a part of our day focused on the number 350. The goal was to raise awareness of our belief that we have to act now to stop global climate change by decreasing the number of carbon-dioxide particles in the atmosphere from 389 per million, where we are now, to 350. Some of the activities were more practical than others, but all were well-intentioned.
Few of the activities, however, focused on what David Fahrenthold recently suggested in a terrific article in The Washington Post might be one of the next environmental battlefields: soft toilet paper.
Anytime anyone talks about toilet paper, my ears perk up. This is not simply because I have the emotional maturity of a 5-year-old -- though I do. It's because years ago when I worked in advertising, one of my accounts was the Scott Paper Company, now a part of Kimberly-Clark. That means that I spent more time than most people focused on what consumers really want in their toilet paper. I still watch the YouTube video showing how Consumer Reports tests toilet paper the way some people savor "American Idol."
Don't worry, the video is not nearly as bad as it sounds. A lot of the footage shows lead pellets being dropped on wet tissue and sheets being swirled in tornado-like funnels of water to see how quickly they dissolve. A good sheet of bathroom tissue is strong enough to do what it's supposed to do, but not so strong that it will cause -- to quote the video -- "unnecessary plumbing issues."
When I was in advertising, I was actually a part of what was called a bathroom tissue business-building team. One of our big ideas? What would happen if we placed toilet paper dispensers beside urinals in airports? Would men use the stuff the way women did? If so, then we were going to sell a lot more bathroom tissue. The experiment never happened, but a friend of mine who still works in marketing remains convinced we were ahead of our time and someday men will be racing through airport restrooms and viewing urinals without toilet paper the way today we view outhouses without Sears catalogs.
I'm not so sure, especially now that we understand that consumption for the sake of consumption is making the planet old before its time. Let's face it, outhouse gases are nothing compared to greenhouse gases.
Likewise, some luxuries are more senseless than others, and according to a number of environmental groups, including the Natural Resources Defense Council and Greenpeace, soft bathroom tissue is one of those small extravagances that may be damaging the atmosphere. How? It's not simply that the softer tissue is less likely to be made from recycled products; it's also that quilted toilet paper is soft in part because of fibers harvested from gigantic old growth trees. One article on the Greenpeace Web site argues that destroying a forest to make toilet paper is dumber than driving a Hummer.
Now, does this mean that we all should move from super soft tissue to sandpaper? No. But of all the places where a small sacrifice can make a big difference, this may be one. There are definite environmental benefits to recycled bathroom tissue.
Still, there were few public events last Saturday that were centered on toilet paper -- at least in my neighborhood. To wit, I didn't see rallies on my block for recycled bathroom tissue or demands that rolls come with exactly 350 sheets. There may have been some private protests in private bathrooms, but even I don't need to know those details. But that doesn't mean that here isn't a largely effortless way we can help save the planet -- a single sheet at a time.
(This column originally ran in the Burlington Free Press on November 1, 2009.)
Few of the activities, however, focused on what David Fahrenthold recently suggested in a terrific article in The Washington Post might be one of the next environmental battlefields: soft toilet paper.
Anytime anyone talks about toilet paper, my ears perk up. This is not simply because I have the emotional maturity of a 5-year-old -- though I do. It's because years ago when I worked in advertising, one of my accounts was the Scott Paper Company, now a part of Kimberly-Clark. That means that I spent more time than most people focused on what consumers really want in their toilet paper. I still watch the YouTube video showing how Consumer Reports tests toilet paper the way some people savor "American Idol."
Don't worry, the video is not nearly as bad as it sounds. A lot of the footage shows lead pellets being dropped on wet tissue and sheets being swirled in tornado-like funnels of water to see how quickly they dissolve. A good sheet of bathroom tissue is strong enough to do what it's supposed to do, but not so strong that it will cause -- to quote the video -- "unnecessary plumbing issues."
When I was in advertising, I was actually a part of what was called a bathroom tissue business-building team. One of our big ideas? What would happen if we placed toilet paper dispensers beside urinals in airports? Would men use the stuff the way women did? If so, then we were going to sell a lot more bathroom tissue. The experiment never happened, but a friend of mine who still works in marketing remains convinced we were ahead of our time and someday men will be racing through airport restrooms and viewing urinals without toilet paper the way today we view outhouses without Sears catalogs.
I'm not so sure, especially now that we understand that consumption for the sake of consumption is making the planet old before its time. Let's face it, outhouse gases are nothing compared to greenhouse gases.
Likewise, some luxuries are more senseless than others, and according to a number of environmental groups, including the Natural Resources Defense Council and Greenpeace, soft bathroom tissue is one of those small extravagances that may be damaging the atmosphere. How? It's not simply that the softer tissue is less likely to be made from recycled products; it's also that quilted toilet paper is soft in part because of fibers harvested from gigantic old growth trees. One article on the Greenpeace Web site argues that destroying a forest to make toilet paper is dumber than driving a Hummer.
Now, does this mean that we all should move from super soft tissue to sandpaper? No. But of all the places where a small sacrifice can make a big difference, this may be one. There are definite environmental benefits to recycled bathroom tissue.
Still, there were few public events last Saturday that were centered on toilet paper -- at least in my neighborhood. To wit, I didn't see rallies on my block for recycled bathroom tissue or demands that rolls come with exactly 350 sheets. There may have been some private protests in private bathrooms, but even I don't need to know those details. But that doesn't mean that here isn't a largely effortless way we can help save the planet -- a single sheet at a time.
(This column originally ran in the Burlington Free Press on November 1, 2009.)
October 25, 2009
Saturday night's alright for frightin'
Halloween this year falls on a Saturday. This is great news for everyone and everything - candy companies, dentists, purveyors of slutty nurse costumes for adult revelers - except mailboxes. I don't know if there are statistics to back me up on this, but I would wager that more mailboxes are brutalized when Halloween falls on a Saturday than when it falls on a weekday. Likewise, I would also argue that the Vermont State Police find a whole lot more drunken middle-aged vampires trying to figure out whether they are driving on asphalt or median on U. S. 7.
One has to presume that Saturday Halloweens are a little rowdier for everyone: The kids trick-or-treat later and the adult parties last longer.
Certainly my wife and I will be gearing up for more kids than usual at our front door. We've been in Lincoln well over two decades now and the two factors that affect how many trick-or-treaters we get are the day of the week on which the holiday falls and, yes, the weather. If you look at the calendar, you will see that Halloween has not fallen on a Saturday night since 1998. Leap year interfered with its falling on that day in 2004. Not only was Halloween a Saturday in 1998, it was downright balmy by the standards of Lincoln. That year it was my turn to trick-or-treat with our daughter, who was then a kindergartner, while my wife stayed home to give out the Brussels sprouts and the oysters. There is nothing like the face of a small child on Halloween when you give him a Brussels sprout or an oyster instead of a chocolate bar. (I'm kidding. We have never given out Brussels sprouts. One year we did give out handfuls of chicken bouillon cubes and claim they were caramels, but that was only because we had run out of candy and had to throw something in the bag.)
In any case, we had roughly 200 trick-or-treaters in 1998, which is at least 75 more than most years. The lowest turnout I can recall was when Halloween fell on a Tuesday and the weather was cold and rainy: We didn't top 100.
I have always been a big fan of Halloween, though there is something a little disturbing about the very premise of trick-or-treating: Give us stuff or else. It's as if one night a year we want to encourage our kids to be bullies. I would never do this, but I have always wondered what would happen if in my best Al Pacino voice I said to a group of five-year-old tigers and princesses when they showed up at my door, their moms and dads beaming at them from the edge of the walkway, "So, ya think ya can threaten me? Ya think I'm just gonna toss a Reese's peanut butter cup into your little bags there? Well, ya picked the wrong house, bucko. What are ya gonna do, soap my windows? Toilet-paper the trees in my yard? Bring it on! Gimme your best shot!"
This, of course, would only suggest to the neighborhood that I am - to use a little clinical parlance - off my meds. Besides, I really do love Halloween. When my daughter was younger, my family used to seriously decorate the house. We'd hang the four foot tall girl doll my mother gave us years ago (don't ask) from the attic window and decapitate the four foot tall boy doll I'd had since I was a little boy (again, don't ask). One year the girl doll used the boy's head as a bowling ball. A local mother once told me that she didn't bring her children by our house because it was too disturbing. I was so proud.
Now that our daughter is 15 and I am irrevocably middle-aged, we don't decorate with quite so much enthusiasm. But with Halloween falling on that all too rare Saturday night this year, perhaps it's time for one last hurrah. We'll see. I may be older now. But no one who knows me really thinks I am any more mature.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on October 25, 2009.)
One has to presume that Saturday Halloweens are a little rowdier for everyone: The kids trick-or-treat later and the adult parties last longer.
Certainly my wife and I will be gearing up for more kids than usual at our front door. We've been in Lincoln well over two decades now and the two factors that affect how many trick-or-treaters we get are the day of the week on which the holiday falls and, yes, the weather. If you look at the calendar, you will see that Halloween has not fallen on a Saturday night since 1998. Leap year interfered with its falling on that day in 2004. Not only was Halloween a Saturday in 1998, it was downright balmy by the standards of Lincoln. That year it was my turn to trick-or-treat with our daughter, who was then a kindergartner, while my wife stayed home to give out the Brussels sprouts and the oysters. There is nothing like the face of a small child on Halloween when you give him a Brussels sprout or an oyster instead of a chocolate bar. (I'm kidding. We have never given out Brussels sprouts. One year we did give out handfuls of chicken bouillon cubes and claim they were caramels, but that was only because we had run out of candy and had to throw something in the bag.)
In any case, we had roughly 200 trick-or-treaters in 1998, which is at least 75 more than most years. The lowest turnout I can recall was when Halloween fell on a Tuesday and the weather was cold and rainy: We didn't top 100.
I have always been a big fan of Halloween, though there is something a little disturbing about the very premise of trick-or-treating: Give us stuff or else. It's as if one night a year we want to encourage our kids to be bullies. I would never do this, but I have always wondered what would happen if in my best Al Pacino voice I said to a group of five-year-old tigers and princesses when they showed up at my door, their moms and dads beaming at them from the edge of the walkway, "So, ya think ya can threaten me? Ya think I'm just gonna toss a Reese's peanut butter cup into your little bags there? Well, ya picked the wrong house, bucko. What are ya gonna do, soap my windows? Toilet-paper the trees in my yard? Bring it on! Gimme your best shot!"
This, of course, would only suggest to the neighborhood that I am - to use a little clinical parlance - off my meds. Besides, I really do love Halloween. When my daughter was younger, my family used to seriously decorate the house. We'd hang the four foot tall girl doll my mother gave us years ago (don't ask) from the attic window and decapitate the four foot tall boy doll I'd had since I was a little boy (again, don't ask). One year the girl doll used the boy's head as a bowling ball. A local mother once told me that she didn't bring her children by our house because it was too disturbing. I was so proud.
Now that our daughter is 15 and I am irrevocably middle-aged, we don't decorate with quite so much enthusiasm. But with Halloween falling on that all too rare Saturday night this year, perhaps it's time for one last hurrah. We'll see. I may be older now. But no one who knows me really thinks I am any more mature.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on October 25, 2009.)
October 18, 2009
If at first you don't succeed. . .
My late uncle was divorced four times in his life and married five. I honestly don't know if it was because he liked weddings or because he always fell in love with women with whom, in the end, he was incompatible. My wife once conjectured that he must have felt the need to marry every woman he kissed.
When I was growing up, he lived with my family for a few weeks (or months) after wives one, two and four kicked him out of the house and he was finding a new place to live. I really didn't know his first and last wives, but as a little boy I certainly enjoyed hanging around with his second: She was a beautiful flight attendant he met while traveling, though this was the mid-1960s and she was clearly more stewardess than flight attendant. She had a little dog she always brought to our house, and even as a boy I had a sense that she wanted the skies to be really, really friendly.
In any case, as I watched the David Letterman debacle unfold this month, I thought of my uncle. (For those of you who have been traveling on Mars, Letterman confessed to having slept with women who worked for his TV show. Why the on-air confession? Another CBS employee allegedly tried to blackmail him to the tune of $2 million.) I thought of all the men and women I know personally who seem to make spectacularly bad decisions when it comes to romance. But here, I think, is an important reality: There is always a lot more going on beneath the surface of most relationships than outsiders realize, and people make choices based on variables that often even they don't understand.
To wit, my uncle: He was my mother's older brother, a decorated paratrooper from World War II and a source of unending interest to me when I was a boy. I still have his uniform dress jacket from 1945. He was one of those young people who really earned his membership card as a part of that Greatest Generation: He jumped out of planes before D-Day (June 1944) and Market Garden (September 1944), and walked with a slight limp because of the machine gun bullets he took in the leg while being trucked into Bastogne (December 1944).
But he just couldn't seem to stay married.
Now, there may or may not have been a connection between whatever he endured in 1944 and 1945 and the fact that he married five times in his life. In the 1950s and 1960s, we rarely talked about the stress and trauma of a returning war veteran. When my family discussed my uncle's demons, the conversation invariably would circle back to his lack of generosity when it came to soft drinks. My mother used to buy the less expensive supermarket sodas and my uncle would drink only Coca-Cola. And so he bought himself bottles of the stuff when he stayed with us, but he never shared it. Instead, he hid it. When we moved from Miami to a suburb of New York City just before I started 11th grade, we found unopened bottles of Coca-Cola he had squirreled away behind the washing machine, the dryer and a corner of the garage we never visited.
Which brings me back to David Letterman. If I were his spouse -- his girlfriend for decades and the mother of his son -- I would be saddened and angry and hurt. I would feel humiliated. If I were his friend, I'd probably have pulled him aside and asked, "Dude, what were you thinking?" And the answer is, he probably wasn't thinking. He was just -- never mind.
But I'm glad that much of the country seems to be cutting him some slack. I'm glad as viewers (and voyeurs) we seem to be forgiving him and moving on. Sometimes I thought my uncle's moral compass spun a little strangely. But I never forgot he was a war hero. And I never stopped loving him.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on October 18, 2009.)
When I was growing up, he lived with my family for a few weeks (or months) after wives one, two and four kicked him out of the house and he was finding a new place to live. I really didn't know his first and last wives, but as a little boy I certainly enjoyed hanging around with his second: She was a beautiful flight attendant he met while traveling, though this was the mid-1960s and she was clearly more stewardess than flight attendant. She had a little dog she always brought to our house, and even as a boy I had a sense that she wanted the skies to be really, really friendly.
In any case, as I watched the David Letterman debacle unfold this month, I thought of my uncle. (For those of you who have been traveling on Mars, Letterman confessed to having slept with women who worked for his TV show. Why the on-air confession? Another CBS employee allegedly tried to blackmail him to the tune of $2 million.) I thought of all the men and women I know personally who seem to make spectacularly bad decisions when it comes to romance. But here, I think, is an important reality: There is always a lot more going on beneath the surface of most relationships than outsiders realize, and people make choices based on variables that often even they don't understand.
To wit, my uncle: He was my mother's older brother, a decorated paratrooper from World War II and a source of unending interest to me when I was a boy. I still have his uniform dress jacket from 1945. He was one of those young people who really earned his membership card as a part of that Greatest Generation: He jumped out of planes before D-Day (June 1944) and Market Garden (September 1944), and walked with a slight limp because of the machine gun bullets he took in the leg while being trucked into Bastogne (December 1944).
But he just couldn't seem to stay married.
Now, there may or may not have been a connection between whatever he endured in 1944 and 1945 and the fact that he married five times in his life. In the 1950s and 1960s, we rarely talked about the stress and trauma of a returning war veteran. When my family discussed my uncle's demons, the conversation invariably would circle back to his lack of generosity when it came to soft drinks. My mother used to buy the less expensive supermarket sodas and my uncle would drink only Coca-Cola. And so he bought himself bottles of the stuff when he stayed with us, but he never shared it. Instead, he hid it. When we moved from Miami to a suburb of New York City just before I started 11th grade, we found unopened bottles of Coca-Cola he had squirreled away behind the washing machine, the dryer and a corner of the garage we never visited.
Which brings me back to David Letterman. If I were his spouse -- his girlfriend for decades and the mother of his son -- I would be saddened and angry and hurt. I would feel humiliated. If I were his friend, I'd probably have pulled him aside and asked, "Dude, what were you thinking?" And the answer is, he probably wasn't thinking. He was just -- never mind.
But I'm glad that much of the country seems to be cutting him some slack. I'm glad as viewers (and voyeurs) we seem to be forgiving him and moving on. Sometimes I thought my uncle's moral compass spun a little strangely. But I never forgot he was a war hero. And I never stopped loving him.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on October 18, 2009.)
October 11, 2009
25 Years -- in the Beat of a Heart
A quarter of a century -- 25 years -- is a long time.
It's four years more than the era that separated the first and second world wars. It's roughly the epochal chasm that divided the end of that Second World War and the counterculture celebration of youth and music and mud at Woodstock. Twenty-five years ago, the few cell phones in existence were bigger than bricks, Madonna was far more interested in lingerie than motherhood, and floppy disks really were floppy. The Internet existed, but only the government and a few academics knew about it; it would be another decade before the now iconic (and antiquated everywhere but at my mother-in-law's apartment) sound of a phone modem would become heard in households everywhere.
I mention this because for me, in one crucial way, a quarter-century has passed in a heartbeat. It was 25 years ago this week that I married the woman with whom I had fallen madly in love our freshman year of college. It doesn't seem possible. (Likewise, my mind reels at the notion that we have a daughter who will be 16 next month.) It seems, well, like yesterday.
But it wasn't. It was a quarter of a century ago that we were married in Manhattan, the sky cerulean, a hint of an autumn chill in the air, the leaves in Central Park just starting to fall.
Over the years I have written in this space about how grateful I am to have found her. Likewise, on Valentine's Days in years past, I have asked other couples who seemed so much older than my wife and me to comment here on what makes a marriage work. Now, with a quarter century of my own marriage behind me, I feel as if I should have that sort of wisdom to share.
And yet, I'm not sure I do. The 25 years have sped by and I am older but not necessarily wiser. One moment I am standing outside the steps of that church with a woman far more beautiful than in my wildest adolescent dreams I had ever expected to wed, and the next I am wondering where all that hair I once had on my head has gone. (Answer? My ears and my back, apparently.) One moment a bridesmaid is handing my wife and me a bottle of champagne as we climb into a cab to the airport and our honeymoon after the reception, and the next I am holding in my hands a plastic bottle of One-A-Day Men's Health Formula vitamins (according to the label, "good for prostate health, heart health, and healthy blood pressure").
Still, I might suggest to a newlywed the following: You don't always have to be right. Arguments don't really have winners. And make-up sex is a myth. Moreover, the more you do for your partner, the more your partner will do for you. That sounds more suggestive than it's meant to, but read into it what you will. My point? Be pliable. Learn to say, "I was wrong before. I'm smarter now."
The one thing I know for certain is this: Middle age is a whole lot easier when you have been blessed as I have to fall in love young and to fall in love forever. That's a rare thing, a stroke of luck that is at once atypical and monumental. People should hate me (Good Lord, sometimes I hate me, but that's another issue). I can look into my lovely bride's eyes and recall a thousand memories more magical than I had thought likely when I was wondering at 17 how my forehead could disappear completely behind a zit or, sadly, contemplating the reefs that seemed to prevent so many marriages that surrounded me as a boy from ever settling into safe harbors.
A lot can happen in a quarter of a century, a lot can change. Hairlines can recede like the surf at low tide. Gravity, sun and age can wreak havoc on the human physique.
But in one case, nothing has changed. I am as in love today as I was a quarter century ago.
Happy anniversary, my dear.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on October 11, 2009.)
It's four years more than the era that separated the first and second world wars. It's roughly the epochal chasm that divided the end of that Second World War and the counterculture celebration of youth and music and mud at Woodstock. Twenty-five years ago, the few cell phones in existence were bigger than bricks, Madonna was far more interested in lingerie than motherhood, and floppy disks really were floppy. The Internet existed, but only the government and a few academics knew about it; it would be another decade before the now iconic (and antiquated everywhere but at my mother-in-law's apartment) sound of a phone modem would become heard in households everywhere.
I mention this because for me, in one crucial way, a quarter-century has passed in a heartbeat. It was 25 years ago this week that I married the woman with whom I had fallen madly in love our freshman year of college. It doesn't seem possible. (Likewise, my mind reels at the notion that we have a daughter who will be 16 next month.) It seems, well, like yesterday.
But it wasn't. It was a quarter of a century ago that we were married in Manhattan, the sky cerulean, a hint of an autumn chill in the air, the leaves in Central Park just starting to fall.
Over the years I have written in this space about how grateful I am to have found her. Likewise, on Valentine's Days in years past, I have asked other couples who seemed so much older than my wife and me to comment here on what makes a marriage work. Now, with a quarter century of my own marriage behind me, I feel as if I should have that sort of wisdom to share.
And yet, I'm not sure I do. The 25 years have sped by and I am older but not necessarily wiser. One moment I am standing outside the steps of that church with a woman far more beautiful than in my wildest adolescent dreams I had ever expected to wed, and the next I am wondering where all that hair I once had on my head has gone. (Answer? My ears and my back, apparently.) One moment a bridesmaid is handing my wife and me a bottle of champagne as we climb into a cab to the airport and our honeymoon after the reception, and the next I am holding in my hands a plastic bottle of One-A-Day Men's Health Formula vitamins (according to the label, "good for prostate health, heart health, and healthy blood pressure").
Still, I might suggest to a newlywed the following: You don't always have to be right. Arguments don't really have winners. And make-up sex is a myth. Moreover, the more you do for your partner, the more your partner will do for you. That sounds more suggestive than it's meant to, but read into it what you will. My point? Be pliable. Learn to say, "I was wrong before. I'm smarter now."
The one thing I know for certain is this: Middle age is a whole lot easier when you have been blessed as I have to fall in love young and to fall in love forever. That's a rare thing, a stroke of luck that is at once atypical and monumental. People should hate me (Good Lord, sometimes I hate me, but that's another issue). I can look into my lovely bride's eyes and recall a thousand memories more magical than I had thought likely when I was wondering at 17 how my forehead could disappear completely behind a zit or, sadly, contemplating the reefs that seemed to prevent so many marriages that surrounded me as a boy from ever settling into safe harbors.
A lot can happen in a quarter of a century, a lot can change. Hairlines can recede like the surf at low tide. Gravity, sun and age can wreak havoc on the human physique.
But in one case, nothing has changed. I am as in love today as I was a quarter century ago.
Happy anniversary, my dear.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on October 11, 2009.)
