Elizabeth Fama's Blog, page 3
November 23, 2013
An Example To the Others
I was friends with Lee Haupt for thirty years. But I think perhaps I knew her longer than that, when she was the friend of friends, the acquaintance of my parents, the doubles partner of my childhood tennis coach, Chris Scott.
I went to college early, at sixteen, and I played on the tennis team of the University of Chicago—number two singles and number one doubles. I also played recreationally at my parents' faculty club, the Quadrangle Club, on beautiful Har-Tru (green clay) courts, where Lee also played. A couple of summers into my college degree, Lee stopped me and asked if I would play with her one day. She was a little younger than I am now, in her mid-forties, but she was competitive and wanted a good game. (In fact, I never knew her exact age until her funeral). I had the stylistic form of a young adult who had been trained from the age of nine, she had the form of an extremely athletic adult who had picked up the sport later in life. The entire time I knew her, she took occasional touch-up lessons to work on what she thought were problem areas of her strokes—always striving to be better.
Lee quickly figured out something about me that no one else had figured out: how to pin me down for a regular game. As a result, she spent more cumulative hours with me than any friend I've ever had. At the time, I think her schedule favored Thursday mornings, so after a couple of games she said, "Why don't we just meet at 9 AM every Thursday?" The day of the week eventually changed to Friday morning at 9 over the decades, and later to 10 AM, but we only missed a week if one of us was sick or out of town. The advantage of a regular, expected game was that, as distractible as I was, I eventually learned not to schedule anything during that time slot. (Parent-teacher conferences? Doctor's appointment? Sorry, not on Friday at 9.) Still, in a tradition that was either touching or indicative of my reputation for forgetfulness, Lee called me every tennis morning at exactly 8, for thirty years, to make sure I was still coming. We played at the Quad Club in the summer, and in the winter we played at an indoor facility at 47th Street and Lake Park Avenue that changed ownership often enough I can't remember all the names. It was an L.A. Fitness last year, but won't be this year.
And for thirty years, I was four to seven minutes late for our game, regardless of her 8 AM call. If she were Catholic, she'd be a saint right now.
Lee and I played together through my four pregnancies and C-sections, through my ankle injury and surgery, through my dislocated pinky, through my MBA and PhD. We played together through her years as a humanities professor at a city college, her stint as the dean of her department, her "retirement" as the manager of her husband's architecture firm, her shoulder surgery, her knee replacement surgery, and her most recent cancer surgery. The moment we could physically hobble back onto the court after one of these surgeries, we'd start our games again, sometimes only with 15-minutes of mini-tennis. When her knee collapsed over the last five to seven years, before the Titanium knee, we invented a game called Monument Tennis, to minimize running for her: every shot had to land beyond the service line to be good. We got some strange looks from nearby players when we called seemingly perfect drop-shots "out." You can learn a surprising amount from Monument Tennis—how to hit consistently deep shots, how to master Zen-like patience through eternally long points—you should try it some time.
We didn't chat much when we changed courts during our matches. A couple of sips of water, a towel-down, a sentence or two of conversation starting right up where we had left off two games ago, and we were back at it. We were too serious for long rests. But we talked before and after our game. Lee never failed to ask about my kids and my writing. She was an aspiring author who had a complete draft of a detective story on her computer, which she was still polishing until the day she could no longer type or concentrate because of the effects of chemotherapy. Her standards were so high, and her inner critic so strong, she never showed it to anyone but her husband, Michael. I told her that whenever she was ready, I wanted to be her first reader. To this day I only know that the hero is an architect, or trained as one, like Michael. I presume there is a murder, and that the hero is gentle and kind with a sharp wit, but I'm only guessing.
We also talked about food, especially about cooking techniques, about travel, about doctors, about our childhoods, about private worries when we were feeling deep, and the pronounced quirks of mutual friends when we were shallow. She made me laugh by slapping mosquitoes dead on her body and leaving the squashed carcass there "as an example to the others." A person who always weighed the same amount, plus or minus only a few pounds, she lamented her slowing metabolism in later middle-age, and joked that she was weaning herself from food to maintain her weight (I distinctly recall when she was down to twelve strands of pasta with dinner, and then ten). But the nightly bottle of beer she would not sacrifice.
I'm not sure whether we happened to be very alike, or we grew to be like each other, the way married couples do. We both had a critical eye and were outspoken about our strong opinions. We both walked as if we'd never worn a dress or heels in our lives—with a wide stance and a forward lean, with purpose. We hated hotel linens and adored 100% cotton sports bras, which no one makes anymore. We favored little to no makeup, and bobs that celebrated our curly, sometimes frizzy hair.
Even in the ways we were unalike, we were strangely alike. Lee was a Democrat and I'm a Libertarian, but neither of us felt the need to argue politics; both of us believed in personal responsibility. Lee never had biological children and I had four, but we adored the children we were given and had a passion for shaping them into people we could respect. We both entertained often, but Lee shopped and prepared a week ahead of time while I flailed at the last minute. Lee understood the need to travel and I avoid it, but we both got anxious before every trip, preparing as if we were never coming back, knowing others would have to figure out our filing system.
In thirty-plus years, Lee taught me things I have forgotten came from her, things that are simply a part of me. What I actively recall comes to me in the form of offhand snippets or fond stories: She introduced me to sunblock when the rest of the world was wearing suntan lotion. She taught me a handful of Yiddish words. She was the first person I knew who roasted vegetables for a crowd. But more important than all of this, Lee taught me how to be a friend—how to openly care about someone’s life and feelings and hopes, how to show up every Thursday at 9 AM…and that 9:07 will also do.
I went to college early, at sixteen, and I played on the tennis team of the University of Chicago—number two singles and number one doubles. I also played recreationally at my parents' faculty club, the Quadrangle Club, on beautiful Har-Tru (green clay) courts, where Lee also played. A couple of summers into my college degree, Lee stopped me and asked if I would play with her one day. She was a little younger than I am now, in her mid-forties, but she was competitive and wanted a good game. (In fact, I never knew her exact age until her funeral). I had the stylistic form of a young adult who had been trained from the age of nine, she had the form of an extremely athletic adult who had picked up the sport later in life. The entire time I knew her, she took occasional touch-up lessons to work on what she thought were problem areas of her strokes—always striving to be better.
Lee quickly figured out something about me that no one else had figured out: how to pin me down for a regular game. As a result, she spent more cumulative hours with me than any friend I've ever had. At the time, I think her schedule favored Thursday mornings, so after a couple of games she said, "Why don't we just meet at 9 AM every Thursday?" The day of the week eventually changed to Friday morning at 9 over the decades, and later to 10 AM, but we only missed a week if one of us was sick or out of town. The advantage of a regular, expected game was that, as distractible as I was, I eventually learned not to schedule anything during that time slot. (Parent-teacher conferences? Doctor's appointment? Sorry, not on Friday at 9.) Still, in a tradition that was either touching or indicative of my reputation for forgetfulness, Lee called me every tennis morning at exactly 8, for thirty years, to make sure I was still coming. We played at the Quad Club in the summer, and in the winter we played at an indoor facility at 47th Street and Lake Park Avenue that changed ownership often enough I can't remember all the names. It was an L.A. Fitness last year, but won't be this year.
And for thirty years, I was four to seven minutes late for our game, regardless of her 8 AM call. If she were Catholic, she'd be a saint right now.
Lee and I played together through my four pregnancies and C-sections, through my ankle injury and surgery, through my dislocated pinky, through my MBA and PhD. We played together through her years as a humanities professor at a city college, her stint as the dean of her department, her "retirement" as the manager of her husband's architecture firm, her shoulder surgery, her knee replacement surgery, and her most recent cancer surgery. The moment we could physically hobble back onto the court after one of these surgeries, we'd start our games again, sometimes only with 15-minutes of mini-tennis. When her knee collapsed over the last five to seven years, before the Titanium knee, we invented a game called Monument Tennis, to minimize running for her: every shot had to land beyond the service line to be good. We got some strange looks from nearby players when we called seemingly perfect drop-shots "out." You can learn a surprising amount from Monument Tennis—how to hit consistently deep shots, how to master Zen-like patience through eternally long points—you should try it some time.
We didn't chat much when we changed courts during our matches. A couple of sips of water, a towel-down, a sentence or two of conversation starting right up where we had left off two games ago, and we were back at it. We were too serious for long rests. But we talked before and after our game. Lee never failed to ask about my kids and my writing. She was an aspiring author who had a complete draft of a detective story on her computer, which she was still polishing until the day she could no longer type or concentrate because of the effects of chemotherapy. Her standards were so high, and her inner critic so strong, she never showed it to anyone but her husband, Michael. I told her that whenever she was ready, I wanted to be her first reader. To this day I only know that the hero is an architect, or trained as one, like Michael. I presume there is a murder, and that the hero is gentle and kind with a sharp wit, but I'm only guessing.
We also talked about food, especially about cooking techniques, about travel, about doctors, about our childhoods, about private worries when we were feeling deep, and the pronounced quirks of mutual friends when we were shallow. She made me laugh by slapping mosquitoes dead on her body and leaving the squashed carcass there "as an example to the others." A person who always weighed the same amount, plus or minus only a few pounds, she lamented her slowing metabolism in later middle-age, and joked that she was weaning herself from food to maintain her weight (I distinctly recall when she was down to twelve strands of pasta with dinner, and then ten). But the nightly bottle of beer she would not sacrifice.
I'm not sure whether we happened to be very alike, or we grew to be like each other, the way married couples do. We both had a critical eye and were outspoken about our strong opinions. We both walked as if we'd never worn a dress or heels in our lives—with a wide stance and a forward lean, with purpose. We hated hotel linens and adored 100% cotton sports bras, which no one makes anymore. We favored little to no makeup, and bobs that celebrated our curly, sometimes frizzy hair.
Even in the ways we were unalike, we were strangely alike. Lee was a Democrat and I'm a Libertarian, but neither of us felt the need to argue politics; both of us believed in personal responsibility. Lee never had biological children and I had four, but we adored the children we were given and had a passion for shaping them into people we could respect. We both entertained often, but Lee shopped and prepared a week ahead of time while I flailed at the last minute. Lee understood the need to travel and I avoid it, but we both got anxious before every trip, preparing as if we were never coming back, knowing others would have to figure out our filing system.
In thirty-plus years, Lee taught me things I have forgotten came from her, things that are simply a part of me. What I actively recall comes to me in the form of offhand snippets or fond stories: She introduced me to sunblock when the rest of the world was wearing suntan lotion. She taught me a handful of Yiddish words. She was the first person I knew who roasted vegetables for a crowd. But more important than all of this, Lee taught me how to be a friend—how to openly care about someone’s life and feelings and hopes, how to show up every Thursday at 9 AM…and that 9:07 will also do.
November 17, 2013
My Friend Lee
1939 - 2013
I love this photo, even though we look like little ants, taken by Lee's husband Michael.
Lee is in the foreground, in black pants and a white top.
This is the only other photo I can find of us together. Of course my mouth is full.
Love you, Lee.
I love this photo, even though we look like little ants, taken by Lee's husband Michael. Lee is in the foreground, in black pants and a white top.
This is the only other photo I can find of us together. Of course my mouth is full.
Love you, Lee.November 16, 2013
More Audiobook Love for Monstrous Beauty
From School Library JournalIn addition to winning an Odyssey honor award from the Association for Library Services to Children (a division of the American Library Association), and being named a YALSA 2013 Amazing Audiobook, Monstrous Beauty has been chosen as one of the 10 Best Audiobooks for teens by School Library Journal.
My favorite part? "Outstanding text" is one of the criteria used in the selection. Although this is implicit in the other awards, it's rewarding to see SLJ mention it explicitly!
Once again, my deepest gratitude to Katy Kellgren, narrator extraordinaire.
October 14, 2013
My Dad Just Won the Nobel Prize in Economics!
My dad just won the Noble Prize in Economics! He’s brilliant and generous and loving and I’m dying of pride. And you know what? My mom, Sally, deserves this prize as much as he does. No researcher was ever better nourished to do his work, emotionally, spiritually, and gastronomically. She bestowed on him the gift of time.
October 10, 2013
Plimoth Plantation Strikes Again
Remember Plimoth Plantation, the living museum that Hester works at in Monstrous Beauty?
Well, it's Spirit Week at my daughter's high school. Today is "Throwback Thursday," and you're supposed to wear clothing from any decade you want. Most kids will probably choose the 50s, 70s, or 80s. Lydia chose the 1620s.
Colonial Girl in Warby ParkersAlso, why don't we own a real coif?
Well, it's Spirit Week at my daughter's high school. Today is "Throwback Thursday," and you're supposed to wear clothing from any decade you want. Most kids will probably choose the 50s, 70s, or 80s. Lydia chose the 1620s.
Colonial Girl in Warby ParkersAlso, why don't we own a real coif?
October 1, 2013
Paperback release day!
The paperback version of Monstrous Beauty goes on sale today! And holy smokes, it's gorgeous. Many thanks to Lauren Burniac, editor extraordinaire at Square Fish/Macmillan.
Not only is the cover mesmerizing, but there are all sorts of goodies inside. Here's a sneak peak at the endpapers, which have marine (and mermaid) sketches from Ezra's journal (with his swoony 19th-century-naturalist handwriting):
More bonuses:
My short story from Tor.com, Men Who Wish To Drown, giving a peek into Syrenka's pastInterview questions from some of the best bloggers in the bizDiscussion questions for book clubsAn 1874 map of Plymouth MAAn excerpt from my forthcoming novel, Plus One
But don't take my word for it! Go see for yourself.
August 12, 2013
Interview for THE CORE
My college interviewed me for their alumni magazine, The CORE. The result is a beautifully written article, with a surprisingly accurate portrait of me and my family. If you want to know what I'm like in real life, Editor Carrie Golus captured me kinda perfectly, and in such a short space. Read it here. (Photo taken by my brother Gene, also a UChicago alum.)
July 13, 2013
Angie Fama (2/1/1998 - 7/13/2013)
We had a vet come to our home this morning to euthanize our Portuguese Water Dog, Angie. It was very peaceful and also heartbreaking. She had six of us in her life until the end--a busy, happy household. It would take me a long time to describe just how extraordinary a dog she was, and how much she taught us all.
July 5, 2013
ALA Chicago 2013
ALA was hectic for me because it coincided with an unexpected hospital stay for my mother-in-law (she's home and doing fine now). Before I dive into the deep abyss of line edits for Plus One, I thought I'd post a few photos of ALA, before it slips away!
Friday night I went to Macmillan's dessert party. I have no photos, but it was great to hug Betsy Bird, talk to my editor, Simon Boughton, and shake Gene Luen Yang's hand while gushing to him about how much I love his work. I also had a nice stage-mother talk with Faith Erin Hicks, Thien Phan, and John Green (the graphic noveling one) about how I could facilitate my son's graphic novel career. I am shameless.
Saturday night I hosted a dinner party for anyone who wanted to come, and about 30-35 people—including many Nerdy Book Club members and several acclaimed authors (OMG Kirby Larson)—took me up on the offer. Again I didn't take photos, but I've squirreled them off other people's web sites and Twitter feeds!
Author Amy Timberlake took this photo of my house, and it's so cute I can't resist putting it up. Thanks, Amy!
Here's the party out back! (Photo taken by Katherine Sokolowski-@Katsok)
Patrick Gall and Phil Timberlake, taken by Amy Timberlake.
Angie doesn't let anyone disturb her sleep, not even Colby Sharp. (Taken by @BethShaum. Also pictured: Brian W. and Michael Golden, Laura Golden's husband.)On Sunday morning, I was interviewed along with Katy Kellgren (the narrator of the audiobook of Monstrous Beauty) by Mary Burkey of Booklist (who was so kind). It was the first time Katy and I had met! I wore my comic book dress.
Taken by Sherry Gick (@libraryfanatic)
Taken by author Megan Frazer Blakemore. The two spectators are Angela Reynolds (@annavalley) and Jen J (@bkwrm7)!
And Monday afternoon was the Odyssey Awards ceremony. I was the only author who was able to attend, so they let me give a speech.
Taken by Angus Killick of Macmillan.
Thank goodness Katy had the sense to get a photo of us with the plaque (which goes to Macmillan Audio). Photo taken by Katy's husband, David Cote.
That's Kate Rudd, who narrated The Fault in Our Stars (John Green),
Nathaniel Parker, who narrated Artemis Fowl: the Last Guardian (Eoin Colfer),
and Elliot Hill all the way on the right, who narrated Ghost Knight (Cornelia Funke).
Taken by David Cote with Katy's camera, which makes me look like an Oompa Loompa.
Friday night I went to Macmillan's dessert party. I have no photos, but it was great to hug Betsy Bird, talk to my editor, Simon Boughton, and shake Gene Luen Yang's hand while gushing to him about how much I love his work. I also had a nice stage-mother talk with Faith Erin Hicks, Thien Phan, and John Green (the graphic noveling one) about how I could facilitate my son's graphic novel career. I am shameless.
Saturday night I hosted a dinner party for anyone who wanted to come, and about 30-35 people—including many Nerdy Book Club members and several acclaimed authors (OMG Kirby Larson)—took me up on the offer. Again I didn't take photos, but I've squirreled them off other people's web sites and Twitter feeds!
Author Amy Timberlake took this photo of my house, and it's so cute I can't resist putting it up. Thanks, Amy!
Here's the party out back! (Photo taken by Katherine Sokolowski-@Katsok)
Patrick Gall and Phil Timberlake, taken by Amy Timberlake.
Angie doesn't let anyone disturb her sleep, not even Colby Sharp. (Taken by @BethShaum. Also pictured: Brian W. and Michael Golden, Laura Golden's husband.)On Sunday morning, I was interviewed along with Katy Kellgren (the narrator of the audiobook of Monstrous Beauty) by Mary Burkey of Booklist (who was so kind). It was the first time Katy and I had met! I wore my comic book dress.
Taken by Sherry Gick (@libraryfanatic)
Taken by author Megan Frazer Blakemore. The two spectators are Angela Reynolds (@annavalley) and Jen J (@bkwrm7)!And Monday afternoon was the Odyssey Awards ceremony. I was the only author who was able to attend, so they let me give a speech.
Taken by Angus Killick of Macmillan.
Thank goodness Katy had the sense to get a photo of us with the plaque (which goes to Macmillan Audio). Photo taken by Katy's husband, David Cote.
That's Kate Rudd, who narrated The Fault in Our Stars (John Green),Nathaniel Parker, who narrated Artemis Fowl: the Last Guardian (Eoin Colfer),
and Elliot Hill all the way on the right, who narrated Ghost Knight (Cornelia Funke).
Taken by David Cote with Katy's camera, which makes me look like an Oompa Loompa.
June 12, 2013
It's the anniversary of Anne Frank's birthday today. She ...
It's the anniversary of Anne Frank's birthday today. She would have been eighty-four, and eight months younger than my mother-in-law. What a writer she already was, at fifteen. Her legacy should have been many books, and grandchildren.
