Lynne Martin's Blog

Your Paris Apartment

Want to live like a Parisian for a few months or a year? Then I have a place for you!

My dear friend Andie’s lovely apartment in the 15th Arrondissement is now available for a minimum of two weeks.

The apartment is 1500 S/F, located in an authentic Paris neighborhood. It is light, bright, and exquisitely furnished. There are two bedrooms, two baths, a study (which can sleep two), and a newly remodeled kitchen loaded with everything you’d need to produce fabulous meals.

The three-story building is on a cul-de-sac, so there is no traffic. It’s quiet, secure, and filled with high-end, comfortable furniture, art, and kitchen equipment. There’s a wine fridge, a dishwasher, a washer and a separate dryer.

It is a seven-minute flat walk to the Metro, from which you can reach all parts of Paris. Buses are handy too. There is no elevator and the stairs might be difficult for disabled people.

I have lived in this apartment several times and am staying here now. You will not be disappointed.

Please email me at lynne1martin@yahoo.com if you are interested. I can answer your questions and put you in touch with the management company to work out the details.

Remember – postpone nothing!

Not Your Norman Rockwell Park Experience

Summer concerts in our local parks have always strengthened my appreciation for small-town America. Seeing families out for an early evening adventure is a pleasure. Watching little girls in their colorful dresses dancing and giggling and boys chasing each other through the ancient trees make me nostalgic for my grandchildren’s early years. Teens posturing self-consciously as they try to impress everyone with their cool-dude swagger make me smile.
Massive oaks fill the park with dappled late afternoon sunshine. Seeing folks spreading blankets on the grass and popping open camping chairs as they greet their friends is downright Rockwellian. They dig in their coolers for a beer or bottle of wine, lay out picnics, and chat amiably as the music pours forth from the bandstand. I’ve always loved spending a few hours with my neighbors in such a relaxing, friendly atmosphere.
Until last night.
I met friends in the park, which was crowded since the weather was so pleasant. We chose a spot near the bandstand, bedecked in buntings and flags to celebrate the 4th of July holiday. The band, an old-timey country group complete with fiddles and western garb, struck up a Gene Autry tune while we spread our refreshments on a blanket in the shade. We were absorbed in our conversation as the mistress of ceremonies listed local businesses and social clubs sponsoring the event. It was picture-perfect Americana.
The speaker introduced a local girl to sing the national anthem. We all rose, men clapping hands over their hearts, as the young woman warbled the familiar notes. When she reached the “Land of the free,” the audience erupted in applause and cheers. It roared again at the word “Brave.” Instantly, my party and I realized that these people were celebrating the end of Roe vs. Wade, the power of the NRA, stolen election craziness, and all the rest of the egregious far-right victories handed down by our Supreme Court in recent days. We three were an island of liberalism floating in a sea of smugness about their conquests. One of my companions leaned over and whispered, “I think I understand where the right-wing rage is coming from. I’ve never felt like the minority before, but right now, I certainly do. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, isn’t it?” I agreed.
I began to see those around me in a different light. I hadn’t noticed how many “Let’s Go, Brandon” t-shirts were in the crowd until that moment, how many American flag tattoos and flags, which these days indicate far-right leanings, were sprinkled through the crowd. Big, muscular men and their women in their big hair and too-sparkly get-ups suddenly took on an air of menace. My sentimental sense of togetherness was replaced with wariness and a little frisson of fear. I knew I wasn’t in any present danger, that I was overreacting. Still, the crowd’s intensity made me understand, as I never had before, the powerful presence of an ultra-conservative crowd.
We continued drinking our wine and enjoying the music and tried to reclaim our happier moods. But the final jolt of reality came when the good-old-boy band leader led the audience in a fervent rendition of “Amazing Grace.” People joined in, many raising their hands to the sky in exaltation while others clasped hands with their neighbors. We three gaped at the solidarity we witnessed.
With our things packed up, we trudged to our car wordlessly. For the first time, I felt the extent of “otherness” in my country. My beliefs were dashed. Gone were the guarantees that a person’s faith was a private affair, that church and state cannot make an unholy alliance, that differences of opinion between liberals and conservatives were not a cause for armed combat, pernicious lies, and disrespect for our nation’s most revered tenets.
After contemplating this experience for a few days, I have reached two conclusions. First, I bear some responsibility for our country’s precarious situation. I stood by as those who wished to limit our rights as women and free-thinking citizens allowed the unspeakable revision of our fundamental rights. My traveling to Washington for the Trump election protest did absolutely nothing to stop the train of injustice. It wasn’t enough. I should have been working hard to place liberals in positions of power. Through manipulation, fraud, hegemony, and the support of ruthless politicians, three unqualified, corrupt individuals have grabbed the ability to change our lives. Mea culpa.
Second, I see that my path to personal redemption means taking all necessary steps to support those who will untie the bonds placed on women, destroy LGBTQ rights, enact gun-control legislation and head off future bad decisions as they arise. For my penance, I will support liberal candidates in local and state elections and help candidates in other states who promise to fight against the powers that have slashed our Constitutional rights. And I will continue to march for all these causes, just to keep my hand in!
Sadly, the innocent pleasures in sun-dappled afternoons in the park are over for me. Oh, I’ll still go to listen to the music from time to time, but I’ll be sitting in the very back part of the park and leave before the hymns begin.
God bless America.

Faking it with Orson Welles

Orson Welles spoke to me on the phone only once. His secretary relayed messages between us, and the exchanges were lighthearted and cordial. My small PR firm was mounting a campaign for his film, F for Fake. My first meeting with Orson was on a dark and stormy night (no kidding) at his rented villa high above Hollywood’s Sunset Boulevard. I nervously banged on the immense door’s heavy knocker and was stunned when it was dramatically flung open by the man himself, dressed in an enormous black turtleneck and flowy black trousers. He and I were alone in the house, but Orson was so genuine and charming that I quickly forgot to be nervous.

He offered me a drink, and we bashed around like two old friends in the sparsely furnished kitchen, looking for glasses and ice. We spent several pleasant hours discussing a campaign to launch the American debut of his film about fakes and frauds. The movie’s subjects included the art forger Elmyr de Hory, the biography forger Clifford Irving, the mystery man Howard Hughes, and even the young Orson Welles of the famous “War of the Worlds” hoax, with the elder Orson serving as narrator. The evening went well, and I left with sufficient material to create a press kit and pitches for the media. I was thrilled that we were on a first-name basis and that this movie legend seemed to like me and approve of my ideas.

The next day, I brainstormed with my staff about gaining national press for the premiere, which would take place at the Orson Welles Theatre in Boston. What stunt could we orchestrate to make Time Magazine, The New York Times, the Today Show, and the rest of the big outlets cover this small indie film? Our secretary Laney came up with the winning idea! We’d stage a fake Orson – hire a lookalike from New York, so two Orsons were on the stage at the same time! It was an irresistible photo op, and she started hunting for a fake Orson that very day. I was so proud that I phoned Orson’s secretary to share the news. She thought it was terrific, too. An hour later, my secretary walked into my office all atwitter. Oh, Joy! Orson himself was on the phone. I just knew that he was calling to congratulate me on my brilliant vision.

“Never in my life have I had the misfortune of dealing with such a towering moron,” he shouted at me. “The machine has not been invented which could measure my displeasure with such an idiotic idea! There is only one Orson Welles on this planet, and I would never consider subjecting myself to such low-brow humiliation for the sake of publicity,” he roared. Of course, I stammered, trying to interject my explanation, but he couldn’t hear me because he was bellowing. Eventually, he ended his tirade with a classic line that made me collapse with laughter afterward, “I’ll have you fired for this. You’ll never work in this town again.” Bang went the phone. The distributor, actress Pat Finley, had endured lashings from Orson, and she did not fire me. But I was forced to take my company’s name off all the press materials, invent a fake publicist to serve as contact, and skip the opening in Boston.

Of course, I don’t believe that fakery is necessarily a bad thing. A little sleight of hand and a lot of audacity are at work in almost every successful endeavor. I’ve consulted some of my contemporaries and found that there’s not one of them who hadn’t leaped when they had no idea where they’d land. I wonder if everyone lucky enough to live a long time has feigned expertise to move ahead with their plans. Once I started ruminating about this, memories of my own fakery history rose to the surface.

I started my working life at 15 as a Christmas gift wrapper at Sears & Roebuck. I assured my boss that I knew how to wrap and then raced home for a quick lesson from my mother. I’m still the fastest wrapper in the family. Landing jobs and creating them with sheer zeal and not much else became my modus operandi.

Although I was a journalism major, I had no press contacts, no real PR experience, and no clue about running a business. But none of those deficits stopped me from founding my Hollywood PR company. I began with chutzpah, fakery, and a manual typewriter on my suburban dining room table. My neighbor was my part-time assistant. I paid her to be a cheerleader, which I desperately needed. When it was time to make a scary phone call to some big wig at The Hollywood Reporter, Variety, or The LA Times, I’d rehearse my pitch, and she would pat me on the back, telling me I could do it! Our company motto was “Fake it ’til you make it!”

At last, I convinced a few actors that I knew what I was doing. When I got up the courage to palm $20 to the maitre’ d’ at the Beverly Hills Hotel’s Polo Lounge, I knew I had arrived. That interview, with the legendary columnist Army Archerd and my client, the actress Rosemary Forsyth, was the first of many cash offerings I slipped into willing hands. My little outfit, now housed in actual offices in North Hollywood, did a credible job. We were doing well! We even won an Academy Award for “The Man Who Skied Down Everest” with no budget but lots of hard work!.

Several years later, I was burned out with Hollywood and sold the firm. I joined a brand-new business equipment leasing outfit on a tip from my CPA. Surprisingly, I did well and stayed in that business for eight years, eventually founding my own firm. The fakery? I have math phobia and can’t operate a financial calculator, which is a major tool in the leasing business. Somehow I managed to do the job and hire people who were not math-averse to tend to the details.

Years later, after I’d left Hollywood for a rural lifestyle on California’s Central Coast, a friend who was a farmer and shared a love of food and cooking invited me to be her partner in a commercial kitchen. The day we closed the deal, she and I stood giggling in a sea of stainless steel tables surrounded by a six-burner Wolff range, a stand-alone Hobart mixer, a big deep double sink, piles of sheet pans, and several commercial refrigerators. We had no earthly idea what to do with this cook’s dream, but we drank some wine and toasted our future anyway. We learned by doing, made some mistakes, and took orders before we were ready, enlisting friends, family, and strangers to help us meet our deadlines. Eventually, we developed a good reputation with our high-end hors d’oeuvres and sold our wares to almost every gourmet grocery outlet in California. So much for not knowing anything about the food business!

The apex of my spurious adventures came when I accepted a publisher’s advance to write a 350-page memoir about my travels with my husband. Even now, I marvel at my cheekiness. What the hell did I know about writing a book? Finally, with the advance money deposited and the hoopla among friends and family dying down, the enormity of what lay ahead slapped me right in the ego. I was scared to death and remained so until the massive two-ton truck on my back was lifted and Home Sweet Anywhere went on the market. I recorded the book for Audible, and both are still chugging along eight years after their debuts.

Sixty-five years after the gift-wrap incident, with another book, Cook Like a Local in France, on the market, I’m still fakin’ it ’til I make it.

As for Orson, F for Fake did not find its American audience, but I’ll bet it would have if Orson had just believed in real-life fakery!

Orson Welles and Me

Orson Welles never spoke to me on the phone. His secretary relayed messages between us, and for many weeks, the exchanges were lighthearted and cordial. I was mounting a campaign for his film, F for Fake, for the distributor, one of my PR outfit’s clients. Our first meeting was on a dark and stormy night (no kidding) at his rented villa high above Hollywood’s Sunset Boulevard. I nervously banged on the immense door’s heavy knocker and was stunned as it was flung open by the man himself.  He and I were alone in that immense house, but Orson was so genuine and charming that I quickly forgot to be nervous. 

He offered me a drink, and we bashed around like two old friends in the sparsely furnished kitchen looking for glasses and ice. We spent several pleasant hours discussing a campaign to launch the American debut of his film about fakes and frauds. The movie’s subjects included the art forger Elmyr de Hory, the biography forger Clifford Irving, the mystery man Howard Hughes, and even the young Orson Welles of the famous “War of the Worlds” hoax, with the elder Orson serving as narrator.  The evening went well, and I left with sufficient material to create a press kit and pitches for the media. I was thrilled that we were on a first-name basis and that this movie legend seemed to like me and approve of my ideas.

The next day, I brainstormed with my staff about gaining national press for the premiere, which would take place at the Orson Welles Theatre in Boston. What stunt could we orchestrate to make Time Magazine, The New York Times, the Today Show, and all the rest, want to cover this indie film opening? Our secretary Laney came up with the winning idea! We’d stage a fake Orson – hire a lookalike from New York and set it up so two Orsons were on the stage at the same time! It was an irresistible photo op, and she started hunting for a fake that very day.

I was so proud of myself that I phoned Orson’s secretary to share the news. She thought it was terrific, too. An hour later, my secretary walked into my office all atwitter. Oh, Joy! Orson himself was on the phone. I knew that was calling to congratulate me on my brilliant vision.

“Never in my life have I had the misfortune of dealing with such a towering moron,” he shouted at me. “The machine has not been invented which could measure my displeasure with such an idiotic idea!  There is only one Orson Welles on this planet, and I would never consider subjecting myself to such low-brow humiliation for the sake of publicity,” he roared. Of course, I stammered, trying to interject my explanation, but he couldn’t hear me because he was bellowing. Eventually he ended his tirade with a classic line that made me collapse with laughter afterward, “I’ll have you fired for this. You’ll never work in this town again.” Bang went the phone.

The distributor had endured her own lashings from Orson, and she did not fire me. But I was forced to take my company’s name off all the press materials, invent a fake publicist to serve as contact, and skip the opening in Boston.

Of course, I don’t believe that fakery is necessarily a bad thing. I think a little sleight of hand and a lot of audacity are at work in almost every successful endeavor. I’ve consulted some of my contemporaries and found that there’s not one of them who hasn’t take a leap when they had no idea what they were doing! I mean, what’s the fun in never taking a chance?

I wonder if everyone who is lucky enough to live a long time has feigned expertise to move ahead with their plans. Once I started ruminating about this, memories of my own fakery bubbled up.

I started my working life at 15 as a gift-wrapper at Sears & Roebuck at Christmas time. I assured my boss that I knew how to wrap and then raced home for a fast lesson from my mother. I’m still the fastest wrapper in the family. Landing jobs and creating them with sheer zeal and not much else became my pattern.

For instance, I founded that PR company with chutzpah and fakery on my suburban dining room table. Although I had been a journalism major, I had no press contacts, no real PR experience, and no clue about running a business. I started anyway with my neighbor as my part-time assistant. I paid her to be head cheerleader, which I needed desperately.  When it was time to make a scary phone call to some big-wig at The Hollywood Reporter, Variety, or The LA. Times, I’d rehearse my pitch and she would pat me on the back telling me I could do it! Our company motto was “Fake it ’til you make it!” At last, I convinced a few. actors that I knew what I was doing, and when I got up the courage to tip the maitre’ d’ at the Beverly Hills Hotel for a primo booth for the legendary columnist Army Archerd, I knew I had arrived. My little outfit did a credible job and I enjoyed it. We even won an Academy Award for “The Man Who Skied Down Everest” with no budget but lots of hard work!

Several years later, I was burned out and sold the company.  I joined a brand-new business equipment leasing outfit on a tip from my CPA. Surprisingly, I did well in the job and stayed in that business for eight years, eventually founding my own firm. The fakery? To this day I can’t operate a financial calculator, a major tool in the leasing business. Somehow I managed to do the job and hire people who were not math-averse like me to tend to the details. I never got caught, but I certainly had some close calls.

Years later, after I’d left Hollywood for a rural lifestyle on California’s Central Coast, a friend who was a farmer and shared a love of food and cooking invited me to be her partner in a commercial kitchen. It was available at a fantastic discount, and I agreed to invest. The day we closed the deal, she and I stood giggling in a sea of stainless steel tables surrounded by a six-burner Wolff range, a stand-alone Hobart mixer, a big deep commercial sink, piles of sheet pans, and several commercial refrigerators. We had no earthly idea what we would do with this cook’s dream of a place, so we drank some wine and toasted to our future. We learned by doing, made some mistakes, and took orders before we were ready, enlisting friends, family and strangers to help us make our deadlines.  Eventually, we developed a good reputation with our high-end hors d’oeuvres and sold our wares to almost every gourmet grocery outlet in California. So much for not knowing anything about the food business!

The apex of my spurious adventures came when I accepted a publisher’s advance to write a 350-page memoir about my travels. To this day, I marvel at my cheekiness. What the hell did I know about writing a book? After the money was nestled in my account, and the hoopla among friends and family died down, the enormity of what I’d contracted to do slapped me right in the ego. I was scared to death and remained so until the massive two-ton truck on my back was lifted and Home Sweet Anywhere went on the market. Sixty-five years after the gift-wrap incident, I was still Fakin’ it ’til I made it. 

As for Orson, F for Fake never did find its audience, but I’ll bet it would have if Orson’s ego hadn’t been so fragile.

I’ve Lost My Voice

I’ve lost my voice. Oh, I can still speak. That’s part of the problem. Writing unnecessary emails, blabbering away on Facebook and Twitter, engaging in pleasurable but unproductive busywork, and jabbering with family and friends has made my writing voice hoarse. Pure laziness has taken its toll, too. After a few months of succumbing to those distractions, the place in my brain where the writer lives started dosing off. The tyrant of purpose soon went to sleep, and quickly the writer part of my grey matter slipped into REM.

Not writing phase began with the ecstasy of having no assignments. I deserve some time off, don’t I? I’ve been working hard for a long time. A few days without writing will be good for me. Rest will restore me and make me a better writer. That’s not how it works. Once I stopped writing for a few months, it got easier to find more excuses and even easier to believe the reasons for delaying the process were legitimate. They aren’t.

When people ask me how the new book is coming, I find myself smiling wearily, mumbling, “Oh, you know how it is…little by little.” Actually, it’s little by nothing.  The same dreary seven pages I wrote months ago in a fit of remorse and guilt are still sitting in a file called New Book. The Table of Contents tab below the Introduction tab, which houses those stale seven pages, mocks me every time I look at my desktop. It, too, has a few lackluster entries I’ve plunked in at odd moments when I needed to convince myself that I was going back to work.  

I’m not entirely certain why today is the turning point, but the REM state has finally given way to a groggy restlessness, and it looks as if a fully awakened state is coming up fast. My solitary writer’s strike is over, so tomorrow morning, it’s back to work for me.  First assignment:  turn off the internet, mute the phone, and close the door. Second assignment:  purge that New Book folder of its grubby contents. Third task:  clear the throat and start the process.  Shout after me, “You go, girl!”  The voice is back.

 

    

      

     

      

     

Mutton Dressed as Lamb

I allowed my two beautiful daughters to survive their terrible teenage years, and they have grown into capable, strong women whom I admire greatly and love deeply. I live near them and their families, so we see each other often and speak nearly every day. They are discreet and patient as they watch me search for words and forget appointments, but we do talk frankly about what’s essential to their dear mother – her appearance. I admit that vanity is among my nany shortcomings. The girls and have some pacts concerning this topic, and I depend on them to follow my instructions when I’m no longer in charge. For instance, if I’m stuck in a hospital bed or nursing home, they’ll make sure to tame my fluffy little mustache and that I have pretty nighties to wear, even if I’m not sure where I am.

If I should die suddenly, they have promised to march into my house with large plastic trash bags and dispose of my messy dresser drawers’ contents.  Not only are my things jumbled, but my shabby underwear (who’s to see it now ?), and other items long past their prime, must be removed before a cleaning person or well-meaning friend rifles through the drawers. Oh, yes, the bedside table items must go, too, due to their private nature. One of these days I’ll clean up my act so they can get on with mourning me instead of policing my dark secrets.

Even at 80, I’m still concerned with my appearance. Many of my contemporaries have wisely chosen to dispense with time-and-money-consuming habits that almost all of us practiced for decades. I wish I could follow their lead, but vanity is one of my many character flaws. I still spend money and time on my hair and nails, and I still love clothes. These are hard habits to break.

I guess my fixation results from being a professional woman in Los Angeles. For many years I spent thousands on hair cuts and color and silk-wrapped nails over the years. I owned a PR company representing actors, TV shows, and films, so I justified my expenditures in the name of the hipness tinsel town required. Sometimes my obsession with looking good led to my NOT looking good for many months.

In the early ’70s, one of my actress clients convinced me to go all out and visit one of the big-name hairdressers whose eponymous salon was in the heart of Beverly Hills. He was so over-the-top that he had not one but two assistants hovering around his chair at all times. I was ushered into the glowing all-white and silver salon by an alarmingly thin and condescending young woman. I had the urge to remind her that I was paying more for this cut and color than she probably made in a week. But, of course, I meekly allowed her to take my coat and lead me to the “color room.”

After a brief chat, a lithe young man with a ponytail applied goop to my hair, and as I waited for the magic to happen, I spent the hour happily ogling the Beverly Hills dames whose shoes and bags were worth more than my car. Finally, I was escorted to the maestro’s cubicle.

On his gorgeous marble counter, a TV blared with a Dodger’s baseball game. The grandmaster, a short Asian man full of attitude, swaggered in. He spoke to me between glances at the screen and half-listened to my description of the style I wanted. At the time, my hair grazed my shoulders, and I told him that I would like for it to be chin-length, perhaps in an angled bob. Still looking at the TV, he grabbed a pair of gold scissors a minion presented like a nurse in an operating room. Then he whacked off a big chunk of my hair just above my ear! I was so shocked that I could utter only a small squeaking noise in protest. I slunk out of the joint a hundred dollars lighter with a pixie haircut never meant for a 5’9” woman with a long face. It took a lot of explaining to get back into the good graces of my talented hairdresser in Studio City. John Maloney, a burly Irishman, forgave me and never watched TV while he saw me through the awkward stages of growing out that choppy haircut into the look I wanted.

When I entered my fifties, it became difficult for me to see myself accurately. As my body aged, I still peered at the world from a 35-year-old perspective. Although things looked the same from the inside, the mirror told me a different story. Perhaps this phenomenon explains why it’s hard for me to judge how I actually look. I’ve asked my children to help me avoid the pitfalls of this skewed vision. They are charged with telling me if I’m starting to fall into the trap of what the Irish call “mutton dressed as lamb.” I resist the urge to imitate the big hair of the ’80s or wear shorts so people aren’t forced to see my wrinkly knees. I’ve given up believing that a dark tan will conceal my crepey skin, and squelched the urge to try today’s return to the false eyelash craze of the ’70s. I do still cling to my ancient Pendleton jackets and sport the same bob and tinted hair I’ve worn off and on since the debacle in Beverly Hills. My nails are coated with expensive gel, and I probably wear too much make-up for an old broad. But the daughters haven’t called me on any of this yet. So I guess I’m doing well so far – at least I’m mutton dressed as mutton!

Worry-Free Travel

Susan Polk has been a dear friend for many years. You might even say that she was with us every step of the way in our home-free adventures. two don’t mix.

Stateside insurance plans don’t follow you overseas. If you’re going to live home-free, it is essential to have the right international insurance plan based on where you’re going, who you’re with, what you’re doing there, and how long you’re staying. Because of Susan, we were worry-free. Nothing allows you to enjoy travel like being able to rest easy while you’re on the road. She has helped scores of our followers to find the right fit for their international travel insurance.

Please read my full interview with Susan Polk Insurance and join us as we discuss travel, budgeting for life abroad, and more at https://bit.ly/travel-interview-with-SusanPolkInsurance.

Connection

 

My dearest friend and I speak almost every day now. Fran has been my linchpin, a constant connection in my peripatetic life, my guide, confidant, cheerleader, consoler, and BFF for 60 years. Since she’s ten years older and therefore much wiser, I have benefitted from her predictions of what to expect as each decade unfolds. Galloping arthritis, sketchy memory, the growing list of departed friends and family, and adjusting to elderliness are all predictable topics, but coping with the craziness that has persisted for the past four years is a new wrinkle, you should pardon the pun.

Fran has lived in Oklahoma City most of her life, while I have zig-zagged around the world, living in many parts of the country and abroad. In the early ‘60s, she was a revered on-air personality, host of a nationally recognized show for children. Fresh out of journalism school, I worked in public relations at the same television station. The moment we met, I felt an instant connection, a recognition that we would be friends for a very long time. In those days, we were tall, blond knock-outs, and we had a glorious time celebrating life together. When the two of us – Fran at six feet and me at five foot nine – entered a party, everyone knew we had arrived. Many times we were taken for sisters.

After I left Oklahoma, she earned an advanced degree in early childhood development. She became a nationally respected pioneer in her field, a distinguished pillar of her community with civic awards galore. Conversely, I’ve had so many businesses and jobs that I can hardly remember them all. I had several husbands, I  am twice widowed, and I raised two darling daughters. Fran is, of course, their Godmother. Despite these differences in lifestyle, we forged a profoundly satisfying friendship all those decades ago that has endured. We have nurtured our connection by seeing one another as often as possible, traveling together, and staying in touch regularly by phone and letters. I don’t believe there’s anything she doesn’t know about me. Well, to be frank, there are a few incidents that neither she nor anyone else will ever learn about, and I’m sure she clasps some secrets close to her vest. Imagine not having done anything to hide – what a boring life that would be!

Having a child psychologist in my corner was a boon when I raised my girls. She’s still counseling me about everything from resisting the urge to meddle in my children’s and grandchildren’s lives to the best potions for aching knees. She’s what you’d call an all-purpose pal.

We share the same political views and are outraged by the same issues – the inequity and mistreatment of women and minorities, some elected officials’ reprehensible behavior, the stupidity of climate-deniers, and other travesties that we liberals find infuriating. Now we speak almost daily from our respective Covid-19 hideouts, Fran at her elegant cottage in an upscale senior facility in Oklahoma City, and me at my home in California. We used to visit each other twice a year, and I increased my trips to Oklahoma when she became unwilling to navigate the horrors of air travel. Losing her is my worst nightmare. Even though it seems likely that she will precede me into the next world, I choose to invoke magical thinking, believing that she is eternal. The alternative is something I’ll deal with when I have no choice.

Most of our daily chats start with a fifteen-minute rant about whatever fresh hell has visited on our country. Now we spend time gushing about a new team in Washington and segue into commiserating about the most recent physical developments that bedevil us. Bits of A little gossip often enlivens our conversations, if any interesting tidbits have come our way in this time of quarantine. Reminiscing is a favorite segment, and if one of us repeats a tale, the other politely listens, feigning interest. After all, what the hell do we have to do right now but indulge one another? Besides, we sometimes discover stories we haven’t told before or perhaps have forgotten. This amazes me since we have carried on a non-stop conversation for over sixty years! On occasion, we stray from current topics and revisit moments we’ve shared. My memory isn’t too reliable now, but I can recall vividly the times when we have laughed hard enough for tears to come and cried so hard that the tears turned into manic laughter.

No matter the topic, the subtext of these leisurely chats is our connection. We know that our time is limited, both on the planet and with each other, facts that make these conversations all the more poignant and important to me. I bask in the warmth of a person who has known me intimately all my adult life and still loves me unconditionally, a friend who has never purposely hurt me and has always been my champion. Unbelievably, we’ve only had words once, forty years ago, when I told her that she had wounded me deeply by withholding information about a serious illness. I felt excluded, as if I weren’t a close enough friend to be privy to her problems, only to her triumphs. She explained that she was trying to protect me and vowed never to exclude me again. She has been faithful to that promise, and we have navigated through our challenges ever since – together.

Fran’s friendship is one of life’s greatest gifts to me, a continuous theme is woven into every decade, as dependable as the stars, as necessary as the sun. Her beautiful smile, her sharp wit, and her sweet voice are mine to keep always and mine to enjoy this very afternoon as we meet once again for our cocktail hour chat and renew our life-long connection.

 

Hold My Hand

Billy Erwin was my first boyfriend, and we’re still in touch via FaceBook. We were 14. Billy’s mother drove us downtown to see a Doris Day rom-com. The tune, “Hold My Hand,” figured into the treacly plot, and when his sweaty palm reached for my equally damp paw, the rush was phenomenal. Billy, now Bill to everyone but me, was the first of many fellows who would make my heart race. Some also tried their damndest to break it, and several succeeded.

I’ve dated, and sometimes married, men for almost seventy years, so I have quite a lot to say on the subject. After that sweet evening with Billy (I have no idea why that relationship ended), I moved on to a curly-headed blond fellow, Larry Kelley, who supported his parents by doing paid lip-syncing performances for civic clubs and church groups. We were perfectly suited to endure High School together, huddled on the fringes of the rigorous teenage caste system. I was 5’9”, which was not a good thing since all the tall, beautiful boys who played sports went for short girls with big knockers and toothy smiles. Larry was into drama and music, which kept him on the outside, too. My mother assured me that having small breasts would be a blessing years later when all those big knockers would sink south. As usual, she was right. At eighty, my girls are still able to stand at attention with some assistance.

At college, the boys were tall enough to appreciate my long-legged stature. The first day at the university, I felt like a shopaholic let loose in Nordstrom’s semi-annual sale – where everything was free! I shopped till I dropped or was dropped by a few. My first heartbreak came when my medical-student boyfriend of two years dumped me while I was in Europe for my summer abroad. Richard Baylor, MD, wherever you are, I hope you’re married to one of those girls with the big teeth and now-drooping boobs! 

A brief starter-marriage after college ended in less than a year. My father complained about the enormous expense of that elaborate nuptial celebration until he died at 94. It hurt his practical heart to see that expensive, country club champagne reception go to waste.

I married the children’s father a few years later, and, after 11 years of marriage, he admitted that he had been enjoying other women’s company since day one. My children and I moved on. A decade later, I met and married the love of my life, my  sweet-natured, warm, brilliant artist, Guy Deel. I was devastated when I lost that dear man to Alzheimer’s.

Then came Tim Martin, a charming companion and a lover from my single days between marriages. We frolicked around Europe, South America, and Mexico for several years. He used to joke that he felt protected because I’d already lost one husband. Surely I couldn’t be twice-widowed. He died suddenly from an aortic aneurysm in 2019, after 14 years of marriage. His passing was a shocking blow, and I faced living alone, without a spouse or children, for the first time in almost sixty years. 

For a year, I occupied myself at home. Organizing, minimizing possessions, and other domestic busy-work kept me occupied and sent me to bed exhausted. Then, during one of my shrink sessions, I mentioned that I missed conversations with men. Paul suggested that I try an online dating service and I winced at the idea. “Come on, you don’t have to marry anyone. You don’t even have to see them since the Coronavirus is in full swing,” he continued. “Try it out. You might enjoy yourself.”

I chose a dating site, plunked down the minimum investment, and got to work on my profile. It was harder than you think. Presenting myself as a datable commodity at 80 flung me right back into my anxiety-ridden high school self. Who would want to date an 80-year-old woman, even a well-preserved one? How much of my story should I reveal? Which photos should I choose? Should I talk about my books, or would that be off-putting? I scrolled through likely candidates, and spent too much time writing my profile. Finally, tired of fiddling with it, I pulled the trigger and officially threw myself on the market.

Soon there were“likes” and comments from men in Texas, Connecticut, and North Carolina. Since seeing someone thousands of miles away seemed unlikely, I declined. There were queries from members who rejoiced in their recovery from drug or alcohol abuse – not for me. Many had political stances diametrically opposed to mine, and others exhibited lasciviousness that I found repulsive. Some were avid bikers, extreme hikers, skiers, scuba divers, or gym rats. Now, I like a vigorous walk and crave my low-impact gym workouts, but I knew that those guys would be too much. Jocks have never been my thing. The outlook was not promising, but one day a message from a genuine prospect appeared. He lived a few hours away, was a professional and decent-looking, had a sense of humor (at least on paper), and he thought I was gorgeous. That last part won the day. We had several pleasant phone and Zoom conversations, moved on to Zoom, and agreed to a masked, socially distanced encounter.

At first, I found his dedication to his tiny, yippy dog touching, his devotion to photography and his drone interesting, his enthusiasm for my home cooking flattering, and his professed knowledge about almost every topic admirable. By the second visit, he admitted that he was recovering from an addiction to marijuana even as he lit “just one” after dinner. That worried me. His intense interest in photography was dull and all-consuming. Watching for an hour while he snapped leaves and wildflowers was not my idea of a good time. Letting his hairy, minuscule dog eat from his plate was uber-annoying. I gently extricated myself from further rendezvous.

I soldiered on, and the second Mr. Perhaps appeared. This fellow was a retired Forest Ranger with several advanced degrees. The only Forest Rangers I’d ever met were scowling at neighboring campers, telling them to pipe down. He gave good phone, and we spent time on Zoom, and we decided to meet. His preoccupation with natural science fascinated me, and his solid, stable life seemed appealingly normal. The visit went well until I discovered that he had told so many stories for campers at the state park that he couldn’t resist mansplaining on any topic that came his way. For instance, in one hour-long walk on my country road, I learned more than I ever wanted to know about blue oaks, creek flow, forest conservation, and his only trip outside the country during his college years. I knew his dissertations would never end, so I let renewed pandemic concerns help me extricate myself gracefully.

Next, a man from neighboring Santa Barbara sent a message. He was a professor with an impressive cv who enjoyed wine and fine dining, movies and music.  He had traveled quite a bit and seemed sophisticated. We met at a beach and spent a pleasant afternoon exploring our histories and mutual interests.

I invited him to dinner. He asked if he could bring dessert, and I agreed. He appeared with a pint of blackberries in one hand. In his other hand, the one that should have held a bottle of wine from the vast collection he had proudly told me about, he proffered a pint of heavy cream. I decided to let that go because I wanted to enjoy the evening.

The Coronavirus had restricted entertaining, which I love to do, so I prepared carefully. We had good music, drinks, and tasty hors d’oeuvre on my sun-dappled terrace, followed by a  delicious authentic French bistro meal in the dining room. Dinner was delicious and filling, so we never got around to the dessert. When it was time to go, he stopped at the door and said, “Oh, I almost forgot my berries.” I fetched the berries and cream, bade him goodnight, closed and locked the door, and sent him out of my life, berries and all.

After lengthy consideration, I concluded that seeking male companionship might just be too damned much trouble and that age-appropriate men were too set in their ways to be fun. Unfortunately, under closer examination, I recognized the same failings in myself. I’m willing to have another go at it once our world begins to open up, and I’m not quite as prickly.  Perhaps when we can go to a movie, have a meal in a restaurant, and freely move about the world, looking for a significant other will be less stressful. But for now, I’ll be content in my cozy house, grateful for my good health, my dear friends, and my doting family. I’ll confess that I still check those sites from time to time. Maybe, just maybe, Mr. Right Now will appear before the plague ends. 

So, you see, a teenaged girl’s quest for a hand to hold seems as important now as it was when Billy Erwin made his move.

 

Is That All There Is?

I’ve quit whining about how old I am. No more fishing for comforting compliments to hear, “You look terrific – you couldn’t possibly be that old.” I’ve finally come to appreciate being an old dame, one who knows a thing or two about a thing or two. Best of all, most of the time I can even remember where I parked my car. An eighty-year-old face greets me in the mirror every morning, and surprisingly, I’m not repelled by her. The bones are the same, but the upholstery has changed. The “line fairy” comes every night now, leaving behind new wrinkles, brown age spots, and carry-on luggage added to under-eye baggage. Those deposits don’t bother me nearly as much as they once did.

I’ve decided that making the leap into an undeniably elder status has made me take this aging thing seriously. I’m easing into my new reality and learning to embrace the evidence of having lived a long time. I’m kinder to this body, which carried and fed three babies, endured broken bones, replacement parts, and surgeries to stamp out threatening conditions. Yet, it still functions well enough to allow me to do almost everything I want.

I am galloping toward my sell-by date and have gotten grieving for my younger self out of the way, so I’m spending less time contemplating the past and more time figuring out how I’ll make the most of the ride. I’ve always heard that time passes more quickly as we age, and at 80, time is practically in reverse! Weeks flash by, even though I’m isolated and have few pressing projects. I can count how many vigorous years are left to me on fewer fingers than I possess. 

Recognizing those facts makes me realize that I can’t afford to squander a moment. I’ve accomplished much in my life, but I’ve also frittered away too much time on useless yearnings, appeasing others, reviewing and punishing myself and others for shortcomings and bad behavior, and vigorously worrying about things that usually never happen. If there was ever a time to stop such nonsense, it arrived on October 1, 2020, when the family gathered to celebrate this old girl.

Many factors have contributed to my introspection. My husband, Tim Martin, died suddenly in November 2019. It was a terrible shock and a dramatic reminder of our finite human condition. I spent a year grieving, analyzing our years together, and facing a future alone. Those odious chores were complicated by my nearing that inevitable 80th milestone. Add to that our country’s unsettling plunge into lockdown and our harrowing political struggle, and you’ve got ] honest-to-god annus horribilis 2020. Those months of self-examination, not usually my frenetic style, have resulted in a new search for my place in the world.

The question for this newly widowed, newly octogenarian, newly single woman is what’s next? Or as Miss Peggy Lee so artfully asks, “Is that all there is?”  Next time I’ll share my discoveries about scintillating topics like sex, love, and rock ’n roll with you if you’re interested in my musings.

In the meantime, I wish you holiday greetings, a Merry Christmas, and a better New Year!