I am a huge admirer of Mir – whose blog Woulda Coulda Shoulda bears a rare warmth and humor. She’s an amazing writer and an even more amazing person. I learned, late, that several people were writing about their own weddings as a kind of virtual bridal shower. Because of my affection and high regard for her I thought I’d come along. We got married on a boat on the Monogehela River in Pittsburgh in 1971. We’re still married. 
I wore an Israeli Bedouin wedding dress and flowers in my hair; Rick wore a navy blue suit and a fancy tie. He spent hours in the Library of Congress researching Jewish weddings and wrote the service; I inserted quotes from William Saroyan, a speech about our families and another about the Vietnam War. Margot Adler sang Last Night I Had the Strangest Dream. My sisters and college roommates were bridesmaids. Lots of our best friends, family and even a few people you’ve probably heard of were there. It was a wonderful day. As Jenn offered a quote about marriage, I offer one from the Wlliam Saroyan speech that opened ours. In the time of your life, live—so that in that wondrous time you shall not add to the misery and sorrow of the world, but shall smile to the infinite delight and mystery of it. Be happy Mir.
Category: Aging
GREY’S ANATOMY, BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN, MEMORY AND ME
Research shows that I’m hardly alone in this, but I have a deep and abiding fear of disappearing into the fog that is Alzheimer’s disease. I’m approaching my 61st birthday, which, these days, is young. Horrible to contemplate, but NOT old. Actually even for the last generation it’s not much – my dad lived to be 78 and my mom 80. So even in WWII generation terms, I’d have a good crack at at least 20 more years. And when I think about dying I really worry more about the sadness of those I love than anything else. No one wants her life to be over, but unlike many of my friends, including those far younger, I’m not terrified.
Alzheimer’s is different though. If you read the statistics, the odds are pretty scary for all of us. Today the New York Times reports (actually I think a little late – if you don’t have Times Select try this story on amNewYork) on a new awareness program by the Alzheimer’s Association. Here’s the video (short.) That’s good.
And it even includes Kate Burton, Meridith Grey’s mother (Grey’s Anatomy for those of you not addicted already.) 
Her character, in a series of almost unbearable episodes, suffered from Alzheimer’s. There is so much written about this disease and the risk to our nation’s future, one person at a time, but if the documents are to be believed research is far behind potential.
As usual it’s a question of money. And I know I should care about that. I guess I do. But what’s tougher for me is to face, almost daily, the small memory losses and forgetful moments of aging and not fear that they are all connected to the disease. People my age even joke about it – calling it “old timer’s” disease or “senior moments” but all it is is awful. To lose a word, see know the star of a classic film and not be able to retrieve the name, work a crossword puzzle (recommended to maintain brain “muscles” and besides I love them) and KNOW the missing word somewhere in your brain – but no place where you can get to it…. it’s all terrifying.
Think about it. Spouses who’ve shared years of generating memories suddenly seeing you lose yours; knowing daily that your access to those moments is disappearing. Children who’ve struggled to build strong and independent lives burdened with the emotional obligations created by a wasting disease in a parent. Friends self-conscious and uneasy on visits they know they should make – if they even have the strength to make them. Can you imagine anything worse – except the painful, protracted ending that cancer often brings?
As I write this, random thoughts wander through my mind. Most dominant are lyrics from a Bruce Springsteen (of course) song.
I don’t wanna fade away, Oh I don’t wanna fade away, Tell me what can I do what can I say, Cause darlin’ I don’t wanna fade away.
Yeah it’s about the end of a love affair but it’s playing in my head as a kind of Alzheimer’s anthem so you have to listen too.
The other things are really corny but right now I think I need to be corny. This one is part of what we read at the beginning of our wedding almost 36 years ago: In the time of your life, live—so that in that wondrous time you shall not add to the misery and sorrow of the world, but shall smile to the infinite delight and mystery of it. It’s from William Saroyan’s play The Time of Your Life.
The other is from Our Town. And I know it’s old fashioned and sentimental. But as I look this terror in the eye, I know it’s what I have to do to keep it at bay.
Emily: Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?–every, every minute?
Stage Manager: No. Saints and poets, maybe–they do some.
I guess the answer to all this is to aim for the saints and the angels. Nothing is going to prevent the future from happening; not faith, not love, not Hogwart’s magic, not even the miraculous gift of children. So each day I need to be as present as I can. Whatever happens it’s a blow against the unknown and a prayer of gratitude for the privilege of being present and aware.
WILL YOU STILL NEED ME, WILL YOU STILL….??
Saturday night we went to my friend Rona’s 60th birthday party in LA. The photo is me, Rona and our Today Show colleague Coby. It was really fun – how often does Famous Amos bake you cookies and Brian Wilson sing to you on a Bel Air tennis court turned party heaven? How often do you see photos of yourself, your friend and your husband at Today Show shoots and crazy parties? And how often, in the unexpected chill of an April Los Angeles evening, do you see a pile of blankets for guests that includes the one you made their now 14-year-old son when he was born?
I’ve written about Rona before but Saturday night was a real reminder of the nature of a gifted friend. She asked everyone to stand up. Those who knew her 5 years or less, sit down. Then ten years. Then fifteen. We were feeling pretty cocky since we were in the 20 years or less category – until we saw how many people – from New York, DC, Hawaii, San Francisco, LA and God knows where else – were standing at 30 – and even 40 years! And Rick and I knew many of them; we’d been to birthday parties or holiday events or just dinner with them over the years. I once heard someone quote Wendy Wasserstein as saying that you could judge someone’s character by how well they kept their friends. In that as in so many other ways she was a star.
On the tables were CDs for all of us – with a photo of her at Woodstock on the cover (one that I’d used in our 20 year anniversary piece (it was really great) to close it out. Sunday I was driving around LA while my husband was at his conference so I stuck the CD into the player. The next thing I knew I was driving down the 10 Freeway in tears — not sweet little showers but huge wracking sobs. Not really sadness, it was more a recognition of all the treasured time that has passed – of how much I loved so much of it and how real it still feels to me. I’ve never read Remembrance of Things Past but I’m told that the entire epic emerges from memories evoked from the smell of a Madeline (a kind of French cookie – they sell them at Starbucks I think.)
Well each song – Van Morrison or Bob Dylan or Paul Simon or Marvin Gaye took me someplace. The thing is – sad as I was, I was also absurdly grateful to have the memories and moments so powerfully evoked by the music. Not until I hit 60 did I realize you really DO get older – that some things are in the past for good. When the music is there, though, nothing's really gone. Memories and senses arise in all their glory and float me back where I came from. Not for long – and not entirely – but enough to remind me of the privileges of my life and the wonders of life itself. Corny but oh so true – music brings the gift of memory and joy. Yet another thing to thank birthday girl Rona for adding to my life. Happy birthday one more time, my sister.
ROCK HALL OF FAME: PEOPLE HAVE THE POWER
Monday night Patti Smith was among those inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. As I’ve written in the past, I’ve attended a few inductions and they are high on the list of great experiences and remind us (as if we needed it) of the power of the music — a topic I’ve been discussing recently.
This remarkable poet, who wrote Peaceable Kingdom – a mournful memory of her husband, who died of heart disease way too soon, and the anthem People Have the Power, can move us, then generate anger and provoke action. Listen to these – these are iTunes links: Peaceable Kingdom and People Have the Power. As different as they can be and each inspiring, moving and unforgettable.
Smith wrote in the New York Times that she had been ambivalent about the award – this independent spirit wasn’t certain she wanted to treat her art in this way. I’m including the whole piece here because it will soon go behind the Times "wall." Just see what sort of person has just been honored – and join me in my high respect and affection for this remarkable artist.
ON a cold morning in 1955, walking to Sunday school, I was drawn to the voice of Little Richard wailing “Tutti Frutti” from the interior of a local boy’s makeshift clubhouse. So powerful was the connection that I let go of my mother’s hand.
Rock ’n’ roll. It drew me from my path to a sea of possibilities. It sheltered and shattered me, from the end of childhood through a painful adolescence. I had my first altercation with my father when the Rolling Stones made their debut on “The Ed Sullivan Show.” Rock ’n’ roll was mine to defend. It strengthened my hand and gave me a sense of tribe as I boarded a bus from South Jersey to freedom in 1967.
Rock ’n’ roll, at that time, was a fusion of intimacies. Repression bloomed into rapture like raging weeds shooting through cracks in the cement. Our music provided a sense of communal activism. Our artists provoked our ascension into awareness as we ran amok in a frenzied state of grace.
My late husband, Fred Sonic Smith, then of Detroit’s MC5, was a part of the brotherhood instrumental in forging a revolution: seeking to save the world with love and the electric guitar. He created aural autonomy yet did not have the constitution to survive all the complexities of existence.
Before he died, in the winter of 1994, he counseled me to continue working. He believed that one day I would be recognized for my efforts and though I protested, he quietly asked me to accept what was bestowed — gracefully — in his name.
Today I will join R.E.M., the Ronettes, Van Halen and Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five to be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. On the eve of this event I asked myself many questions. Should an artist working within the revolutionary landscape of rock accept laurels from an institution? Should laurels be offered? Am I a worthy recipient?
I have wrestled with these questions and my conscience leads me back to Fred and those like him — the maverick souls who may never be afforded such honors. Thus in his name I will accept with gratitude. Fred Sonic Smith was of the people, and I am none but him: one who has loved rock ’n’ roll and crawled from the ranks to the stage, to salute history and plant seeds for the erratic magic landscape of the new guard.
Because its members will be the guardians of our cultural voice. The Internet is their CBGB. Their territory is global. They will dictate how they want to create and disseminate their work. They will, in time, make breathless changes in our political process. They have the technology to unite and create a new party, to be vigilant in their choice of candidates, unfettered by corporate pressure. Their potential power to form and reform is unprecedented.
Human history abounds with idealistic movements that rise, then fall in disarray. The children of light. The journey to the East. The summer of love. The season of grunge. But just as we seem to repeat our follies, we also abide.
Rock ’n’ roll drew me from my mother’s hand and led me to experience. In the end it was my neighbors who put everything in perspective. An approving nod from the old Italian woman who sells me pasta. A high five from the postman. An embrace from the notary and his wife. And a shout from the sanitation man driving down my street: “Hey, Patti, Hall of Fame. One for us.”
BLAME IT ON THE ROLLING STONES
Here I am, working in my office with the TV on for company. It’s behind me on a filing cabinet so mostly I’m really listening. And I hear "Christmas, Christmas time is here, time for joy and time for cheer…" It’s Alvin and the Chipmunks – the sped-up voices singing every December since I was in junior high – and they’re singing now because they accompany the opening credits of ALMOST FAMOUS — Cameron Crowe’s wonderful film about an aspiring rock journalist who wrote for ROLLING STONE, and it has emerged on TBS.
Immediately I’m transported back to the "community room" of Thomas Jefferson High School on Route 51, 6 miles south of Pittsburgh. Sock hops. Standing along the wall waiting for someone to ask you to dance. Crying in the girls’ room when they didn’t. Driving around for hours in Barbara Morton’s dad’s convertible listening to our "Daddio of the Raddio" Porky Chedwick.
Beyond it all, the transporting power of the music. It’s actually kind of weird; this week I was in a Torah class studying ancient rules about when men are, or are not, permitted to listen to a woman’s voice. The rules are very different for the singing voice than for the speaking voice. Yeah – both of them are a bit peculiar but it is fascinating that as long as people (mostly men) have been thinking about these things. they’ve been aware of the power of music to distract, seduce, inspire and arouse.
However disturbing it may be to learn that our long-ago sisters, in all cultures, not just Jewish ones, were isolated because of the perceived dangers of what might arise between women and men if relationships were allowed to emerge, they weren’t wrong about the underlying power of the music.
The theory — at least one — was that listening to a woman’s voice, asking how she is, even, could lead to dangerous interactions. I’m not here right now to discuss this topic, but to observe that as long as man has been making music it has been seen as dangerous and seductive.
Nothing too profound, but it’s Saturday night. What do you want?
BLOG AGAINST SEXISM DAY: CAN YOU BELIEVE WE STILL NEED TO DO THIS?
March 8 is Blog Against Sexism Day – and as I began thinking about what to write, this is what came out:
Once I met Betty Friedan – actually more than once – but the first time was at the 1967 National Student Association convention. It was obviously a turbulent time: the Vietnam War was everyone’s obsession – at the conference and in the world outside; the Civil Rights movement was moving toward racial separation, Ramparts Magazine had just revealed that the CIA had been funding NSA and lots of other student activities.
I wrote about this on the Ms. website when Betty died, so I’ll just repeat it here: She spoke about inequities in pay, power and sense of self between women and men. I was irritated. Didn’t she know there was a war going on? Didn’t she know how many kids went to bed hungry? Didn’t she know about racial injustice?
During Q and A I asked her "How can women worry about themselves when there is so much more abject misery in the world? " I asked. She drew herself up as only she could, looked me square in the eye and said "My dear, don’t hide behind the poor."
She was right, of course. Over the years — I just realized that it’s 40 this year — we’ve struggled and grown. The consciousness raising groups of the 70s were just that: they genuinely raised our awareness of the vast disparity in pay, rights and attitude between women and men. The world today is unimaginably different. But not finished.
There’s a sad split between old school feminists like me and younger, equally committed women. I don’t feel it personally but see it as a real political loss – we should be working together and for many younger women the groups of my generation seem staid, old and disinterested in their younger sisters. If we’re fighting sexism we shouldn’t be fighting each other!
Beyond that, pay equity is closer but not all the way there; many major businesses and executive jobs still sport major glass ceilings, working mothers at all levels still have real problems – more in the hourly kinds of work than white collar. Divorce, domestic abuse, child custody and support — all of these issues are still without resolution. And in many areas, like abortion and federal protection of rights, we’ve slid badly under the current administration.
What gives me hope though is to think of my sons and the sons of my friends, and of the young people who share our lives in our community. These men wouldn’t dream of assuming certain tasks belong to women; wouldn’t dream of treating a female colleague or employee with less than appropriate dignity and can’t imagine another way to live. Systemically we still have a lot to do, but I do think that as we move forward these sons of feminists, raised with respect to respect their moms and sisters, classmates and friends, will not only de-fang sexism but also provide shining examples of how much better life is without it. Amen.
A REBIRTH OF WONDER — DEATH AND LAWRENCE FERLINGHETTI
In A Coney Island of the Mind, San Francisco poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti wrote of a search for a rebirth of wonder.* It’s out there – that wonder — sometimes in the strangest places.
Here is what I know: Some things in life surprise us — not with shock but with wonder. Today we flew to Boston for Rick’s dad’s funeral. It was a beautiful day – sunny and almost as warm as spring. With Rick and me traveled not only our remarkable rabbi, but also two of Rick’s dearest friends. Despite the mid-week madness of Washington, they had chosen to leave their work and fly north to support us. In addition, the sisters of two friends unable to come arrived as their surrogates. That was the first wondrous thing.
An Orthodox funeral is deceptively simple. The coffin is a plain pine box held together with pegs. As it leaves the hearse it is borne by the mourners to its place over the grave. On the way, Psalm 91 is recited and the procession stops seven times. Once the coffin – reverently referred to as the “aron” is in place, the service proceeds.
With our rabbi leading the service, each step along the way was accompanied by warm and loving exposition: Why do we do this? — How should we participate? — What is the blessing of bearing the aron and seeing to its burial? As he led the prayers and answered these questions, it was with such love and individuality that participation became a privilege and a comfort. That is the second wondrous thing.
As the service moved toward conclusion the rabbi explained the final act. We, not the cemetery employees, would bury the coffin – my husband’s father. One by one, we took up the shovels and poured earth into the grave. Not until the grave was full and the coffin covered did we leave… and then, all those in attendance formed a double line so that Rick and his brother could pass through, moving from the funeral to the initial mourning period, or Shiva.
This last, loving duty is perhaps the most remarkable of what an Orthodox Jewish funeral offers mourners. At the funerals of each of my parents, way before we moved into this new life, the cemetery distributed little envelopes of “dirt from Israel” which attendees dropped on the coffin. We all left then, and the cemetery employees finished the job.
I told my sister about the custom that mourners fill the grave, thinking that she, who is not thrilled with our decision to live a more observant life, would be appalled. Instead, she said “That’s so great – leaving them covered and at peace. I felt so badly leaving Daddy there so exposed….” That’s probably the most critical. Imagine the difference, at the close of such a painful day, filled with loss and grief, if you knew you’d bid a farewell that leaves your loved one cared for and at peace. Imagine, too, that those you love – beloved friends and family members – have all left a part of themselves there in the grave; that the final resting place includes their loving labor. That’s the final wondrous thing.
We’re nowhere near the Age of Wonder, that’s for sure. But we are occasionally given a peek. Today the window opened and a bit emerged — not quite a rebirth but present nonetheless — just enough to help us see what’s possible. If that’s not wonder, I don’t know what is.
*I Am Waiting
I am waiting for my case to come up
and I am waiting
for a rebirth of wonder
and I am waiting for someone
to really discover America
and wail
and I am waiting
for the discovery
of a new symbolic western frontier
and I am waiting
for the American Eagle
to really spread its wings
and straighten up and fly right
and I am waiting
for the Age of Anxiety
to drop dead
and I am waiting
for the war to be fought
which will make the world safe
for anarchy
and I am waiting
for the final withering away
of all governments
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder
SNOW AND SORROW
What a perfect Sunday. If you’ve never lived around snow, you can’t imagine the wonder of its first falling – big wet flakes piling up, covering dead leaves and dirt, silencing passing car noises and footsteps. You take a step and there’s a palpable give in the surface, and a wonderful squeaking sound. Here’s how our street looked and…
This is what our house looked like yesterday — the whole neighborhood was one big fairy tale. Some friends with (wonderful) small children invited us to come watch them slide down the local sledding hill.. an invitation we accepted happily. It was such a joy to watch them revel in the snow, the speed, the make-believe strawberry/snow candy, and manufacture of snowballs aimed, somewhat haphazardly (they are little) at us.
In the evening some friends who had parked their car in our driveway came over to dig it out and stayed for soup and toast. It was lovely. After they left, we both fell asleep during the Oscars and woke up in fine fettle. And then.
Of course, there’s an "and then." What did you think? At around 9:30 this morning my husband called me to tell me that his father had died. He was 87 and quite ill, so it was not, in that sense, a surprise, but it was still painful. He’s lived in LA for years, we saw him less often since we moved back east — and it was a complicated relationship, but still… I’m sitting here now listening to my husband make arrangements and work with his brother in Philadelphia and our rabbi to get things together — and worrying.
I have some strong opinions about all this myself and am having a terrible time keeping my mouth (almost completely) shut about it all. It was his dad and his reactions are the ones to be honored but as the one who usually does all these kinds of things it’s tough to stay on the sidelines – where he seems to want me to be.
I worry, too. How will it be when the arrangements are done, when there’s no place left to call? It’s my prayer that our new, observant life will help to support and protect him as he deals with the loss of the last of our four parents to leave us. And help us travel this newest journey together. There are rituals to follow for a year, so we will have some structure to his grief. For that I’m truly grateful. Not only does it offer us the comfort that comes with faith and the privilege of a community of loving friends – it also has served to bring Rick and his brother closer, since they also are observant – and that has made making all these arrangements much easier. You never know where the blessings are going to land, I guess. Wish us well.
HOW ELSE WOULD I GET TO JOHN MELLENKAMP’S HOUSE?
February 22nd is Rona Elliot’s birthday. She’s the one in the red dress next to John Mellenkamp – I’m the one on the right in the weird shirt. The woman in the middle is Kathy Schenker, a wonderful person who was then his publicist. We were in Bloomington Indiana, at Mellenkamp’s house (honest!) to interview him about his new album (I think they were still albums then.)
This kind of adventure is what Rona has brought into my life, along with a deep abiding friendship and a sense of respect for her that I feel for few others. She is courageous, funny, smart, cool, great, did I say smart?, and the best production partner I ever had. We both worked for the TODAY SHOW. In 1988 I was told I wasn’t assigned to cover the New Hampshire primary and was really – really – upset. Rona laughed – "I have something so much better for you", she said. And she did.
We went to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction in Manhattan. Bruce Springsteen inducted Bob Dylan, Elton John inducted the Drifters. Also honored and present, the three surviving Beatles, the Rolling Stones, the Beach Boys and more. AND they all sang together. AND we stayed up all night and cut a piece about it for the show. A good one. I don’t think I have had many experiences that were that thrilling – professionally or as an audience member. But what’s really important about it is that that sort of joyous event — and the desire to share it — is part of the package that is Rona.
A friend for all seasons, she never forgets or loses someone she loves — and believe me when she’s in your life you’re glad she’s there. Not just for Rock and Roll shows (although we’ve shared many amazing times) but also for giving my kids "I Love Heavy Metal" shirts to "scare your mom" and volunteering at an orphanage and being a spectacular mother and wife and always open to new ideas and experiences every moment she’s alive. I’m so so grateful to share the brief times in our life that are still available in our coast-to-coast lives. That night we saw Bruce Springsteen induct Bob Dylan into the Hall of Fame, he ended by saying – "and to quote one of your songs, ‘You was the brother that I never had.’" Well I have two wonderful sisters but Rona – you’re the other amazing — as you call it — sistah — that I’m glad I have. Happy Birthday.
JULES, JIM AND ME
I was 19 the first time I saw Jules and Jim. French New Wave films, especially those by the wondrous François Truffaut, were almost mystically revered by “intellectual” college students who hung out in art houses that served coffee and would have chained the doors shut rather than screen English language films (except for British New Wave, of course — or something like Zorba the Greek.) I remember loving the rebelliousness of the three of them: the amazing friendship between Jules and Jim; the disruptive but liberating presence of Catherine. She defied gender stereotypes, conventions of behavior and all other societal bonds. It was thrilling.
As I watched it tonight though, I realized that somehow I had missed the entire second half: the disintegration of the relationships, the selfish, destructive manipulations by the glamorous Catherine and even more interesting, the dominance, over all, of the friendship between the two men. As the narrator tells us, “Jules and Jim’s friendship had no equivalent in love.” Although both men loved Catherine, desperately, and lost so much because of her over the years, the truest, most enduring love was between the two of them. It’s also so interesting that they were German (Jules) and French (Jim) and that their friendship survived the horrors of the Great War though they fought on opposite sides. It’s particularly interesting since Truffaut lived in German-occupied France during World War II.
I guess watching the story at different points in one’s life is in many ways like it was for the three of them, living it. How we see life and what it brings us changes over time. If we are lucky, our early days permit the intoxication of rebellion and challenge of authority. If we continue to be lucky, none of those acts of rebellion does the kind of permanent damage that came to Jules, Jim and the woman they loved. And if we’re very lucky, blessed as I feel blessed, as those later days emerge, we recall what came before with amusement, affection and a joy tempered by rueful wisdom. That’s why this film – a completely different experience in 2007 from what it seemed to be 1965- is still such a gift. That’s why it will continue to matter. That is why, when mentioned among people my age, the response is a sigh and a smile. We’ve learned a bit about living and managed not to drive off into the river but, instead, to apply our hard-earned wisdom to keeping the car on road.