Old Secretary

Thank You, Judge Walker

2010-08-08T16:57:00.008-04:00

And now that I'm going, congratulations California! I was very happy and excited by the recent ruling of Judge Walker declaring Prop 8 unconstitutional. If you haven't read the opinion, it's amazing and as good a read as I've enjoyed lately. Just my opinion, but I think especially his findings of fact are going to create some real excitement on the issue of gay and lesbian marriage -- probably very soon and probably before the Supreme Court of the United States. The order can be read at http://msnbcmedia.msn.com/i//MSNBC/Sections/NEWS/A_U.S.%20news/Life/gaymarriage.pdf

But, even more compelling and interesting to me was Keith Olbermann's comment at the end of his show. I was in tears by the end. If you missed it,
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/27650743/ns/msnbc_tv-countdown_with_keith_olbermann/

The documents speak for themselves. I'll just close with Olbermann's quote of Clarence Darrow who quoted the Persian poet, Omar-Khayyam:

"So I be written in the Book of Love;
I do not care about that Book above.
Erase my name, or write it as you will,
So I be written in the Book of Love."

My Man LeBron

2010-07-26T16:07:00.014-04:00

One of my friends mentioned that I hadn't written anything lately. It's not been for lack of subject matter or that I've lost my opinionated touch, it's mostly lack of time. But, a couple weeks ago there was a column in the local rag which got me going again. One of those pieces that make your teeth hurt. One that makes you wonder how this writer ever got a spot in a newspaper and you're limited to ranting on your own little mostly, I fear, unread blog. Got your attention?

The gist of the column was that LeBron James is a disloyal, money-hungry, ungrateful wretch because he had the unmitigated nerve to leave Cleveland. Normally I don't care about professional athletes or the obscene amounts of money they make, but this column got me going. The writer went on to opine that since Cleveland was so good to James, the least he could do is to create a foundation, contribute every penny he makes in his first year at Miami, and give the money to poor people in Cleveland. There was also some talk about James not being grateful or loyal to Cleveland. Okay. Stop and take off earrings.

I wanted to just say "WTF" but I sent a sarcastic email to the writer instead, something along the lines of I thought it was hilarious that three black guys got together, made some demands, went to the same franchise and will probably affect what goes on in the NBA for the next several years. I made a smart aleck remark about white people getting their undies in a bundle when black people do something savvy and smart. I opined that James did something good for himself and I say "Good for him." It's the NBA, stupid. It's about money. Period.

I got a timid little response from the writer this morning: "Good morning. I hesitated to reply to this; are you really serious about your reply, especially the thing about 'three black guys'?" Oh, my. Looks like the PC police struck again. You don't even want to know what I said to him.

As the Sherrod episode so clearly showed, we've got a long way to go in this country. We can't even engage in a civil discourse about race. We snipe at each other from behind right wing nut cases like Breitbart. And a local columnist in SW FL plays into people's hateful, racist attitudes by implying that James "owes" Cleveland; that he's not being "loyal" to Massa Cleveland that gave him so much. My question to the clueless columnist? Did you ever write a column admonishing Brett Favre for leaving the town that nurtured and supported him or suggesting that he return to Green Bay with a bucket full of money for poor folks? No answer. Yet.

Tiger-Pit

2009-12-29T17:28:00.010-05:00

Greetings to you all from Tiger! It's been almost a year that he's run the house and he's a real pip. Actually, he's a pit, but "pip" seems to fit him better. And he's one of the funniest dogs we've ever had -- smart, alert, watchful, protective, stubborn and damn funny.

He has a routine -- when he's awake and up in the morning, Debra's awake and up. First, it's the little nails clicking on the floor, then it's that god-damned whining. Covering my head doesn't work -- he jumps up on the bed, pulls back the covers and licks my face, tail thumping and entire body wagging madly. Moan. Groan. He waits by my flip-flops while I stumble around looking for my clothes. First time out, it's just to pee and pick up the newspaper. I can read through a cup of coffee, and then it's time to walk. So, we walk. Back to the house. Now, it's time to get Cliff up (for those of you who don't know, Cliff worked afternoons for many years and hasn't been able to break that strange habit -- 3:00 a.m. to bed; 11 or noonish, up and at 'em). Whimper at the door. Wait. Stamp foot. Wait. Bark. Wait. Wag tail against door. Wait. Eventually it works. Cliff is allowed one cup of coffee and then it's time to play ball. All I can say is I hope he never decides to run away, because neither one of us could catch him. He chases the ball until he's absolutely exhausted and then he's good for the day.

The other evening, we were finishing dinner when the phone rang -- I was in the process of cutting up a few scraps of pork roast to put in his bowl. I went to answer the phone and forgot about my plate on the table. When I got done talking, I walked past the table and remembered, but there wasn't a single piece of anything on the plate -- it was licked spanking clean. I thought I was losing my mind -- had I put the meat in his bowl? Then I realized the chair had been moved to accomodate someone with shorter legs than I (and twice as many), and the plate had nary a scrap of food on it, not even a shadow! I had to laugh -- he had moved the chair so he could get to the plate, and quietly licked it clean while I was on the phone.

We miss Bossman dearly, but this pup has stolen our hearts. A friend says he'll keep us young, but I sometimes have to wonder if my 92-year-old Aunt Nina was right when she said, "A puppy? At your age? Have you lost your mind?" Don't know, Aunt Nina, don't know!

Dumb and Dumber

2009-09-22T20:39:00.004-04:00

I recently received one of those emails that make the top of my head come off. This one was a picture of President Obama holding Fareed Zakaria's book, "The Post-American World" with the following message:

"This will open your eyes. What does Obama read? Photo verified by Snopes. The name of the book Obama is reading is called The Post-American World, written by a fellow Muslim. Post-America - the world after America??? Please forward this picture to everyone you know, conservative or liberal to expose Obama's radical ideas and intent for this country!"

As anyone who's read the book knows (and it's pathetically obvious that the note's author hasn't), it's a best seller about the effect the rise of China and India is going to have on the United States and the rest of the world in the next decade or so. Insightful, informational, brilliant, and reassuring, all at the same time. I bought a copy and read it at least twice. My Dad read it and thinks it's an amazing book. I guess that makes us Muslims? We didn't just carry it around, we actually read it.

My guess is the note writer probably doesn't know that Hawaii's a state, that Obama is not now and never has been a Muslim, and that people with rich, full lives have friends that are not exactly like them. Am I really that brilliant or has the rest of America gotten amazingly more stupid? Just wondering.

What About Them?

2009-09-11T16:51:00.003-04:00

We just returned from Chicago where we saw our very favorite Dr. Love for Cliff's annual check-up at Loyola. Everything looks good, but it was a very stressful three days of tests and doctors and appointments and hurrying up and waiting. His pulmonary numbers are stable, his kidneys are still working and we actually got to see a sleep doctor who came up with a plan to help control the insomnia with which he's been plagued for 15 years.

So, I listen to all the screaming and ranting and raving and lying and exaggerating and absolutely disgusting, disgraceful behavior (ummm, Joe Wilson) and I think, "We are so lucky. We have good insurance, we have an incredible doctor, we have a friend at the City benefits office, we have a very helpful case manager at BC/BS, I have several nurse friends and relatives who never BS me." And then I think, "What about the people who aren't so lucky, who didn't work for attorneys for 35 years and pick up some nasty lawyer tricks, who aren't so persistent and obnoxious that people give in just to make them go away, who don't understand every little bit and piece of the chronic condition with which they're dealing, who don't know the questions to ask or the services to expect/demand, who don't have the resources? What about them?" I'm waiting for President Obama to "go Chicago" on Congress, but will it really happen? Maybe part of the solution is simply learning to survive in the system we've got . . .

That's all. What about them?

The Professor, the Policeman and the President

2009-07-24T19:25:00.003-04:00

Before I start, in the interest of full disclosure, I am married to a retired Chicago police officer, who happens to be black. His first question, upon hearing about the Gates situation was, "Wonder what would have happened if the professor had been white and the police officer black."

Anyone who's aware of the ugliness and role of race in this country knows what would have happened. The officer would have been written up, reprimanded, probably suspended and required to attend "attitude adjustment" training. I could regale you with stories of the role race plays in the CPD, but I'll refrain, except for one instance. As late as 2004 when Cliff retired, roll call found black officers seated on one side of the room; white ones on the other. There were a few white officers who black officers considered "okay," but they were few and far between, and the trust was never total. In 2004.

As for Gates, let's get real. A police officer comes in your house, without your permission or invitation, and gets upset when you get upset. Last I heard, "disorderly conduct" doesn't include a bad attitude or anger or even words one might consider distasteful or disrespectful. There's no allegation that Gates threatened the officer, physically or otherwise. There's no allegation that he was a danger to the public. The officer didn't like his attitude and Gates made the mistake of not shutting up when told to do so. He didn't display that "yessa, Massa" attitude the officer clearly expected and ultimately demanded.

This was clearly a case of a white officer determined to put an uppity Negro in his place. And a Harvard professor who wasn't going to stand for it. Unbelievably, the police officer officially, in the written report, now lists the reason for asking Gates to come outside as "poor acoustics in the kitchen." He claims he entered the house because he was "concerned" about the safety of Professor Gates. He asserts Gates was belligerent, was "yelling so loud I couldn't hear myself read his ID," and immediately made race an issue. As Cliff has often asserted, a piece of paper will lay still for just about anything. One "P" word we haven't heard yet is "professional." In any work situation, there is the person on the job, who supposedly is the "professional" and there is the person being served: the client or the patient or the public. Bottom line, the person who should have been professional was not; instead he was apparently determined to show Gates who was the boss. Shame on him. And shame on all the teary-eyed, back-slapping, huggy-muggy, horribly, terribly offended officers who lined up to appear on the morning yakkity yak shows to support him.

As for the president, he's black. In America. Gates is his friend. Of course he's going to react. And, I agree wholeheartedly -- the police acted "stupidly." He should not apologize. Case closed. Now, can we all take a deep breath and get on to something important -- like the Iraq and Afghanistan wars, health care, Wall Street crooks -- some of those things? Please?

Tea Party Schmea Party

2009-04-16T18:09:00.015-04:00

I saw a comment crawling along the bottom of Wolf Blitzer's show last night, something to the effect that the infamous tea parties were nothing but an opportunity for disgruntled white folks to show their true faces in public, apparently without any fear of reprimand or retaliation. I agree. Some of the signs I saw and the words I heard made me sick to my stomach; they had nothing to do with tea. Actually, I've seen hints of the return of this ugly phenom, loosely disguised as humor, for many weeks already. If this whole "protest" was about taxes and tea, I'm curious to know where all these disgruntled folks were during the last eight years . . . or, let's be real . . . the last 30 years.

To those of you who think the election of Barack Obama solved all the racial problems in this country, I have two words: Puh-Lease. Am I surprised that people are still boo-hooing about an election that Obama won by 38% in the electoral college? Nope. And, even though Obama did his damnedest to diffuse the race issue early on, even denouncing his long-time pastor and friend, the sickening racial attitudes that have long been a part of our national psyche are again raising their ugly heads, up front and in public. Nothing's been resolved. And, let him make one single misstep. His phony liberal white support will turn on him in a New York minute. This is, after all, Amerika, where everything is racial, even when you're the POTUS.

So, in the time-honored tradition of Old Man "All Politics is Local" Daley, I will get on with the job at hand in Cape Coral -- electing a new mayor and three new council members . . . and, yes, we have a hell of a good shot at it.

Farewell, Bossman

2009-04-09T23:52:00.001-04:00

It's been over two months, but I think I can finally write about losing The Boss. Cliff rescued him from a puppy-basement many years ago, choosing him because he pushed all the other puppies out of the way so he could eat! Yes, he was a pit bull mix, but a kinder, funnier, more protective, smarter dog there has never been.

He guarded the three-flat in Chicago, never moving a muscle when one of "his" cars entered the driveway. Let him hear a strange car, however, and he was all over it, barking and snarling. Even though she was a little leery at first, our downstairs tenant, Ida, soon admitted he was the best burglar alarm system she had ever seen! He loved to walk in the park and was friendly and polite. Cross his "property line," however, and you had problems.

One Saturday I was cleaning and had the back door open. Suddenly, I saw Boss, standing just inside our apartment door, tail up and neck hair bristling. I looked down the stairs to the back door and saw a young boy standing there. I asked, "Can I help you?" from my apartment door. He looked around to see who was talking, then said, "I'm coming to visit my friend in the basement apartment." The dog stood silently by my side, alert and ready. "Is your friend Greek and 90 years old?" I asked. "My friend, my friend lives downstairs," he replied, putting his hand on the door knob, preparing to enter. At that instant Boss went down the stairs like the dog from hell, snarling and jumping and barking at the young man on the other side of the door. He ran, and I ran down the stairs to grab Boss. Ida came out from her apartment, asking me "What were those two boys doing here?" Well, all I can say is that whatever amount of money we spent on Boss was earned, repaid in those few moments. The thought of two boys walking into Ida's apartment gave me nightmares for weeks.

The move to Florida was a challenge. Boss was used to being alone while Cliff and I worked. When we moved to Florida, one of us was always at home. He'd come out of the bedroom, with a quizzical look on his face, like "Aren't you ever leaving this house?" He never got used to the hot weather -- he was a Chicago dog who loved the snow and cold.

On January 28, the day after Cliff's 15th transplant anniversary, he woke up and couldn't walk. We called Dr. Kroll and took him in immediately. He did an X-ray and then came in the room with a sad look on his face. A tumor had completely destroyed one bone in Boss' front right leg and the second bone was fractured, which is why he couldn't walk. Dr. Kroll explained that if he were younger, if he didn't have such serious arthritis in his back and hind legs, he would amputate the leg . . . but, he was 14, and he had been having arthritic problems for more than a year. Cliff and I held him as Dr. Kroll inserted the needle; in less than 20 seconds it was all over. We can't say enough for Dr. Kroll -- as a matter of fact, he has consistently treated both us and Boss with more compassion and kindess than most "human" doctors -- hate to say it, but it's true. And Boss loved him, so he was not afraid or freaked out -- he died peacefully and quickly.

I cried for two days, until Cliff got in the car and went and found us a new puppy. I know what you're saying: "As old as they are, they're starting with a puppy?" Yep. A brindle pit with an attitude, but another wonderful dog who makes us laugh and keeps us hopping. He'll never be Boss, but Tiger and we are going to be just fine

Our Chicago Trip

2008-12-26T00:37:00.002-05:00

We've just returned from the latest visit with the Marvelous Dr. Love, Cliff's transplant surgeon. Monday was a day of tests and Tuesday we saw the doctor and reviewed the test results. Everything looks good and Dr. Love proclaimed, "Cliff, I believe your body has just decided these lungs are okay." That's it in a nutshell -- I'm always a nervous wreck until we actually see the good doctor and hear from him that everything's fine. January 27 will be 15 years since Cliff's bilateral lung transplant. As most of you know, he's done amazingly well, but it's still been a hell of a ride.

While we were waiting for Cliff to be called for his MRI, we saw an elderly priest walk in and suddenly realized we were in the presence of Cardinal George! Cliff happened to be in the room next to him as they were changing for their MRI's and they had a pleasant conversation -- even though it's been years since he's darkened the door of a Catholic church, seeing the cardinal up close and in person was impressive. Cliff told him he had been a policeman who sometimes guarded the cardinal's residence, an assignment he liked not only because of how easy it was, but also because of how kindly he was treated. Cardinal George replied, "Please feel free to come back any time!"

We were in Chicago when the governor was arrested, an event which was the talk of the town. No one was surprised at the "crimes" of which he's being accused. What boggled folks' minds was that he was so stupid or arrogant or both that he actually discussed them on his home phone, even though he knew he was under federal scrutiny. After Cliff's appointment at Loyola on Tuesday, he and his old CPD partner, Mike, went for a steam at the one bathhouse left in Chicago. At dinner, they were laughing about Blago and wondering why he didn't go to the bathhouse to talk business -- after all, it's a place where you have to be "somebody somebody sent," everyone's naked so wires aren't a problem, and it's so hot and humid there's no way any kind of electronic device would function or survive. The other amazing story was Jesse, Jr. who, it appears, has been snitching on Blago to the feds for years and may have at least contemplated paying to play. Word has it he's toast.

We stayed at the Amalfi Hotel downtown, our flights came and went right on the button, and we were there and back before all the weather, so all in all, it was a good trip. And, after I got home and calmed down, I was reminded once again of all the folks who have supported and helped and treated and cared for us over the past 16 years -- there is, indeed, a band of angels watching over us for which we are eternally grateful.

Yes, We Did!

2008-11-05T01:26:00.007-05:00

As some of you know, I've stood by my assertion for months now that Barack Obama would win. Actually, my inside Chicago source said it would be a landslide, predicting victory for Obama at between 30 and 40 percent. Last time I calculated, the Electoral College gave him a 38 percent lead.

There were many doubters, and people who thought my eternal optimism might jinx it all. While I knew in my heart that we would win, several incidents in the last week convinced me that Obama might even take Florida, the one fly in my ointment. I waited 1-1/2 hours to vote on Wednesday and talked to everyone around me. Out of the seven people waiting with me (an old white man retired from Oklahoma, a Haitian couple and two German couples), it was 100 percent for Obama. A couple days later, I wore my Obama cap to the grocery store and discovered that every single person in the checkout line had already voted for Obama. On the Sunday before the election, I canvassed for Obama with three other old white women (we had a ball, by the way). We hit about 30 houses in the three hours we worked and, among those contacts, found only two people who said they were voting for McCain; everyone else had already voted or planned to vote for Obama. On Tuesday afternoon, I made calls from the house for the Obama campaign and every single person with whom I spoke had voted . . . ta da . . . for Obama. It was truly amazing.

Tuesday evening was scary at first and then exciting and then amazing. When it appeared Obama was winning, I called my friend in Amsterdam, at 5:00 a.m. his time. He was overwhelmed and happy and crying. Friends called back and forth all evening. We cheered the Grant Park speech and The Husband finally wandered off to bed, but I watched until the sun came up. Truly a day to remember.

Even a political junkie like me is exhausted. I'm too tired to even think about the last two years, other than to opine that the best man won. I am excited about his choices so far -- especially Rahm Emanuel, my all-time favorite Chicago pol. Things will get done. Maybe not the way you'd like, but they will get done.

Now the really hard part starts. As President Obama (doesn't that sound wonderful?) says, "We're all in this together; I can't do it alone." And the Mennonite part of me recognizes and acknowledges and loves that attitude. Only if we all work together can things change, resolve and improve. Onward and upward!

Be Like Boss

2008-08-23T19:43:00.003-04:00

This is a story I once wrote for "Children's Church" and am thinking of using in the latest Cousin Marie Crazed Conception. Just got back from the Bender reunion -- we're all talkers and story-tellers and some of us write (one in-law has a novel looking for a publisher). Marie's idea? A round-robin email among the cousins, where we each add a tale. In any event, here's one of mine . . .

I have a dog whose name is Bossman because he’s the boss at our house. Boss is a very happy dog who actually smiles. From morning to night, his tail wags and he likes to dance and prance and play around.

In the morning, when I get up, one of the first things I see is Boss looking up at me, with that tail wagging about100 miles an hour. He loves to run and play and take me for walks. He’s also a very smart dog – did you know that dogs can understand about 400 words? Boss, for example, will lick my face if I ask him for a kiss. He runs straight to the garage when I ask him if he wants to go for a ride. If I say, “Let’s do laundry,” he runs to the basement door. He can stay or wait; go and come; sit or lay down.

He’s also quite fastidious – that means neat and clean. He won’t do his business in the house, or even in the back yard. Oh, no. Boss insists on a walk in the park as part of his daily routine and I clean up after him. When we take our walk in the park, I keep Boss on a leash and he knows that he is supposed to walk at a slow pace because there’s an old woman on the other end of his leash. He watches for action – he knows that even though rabbits and squirrels are tempting, they run much faster than he does and they can squeeze under fences or run up trees and get away, so he usually just gives them a hard stare and then walks on. Boss’ downfall, though, is tiny little dogs. I’m not sure if he likes them or if he’d like to eat them, so I’m always very careful when I see a tiny little dog in the park.

One day, as we were walking, I noticed another woman walking toward me with a tiny little dog – one of those dogs that looks kind of like a mop with feet – you know the kind of dog I’m talking about? I tightened my hold on Boss’ leash, but he surprised me – walked right past that mop without even looking. I relaxed, and then it happened. Boss whipped a U-turn, wrapped the leash around my feet, knocked me to the ground and made a beeline for the mop. The mop dog’s owner grabbed him and started screaming at me to get my dog. I scrambled to my feet and ran to grab Boss and save the mop from certain destruction. I pulled him away from the little dog, scolded him and then took the free end of the leash and gave him a good spanking. Now, the mop’s owner screamed at me again: “Don’t hit him. He doesn’t know what he did.” “Oh, you are so wrong,” I said. “He knows exactly what he did.”

Well, Boss looked at me, put his tail between his legs, bowed his head and walked slowly behind me all the way home. As you can probably imagine, he was scolded all the way home. When we got in the house, he crawled into his cage, laid down in the corner, put his head down on his paws and refused to look at me. He was one sorry looking dog.

But, here’s the good part of the story, and the part I want you to remember. In a little while, after seeing how sorry he looked and almost worrying because he was so quiet, I talked to Boss in a normal, un-scolding voice. His ears perked up, his tail started to wag, the smile came back and he was soon his normal happy, cheerful self. Boss knew that he had done something bad and he certainly acted sorry, but once he realized that I still loved him, he didn’t dwell on it. He went back to being his old lovable self.

So, instead of being “Like Mike,” be like Boss: When you’ve done something wrong, and have shown that you are sorry, remember that Mom or Dad or God or your friend has forgiven you, that they still love and care about you, and that you’re okay in their book! That is definitely something to perk up your ears and wag your tail about!

A Song I Can’t Sing

2008-07-03T18:35:00.004-04:00

The other evening I was on the phone with my brother’s wife and she said, “Oh, Debra. The children and I have been working on a piece we can play together – let me see if you can hear it if we lay the phone down and play it for you.” There was the usual scratching and tuning and giggling and then the song began.

I strained to hear and then I recognized it: Number 7 in the Church Hymnal, the song I can never sing, can barely stand to hear – “I’ll Praise My Maker.” I sobbed during the telephone performance and then told LuAnn, my baby brother’s wife, a story she had never heard, a story that happened before my brother was born. It's the story I call "The Year of Funerals" and it happened during the 11th year of my life. My baby sister, Holly Ann, died in December, 1959; my Grandpa Bender in June, 1960; my cousin, Sherrill, in October, 1960 and my Grandma Bender in February, 1961. But it’s Sherrill’s funeral that I’ll never forget. That’s when The Song was sung.

In the early 1950’s my two oldest cousins, Sandra and Sherrill, daughters of my mother’s two older sisters, were both stricken with polio. I don’t know how severely Sandra was affected, although I remember her walking with a limp. Sherrill spent several months in an iron lung in the hospital, but she survived and came home and made her way around in a wheel chair. Anyone who experienced that period of time will never forget the fear. No one knew what caused polio or what should be done to protect children. I remember summers when even drinking water was suspect and swimming was out of the question. Although I was only 5 or 6, I remember. I remember the relief everyone felt when we lined up to get those sugar cubes with the magic vaccine.

Our family never forgot, because we were reminded every time we saw Sherrill in her wheelchair or watched Sandra limping toward us. But, life went on. We lived closer to Sherrill’s family – my Aunt Opal, Uncle Wilbur and Sherrill’s sister, Joyce – so I knew her story better. Sherrill graduated from the high school in Kalona, I believe, unable to attend IMS because of stairs which she could not navigate. I remember her being very bright, hardworking and determined to succeed despite her handicaps. She decided she wanted to go to Hesston College, a Mennonite junior college in Kansas, several hundred miles from her Iowa home. I remember my Aunt Opal saying, “Absolutely not. You cannot go to Kansas, so far from home.” But Sherrill begged and pleaded and got herself admitted. Aunt Opal finally caved and Sherrill went to Hesston, in August, 1960.

I’ll never forget the awful telephone call two months later. I can see Mom, to this day, clutching the phone and screaming, “Oh, no! What happened?” Sherrill had only been in Hesston a short time, had become exhausted and died, apparently from heart failure, just days short of her 18th birthday.

The funeral was at a large Mennonite church in Iowa on a hot Indian summer October afternoon. I remember hundreds of people, no air conditioning, sobbing relatives, my devastated grandparents, my cousin, Joyce, trying hard to hold up her 12-year-old chin, and a church so hot and packed and stifling I thought I’d die. I remember an octet singing “I’ll Praise My Maker,” a song picked by Aunt Opal because of its references to breath and Sherrill’s polio experience. It’s a beautiful song, but I can’t stand to hear it and I have never been able to sing it. And almost 50 years later, it still makes me cry.

In Defense of Rev. Wright

2008-05-08T22:28:00.005-04:00

Rev. Wright? Personally, I think he's a whole lot more right than wrong, misguided or goofy. I've been to Trinity, was warmly welcomed, met the good reverend and heard him preach on more than one occasion. I have wonderful, long-time friends who are members of Trinity. There are few people I respect more than Father Pfleger, who is one of Rev. Wright's dearest friends and most ardent supporters and who, by the way, is an angry little white man in his own right. From the beginning of this disastrous event, I believed that Rev. Wright was taken out of context and spun and snippeted and looped and over-exposed, all in an attempt to discredit Barack Obama. I still believe that.

I watched the Moyers interview, the NAACP speech and the National Press Club appearance. While the Moyers interview was fairly mild, there were moments, if you were watching closely, that hinted at what was coming. I watched the NAACP speech and enjoyed its absolutely hilarious tone. One of my Chicago friends called me early Monday morning and insisted that I turn on the TV to watch the NPC appearance and, yes, I admit to cheering out loud as I watched -- even while I knew he was playing into the media's greedy, grubby, guilty hands and feared what the consequences would be. Here was a bright, bold, bodacious black man who had just had it. Just had it with all of the nonsense. Just had it with all of the BS. Just had it. There wasn't a question for which he didn't have a response, short and to the point. Answers that gave lie to our assumption that the questioners were serious journalists. Not comforting or comfortable answers, but he did have answers. You may not like what he said, or how he said it -- that's your call. I suspect a huge part of the problem is that Rev. Wright is ummm, shall we say, a Negro who doesn't know his place.

Jeremiah Wright remembers having to move off the sidewalk when a white man approached and having to lower his eyes when a white woman passed by. He remembers that it didn't matter that he cared for President Johnson during surgery, there were still jobs and positions to which he could never aspire. He remembers lynchings and Jim Crow and actual, factual, life-threatening discrimination. My husband's father, also an angry man, remembered as well; my husband does not -- he just remembers the stories. Obama is another generation removed, a man whose main connection to those the age of Wright is the benefits he reaped from the suffering and struggling of those of his grandfather's generation.

The saddest and most god-awful part of this whole episode was not the angry words and demeanor of Rev. Wright. It was the total and absolute agony on Barack Obama's face as he distanced himself from Rev. Wright after the disastrous weekend. I can only pray that someday they'll be able to experience reconciliation and a renewed and redeemed relationship.

Shivers

2008-02-17T15:48:00.005-05:00

The phone rang this morning and when I answered, a woman said, “Is this the Stewarts?” and I said, “Yes.” “Well,” she said, “this is a little strange, but I’m looking for Cliff Stewart.” I told her she had, indeed, reached Cliff Stewart. When she referred to him as “Kippy,” his childhood nickname, and named his sisters, I knew she was legit. To make a long story short, the woman calling was Cliff’s first cousin once removed from Houston, TX, who had found him using an online family search. Even though she’s eight years younger than he, and the only contact he ever had with her family was a trip to Houston 50 years ago, they talked like old friends for over two hours, and it looks like we’ll be making a trip to Houston in July for a reunion.

What makes this even more interesting is that yesterday I was the guest of a friend at the (get this) Naples Wellesley Club to hear the authors of Identical Strangers speak. They are two identical twins who were given up for adoption, separated at birth because some nutcase psychologist wanted to do a study on the effects of separating identical twins and, through a series of strange twists, met some 30-odd years later.

And, even more interesting, as Benders are wont to do, just a couple weeks ago I got into a conversation about families with the meat manager at Publix who had just found all kinds of relatives using an online search. When I told her that Cliff knew absolutely nothing about any of his family, other than his siblings, she offered to help me since she has a one-year subscription to Ancestry.com. I just emailed her and she’s ecstatic!

Shivers.

Here's to 14 More!

2008-02-01T19:22:00.000-05:00

January 27, 2008 was the 14th anniversary of Cliff's bilateral lung transplant. And it's a day I spent remembering -- the phone call at 4:00 p.m., the wild, crazy drive to Madison by myself, in fog and snow, 85 mph, passing patrol cars, praying they'd stop me, wavering between happiness for us and wondering sadness about the donor's family, crying and singing and slipping and sliding and driving like a mad woman. Seeing Cliff for just a few minutes before they wheeled him into surgery; sitting on the floor outside the OR, sobbing. Eleven long hours waiting . . . and then, the dawning of understanding that a miracle had occurred.

Names run through my mind as I think about The Day, 14 years ago -- here's a few we'll always hold dear. They were, and continue to be, a vital part of our lives.

Paul, the husband of Cliff's donor, Laura, who told us they had never discussed organ donation, but when he was approached after Laura suffered a brain aneuryism, he remembered her friend who had died waiting for a kidney and instinctively knew that Laura would want him to donate. Seven people had major organ transplants that evening because of Paul's generosity and willingness to think of others on the most terrible day of his life. Cliff likes to say that Laura's the only woman who never rejected him and he'll always hold her close to his heart! How could we ever repay Paul?

Bob, whose transplant occurred only a few weeks before Cliff's and who invited me to sit in his room for a good part of the evening while Cliff was in surgery. I couldn't believe how healthy he looked, how freely he was breathing, how excited he was about Cliff's chance. Bob, who kept reassuring me, "Debra, he won't believe how good he feels when he takes that first deep breath. It's going to be fine -- we know the lungs are good, we know he's in the hands of the best doctor in the world. All you have to do is be calm and wait."

Dr. Love, ah, Dr. Love. The surgeon who, having seen Cliff in clinic two days before, paid a visit to the organ procurement office, instructing them that he didn't care how bad the numbers looked, if they got a call about available lungs he wanted to know about it. Dr. Love, who, even though seriously sleep-deprived, put in another long, long night to save Cliff's life. When we made the first appointment to see him, almost a year before, the nurse with whom I spoke assured me, "You're just going to looooooove Dr. Love!" And love him, we do! And, while I'm thanking him, I thank Phoebe as well -- as I told her once, if she were a weak, whiney, dependent little wife, Dr. Love would never be able to do what he does. Thank you, Phoebe!

Dr. Russell and Dr. Al-Bazzaz. As the years go by, your contributions grow even more valuable. Dr. Al-Bazzaz who reassuringly steered us to an HMO before the surgery, during a time when we were totally unable to make rational decisions and then got a little misty during our last appointment with him, asking me to be sure to stay in touch -- and we have. And, Dr. Russell, one of those rare doctors whose only interest was her patient's well-being and who becomes your friend as well as your doctor. Dear, dear Dr. Russell, thank you for your guidance and care and determination to get Cliff whatever he needed for almost 12 years.

2007 was a hard year, with the nagging cough and the endless trips back and forth to Jacksonville with no answers or resolution. Finally, almost in desperation, we called The Man, Dr. Love, who knew exactly what's going on and spelled out a fix in less than five minutes. Cross your fingers -- so far, it's working, Cliff has stopped coughing and feels much better. The other night, Emily said, "I can tell by the tone of his voice that Dad feels better."

So, we're on to another year, one which we both hope will be more uneventful than the last! Here's to 14 more!

It’s Not Over Til It’s Over

2008-01-25T23:12:00.000-05:00

I’ve watched with amusement as folks drooled and fawned over Obama and then went into cardiac arrest over New Hampshire. Nevada came and went and now South Carolina is being touted as “make or break” for Barack. People are whispering about the “Bradley Effect” and making dire predictions about the fate of the African-American who would be president.

Come, now, people. Let’s not get our undies in a bundle. It’s a long time until this is decided, we've only had a few primaries and Barack’s rolling in dough. He’s also got one of the best political operatives in the country running his show – Daley’s guy, David Axelrod, who has virtually guaranteed that Daley will be mayor until the day he dies or retires. He’s survived some of the roughest politics in the country during his days in the Illinois senate. He’s bright and tough and resilient.

Obama’s got my vote. He’s got my vote because I’ve spent a substantial amount of time listening to him and researching him. He’s got my vote because friends who know him personally say he’s totally righteous. He’s got my vote because I think he understands that we don’t just need policy changes in this country – we need fundamental change in the way this country operates – politically, socially, and economically. He’s got my vote because he understands that he can’t do it by himself. I’ve heard him say time and again that change must come, not from the top down, but from the bottom up. That appeals to that part of me that's still Mennonite. Even though operating from the bottom up is a messy, emotional, divisive, time-consuming way to run a church or a country, it’s the only way if we are serious about change. And, if Obama truly believes what I hear him saying, policy change will come as a result of the basic, fundamental change we all make together. He’s got my vote because I believe he’s honest and forthright and says what needs to be said. He's got my vote because he's promised to listen before he leaps. He's got my vote because he has a larger world view. He's got my vote because I believe his election would be a tremendous asset in restoring America's good name, a name and stature which has been so terribly damaged. And, he's got my vote because my husband, a very wise man, says, "Can you imagine what electing a brother would say to the rest of the world?"

Obama’s got my vote because I’ve worked for women like Hillary, with the tight smile that never quite makes it to her eyes, women who are mean-spirited and evil-tempered, women who are your worst enemy one day and want to be your best friend the next, women whose vainglory and vacillation can cause motion sickness. And she reminds me of all of them. I might have held my nose and voted for her, had she become the Democratic candidate, but after Bad Bill’s performance the last week or so, there’s no way in hell I can do it. I admit it, I loved Bill and looked the other way when his libido went haywire; I laughed when folks called him the “first black president;” I believed in the vast right wing conspiracy. No more. I might be inclined to be a little more forgiving, but I’m reading Carl Bernstein’s book, “A Woman in Charge,” and not only has it given me some interesting ideas about the Clintons’ relationship, it is scaring me silly. I’m not going to review it here – read it for yourself. Then, think about how the Clintons have acted the last couple of weeks, recall the insinuations and the snide remarks, consider the sly injection of race into this contest. Then tell me you won’t be scrambling to get on the Progressives for McCain bandwagon – I’m kidding, I'm kidding! I’ll stay home before I vote for McCain. And, I’ll stay home before I vote for Hillary.

Rose Who Called Me Bob

2007-10-01T19:39:00.000-04:00

My dear friend, Rose, dead all these years . . . could it possibly be almost 15? First friend I lost to death – still think about calling her when something funny happens. Southwest side, Irish-Catholic, even more politically incorrect than Bill, but a total barrel of laughs, mostly. Called me Bob because my hair was short – “Bob Bender,” she said, “Got a nice ring to it.” Called her husband “Large,” because every piece of his clothing had a “Large” tag. Called other people names I can’t repeat, but, hey, Rose, if you’re listening, “Blue Skirt Waltz” is even more insane – considerably more – than when we worked with her, if you can imagine.

Rose’s beloved “Large” was a Chicago copper who was crushed between two cars during a traffic stop. First, they said he wouldn’t make it; then they said he’d never walk again. Well, he did make it and he did walk and he went back to work and I met him only once. Two days later, he died from a blood clot that moved from his injured legs to his heart. Rose cried when I ran to the house after hearing – “Bob, what breaks my heart is that after the party Saturday, Large told me how much he liked you and now you’ll never get to be friends.”

I met Cliff. Invited to barbecue at Rose’s. Asked if I could bring Cliff. “God, no,” said my friend, Rose. “I can’t have a (insert “N” word) at my barbecue; the neighbors would run me out of the neighborhood.” Okay. Then I won’t come either. “Suit yourself,” said my friend, Rose. Then, a few months later, she met Cliff and fell in love with him. “Oh, my God, Bob. I am so sorry. He’s wonderful. And wouldn’t he and Large have been great friends? Can you ever forgive me?” Of course, said I. Well, Rose was a money-where-your-mouth is kind of woman. After that, we were invited to every single picnic, party, barbecue, celebration and get-together at her house and, with her Southwest side Irish-Catholic friends looking askance, she would throw her arm around Cliff’s shoulder upon our arrival, announce that this is “my good friend, Cliff,” and ask what she could get him to drink. And, Cliff loved her – much to his credit, say I.

Rose died suddenly one night, only three days after she had hugged and kissed me good-bye after I had been at her house for an evening gab session. Thought it was a little strange – we definitely weren’t huggy-kissy women. Did she know it was the last time? I’ll never know. Kneeling by the casket at the wake, I sobbed as I tried to comprehend that she was gone – Cliff nudged me and said, “Damn, Debra, the old broad looks better dead than she ever did alive.” Sobs turned to guffaws as I thought how hard Rose would have laughed.

Rose who called me Bob. I think of her often – and was reminded of her while reading Elizabeth Edwards’ book, “Saving Graces.” Keeping the memories bright, says Elizabeth, helps with the empty hole in your life. Maybe so. But I still miss Rose.

C.S.I.*

2007-09-23T19:55:00.000-04:00

Went out for a burger this evening. When accosted by the Greeter “I,” we asked if we could just buy hamburgers. “Oh, sure,” said the Greeter “I,” “but they come with fries and a drink.” Hmmm. So, I guess we can’t just order a hamburger? “Sure you can, but it comes with fries and a drink.” Okay. We give up. Order/Money Taking “I” informs us that we must fill out our own order form and that we must circle the condiments we would like – and, "no, no, you can't just cross out the two you don’t want!" We did get the hamburger – you know, just the hamburger, with the free fries and drink.

Wal-Mart, the store I love to hate recently did its every seven-year “let’s move everything around and confuse all our customers so they walk around all fahoodled, buying shit they don’t need.” So now I know where nothing is. Asked the “I” Wal-Mart person where the pool supplies were – “Right next to the bicycles.” Frickin’ bikes were hanging from the ceiling. I had to leave.

Weeklong experience with “I” nurses who appeared to have gotten their RN’s in six weeks via some on-line course. Blood pressure’s perfect, but we’re ordering a 24-hour monitor to check “nocturnal pressures,” which any dimwit knows are lower than your perfect daytime readings. “Ummm, I’ve got three syringes here, but nary a clue what’s in them – just doing what I’m told.” Oh, and the IV from hell that took 30 minutes, 6 tries, 4 nurses and the “best” person from the lab to insert – it has to come out, even though it’s working fine, because “GI wants to use their own.” The Witch Wife went bat shit at that point.

And, did anyone actually bother to read the MoveOn ad? All we did was tell the truth. The general wants to keep his job – instead of telling us what’s really going on, as he promised, he simply said what he was told to say by the “I” in Charge. Did you know, for instance, that if you’re shot in the front of the head you don’t count as dead? Or if you die in a car bombing, you don’t count either? That’s how we lower the death toll in Iraq. What insanely creative "I" came up with that?

Just had a primary election in Cape Coral – 21 people running for five spots in one of the most important elections for city council in years. Fourteen percent of the registered voters made those decisions for 100 percent of Cape Coral’s residents. “I” Non-voters.

*C.S.I.? “Can’t stand idiots” – a wonderful slogan on a t-shirt I saw yesterday.

The Caregiver

2007-08-20T19:23:00.000-04:00

Many of you may not know that my husband was the recipient of a double lung transplant on January 27, 1994, at the University of Wisconsin Hospital in Madison, an event which entirely changed the tone and tenor of our lives. Cliff is known informally at UW as “No. 4,” designating the fact that he was only the fourth double lung transplant performed at Madison. We owe the staff at UW our life – Drs. Love and McVey, who performed the transplant; Dr. Pellet, who kept a careful eye on Cliff in ICU and entertained us all with his hilarious comments and observations during Cliff’s recovery; our nurse-coordinator, Debbie Welter Roe, one of our very dearest friends; Bob Hoffman and Lori Shinstine, the tireless OPO team and also dear friends; Dr. Russell, Cliff’s absolutely amazing Chicago GP; Dr. Al-Bazzaz, our beloved pulmonologist who first set us on this journey; and others too numerous to mention. We are also eternally grateful to Paul Poellinger, the husband of Cliff’s donor, an absolutely amazing man who we were privileged to meet and with whom we’ve stayed in contact. Six months after the transplant, Cliff went back to work, as a Chicago police officer on full duty, and finished his career 10 years later, on January 16, 2004, at which time we retired to Cape Coral, Florida.

Due to our move and some major changes at UW, we transferred his post-transplant care to Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville, Florida, a five-hour drive from Cape Coral. Everything you have heard about Mayo is true. It is an amazing place full of amazing people – from the head of the transplant program to the Finance Department to the appointment scheduler. Our visits are scheduled to the minute, and by the time we see Dr. Erasmus in the afternoon, he has results of all the tests that were done that morning. Dr. E. is a young guy, a pulmonologist who specializes in post-transplant care, very laid back and reassuring – I feel better the minute he walks in the room. Our nurse-coordinator is Heidy David, a woman who is an amazing fusion of efficient professionalism and caring concern. We couldn’t be happier. We know Cliff is at the best place in the country.

Just two weeks ago today, Cliff and I were summoned to Mayo as the result of some rather frightening numbers on his spirometer, a little machine he uses at home to measure his lung functions. He’s had a nagging cough for several months, been treated with antibiotics and the dreaded prednisone a couple of times, but just couldn’t seem to shake it. We noticed a drop in his numbers and called Heidy late Thursday afternoon. On Monday, we were in Jacksonville for a bronchoscopy. For those of you who aren’t lung-friendly, a “bronch” involves a long tube with a little camera on the end, inserted through the nose into the lungs so that the doctor can “eyeball” the lungs. Dr. Keller came out after the procedure to tell me what he had found. I asked him to lay it out for me – don’t spare me any details, just tell me what you think. “Well,” said Dr. Keller, “it could be one of three things: acute rejection, an infection that just hasn’t been completely knocked out or chronic rejection; don’t think it’s acute, but it could be one of the other two.” And, to Dr. Keller, I replied: “You’ve never met me before – I should probably explain how I operate. Acute rejection doesn’t frighten me – we’ve been through that before; infection can be treated with antibiotics; chronic rejection – that’s the big bad wolf that haunts the dark closets of the minds of transplant survivors and those who love them. I pick infection.” He looked at me, with that doctor look, and said, “Well, you’re just a little bit crazy, now, aren’t you?” I had to laugh through the tears that were welling up in my eyes – crazy? Oh, yes. Totally. How do you think I made it through the last 14 years?

So, home we go, armed with antibiotics. Next day they call to tell me they’re adding a prednisone burst and doubling the length of time he takes the antibiotic – “Strictly precautionary, Debra, nothing to worry about. Just want to hit whatever it is with everything we've got.” Okay. So, every day with the Levaquin 750, and the Prednisone, a wonderful but awful medicine, and the pulmonary function tests and then his sugar goes out of whack because of the Prednisone, so there’s sticking the finger and sticking the tummy and measuring and watching and reminding and nagging. But, the good news is Cliff feels better than he has in months, the cough is gone, his measurable lung functions are up, almost where they were six months ago before this all started, and he’s working his ass off at the gym every other day – think five hours of non-stop cardio. A 57-year-old man with someone else's lungs! We will beat this! To be continued.

My Bus Poop Story

2007-05-14T23:12:00.000-04:00

In my former life, while working in Chicago, I rode the No. 22 Clark Street bus to and from work. It made its way through various and sundry neighborhoods and had passengers ranging from downtown professionals to Bug House Square hookers, from Boys’ Town residents to assorted bums and drunks. It was generally SRO during rush hour, full of hot, tired, cranky people.

One evening I was lucky enough to get a seat near the front of the bus, but unlucky enough to be seated next to The Blind Beggar, who was well-known in the Loop for his well-aimed pinches of selected women’s derrières. Much discussion was had about his apparent selective sight or lack thereof! I sighed and opened my newspaper, hoping he’d get off before too long, hoping he wouldn’t try to talk to me and hoping he wouldn’t pinch me if I exited before he did.

We were about two-thirds of the way home, and several people exited the front door of the bus. Suddenly, I smelled a really terrible smell, heard people making all kinds of disgusted noises and watched passengers begin moving rapidly toward the back of the bus. Then I looked and I saw a neat little pile of – how can I say this – human excrement, on the top step of the bus’ front entrance. The bus driver slammed the door shut on passengers who were trying to board, motioning them to move away so he could leave. People were cursing at him, yelling at him to let them on, but he refused to reopen the door. Blind Beggar begs for an explanation – “What’s wrong? What’s that smell? Is someone sick?” – the driver screams at him to stay seated. The rest of us are crowded together at the back of the bus as it speeds toward a CTA barn a few blocks down the street. The driver runs stops signs, and speeds past bus stops, refusing to stop to let people on or off. The Blind Beggar is still plaintively whining, “What’s wrong? What’s that smell?”

By now, the rest of us are laughing hysterically, discussing how in the world someone could have made such a neat little pile, with comments ranging from hilarious to downright disgusting. We finally came to the consensus that it had to have been a woman wearing a dress and no underwear!

The bus swerved into the barn depot, and the driver shouted to some maintenance workers to come give him a hand. When the other CTA employees heard what had happened, they doubled over with laughter, hooting and hollering, while the poor driver begged them to get some equipment to clean up his bus.

We were finally able to exit the bus, through the back door only, mind you, and I walked the rest of the way home, laughing my head off. Only on the #22! Can you beat that one, Amishlaw?

DRMARTINLUTHERKING

2007-02-19T15:50:00.001-05:00

Sometimes we just need to be quiet and listen to a 6-year-old. My friend’s niece, Kathryn, showed her the picture of a birthday cake she had drawn, with five candles which were labeled “P-E-A-C-E.” When questioned, she had the following explanation for her “Abby Bebby,” Kathryn’s own unique translation of “Auntie Debbie.”

“The cake is for DrMartinLutherKing,” she said, running all the names together into one. “When he was a young boy, they had water fountains with brown water and white water. DrMartinLutherKing didn't want to drink the brown water, he thought it was wrong.”

“And,” she continued, “there was a woman riding the bus and they told her she had to move to the back of the bus, but she had worked hard all day and she was tired, so she wouldn’t move. She told DrMartinLutherKing about it and DrMartinLutherKing called his friends and then he gave a speech next to a big swimming pool.”

“But you know what, Abby Bebby?” continued Kathryn, with the certainty that only 6-year-olds seem to possess anymore. “It doesn’t matter what color your skin is, we’re all alike. We pulled up our sleeves and put our arms in a circle and they were all different colors, but it doesn’t matter.”

Methinks DrMartinLutherKing would smile.

Joe Biden: The Peter Principle, 2007 Version

2007-02-01T13:18:00.000-05:00

Well, well, well. The only advice I have for Joe Biden comes from that old poster we all had tacked to our walls a few decades ago. You know the one. It contained sarcastic instructions about what to do in case of a nuclear attack. Something along the lines of “Put your head between your legs and kiss your ass good-bye.”

Joe, Joe, Joe. It’s 2007 and the best you could come up with was to describe Obama as “the first mainstream African-American who is articulate and bright and clean and a nice-looking guy.” Gotta love that Joe. But, should I be surprised? I recently heard that the reason white people like Obama is because he doesn’t “act black . . . he acts like a middle class white kid with a tan.” Geez, Louise, how cool is that? We can elect a black guy who’s really a white guy!

Back to Biden. Next he takes on Clinton, calling her proposal to cap the number of American troops deployed and cut funding to Iraqi security forces “nothing but disaster.”

And, finally, he takes a shot at Edwards, who has proposed immediately removing 40,000-50,000 U.S. troops from Iraq. “I don't think John Edwards knows what the heck he is talking about.”

Like I said, Joe. Put your head between your legs.

What Do You Give an Attorney for Christmas?

2006-12-24T15:50:00.000-05:00

Always a problem, for 32 long years. Here's my favorite story about that dilemma. I was working for Shawn, a young associate, one other associate and a partner. A man and two women -- couldn't even just buy three of the same. Two of them I loved and, well, we won’t get into the third, which complicated things even further. What to do? It had been a year of never-ending international crises and need and I decided to do what I thought was best. No worries about size or color or personal taste; I made a contribution to Mennonite Central Committee and received three gift cards, describing the MCC projects to which my money had been contributed. I made three pretty little seasonal bouquets and propped the cards up against the vases. Shawn came to my desk, smiling, and said, “Debra, I absolutely loved your gift, what a wonderful thing to do! But how did you know?” “How did I know what?” I asked. “Well,” said Shawn, “my card was about a project in Guatemala. I spent the first 11 years of my life in Guatemala because my parents were missionaries.” Chills went down my spine as I explained I didn’t know. Then, I had to ask – what denomination? “Church of God,” replied Shawn. All my evangelical neurons pricked up as I laughed and said, “Church of God? Boy, I bet you went to tent meetings, didn’t you?” Shawn laughed as he nodded his head, asking me to keep this little tidbit to myself. “You know every single lawyer in Chicago is either Catholic or Jewish and they just don’t get evangelicals!” We laughed some more as I promised, but remembering the terror George Brunk instilled in my childhood bones, I had to ask, “Yeah, but weren’t some of those sermons scarier than any horror movie you’ve ever seen?” “Well,” drawled Shawn, “they weren’t really so bad when it was your dad preaching!” From that day forward, we were best of friends and have stayed in touch, even though we’re now many miles apart. It was an amazing experience to work for someone who understood the most basic underpinnings of my reactions, attitudes, and opinions. Merry Christmas, Shawn, Lena and Vincent!

The Chicago Solution

2006-11-18T14:45:00.000-05:00

Having spent most of my adult life around attorneys and cops, and having started my career as a legal secretary back in the day when law was fun, I was recently reminded of some of the more creative, funnier things we did. And, even though lawyers thought they had all the brains, the police stories I’ve heard were even more creative. Since all the players will remain unnamed . . . enjoy!

One of those friends of a friend, a real brain surgeon, sold her car to some guy and didn't take the plates off. When she started getting parking tickets, she got all upset and didn't know what to do. The Chicago solution? Since we knew where the guy lived, black spray paint applied to the license plates solved that little problem!

Then there was the elusive defendant who managed to evade the sheriff's efforts at service. I hired my friend's boyfriend, a private process server, who, given it was Easter, bought a lily at the Jewel, rang the bell and said he had a floral delivery. The missus met him in the hallway, all a-twitter about the surprise flowers . . . he gave her the plant, and handed her the summons, announcing (no shit), "You've been served!" We laughed ourselves silly all the way home!

And the client who didn’t keep overtime records, instead paying his mostly Hispanic restaurant staff in cash and food when they worked overtime. Everything’s fine, everybody’s happy until some white boy came along, got mad at the owner and turned him in to the DOL. After much time and effort, a settlement was reached, checks were prepared and explanatory letters mailed out to all the employees. Talk about legalese – I couldn’t even understand what the letter said. The finishing touch? Sent the letters by certified mail, return receipt requested, with a big red stamp on the envelope that said, “Official US Government Notice enclosed.” Nary an employee showed up to claim their letters (or their checks), we went back to the judge and explained the situation, the client got his money back and everyone went back to overtime for cash and food!

Cops were a little more vicious in their fun – a white kid who violated curfew got unceremoniously dumped in the middle of the projects (or a black kid dropped off in the middle of an unwelcoming white neighborhood) many blocks from home, and told “Good night and good luck!”

A wife abuser was made to clean up the mess he had made in their apartment, wash the dishes, give his wife a bath, clean her wounds and put her to bed, all while the cop supervised. He was then ordered to leave the apartment for the night, with the ominous warning, “If I get called back here again tonight . . .”

A young sergeant who thought he was going to tell a station full of old-timers how things were done came out to find all four of the tires on his personal car flattened, in the district parking lot, no less!

Three little white girls who got caught shoplifting at Old Navy were handcuffed to one of the officer’s favorite crack whores and unceremoniously thrown (sobbing and sniffling) into the back of a paddy wagon for a ride to the station.

Ah, yes. The Chicago Solution.

What September 11 Means to Me

2006-09-10T12:00:00.000-04:00

When the first plane hit the WTC, I was on the train on my way to work at a law firm in Chicago, reading my newspaper, blissfully unaware. Within two hours, I went from believing it was an accident to watching the second plane crash, and understanding something terrible was happening. A rumor that a plane had been hijacked out of Indianapolis and was headed northwest resulted in a massive evacuation of Chicago’s Loop. I remember stunned people standing silently waiting for trains and busses. My friend, Venessa, and I drove home together, trying to absorb what was happening. I remember several hours, frantic with worry about my stepdaughter, a student at NYU.

A few days later, after some reflection, I had another shock. I realized that I had regularly watched television reports of worldwide terrorism and its effects for years, and then, without much thought or reflection, flipped to another channel. I recognized that, while this attack was indeed a terrible event, it was the kind of thing that many of my brothers and sisters around the world lived with on a regular basis. Suddenly I understood that until 9/11, America had been very fortunate.

Because I am a pacifist, I believe that war, retaliation and killing are never options. Period. And, I found out, in a very personal way, how unpopular that belief was in the days and weeks following 9/11. I knew about my grandfather’s generation being imprisoned for refusing to fight during World War I; I knew about my father being unmercifully harassed in high school during World War II; I remembered a fellow college student being removed from class in handcuffs for his refusal to register during the Vietnam War. However, I had never personally experienced the disgust and disdain which followed my refusal to go along with the vengeful attitudes I saw after the shock of the attack wore off. One of my co-workers, a Japanese-American woman who had survived the horror of war, put a sign on her desk which said, “Reconciliation, not retaliation.” A co-worker ripped it to shreds, screaming that she was a traitor. A secretary who I considered a friend refused to speak to me for several months, explaining icily, “I know what Mennonites think.” An anti-war sticker was ripped off my computer monitor while my back was turned.

But my refusal to go along with the prevailing attitude had some positive, wonderful results. Many people asked about the sticker I displayed on my desk. I explained that I believed war and retaliation are never a solution. I proffered my belief that since God is the father of all humankind, that makes even the terrorists my brothers. I described my Palestinian neighbors who were too frightened to come out of their home for weeks after 9/11. I spoke about one of my husband’s doctors, an Arab-American with family in Baghdad. I learned that when people make a personal connection, when beliefs can be logically and rationally discussed, something wonderful happens: Ideas are introduced, blindly accepted public opinion is questioned and personal values are challenged.

What does 9/11 mean to me? It was, indeed, a terrible event, causing tremendous suffering for many people. For me, it was a chance to share with others, in a very real and personal way, the beliefs I have held since I was a little girl: War, and its unending circle of hatred, killing and retaliation, are always wrong. September 11 is a vivid reminder to me that as a Christian pacifist, I have the freedom to believe differently from the majority of Americans, and to do so, for the most part, without fear.

24 Hours

2006-08-25T22:52:00.000-04:00

Well, it’s been interesting. Last evening, Cliff and I were on the local news to discuss TSA’s inexplicable test procedure – we both took the initial test about six months ago and failed. He was a Chicago copper and me a legal secretary for more than 30 years, we both have college degrees and stellar work records, but we’re not qualified to screen luggage? And all TSA will say is, “You failed;” no explanation, no offer of what or why, just “You failed.” Hmmmmmm. Me thinks they had some kind of a liberal detector in that 600-question test. Or could it be that a 3-hour test took me only 45 minutes to complete? Not really brain surgery, okay? But, hey, we're local TV stars and everyone thought we were hilarious!

Then, today. Real estate tax estimate came. Taxes on our empty lot have doubled to more than $7000. Anyone interested in buying a lot in Cape Coral? Thank God for the homeowner’s exemption which keeps the taxes on our house fairly stable. Cliff is talking about moving out of the country.

Had to find a vice president at LaSalle Bank for Bill – the operator at the bank only had access to “in-bank extensions,” but she could transfer me, she said. I was transferred to some voice mail with no message, just one of those electronic voices that suddenly chided me for “not speaking loudly enough.” Well, hello, I didn’t even know I was supposed to be speaking! Called back and in my best condescending secretarial voice spelled out in great detail what I needed and ended up with the woman’s cell phone number, office number, secretary’s name and secretary’s number. This is what happens when there are only two banks in the entire country, okay?

The pool guy sent a check out for me (three weeks late) even though our agreement was that he would clean my pool and give me a little cash to do his billing. It’s getting to the point where the aggravation is outweighing the benefits . . . but I’ll just play the trick that worked so well with lawyers. When they didn’t act right, I just stopped working until they straightened out. Worked every time.

Then there's the ongoing problem with an e-bay seller from whom I supposedly purchased a textbook for Cliff; she took my money, then I got an e-mail saying it was being sent, and then another one saying she “changed her mind.” I e-mailed her asking what the hell was going on and haven’t heard boo. However, I found another seller who lives right here in Cape Coral and we’re hooking up tomorrow. I’ll go after Seller No. 1 once I have the book in hand.

Finally, at about 4:30 the neighbor’s daughter came running over with her dog, crying that her younger brother and sister (8-year-old twins) had taken the dog for a walk and brought her back with a broken leg, and who’s my vet? She was so distraught I ended up taking her and the dog to the vet where we discovered the leg was, in fact, broken . . . dog had to be sedated so they could set it and we came home with a dog and a cast and a bunch of pills.

All I can say is, “Thank God for kind doctors and Valium," okay? It was that kind of day.

Sane???

2006-08-14T12:25:00.000-04:00

Dan Warner writes a column in the local Fort Myers paper and I generally consider him to be the fount of all common sense. However, the column he wrote about last week's London event belied my opinion. I was feeling uneasy as I read it, but when I read, ". . . which means the SANE response is to remain AFRAID," I threw the paper at the TV.

Despite their carefully scripted protestations to the contrary, "afraid" is exactly where Bush and his lap dog, Blair, want you; "afraid" is exactly where the terrorists want you; "afraid" is exactly where Halliburton/KBR/Cheney want you; "afraid" is where the CIA and NSA and FBI and all those other three-letter organizations want you. Afraid to criticize a rotton, corrupt government; afraid to say the United States is itself teetering on tyranny; afraid to speak truth to power; afraid to even live your life in peace. "Fear is the great motivator," a former boss of mine used to say. "The only thing we have to fear is fear itself," a former president once said. Truer words . . .

What exactly are we to fear? Life? Not I. Death? We're all going to die, Mr. Warner, and that's one thing I'd stake my life on. We don't get to choose when and we don't get to choose how. I'm not afraid, in fact, I refuse to be afraid. I wish for you, and all God's children, that same confidence and peace.

This and That

2006-08-02T16:46:00.000-04:00

MIAMI VICE, the Movie: Huge disappointment. As one of those mid-life women who stayed at home on Friday evenings to watch Miami Vice, the TV show, all I can say to Colin and Jamie is “You, my dears, are no Crockett and Tubbs.” Pathetic “plot,” amazing lack of hysterically funny conversation, totally PC attitude, lots of fast cars and shooting; one barely believable drug deal. My three-word review: PA THE TIC.

FLOYD LANDIS: Hey, if he’s “ours,” he’s ours. What’s with canceling the parade in Ephrata? What’s with the backpedaling (awful pun, I know) of MWR, which followed his progress with bated breath until the drug allegations, quickly changing its editorial at that point. Let’s stand up and say, “Hey, he’s Floyd Landis and he’s one of ours (well, okay, he's an “opshtanna”) and we love him regardless.” Besides, there’s no official resolution of this yet, now is there?

ISRAEL: Might have bitten off more than it can chew. True colors coming out when they indiscriminately (intentionally?) hit buildings containing old people and children and continue their efforts to bomb Lebanon into obscurity. Friends of mine from the Middle East describe a totally different Hizbollah than does CNN. And, hey, why doesn’t anyone scream and rant and rave about how much MILITARY money the good old US of A sends to Israel every single year . . . not a measly $100 million, but billions and billions.

POKER UPDATE: Jim McManus went out at #17 last week, I believe. And I have another friend who’s on his way to getting his mug on TV. Shawn Van Asdale tells me he went out at #40 in Vegas last week . . . so watch for him! He’s one of my very favorite friends who is also a lawyer with whom I worked at Seyfarth. Just hope he and Jim don’t end up at the same table one day. I wouldn’t be able to watch! By the way, Jim just wrote a new book about health care in America, called “Physical.” Absolutely wonderful read, if anyone’s interested.

CHRIS: Hurricane coming? Hope not. I have decreed there will be none in Cape Coral this year!

Name Dropping

2006-07-25T21:01:00.000-04:00

I know name dropping's generally considered kind of hokey, but, hey, I grew to adulthood in Chicago, the most connected city in the country, and this is just too exciting.

My friend from U of I college days, Jim McManus, made it to the final table at the 2006 World Poker Tour and will be playing on the Travel Channel tomorrow evening. If you watch, he’s the bald one with sunglasses and a bad attitude.

I know it’s not Floyd Landis or Tiger Woods, but, hey, it IS kind of exciting! Go, Jim!

Who’s REALLY the Church Lady?

2006-07-24T18:06:00.000-04:00

Yesterday Cliff and I attended a fund raiser for a 14-year-old girl who needs liver, bowel, stomach and pancreas transplants.

We found out about Brittni from Liz and Fred, two motorcycle-riding, middle-aged Floridians who painted our kitchen. Liz belongs to the Chrome Divas, a group of cycle-riding women, and told us that they were going to have a fund raiser for Brittni, whose single mother will probably lose her job when they have to move to Pittsburgh for the transplant. Well, as Benders are wont to do, I started asking questions and found out that the fund raiser’s goal was to help pay the $10,000 plus cost of Brittni’s flight to Pittsburgh when a donor becomes available. “No way should she have to pay for her transportation to Pittsburgh,” said I, knowing of organizations who fly transplant candidates for free. I made several phone calls and gave the resulting contacts and information to Liz.

A day or two later, there was an article in the paper about Brittni’s situation. A few days later, another article, on the front page no less, about a company in Fort Myers that had not only volunteered its private jet, but had also lined up several back-up jets, all of whom were willing to give Brittni a free ride to Pittsburgh when the call comes.

We went to the fundraiser, held at the “Back Streets Sports Bar” yesterday afternoon. In that tiny little room were a whole bunch of bikers and me and Cliff! They had sold Brittni bracelets at the Fort Myers’ cycle run the night before, raised money from a poker run, and were in the middle of an auction when we arrived. People were bidding like crazy and the money was flowing as freely as the beer. Liz came running over to greet us and said, “My God, Debra, it looks like we’re going to raise at least $25,000! It has been just amazing!”

It was Sunday, the day that all bench-warmers hold dear. We were in a crazy dark biker bar with a bunch of big-hearted people who were putting their money where their mouths are. Who’s REALLY the church lady?

It’s a Mennonite Thing; You Wouldn’t Versteh

2006-07-05T23:22:00.000-04:00

Well, hush my mouth. Just as I was trying to get used to my ex-Amish friend blogging about all these movies he’s seen, and after having grown up without seeing a movie myself until I was in high school, what do I see in the June 26 issue of the Mennonite Weekly Review? This interesting little news item from the Kalona Mennonite Church, no less:

The film The Passion of the Christ was shown at KMC on April 9.

Shock and awe, okay? Like I said, it’s a Mennonite thing. I’ll never forget the first movie I ever saw. “Gone With the Wind” was showing at the Harrisonburg theater and, having read the book several times, I was dying to see the movie. I begged and pleaded. I promised to only go see that one. I pouted and threatened, and then I went. I’ll never forget my Mom’s tearful “Would you want Jesus to see you in such a place?” query as I left. I went anyway. I’ve seen lots of movies since then and I still prefer books. My husband, Catholic and urban, shakes his head in wonder at the idea of movies being sinful. Like I said, it’s a Mennonite thing.

And now they’re showing movies – whoops, sorry – “films” in Mennonite churches? My, my, my, my, my, my, my.

My Man Bill

2006-06-20T10:46:00.000-04:00

Before my husband’s retirement as one of Chicago’s finest, he was often assigned to President Clinton’s entourage during Chicago appearances. The police would clear the streets in front of the building where the President was appearing until he entered the building. They would then sit around and wait until he was finished to do it all in reverse. Cliff never failed to remark on what an amazing “people person” Clinton is. No matter how late they were running, no matter who was trying to hurry him along, he would shake everyone’s hand and thank them for protecting him, often calling the police officers by name. And, he’d talk to everyone and anyone else who happened to be in the general vicinity. And, of course, Cliff and his buddies always got a big laugh telling stories about his roving eye. “Man, when a good lookin’ broad walked by . . . ”

One evening, after speaking at the Hilton, instead of parking near the front door, the limo pulled up on a side street to pick up the President. The only people around were his security people and the Chicago police . . . and a bum, sitting across the street on the grass. When the bum saw President Clinton come out the door, he went nuts, yelling, “Hey, Bill, my man, we wish you was still president, come on over here, man, and let me shake your hand.” Even though Clinton was already getting in the limo, he climbed back out, went across the street, put his arm around the man, shook his hand and stood and chatted with him for a minute. No one was around to see him do it, no one to impress, just Bill and the bum.

Say what you like about Bill. He may have his faults. But whenever I see people mistreat “the least of these,” I think of Bill.

Be Like Mike

2006-06-09T14:32:00.001-04:00

I watched, with tears in my eyes, as Michael Berg was interviewed over and over again yesterday, as he calmly and rationally made his case, not just for peace, but for forgiveness and acceptance and pacifism. I watched as he pleaded for the cycle of revenge to stop. I cringed as reporters asked him the same stupid questions over and over.

And, I was absolutely floored at the power of the government to control the media. Early yesterday morning I saw a live interview between Mr. Berg and one of those perky cable can’t-tell-them-apart newsreaders. She went absolutely blank (not much of a stretch) when he said he felt no joy in the death of another human being, then recovered and asked again if he didn’t feel some satisfaction that his son’s murderer had been killed. Mr. Berg began to say something along the lines of “the only event which would bring me any joy would be if impeachment proceedings were begun against Bush today,” when he was quickly and abruptly cut off. I never saw that comment again. Amazing.

And then I hung my head in shame, thinking about the “uh, please, Mr. President, uh, Bush, uh if you don’t mind, we’re kind of against the war cause we’re Mennonites, but we don’t want to make a big fuss about it, oh, and, just so you won’t notice that we’re not pro-war, we’re going to support the troops” attitude of my church, the Mennonite Church, in its official “Statement on the War in Iraq.” If only we could be a little more like Mike.

The Da Vinci Ho-Hum

2006-05-29T18:03:00.000-04:00

The Husband and I went to see the movie, a week after it opened, using free tickets we got in a software purchase deal. We were happy we didn’t put out any cash or spend any time waiting in line.

I had read the book; he had not. Neither of us was impressed with the movie, but I was more disappointed. I generally see movies based on their reviews – if reviews are lukewarm or bad, I figure it’s a movie I’ll love, and vice versa. In the case of Da Vinci, the reviews were on the money. In defense of my "to see or not to see" system, however, “Crash” has become one of my all-time favorites, I laughed and cried (always a good sign) through “Diary of a Mad Black Woman,” hummed happily along with “Hustle and Flow,” will never watch “The Notebook” again, thought “Brokeback Mountain” was boring and stupid, and found “Good Night and Good Luck” too lacking in any detail or story line for my taste -- much like that other acclaimed Clooney movie, "Syriana."

As usual, this book was better than the movie. The movie, however, was easier to follow, and left out some of the book’s twists and turns. The book leaves you hanging; the movie settles the question of who carries Jesus’ bloodline, but by the time they tell you, you’ve long figured it out for yourself.

Ho-hum. Out of five stars, barely one, okay? As The Husband said, “We should have known. Much ado about nothing . . .”

Books, Books and More Books

2006-05-15T21:50:00.002-04:00

Well, John Amishlaw, I’m not nearly as well-read as you and tend to favor fiction and current political tomes. However, I’ll give it a shot if you’ll allow me some leeway on the categories and promise not to blog about my simple tastes.

THREE INFLUENTIAL BOOKS IN MY LIFE:

The Bible, for reasons too numerous to explain here. I’ve never forgotten childhood Bible stories, some of which were incredibly exciting to me. I now consider it a guidebook for life, in a lot of ways, and even amaze myself with what I can recall. Like George Bush quoting a verse exactly backwards during a presidential debate!

Eldridge Cleaver’s Soul on Ice: At the age of 19, I read this book for a summer school class on the “black experience” in America at EMC, no less. Cleaver’s writings about race, class and sex in America blew me away. His subsequent break with the Panthers and eventual slide into crime and drug use broke my heart.

Mr. Grabbit and Little Wung Fu of China: Two children’s stories that I will never forget. Mr. Grabbit was a greedy rabbit who ended up clinging to the church steeple because he couldn’t decide which of his four umbrellas to carry, carried them all, and got blown away by a gust of wind. He experienced an ah-ha moment, and after his rescue sold all the “stuff” he didn’t really need and was never greedy again! Little Wung Fu of China was a first or second grade summer Bible school series that fascinated me, probably because it was the first story I heard about someone who lived on the opposite side of the world.

THREE BOOKS I'VE READ MORE THAN ONCE:

Gone with the Wind. Love it, love it, love it. No reason other than it’s just a wonderful story about a woman who wouldn’t give up. I’ve used the timeless lines, “I’ll think about that tomorrow” and “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn” on occasions too numerous to list.

Anne Lamott’s Traveling Mercies. Not only have I read this book several times, I’ve given it to a lot of friends, and everyone loved Anne’s story of stumbling toward faith. I can’t recommend most of her other books, but her newest, Plan B, was back on track again.

Phil Yancey’s What’s So Amazing About Grace. My nephew, Jeremy, recommended this book and I ended up reading the first couple chapters standing in Barnes and Noble. Everyone’s favorite line: “There’s nothing you can do to make God love you more. There’s nothing you can do to make God love you less.” In that same vein, Chris Rice’s Grace Matters is a wonderful book, also about grace, grace with feet on it.

THREE BOOKS I DISLIKED TOO MUCH TO FINISH:

God’s Politics. While I have a lot of respect for Jim Wallis, what he had to say in this book could have been said in less than 100 pages. After plowing about two-thirds of the way through, I gave it away.

Bill Clinton’s My Life. Same criticism as God’s Politics, but I’d cut Bill a little more slack because we all know how he loves to hear himself talk . . .

Anything written by Robert Ludlum after about 1982. The early ones are great; the later ones are so discombobolated I found myself reading and rereading just trying to figure out what was going on. Finally gave up!

THREE PURE PLEASURE SERIES:

Robert Parker’s Spenser: Love the sparce conversation, Spenser’s long-suffering girlfriend, Susan, and his bald, silent partner, Hawk.

Janet Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum: Private Eye Stephanie is torn between two amazing love interests (Joe Morelli and the ever mysterious Ranger) and burdened with one of the craziest families I’ve ever seen.

James Patterson’s Alex Cross: Alex is always a good read; Patterson’s other stuff isn’t so hot.

THREE BOOKS I RECENTLY PURCHASED:

Tavis Smiley’s Contract with Black America. Bill Cosby should sit down and read this book.

Time on Two Crosses – The Collected Writings of Bayard Rustin. Rustin was the major player in Martin Luther King’s introduction to non-resistance and a long-time, passionate pacifist. He was, however, kept in the background of the civil rights movement and other historic moments because of his homosexuality. Great reading and an interesting missing piece of history.

Dan Brown’s The DaVinci Code. Finally read this the other day at the insistence of my step-daughter, Emily. Gave me scads of material for new conspiracy theories, a real problem now that I’ve got plenty of time to think. How about Mennonites and Free Masons and their involvement in . . . okay, okay, time for me to quit.

It's Secretaries' Day!

2006-04-25T20:20:00.000-04:00

Given that tomorrow is what I still stubbornly refer to as "Secretaries' Day" (none of that pretentious, tongue twisting "Administrative Assistant" stuff for me) following will be a number of posts which were initially written for a book which never came to be. More about that later. Since the piece was to be a 17-page chapter, I have divided and will post it by its original divisions, each of which will bear the pre-heading “Old Secretary." In any event, here's to secretaries everywhere! Happy Secretaries' Day!

Old Secretary: Never Make a Secretary Mad at You

2006-04-25T18:31:00.013-04:00

I once worked for a young associate who was such a pleasure that I suggested he consider teaching a course entitled, “How to Treat Your Secretary.” Ken was always pleasant and easy-going, probably a quirk of his personality, but appreciated nonetheless. After reading the first letter I edited for him, he said, “Did I write this? It sounds great!” From then on, we were a team in the truest sense of the word. Even though he asked me to do things that went far beyond duties normally considered “secretarial,” I would have done anything for him because I never felt that he was taking advantage of me. Requests were made on an “if you have time” basis and I had the freedom to say “I just can’t do that today.” Completed jobs were consistently rewarded with gratitude. When I asked how someone so young had learned such an important lesson, he said, with a smile, “At my old firm, I saw what can happen if you make a secretary mad at you and I determined then and there that I would never do anything to put myself in that position.” Treat a secretary well and you’ll be richly rewarded. On the contrary, consistently treat your secretary like a jerk and I can guarantee you that she knows 101 different ways to jerk you around, and still be a competent secretary. Eventually you’ll end up with a secretary, nothing more and nothing less, and that one time you really need her to shine will be the time she declines to go beyond her bare bones responsibility.

Old Secretary: Hang On to Your Sense of Humor

2006-04-25T18:31:00.012-04:00

In the dark ages, when sexual harassment and political correctness were unknown concepts, I worked for a partner who could only be described as insane. However, he was probably one of the funniest people I had ever met, which made up for a lot of his transgressions. One day he came running out to my desk, in a panic. “Deb, I did something really stupid and the client’s in my office and he’s on the verge of discovering it, so in a couple of minutes, even though I know it wasn’t your fault, I’m going to call you into my office and scream at you!” I laughed and said, “Go ahead. The client’s not dumb enough to think it was me and he’ll know it was you anyway.” We laughed together, and then went through with our little charade, both knowing that I was right! I kept his finances straight, dealt with irate ex-girlfriends, kept the current girlfriends separated and, in general, ran his life. In spite of (or perhaps because of) his insanity, he was extremely generous. He made my IRA contribution out of his own pocket for several years, gave me my first Coach bag and showed up with a beautiful little sapphire and diamond ring one Secretary’s Day. I remember him with great fondness.

Old Secretary: R-E-S-P-E-C-T

2006-04-25T18:31:00.011-04:00

Along with a sense of humor, respect can go a long way toward keeping you on the right path with your secretary. In my now advanced age, I have been known to approach new, young assignments with this warning: “Just remember that I’ve done this longer than you’ve been alive and we’ll get along fine.” Treat your secretary with respect and you’ll get it back 100-fold. For the obtuse, here are a few specific hints in the respect category:

Never, ever revise a one-sentence “enclosed please find” letter which you asked your secretary to prepare.

Don’t automatically assume a mistake was the fault of your secretary. Do a little checking before you start screaming. We all know about “assume.”

Cursing and slamming down the phone are not good habits.

Being pleasant and friendly only when you want something is not only childish, but ineffective. I can spot a phony a mile away.

If you’re having a personal conversation you’d like to keep personal, leaving your office door open and assuming I’m not listening is probably not wise, especially if you’ve annoyed me lately. I’m not a non-hearing, non-seeing machine, and things you never wanted anyone to know have a way of making the most delicious fodder for the secretarial grapevine.

Be consistent in your attitude. If we’re friendly when it’s just you and me, then be friendly when you’re with your little lawyer pals, or that partner you’re trying so hard to impress.

Little words go a long way . . . little words like “I’m sorry” and “Thank you” and “Great job” can cover a multitude of sins.

Old Secretary: Gifts

2006-04-25T18:31:00.009-04:00

To the vast majority of the people for whom I have worked, I would say: “Don’t bother. I appreciate respect, gratitude and honesty much more than any thoughtless, hurried gift you mistakenly believe I expect.” There are, of course, exceptions to this rule. I worked for an attorney several years ago who gave me gifts that almost brought me to tears on more than one occasion simply because he took the time to get to know me and in the process learned what was important to me. In 1994, my husband had a double lung transplant which, as I’m sure you can imagine, is not only life-changing, but an event which becomes a major part of your life. A few days before Secretary’s Day, Bob came to my desk and asked if there was a transplant organization to which he could make a donation on my behalf as his gift to me. Not only did he take my suggestion, he made an extremely generous donation, something which I will never forget. He took the time to get to know me and that in itself was a priceless gift. Even though we don’t work together anymore, we stay in touch and he’ll always be one of my favorites.

Old Secretary: A Special Note to Women

2006-04-25T18:31:00.008-04:00

At the very real risk of being totally un-PC, my experience has been that, unlike men, who exhibit a wide range of personalities/expectations/ attitudes, women bosses fall easily into two poetic “There was a little girl” categories: “When she was good, she was very, very good, but when she was bad, she was horrid.” One of the biggest disappointments for me has been that women have not made an appreciable difference in the practice of law. They have not brought a softer edge to law, but have instead often become horrible little men in their frantic efforts to scramble toward success. In many cases, the oppressed have become the oppressors and women who have “made it” certainly have not remembered those of us who chose the more traditional route. I sometimes wonder whether the whole feminist revolution was worth the struggle. My advice to women in power: Remember from whence you came and never forget those of us who fought to make the way for you.

Old Secretary: Are We in Calcutta, Toto?

2006-04-25T18:31:00.007-04:00

One of the most hurtful things that I have watched occur over the past several years is the development of what I call the “caste system,” that demeaning arrangement which delineates the various levels of personnel and their respective “importance” in the firm. The resulting levels of respect or lack thereof and sporadic spasms of civility-meltdown, while not officially sanctioned by management, are certainly tolerated. Evidence of this ranking system is almost overwhelming: Identifying staff as “professional” or “support,” meting out different punishment for similar offenses, holding attorneys and staff to different standards for everything from attendance to office décor, and choosing with whom information is shared are just a few examples I can name. Not only is this atmosphere humiliating, it can totally destroy any team spirit or semblance of working toward a common goal. No one expects to be coddled or catered to, but everyone needs to feel like they’re an important, vital part of the team.

And, now, a good example: One of the best places I ever worked was Mennonite Broadcasts, where the entire staff gathered every morning for a short devotional period, followed by announcements, work assignments and dissemination of information to every single employee. Not only did I feel included, but that daily get together had a leveling effect which allowed me, a minor little player, to become and remain friends with the man whose voice was heard around the country on MBI’s weekly radio broadcasts. I understand that this was a small, church-related organization where I worked 30 years ago, but I’m still convinced that they had it figured out, and the resulting atmosphere of respect and inclusion could serve as a model for any organization.

Old Secretary: Allow Your Secretary to Shine

2006-04-25T18:31:00.006-04:00

One of the most important things a young attorney can learn is that you can’t do it all by yourself. Inherent in that realization must be the understanding that there are just some things you aren’t good at and, finally, must come the acknowledgement that, oh, my goodness, there really are people who do some things better than you! One of my strong points is my ability to organize, from keeping things in their proper places to creating workable methods for storing and retrieving all kinds of information; from insuring that important data is current and correct, to organizing information in a digestible manner, in short, to do whatever it takes to “get your back” in the information-managing area. Nothing makes me happier than a big mess that needs to be organized with some coherent instructions and a little time. But remember, if you withhold information I need, or cling to your files with infant-like-security-blanket tenacity, or insist on micro-managing the most menial task, I can’t do my job.

In the mid 80’s, when law firms were just beginning to understand the capabilities of technology, the firm at which I worked was one of the first in Chicago to computerize its billing system. I was the person selected to head the new billing department and the office manager and I spent many hours looking at equipment and hardware. After selecting and ordering the necessary items, Jan sat me down and said, “Look. I don’t have time to be bothered with this billing stuff. It’s your baby. Take it and run with it and I don’t want to hear from you unless you have a problem you can’t resolve.” Needless to say, Jan was the best office manager I ever worked for, and though it was a stressful experience, setting up and running that system all by myself remains to this day one of my proudest accomplishments. Over the years, attorneys who have recognized my strengths have saved themselves countless hours by simply explaining what needed to be done and then trusting and allowing me to do it. Give your secretary some credit, giver her the information she needs, help her stretch to her limits, show her you trust her and then turn her loose. It’s a move you’ll never regret. A word to the wise: Always give credit where credit is due, even if it’s only recognition between the two of you.

Old Secretary: We All Have Our Days

2006-04-25T18:31:00.005-04:00

One day, one of my attorneys called me and prefaced our conversation with this comment: “I’m going to apologize up front. I may be a bit testy today.” And I replied, “Okay. I’ll take everything you say with a grain of salt.” We laughed together and then got down to work. What a simple, but thoughtful thing to do! Explain that your day hasn’t been great so far and ask for understanding. While I know, probably better than most, that personal situations can take on a life of their own, people around you don’t understand that unless you tell them. I don’t need details, but cluing me in that today may be a little crazy is crucial. A warning: Not every day can be crazy and coming to my desk with a wild look in your eyes, shrieking, “We’re going to have a terrible day” is not acceptable behavior.

In that same “personal information” vein, I once worked for an associate whose wife called him many, many times a day, to the point where he felt obliged to apologize to me. My years of experience served me well as I explained, “It’s not a problem. I would much rather work for someone whose wife calls all the time than for someone who’s not speaking to her husband! If you’re getting along at home, you’re much easier to work for!” My relationships with spouses and significant others have run the gamut from those who called all the time and never said more to me than “Is so and so there?” to people who asked for (and sometimes received) advice or information that was crucial to their relationship. How can I say this? If your spouse or significant other (or even the person who supervises you) should happen to endear themselves to your secretary, you’d be well advised to get along with her! We can overlook or snoop, keep it quiet or let it slip, confront you or stab you in the back. I believe that most secretaries quietly sit on vast amounts of damaging information for the entire span of their careers; however, I have seen the havoc, both personal and professional, which can be wreaked if a secretary decides to talk. Secretaries know far more than you’d ever imagine and they know it long before you suspect they do (and sometimes even before you do).

Old Secretary: Jus' the Facts, Ma'am

2006-04-25T18:31:00.004-04:00

I am a true believer in total and brutal honesty. I was raised in a family where honesty and forthrightness were treasured and encouraged and my Dad always said, “Just tell the truth. You may not be the most popular person, but when you tell the truth, two things will happen. First, when people want to know the truth, they will come to you, and, second, you can always look at yourself in the mirror.” I have been accused at times of being too honest, but I am unwavering in my belief that honesty is always the best policy. On those occasions when things are not going the best with a boss or co-worker, I have found that an early and honest conversation about the problem can clear the air and make it possible to get back on the right track. Get the problem out in the open, apologize when necessary and get back to work. Even though few people are willing to step into the truth-telling arena, I have had wonderful, memorable experiences when the truth was aired.

An associate once asked me to make suggestions for changes to a document he was preparing and then after I spent a good little while doing what he asked, used nary a one of my ideas. I was insulted and took his slights personally. He came to my desk and said, “I think we’ve got a problem. Can we talk about it?” In the privacy of his office, I explained how hurt I was that he had asked me to help and then rejected all of my suggestions. He, in turn, explained that even though he thought I had made good suggestions, the original document had been drafted by the client and he wanted to make sure he wasn’t insulting in his revisions. I had to admit he had a point. Because of David’s willingness to talk honestly, both of us were able to explain our motives and feelings, a situation which could have gotten ugly was contained, our conversation opened up new avenues of communication and we worked happily together until he left the firm.

Of course, for every one of him, there are dozens who would never lower themselves to have an honest conversation with a subordinate. I’ll never forget the time I got off on the wrong foot with an associate, partly because of factors beyond my control and partly due to my own shortcomings. After a few disagreeable incidents, I went to his office and asked if we could talk. I apologized for my part in the unpleasantness and then suggested that we try to forget what had happened, start over and give the relationship another shot. He looked at me and said, “I don’t really think you’re capable of that.” We didn’t work together much longer.

I was recently on the receiving end of a co-worker’s wrath because of an error I made on a report which I had prepared for him. I apologized immediately, re-did the offending report, reminded him that we were friends and even offered to get him some Mrs. Fields’ cookies in an effort to make up, but nothing seemed to work. I treaded lightly for a couple of days and made a point of avoiding him. A few days later, we ran smack into each other at the elevator. Rodney grabbed me and hugged me and whispered in my ear, “Can you ever forgive me? I was just horrible to you.” There was no question. He was honest. How could I not forgive him? We’re back on track, an unpleasant situation was defused and a friendship was repaired.

Also related to the concept of honesty is the old, familiar “crying wolf” syndrome. Since I work for three people, it is critical that everyone is truthful about assignments and deadlines. However, there’s always the one who believes that fudging the truth about deadlines will get her work done on a priority basis and, on the opposite end, the one who always waits until the very last second, springs a surprise deadline on me and expects me to drop everyone else’s work because his absolutely, positively has to be done before 5:00. Both are dishonest, in their own way, and make my job more difficult and stressful. Jus’ the facts, ma’am. Just let me know what has to be done today, what can be done tomorrow, what’s priority, what can wait, and then allow me the freedom to work your demands into my other assignments for the day. Another old secretary trick: When everyone’s work has to be done at the same time, I simply stop working and say, “Talk to each other. When you’ve figured out how I should do this, I’ll go back to work.” It has never failed.

Old Secretary: Remember What's Important

2006-04-25T18:31:00.003-04:00

Life is what’s important. Your job is not your life. If it is, you’re in trouble. Life is precious, precarious, not promised and oh, so short. We’ve all heard the heart-breaking stories about attorneys whose work always came first, no matter what; attorneys who schlep their 6-week-old infants off to babysitters so they can get back on the partnership track; attorneys who miss their children’s entire growing up years because they have to work; attorneys who are embarrassed by their non-achieving, ambition-lacking spouses; attorneys who have no social lives or skills and whose entire identity teeters on their success or failure at work. You must have a life outside the office and that life needs to take precedence. Get this one thing right and everything else will fall into place.

Just this past Thanksgiving, one of my attorneys had a post-hearing brief due the following Monday. We worked on it all day Wednesday, but weren’t able to finish. When I got to work on Monday, I discovered that late Wednesday evening, she had e-mailed the arbitrator and the opposing attorney, asking for a two-day extension so that she wouldn’t have to spend her entire Thanksgiving working. Both of them had readily agreed and the opposing attorney, who had not been particularly pleasant or cooperative to that point, even wished her a Happy Thanksgiving! “Bravo,” I thought. “This woman has her priorities in order.” Get this one thing right and everything else will fall into place.

My motto has always been, “My job is what I do to pay for the things I really want to do.” Even though I once thought I wanted to go to law school, I decided against it because I didn’t want my job to become my life. Looking back over the last 30 years, I know I made the right decision for me. Because I had a job that wasn’t my life, I was able to involve myself in many situations outside of my job which have brought me a tremendous amount of satisfaction. Because I had a job which wasn’t my life, I was able to care for my husband during a near-fatal illness which culminated in a successful double-lung transplant. Staring death in the face reaffirmed my belief that work is not the “be-all” and “end-all” and, contrary to popular opinion, you cannot “have it all.” Life is about choices and compromises, about prioritizing and planning and pre-empting. Get this one thing right and everything else will fall into place.

One final story. I’ve known a divorce attorney for many years, a big, intimidating guy with a “win-at-any-price” attitude and an ego to go along with it. Several years ago he was watching television one evening and discovered that he couldn’t get up off the couch. His wife helped him crawl upstairs and get into bed, and a few hours later he was totally paralyzed by a rare disease which affected his entire nervous system. He spent several weeks in intensive care, almost a year in the hospital and many months in rehab. After he returned to work, he called me to tell me what had happened, explaining, “Of all the people I know, I knew you would understand.” He was so happy to be alive, to be able to walk and care for himself, to have come back to work. Both of us got a little misty as he described the humbling but incredible experience of having a wife who never wavered in her care for and commitment to him. Almost every time we talk, he reaffirms, “Cliff and I are two of the luckiest men on the face of the earth to have you and Bonnie!” In the blink of an eye, his priority pyramid tumbled, his life and retirement plans dissolved, work became a non-issue and the only things that mattered were staying alive and knowing that Bonnie was there. Get this one thing right and everything else will fall into place.

What do I wish you knew? If I could pick only one thing, it would be that you put your job in its proper place, that you come to the realization that the life you have away from work is immeasurably more important than the life you have at work, that you understand that time spent with your spouse or significant other, friends and family is the time that really matters. The things you can buy, the fancy house you can live in, the stunning vacations you can take, the magnificent retirement you can plan, all these fade into nothingness when compared with the joys and rewards of time well spent with those you love. While you may not be the managing partner’s favorite pet, I promise that people will respect (and envy) your choice. And, from an old secretary’s somewhat jaded point of view, someone who’s happy at home, who’s at peace with his Maker, whose priorities are in order, who treasures his family and friends . . . that someone is truly a joy and a pleasure to work for!

Old Secretary: Working with Difficult Bosses

2006-04-25T18:31:00.002-04:00

When I find myself working for someone difficult, I try, first of all, to be upfront and honest, with a generous sprinkling of humor. Consistently doing the best possible job in spite of his bad humor is another trick. Refusing to lose my cool, doing my damnedest to remain calm and rational, even insisting on being upbeat can sometimes turn the tide. Being friendly and helpful to clients can go a long way toward endearing yourself with the most difficult boss. However, there are some people who will not be pleased or pleasant, no matter what you do. And one of the hardest, most god-awful things I’ve ever had to learn and accept is that you are never, ever going to be able to get along with everyone.

Being up front and honest can often stop problems before they start, even with people who have reputations for being difficult. One of my current assignments had a reputation for being an extremely difficult work-horse and, rumor had it, a nasty habit of waiting until about 4:30 in the afternoon to really get going. So, the first time we talked, I said, only half-jokingly, “I’ve got to warn you. I’m an old woman and eight hours a day is more than enough for me. I don’t want to work overtime. At 5:00 I’m tired and I just want to go home. If you want your work done correctly and efficiently, give it to me early in the morning, before I get to that mid-afternoon-mistake-prone level of exhaustion.” It worked like a charm! That same “up front” trick worked on another difficult partner whose desk I often covered. Things went smoothly until one day when I couldn’t find a document for him. He became quite cross, and began pacing behind my desk, mumbling about my shortcomings. Finally, I turned around and said, “Look, Ted, your pacing and mumbling aren’t helping me. In fact, they’re making me very nervous. Please go back to your office and I’ll find the document for you.” I’ve never had another problem with him and we’ve achieved a level of mutual respect and friendliness that amazes me at times.

Every successful secretary has plenty of tricks up her sleeve. One that I learned a long time ago is to never respond in anger. It’s a trick that has served me well. There is nothing more deflating than yelling at someone who refuses to yell back. When I was doing billing in my former life, a junior partner came to my office and started screaming and cursing about the fact that I had not charged what he believed to be his new “partner” rate. I knew that I could not change a rate without authorization from the executive committee and I knew that he was out of line. I glanced up from my keyboard, turned back around and continued to work, saying not a word and totally ignoring his outburst. He soon ran out of steam and left the room. The end of that story was hilarious. I went to see the office manager and she said, “We’ll take care of this. Come with me.” We went to the managing partner’s office where she described what had happened and explained that this particular junior partner believed that he should be charging the same rate as the managing partner. The junior partner was quite rudely summoned to the office (“Howard! Get your ass in here!”) where he was summarily humiliated in front of both me and the office manager. It was all we could do to keep from laughing and well worth the little scene I had had to endure!

Another thing I will never do is cry in front of someone, no matter how mean and evil-tempered they’re being. I have done my share of boo-hooing in bathroom stalls, but I refuse to let the perpetrator know he got to me. My policeman-husband’s advice is a bit more pro-active, shall we say. “Don’t let them intimidate you. When they come out yelling, just get up out of your chair and stand up, and I promise they’ll think twice about carrying on.” I have to admit that I’ve done that once or twice, even shaking my finger in someone’s face. It was effective, to say the least, and felt good at the moment, but I’m not convinced it was the best solution, long-term. There’s nothing quite as sobering as calm, total, rational silence in the onslaught of a ranting, raving, red-faced temper tantrum.

The most difficult situation for me personally is the co-worker who is pleasant and friendly one minute, and then, suddenly and inexplicably, tense and uncommunicative the next. Inconsistency throws me for a loop and totally unnerves me. Inconsistency compounds normal day-to-day tensions, raising them to almost unbearable levels. Not knowing what causes the changes ratchets up the tension even more, because I can’t figure out how to stop the wild swings or avoid their consequences. Another story: In the middle of one of those pre-PC job interviews, the office manager said to me, “By the way, I’m the office bitch and if you can get along with me, you can get along with anyone.” I replied, “Tell me one thing. Are you at least consistent about being a bitch?” She hesitated and then inquired, “Why do you ask?” I explained that I really didn’t care what or how she was; as long as she was consistent, I would figure out a way to get along with her. Needless to say, I got the job and spent over 10 years working with her.

When situations become unbearable, I have several different tension-relievers. Sometimes I find a fellow-secretary who will listen, commiserate and make me laugh. Sometimes a good cry in the bathroom does it. Sometimes I have to remind myself that I work with a lot of good people and that “one monkey don’t stop no show.” Sometimes I just grit my teeth and say to myself, “Come on, you’ve done this for nigh unto 30 years, surely you can do it for another six months.” Sometimes I sit down and write what I’d really like to say, put it aside, read it again in a couple of days and throw it away. Sometimes I lose that famous Bender temper and live up to my reputation as the “secretary who won’t take any shit.” And sometimes I have thrown in the towel, admitted I can’t handle it and gone on to other things.

A Salute to Uncle Wilbur

2006-04-18T23:27:00.000-04:00

My Uncle Wilbur was an electrician, who had his own business, and worked his whole life making sense out of electricity. I think of him often. When I peek behind my computer, I can hear him sigh and say, “An electrician’s nightmare!” When I wind up the cord on the vacuum cleaner, I remember: “Never wind it around the hooks because then you wind it the same way and wear it out.” I think about him when I have an electrical problem and intone that old Kremer adage: “Wish I had Uncle Wilbur in my pocket.”

Today I played Uncle Wilbur. After waiting for several weeks for an overpriced-overworked-"who gives a hoot" Florida tradesman to order a new exhaust fan for my laundry room and get back to me, I went on line and ordered the thing myself, for the grand sum of $14.38, shipping included.

The box arrived and it sat and sat and sat and, finally, today I decided the deed must be done. Opened the box, dragged out the ladder, dragged my fat behind up the ladder and spent almost an hour trying to jam the thing into the opening in the ceiling. After bloodying several fingers, cursing and verging on tears, I finally realized I was trying to put it in backwards. The fan blades had to go up into the ceiling and then, by cracky, the whole thing slipped right into place, I was able to plug it into the outlet, the little screw that holds the works to the ceiling twirled in and, wonder of wonders, when I hit the switch, it worked!

Okay, now the plastic cover. How did that thing go on? Had one little wire doohickey that I knew had something to do with keeping the cover flush with the ceiling, but damned if I could figure it out. Called Nutone and talked to some wonderful little child named Charles or Carl, some "C" name, who said, “Whoops, you need two of the wire thingys. Give me your name and address and I’ll throw them in the mail to you,” and then proceeded to patiently walk me through how the wire doohickeys work!

Uncle Wilbur must be laughing himself silly.

Resurrection

2006-04-09T18:18:00.000-04:00

Webster defines “resurrection” as the rising of Christ from the dead, so my husband’s literal return from the almost-dead seemed like a good story to share with the congregation one Easter morning. Cliff was the recipient of a double lung transplant twelve years ago. Getting to the transplant was the single most unnerving experience of our lives. Cliff came within days of death, and our last clinic visit just two days before his surgery left the nursing staff in tears, fearful that they would never see him again and frustrated at being unable to help. We understand now that the only possible explanation for why all the details of January 27, 1994 came together is that it was the working out of God’s purpose. During an 11-hour surgery, Cliff was literally resurrected by a miracle of modern medicine.

However, the word “resurrect” is also defined as bringing something back to use or restoring and a couple of other ideas presented themselves: resurrection as a return of light after a particularly dark time, the return of spring after a Chicago winter, the return of life after a close brush with death – or perhaps a fresh, new understanding of an old familiar idea. For me, staring death in the face has resurrected, if you will, the preciousness of life. Resurrection has become a way to live.

Though the details have started to fade, I will never forget the long, frightening months spent waiting for a donor and the daily crying sessions in the shower wondering why Cliff had to suffer and how I was ever going to handle everything I had to do that day. Now, in the morning, as I walk the dog and watch the sun burst over the eastern sky line, I often sing, alone in the park, just the dog and me, a song that was a favorite of my Grandpa Kremer: “I owe the Lord a morning song of gratitude and praise, for the kind mercies he has shown in lengthening out my days.” How many times I heard and sang those words without understanding. Resurrection: facing death makes life so precious. Appreciate it, cherish it, be grateful for it.

Cliff and I share highly cultivated tendencies toward perfection, wanting everything to go smoothly and just right. That’s not reality. Life has its ongoing stresses and aggravations. We have been forced to realize, time and again, that the only important thing is that Cliff is alive and well – everything else is a “flitting blip” on the computer screen of our lives. Resurrection: facing death makes life so precious. Don’t squander it on insignificant aggravations.

I’ve been called “Nervous Nellie,” with good reason. It’s easy for me to become frantic with worry about what the future holds. I know what the statistics are. I know how quickly everything could go wrong. I know that Cliff’s treatment is just a shade beyond experimental. I know how few of our transplant friends have survived. “What ifs” and “hows” and “whys” can send me into a tailspin. How easy it is to forget who holds the future; how hard to let go of worry and fear. Resurrection: facing death makes life so precious. Don’t sully it with useless fretting.

Several years ago we lost our best transplant friend. On the first anniversary of his death, a gray Sunday morning, I cried as I remembered Terry and the song that Melvin sang to him during the service before the respirator was turned off, “Breathe on me, breath of God.” I thought about asking the congregation to sing that song during the worship service, for me and for Terry, but I didn’t have to ask. It was one of the songs that Pastor Mag had selected for the service that day. How wonderful to know God cares. How bright my day became as I sang, “Breathe on me, breath of God; fill me with life anew.” Resurrection: facing death makes life so precious. Open yourself to signs of God’s care and communication.

Resurrection: new love for live after near death; new outlook on the same old existence; new chances to trust God just for today; new reassurances that God cares. Resurrection: what a way to live!

Two Degrees of Separation

2006-04-06T11:24:00.002-04:00

It’s really not six degrees, you know. For me it’s maybe two, probably less. Don’t know if it’s because I know a lot of people, or because I’m my father’s daughter and will talk to just about anyone about just about anything, or because I can play the Mennonite game at nigh unto Olympian levels. In any event . . .

I’m in southwest Florida and work for an attorney friend of mine in Chicago, using the magic of remote access. So, I’m talking to one of Bill’s clients, whose telephone number has a “540” prefix which is the same as that of my parents. When we finished with the business end of the call, I asked him where he was and he said, “Staunton, Virginia,” a town about 30 miles from where my parents live in Harrisonburg. We laughed and he asked what my father does for a living; I replied, “He and my brothers farm half of Rockingham County.” Norb paused and then said, “What’s your last name?” I told him and he said, “And what’s your dad’s name?” I replied, “Daniel,” and he said, “Does he own land in Timberville?” Well, yes. Turns out that Norb has a friend in Timberville and remembered going out to look at the irrigation system Dad and the boys installed some 20 odd years ago, the first such doo-hicky of its type in that part of Virginia, and probably one of very few irrigation systems east of, oh, say, Ohio. We were screaming laughing . . . what a small world!

Two weeks later, another phone call to another client, a Greek lady who’s selling a small business. We’ve gotten to be friendly through our phone calls and last week she said, “Now tell Bill he’s got to call me because in three weeks I’m going to Greece for a month to help my daughter plan her wedding.” Something rang a bell. A Greek tenant in a building we once owned in Chicago, whose American-born daughter met and married a Greek man and moved back to Greece. I said, “Hey, Toni, can I ask you a question. Do you know Olga and Sam and Pete who had the fruit stand at 71st and Rockwell?” Shrieks and screams! “Olga is my very best friend. We talk several times a week on the phone. We meet for coffee and gossip every Wednesday morning. How do you know Olga?” Small, small world!

Today I Thought About Lisa

2006-03-27T22:50:00.002-05:00

Today I read another article about another child being killed by an another mother's abusive boyfriend, and I thought about Lisa.

I thought about my favorite memory: 10-year-old, bright, precocious, precious, pig-tailed Lisa laughing hysterically at her discovery of the Song of Solomon in the middle of a Sunday morning worship service.

I thought about my last memory: 14-year-old hard-edged, street-wise, crack whore Lisa loudly demanding money from one of her enablers and then fading into the night.

I thought about the beginning of losing Lisa, the Sunday evening she disappeared for several hours, only to return home, sobbing that she just couldn't take care of her four younger siblings anymore.

I thought about 12-year-old Lisa selling her body on the street to support her mother's drug habit.

I thought about a phone call to a DCFS friend, begging him to do what he could to take the children away from their drug-addled mother. I thought about his response: "Do they have a place to stay? Are they being fed and clothed? Then, sorry, but they're better off than a lot of my kids."

I thought about people who tried and systems that failed.

I thought about a funeral for 16-year-old Lisa, dead of a drug overdose in a crack house.

I thought about Lisa and my heart ached all day.