If I Paid for it, then it's not an Entitlement

President Obama's deficit reduction commission, headed by an independently wealthy businessman (Erskine Bowles) and a former senator with a guaranteed pension (Alan Simpson), has made public its recommendations for reducing the federal deficit. One web-site characterizes the recommendations as addressing issues that represent the "third rail" of American politics. (See: Talking Points Memo.)

There is no more highly charged third rail than Social Security.

A few years ago, when I was casting about for another book topic, I began to consider writing about Social Security. It seemed like something that might be worth the time and effort. Consider these few facts:

Fact One: Social Security was signed into law at the end of 1935, to take effect in 1937. The nation was in the throes of the Great Depression, and unemployment continued to be high, but at about the time that Social Security taxation became the law of the land, unemployment began to decline and employment to increase. After the new tax law took effect (because Social Security is, first and foremost, a tax), unemployment increased again. Why? Because it now cost employers more to have employees, since they were required to contribute a percentage of their employees' wages as the employer contribution of Social Security.

Fact Two: When the actuarial tables were run to determine what the appropriate contribution percentage should be, the calculations showed that the program would become bankrupt beyond 1965. FDR questioned the validity of the model used to compute the figures, and when he determined that the math was valid and correct, ordered that the actuarial tables provided to Congress only go through 1962.

Fact Three: The Supreme Court nearly overturned the Social Security Act as an unconstitutional form of taxation, prompting FDR to attempt to "pack the court" with more justices (whom he appointed, of course), but in May, 1937, the Court determined that Social Security did not constitute an unconstitutional tax.

(See: Social Security Online History)

Which lays the foundation for where we are today, as we begin the year 2011, and talk swirls in political circles about changing the retirement age and adjusting benefit amounts.

I have been paying Social Security since I was 16 years old. I can still remember the thrill of my first paycheck - $20, for 10 hours of work at a university library. It had already been determined that I would not owe income tax, so imagine my surprise, after I earned that first $400, to find that Social Security would now be taken from those wages!

That was 40 years ago, and as I get closer to the age of 65, Social Security is as much a third rail issue for me as it has been for the population, generally. When I was 40, I would have loved if the United States Government had told me to end my contributions to Social Security and put the same amount in an investment account of my choosing. Even with the recent reversals in the stock and bond markets, I at least would have had direct control over my money. It would have been especially helpful to have had that ruling 15+ years ago, because I was self-employed at the time - and 15.2% of my net income was sacrificed on the tax altar. - It's money not freely given, and under the terms of the government's social contract with me, I should get it back when I reach the current eligible age to draw it and at the benefit level that has been in place for most of my working life (and we won't even go into the craziness of the fact that a tax will be taxed again as "income").

Politicians are masters at using language that reduces the net emotional impact of an issue. The term 'entitlement' is fraught with connotations of spoiled, demanding children who have tantrums if they don't get exactly what they want when they want it. As we become increasingly inured to the term 'entitlement' as it applies to both Social Security and Medicare (because those tax payments are intertwined), it may become easier and easier to convince voters and their representatives that we citizens have asked too much of our government, and now we will have to give it up.

I would remind our government that they started asking me for that tax 40 years ago, and have been asking for it every working year since. If I paid for it, it's not an entitlement - it's my money. And I want it all back.

The United States of Misogyny

On Wednesday, November 17, the United States Senate denied women one more opportunity to gain full legal parity in the workplace. In a 58-41 vote, the Senate defeated the Paycheck Fairness Act (S. 3772). This act, which had already passed the House and surely would have been signed into law by President Obama, would have closed gaps in the 1963 Equal Pay Act. That act lacked the legal teeth to help women prosecute, with some measure of potential success, unequal pay in the workplace. With the upcoming changes in the House and Senate, the chances of the bill being resurrected in the next Congress, let alone making it to the President's desk, are somewhere between slim and none.

After over 40 years of taking a stand for women's equality (I started young - learning about the National Organization for Women from a feminist high school social studies teacher at the age of 15 and being encouraged by my parents - yes, the plural is intended - to learn more about them), I am appalled at where we women still are in the societal pecking order.

I'll acknowledge a few strides: I have an M.B.A., earned over 30 years ago in the first wave of women attending professional schools; I have a daughter who is a pastor - a nearly unheard of female professional opportunity just a few years before she was born. My other daughter feels no pressure to be married, and I like to think my sons have a healthy respect for women. I will even throw in the fact that I was able to have certified nurse midwives and non-interventionist births, thanks to the demands of my contemporaries for more control over our bodies.

But...

During the 2008 election, I had the opportunity to participate in a symposium at the National First Ladies Library, and a reporter from Time Magazine noted how tough the press was being on Hillary Clinton, while it was letting Barack Obama off lightly. This reporter believed that then-Senator Clinton was under tougher scrutiny simply because she was a woman candidate. The reporter also went on to comment that while male candidates could easily get a few powder puffs on the face before they appeared on television, Senator Clinton needed at least an hour to get made up to be acceptable visually to the public.

Then there are the fashions that have come out this past year. They are nothing short of disturbing. Ripped fabric suggests sexual violence. A little show of lingerie in the hem or neckline suggests sexual teasing. The myriad buckles, fasteners, and laces of boots suggests bondage. My daughter tells me that she talks to mothers of little girls who are dismayed at the clothing available for 3-and 4-year old girls. It starts that young. I have a colleague, the father of two daughters, who has expressed dismay over the currently acceptable levels of promiscuity. He wonders if virginity will ever be the rule, not the exception, again. Once again, we are sending girls, and women, the message that their bodies are more important than their brains; being available for sex is preferable to being available to problem-solve.

Women also continue to be treated as second-class citizens in medical care - this despite the fact that they are the gatekeepers for health and wellness in their families. Most medications for conditions common to both genders are tested primarily on men; symptoms that may vary by gender are not readily acknowledged (case in point: a woman having a heart attack may never have chest pain, but she may have neck and jaw pain). In the arena of childbirth, the most essential and precious experience any women can have, doctors have regained control by insisting on medicalizing what is typically a non-life threatening event for over 95% of pregnant women. In fact, the case can well be made that if physicians would treat every potential labor as normal, instead of as a cesarean waiting to happen, they would more readily identify those situations where a cesarean is clearly indicated.

Regardless of your politics, if you are honest you will admit that this country has exhibited a misogynistic attitude toward soon-to-be former House Speaker Nancy Pelosi. When she acknowledged the loss of the Democratic majority in the House, she rightly outlined her accomplishments as Speaker during her two-year tenure. They are formidable, but they will somehow be lost in the noise that has repeatedly characterized her with the "B" word.

I did a quick search to find out how many countries have female heads of state. The answer is 15. Here's the list: Brazil. Liberia. Germany. Argentina. Australia. Kyrgyzstan. Iceland. Costa Rica. Lithuania. India. Finland. Ireland. Croatia. Trinidad & Tobago. Bangladesh. Slovakia. With the possible exception of Finland and maybe Australia, none of the other nations has what we would term a rich heritage of gender equality. Nevertheless, women have successfully risen to the top of the political ladder to lead their respective nations, while female candidates in this country continue to be the object of belittlement and ridicule.

We want to believe that we are a nation that champions equality of opportunity, but our experience and our history tell a very different story. The psychologists would say we're either delusional or we're in denial. Those of us who have yearned for total and unequivocal equality would probably say a few other, very unprintable things. Regardless of which label is applied, the realities of the situation are still the same: two and a quarter-plus centuries since the founding of the Republic; 90 years after the granting of women suffrage; and roughly 45 years since the passage of the Civil Rights Act, women are still trying to achieve the equality that should have been theirs, without question, from the start.

Welcome to Air Steerage

The Boeing 757 seats somewhere in the neighborhood of 225 passengers, crammed in groups of three, on each side of the aircraft aisle. Leg room is minimal. Service is even less. On a six hour flight, the airline we traveled created the impression that it was being magnanimous to serve us "complimentary" soft drink beverages and 'snacks' (peanuts, cookies, or pretzels). Let me point out here, before the diatribe gets worse, that these drinks are technically not 'complimentary,' in that the cost of them has been included in the price of my ticket. Therefore, I have already paid for the drink. Once the "service" was completed, the flight attendants disappeared into the plane, hiding behind a curtain in the galley, thereby discouraging any contact with us passengers.

Having just spent the better part of this last year studying the steerage conditions in which my grandparents traveled to arrive in this country, I was struck by the parallels between their excursion and my flight: crowded conditions, indifferent staff, inadequate bathrooms, and lack of policing of other passenger behavior.

On one particular flight, a passenger in the row in front of us had managed to conceal her alcoholic beverages as "3 oz. liquids" in the quart-sized plastic bag that can get through security. She spent the better part of the six-hour overnight flight getting up and down to get more ice and clean plastic cups. Why the otherwise disinterested flight attendants couldn't smell this passenger's breath and figure out what was going on - and put a stop to it - is beyond me. When the flight attendant came by, at the end of the flight, to clean up remaining trash, she merely laughed and said, "I wished I could have joined you."

A few months ago, columnist Peggy Noonan wrote in The Wall Street Journal that we pay people to treat us poorly. How right she is. A woman can get drunk on-board, mutter insulting things to passengers soto voce, and be allowed to remain on the flight. Whereas, had I fully expressed my frustration and anger at the treatment I was receiving from the airline, I likely would have been removed from the boarding line. I paid the airline to cow me.

I will acknowledge that air travel carries with it a set of anxieties that are wholly unique to this mode of travel. In addition to the normal risks that accompany air travel, there are the unexpected issues related to mechanics, hydraulics, and weather. There are increasing tensions as terrorists continue to find ways to use airplanes to conduct their attacks. And there are the dangers that an on-board passenger, or passengers, will put an entire aircraft at risk.

All the more reason, then, that airlines ought to be pushing customer service, care for every passenger, and passenger comfort to the forefront. We know that the FAA demands safety, and that airlines can skirt those regulations at their own peril. Since flight safety should be a given, airlines should treat each of us with dignity and respect. Most of us are flying because we have traveled to see loved ones, taken a vacation, or may be looking for a new place to live. We want the entire memory of our collective experience to be positive - not marred by the unwarranted hassles and indignities that seem to be the stock in trade of some airlines.

We are not "the huddled masses," as were our ancestors. Unlike my forebears, who never planned a return trip across the Atlantic once they arrived here, most of us, myself included, hope for another opportunity to travel again.

I guess I was mistaken in thinking that the indignities of steerage ended when the door to mass immigration closed in 1924. I guess I was wrong. The practice of demeaning passengers has now been transferred to the airport.

A Dream Fulfilled - Attending the 2010 National Book Festival

I cannot remember when I first learned about the National Book Festival. It was not on my radar screen the first time the festival was held, on September 9, 2001, and I have little recollection of an awareness of it the second year. But by 2006, I had learned that there was a one-day event on the National Mall that brought together some of the nation's bestselling fiction authors, outstanding non-fiction writers, and an array of children's and young adult authors. By 2009, I made up my mind that I would attend the event the following year (2010), if at all possible.

Our beautiful new granddaughter was very accommodating to her grandmother. She was born on September 19, without complications, and with mama and baby okay, I made my reservations to travel, by train, to Washington on the Saturday, September 25th, the date for the Festival.

I boarded the train shortly after 1 a.m. Saturday and slept most of the way to Union Station, arriving there at about 7:45 a.m. Following breakfast at a restaurant on the station's ground floor, I stepped outside into the beautiful, clear day. It was perfect weather for an outdoor event.

I had printed off walking directions, but they were useless without any sense of orientation - something critical since I have zero sense of direction. Two women were out walking, and I asked them for assistance. They were headed in the direction of the Mall, although they did not plan to attend the Festival. From California, the two had been visiting Washington, and, over the past week, had learned their way around. They had also been watching the pavilion tents being erected in preparation for the Book Festival.

They left me at the Mall, and I stepped onto what was, for me, hallowed ground. Books and reading have always been an integral part of who I am. While I am not quoted as having lamented, as my oldest daughter did at the end of her first week of kindergarten that she had been in school for an entire week and had not yet learned to read, I do still recall that first heady sense of recognizing words in print - even if they were as arcane as "See Spot run."

It was still early - a little after nine, with the speaking events not scheduled to start until 10. I used the time to visit an Information booth and acquire a poster and a tote bag, and I browsed the Pavilion of the States. I was deeply grateful to have visited it early, because by mid-afternoon, the pavilion was so thick with people you had to stand in line to get to each state's exhibit.

Gordon S. Wood, a Revolutionary period scholar, was the first speaker in the History and Biography pavilion. He was, in fact, the warm-up act for the second speaker, former First Lady Laura Bush. It is a mark of our hyper-vigilant society that I did not give a second thought to the security check I passed through as I entered the pavilion both to hear Dr. Wood and to assure myself of a seat for Mrs. Bush's appearance. It was only after I departed the pavilion at 11:30, and re-entered later without a security check, that I realized the security was related to her appearance.

Mrs. Bush exudes a delightful warmth and charm, and like the rest of us who gave her a standing ovation, I appreciate her role in making the festival a reality. Moreso, I appreciate the fact that she has always been open about her love of books and her love of reading - legitimizing a passion that has always been a bit awkward when trying to have a conversation with others -try explaining to people why you do not know who is on "Dancing with the Stars" or the names of the finalists on "American Idol." (It's actually amazing that I even know these programs exist!)

Nell Painter Irvin, author of "A History of White People," followed Mrs. Bush, and Dr. Irvin was thought-provoking. When I listened in the same tent at the very end of the day to David Remnick, author of a biography of President Obama entitled, "The Bridge," I wished that the two authors had appeared side-by-side. Dr. Irvin believes that race is a political construct that is no longer relevant; Remnick's book, which I have read, makes the case that Obama constructed a racial identity for himself when he entered adulthood. It would have been an interesting discussion - had it occurred.

The speakers in the Contemporary Life pavilion raised some interesting questions about our lives, especially Professor Henry Petroski, who talked about the difference between science and engineering - making the case (convincingly, I thought) that engineering goes hand-in-hand with innovation, whereas science can sometimes stifle innovative thought.

The Fiction speakers whom I heard were interesting and inspiring. Their focus was not to read from a recent work, but to talk about the writing process. I, as a writer, appreciated hearing about it from those whose names are better recognized in the vast pool of authors than is my own.

Late in the afternoon, as I headed back to the History & Biography pavilion after hearing Dr. Petroski, I was stopped by two staff members of the Library of Congress, who asked if they could videotape me for material they would post to the LOC's website about the festival. I was a walking advertisement for the Library of Congress already. I wore a ball cap with the Library's name embroidered on the front, and a shirt with books printed on it, also purchased, during a prior visit, from the LOC's book and gift shop.

What did I think of the Festival? they asked. I know I gushed, but I replied that it was marvelous. The ability to listen to authors, to hear what audience members where thinking when they asked their questions, to engage in the free exchange of ideas in the public square - it was an intellectual high that one often does not experience. It was also energizing to be in the presence of so many others who are excited about books and ideas.

And, they asked, what was the value of reading? I noted the phrase on the winning bookmark - somewhat paraphrasing it from memory - that with reading, you can be anything, go anywhere, or think anything.

The day was magnificent, and I my finally fulfilled dream of attending a National Book Festival, with the hope that it will be the first of many similar dreams in the years to come.

Dear Macy's....

Dear Macy's Department Store:

Here is how you lost $150 worth of sales in the last two weeks.

As one of your credit card holders, you regularly fill my Inbox with announcements of special sales, promotional offers, and "deals." And, from time to time, those messages do what you want them to - move me to go to your web site, and shop.

Just for the record, I typically shop online because I live out in the boonies, 12 miles from a convenience store with gas pumps and 25 miles from a shopping center. With time as much at a premium as money, if I can order it online, I do.

And so it was, just the other week, that I received an e-mail that promised me free shipping on purchases of $99 or more, including bed and bath items. We had just bought a new, queen-sized mattress set for our guest bedroom, and I needed sheets. Since I had purchased a wonderful comforter from you (on-line) several months earlier, Macy's web site was my first stop. I found some sheets that I wanted at a very good price; so good, in fact, that I selected a set of king-sized sheets for our own bed, both because of the price, but also because I would then qualify for the free shipping (I thought). Then, I selected a mattress cover for the new bed. I was ready to check out.

On the check-out web page, I entered the promotional code for free shipping. My order totaled over $100, and as far as I could tell, I qualified for that premium. But, according to your web site, I did not. A message, in red, appeared at the top of the order page screen: The items in your order do not qualify you for this promotion.

I double-checked both the way I entered the promotional code, and the terms of the code (as, at least, I understood them to apply), and tried again. Once again, the red-lettered notice appeared at the top of the screen. I was invited to call a customer service number, but my experience with customer service phone calls, in general, is that it is better termed "customer no-service." With my typical off-colored language response, I abandoned your web site, and went to my favorite on-line shopping place: Target.

Imagine my delight when the first thing I saw on the Target home page was: Free shipping for orders $50 or more.

I located the sheets that I wanted and a mattress cover, which came to just over $50. No hidden requirements, no need to buy another set of sheets. Free delivery. Macy's, you just lost a sale.

Fast forward a few days. My Mary Kay sales rep has been slow getting my facial cleansers to me, so I decided I would take advantage of another offer that you, Macy's, had sent to my Inbox: an Estee Lauder promotion. Once again, I click on macys.com, go to the Estee Lauder section, and click until I get to the cleansers section. I start looking for what I want - products for women with dry skin. I find the cleanser, but where's the toner????

After about five minutes of trying to locate what I want, my frustration level has reached its peak. I'm still pretty ticked off at you about the time I wasted "shopping" for sheets and feeling ripped off by your unmet promises of free shipping. Google, bless its little, electronically-intrusive heart, has put some ads at the bottom of the screen, and one of them takes me directly to EsteeLauder.com.

Immediately, I feel enveloped in an electronic female world. I am invited to join that world, for which I am promised an immediate gift (free shipping on a $35 order), a chance to chat with an expert, and access to all of Estee Lauder's goodies.

As was the case with my Target purchase, my Estee Lauder purchase moved along quickly, easily, and was fun. If Estee Lauder could figure out how to make some perfume waft through the computer screen's electrons, I could almost feel as if I'm directly in their salon.

The piece de resistance was when I opened my Estee Lauder package when it arrived, the third business day after I placed the order. Inside the nondescript cardboard box was a tissue-wrapped package, sealed with an "EL" sticker, in its signature script. Just because I live on a farm does not mean I don't want to feel elegant and feminine. I will admit that I even "oohed-and-ahhed" a little when I looked at my pretty pink items inside the tissue wrap.

Many years ago, a president of a Chamber of Commerce in a neighboring county told me that the Internet would transform how we shopped. He said it would allow rural areas to thrive, because people would be able to purchase the same items then only available if you drove to a city. He was uncannily prescient. However, Internet sales are not a given. Like bricks-and-mortar selling, selling via the Internet requires an acknowledgment of competition and promotional savvy.

In the past, when I've listened to, or read, quarterly reports on department store sales, I've assumed that the sales declines in larger, "legacy" stores, like Macy's, are because of a company's age, which often also means the company has less nimble management. If my recent experiences with Macy's web site are any indication, the company may have some management "hardening of the arteries." A failure to grasp that it's the little things that can make a big difference add up over time. By not giving me a $6 savings in shipping, Macy's lost a $100+ sale.

Target has long been an on-line ordering favorite; Estee Lauder is now going to be added to the list. And, Macy's, you've got some work to do to stay on my list. Don't count on my loyalty just because I have one of your credit cards.

How the Other Half Lived

"How the Other Half Lives" is the title of a book, published in 1890, by author and social reformer, Jacob Riis. The New York writer photographed and wrote about the deplorable filth and crowded conditions of New York's Lower East Side. This was during the years of the greatest influx of immigrants into the United States in its history, and the Lower East Side was the most densely populated piece of real estate in the country (possibly even the world) at that time.

A trip to the New York Historical Society a week ago confirmed what I had suspected since undertaking some family research: that some of my family members had lived in the squalor that Riis's photo essay depicted. With the aid of maps, we identified the address of my paternal great-grandparents on Broome Street. "A traditional dumbbell tenement," the librarian told me. "How do you know?" I asked, looking at the drawings. "You can tell be the shape of the building," he said, pointing out the hand-drawn indentations that look like a dumbbell weight in the center of the rectangle. "This was one of the bad ones, wasn't it?" I asked.

"The worst of the worst," he replied. "Have you seen Jacob Riis's pictures?"

I nodded.

"It was like that."

After boarding the subway at Union Square, emerging from the subway station at Delancey and Essex Streets is like stepping into another world. Union Square is not without its homeless and a few obvious addicts, but it is by and large populated by middle and upper middle class parents, college students, and fifty-somethings. Those on the Lower East Side, before you get into the section that is now heavily Chinese, remind me of the people from my childhood on the streets of downtown Pittsburgh. It is a mix of those who have lost limbs or eyes, whose clothing is literally threadbare, whose "down and out" station in life is clearly visible in their vacant stares and lined faces. It is a reminder that in a land of plenty, when we can find the money to build military bases on foreign soil, we have marginalized those whose luck has run out.

From everything I have been able to research, that visible evidence of despair most likely characterized my great-grandparents. After enduring filth and degradation in steerage to come across the Atlantic Ocean in the belief they were embarking on a a journey to a better life, they quickly discovered that America's streets, far from being paved with gold, were strewn with animal manure and human waste. While some of their peers threw up their hands in despair and returned to Russia and Eastern Europe, my great-grandparents found each other, married, and had children. Their middle son, my grandfather, was the only one of the three boys to have children of his own.

This is what I marvel at: that it has taken three generations for the nightmarish conditions of being an immigrant to materialize into the "American dream." Yet, I cannot help but wonder, as I get ready to become a grandparent myself for the second time, if there will still be some wisps of that dream for my grandchildren to take hold of.

I grew up with the tacit understanding from my parents that they desired that I have a better life than the one they had experienced. I was pushed to think big career-wise, and my parents were a not a little unconcerned when I opted for a marriage and a "lifestyle" ahead of income. In the days of my 20s and 30s, the option to choose lifestyle in the belief that the income would take care of itself was a carryover from the post-World War II years, when we believed, as a nation, that our prosperity was never-ending.

Now, in my 50s, I rue some of those naive decisions, recognizing that, as the Bible has timelessly warned, wealth (even a nation's wealth) is fleeting. I watch my children step with great confidence into worlds I wanted to enter, but which, at the time, were closed to me either because of my gender or because of a lack of opportunity to demonstrate my talent. But I also know that another reason these worlds have opened for my children is because money has been invested to democratize access to careers that were previously closed to "the masses." Nevertheless, as I look at our crumbling infrastructure, see the creeping federalization of our financial and social services markets, and wonder if we will be choked by regulations that do not necessarily "reform" so much as they hinder, I wonder whether my grandchildren will find themselves pushed back in time to an era that my parents were anxious to see their children avoid.

The ascent out of poverty is difficult because it is just that - a climb - an effort that has gravity operating against it. The descent back into poverty, because it goes downhill, is relatively faster. We have taken much for granted over the last two generations. It is time to reconsider - will our children's children enjoy the prosperity we have experienced, or will they chronicle our lives as "how the older ones lived"?

Getting Charged Up

Pioneer woman. Rosie the Riveter. General Electrician.

If this were a segment of "Sesame Street," those three terms might beg the implied question: "One of these things is not like the others." But, aha, they are all alike - each term refers to women who found they had new skills and new strengths previously undiscovered. The last term refers to me.

It has become an axiom of life on this farm that nothing goes wrong as long as my husband is home. Let him be away on business, or in Alaska to be with our daughter, and all hell breaks loose. That happened, again, with wretched regularity, last month when my husband was away on a week-long business trip.

We have a tankless water heater, which has worked perfectly fine in the year and a half since it was installed. Then, without knowing why, we were without hot water. We waited three days for a plumber to finally show up, only to discover that one of the internal breakers had tripped and needed to be reset. Aaaahhh, the joys of running hot water.

But not for long.

After a long work day and an hour's worth of farm chores in this blistering heat we have been experiencing, I looked forward to a relaxing and cleansing shower before I sat down to dinner. It was not to be - no hot water.

We will not discuss my reaction here, as I like to convey the image of that of a person of faith - which carries with it the implication that I have a fairly clean vocabulary. Let that implication stand.

I had plenty of opportunity to practice my 'clean' vocabulary after I got my husband's voice mail, and not my actual husband, on the phone. Fortunately, he called me back pretty quickly, and he coached me on how to fix the problem: turn off the breakers; take off the cover to the water heater (the unit is a rectangular box mounted on a wall), and look for a little switch that resembles the top of a retractable ballpoint pen. I followed the instructions, pushed down the offending button, and voila!, hot water. A sense of accomplishment, and, finally, my shower.

However, you will note above that I said, all hell breaks loose when my husband is gone, so one little household maintenance item was not enough.

The next evening, I was getting ready to ride my bicycle, when I remembered that I needed to refill my water bottle. The electric fencer that keeps the wires charged to keep the cattle in the pasture, and the predators out of it, is situated near the water pump. As I leaned over to turn on the spigot, I noticed the distinct absence of the clicking sound indicating that the fencer is working.

I double checked the plug, changed out the extension cord to see if the one in use had gone bad, and realized that the fencer had failed. Fortunately, there was a spare in the storage building. I went in the house to get the safety ladder, and then, after disconnecting the plug and turning off the appropriate breaker, I studied how the mounted fencer was wired. I proceeded to disconnect the wires, and for the time ever, used a power screw driver to remove the mounting screws.

The real challenge was to hold the replacement fencer and screws in place simultaneously while I tightened the screws. The cattle, fascinated by my movements, stood in a group by the wire and watched me, as if I were their scheduled nightly entertainment. I figured that if I could keep them entertained, I wouldn't need to replace the fencer.....

A thunderstorm was coming, and the lightning and thunder were too close for comfort. I was not interested in having a "shocking experience." I finally secured the fencer, connected the wires, plugged it in, and turned the breaker back on. I checked for a fence charge, and we were good to go.

Step aside, Rosie. There's a new gal in town.

Life (and Death) on the Farm

I caught a tiny patch of red and white out of the corner of my eye as I crossed the front yard after going to the mailbox. "Ohmigod!" I thought, and quickened my pace. "June's had her calf."

Indeed she had. Our prototypical dairy bovine, whom we have had for six years, had left us guessing for months. Was she, or wasn't she? June, named for her birth month, is enormous even when she isn't carrying a calf. I had seen her being bred what I thought had been nine months earlier in May, and here we were to the third week of the month of June, and still no calf. Granted, there were the usual signs - an increasingly distended udder; a slight discharge from her vulva; a noticeable pooch to one side - but, well, when you have an animal as big as June, you're never quite sure.

And then, here he was, the most adorable little red and white bull ever seen. I arrived just as he was standing for the first time. Still wet from his birth sac and maternal washing, Little Bit wobbled to his feet. And, then....our horse, Megan, sensing something foreign in the corral reared on her hind legs, and Little Bit collapsed. "Megan, NO!" I shouted, and looked for a way to get through the electric fence wires as quickly as I could. I ran to the house for a peppermint, Megan's favorite snack, the halter and lead, and hoped against hope to find a live calf when I got back to the pen.

Mama June was calm, but L.B. had not ventured up again. I was terrified.

Megan calmly followed me out of the corral, clearly put out with my admonishing her. And, now, I needed to know. Would we be putting this little one down, after so many weeks of anticipation, because he was injured?

I entered the corral and spoke soothingly to June. "You done good, girl," I told her, as I waited to see if her calf would get up again. I poked his backside a little, prodding him to see if he could stand. And he did! What a relief.

Flash backward 30 years ago, and picture a very skinny city girl whose idea of farming was couched in a laughable naivete. I had an intellectual's understanding of the food chain, but I pretty much thought that food came from the back of the grocery store. I read about farmers, saw heart-wrenching films depicting ranchers losing cattle to storms, disease and thieves. I read books about self-sacrificing people who gave up a life of ease to move west and make a life in a new and untried land. But for all the pathos and the realistic portrayals, nothing substitutes for genuine experience. Thirty years ago I would not have known what to do.

Last October, my husband was with our daughter to help her with her new baby while her husband was in Iraq (I had already been there for a few weeks myself). During his absence, I confronted two decisions about our livestock that I had never encountered before. We had a heifer due to calve, and I would be out of town for a few days. The neighbors whom we had asked to care for her were concerned about her condition, and to put them at ease, I called a vet. Following his examination, the vet told me, "She's carrying a pretty big calf. She's got a 40% chance of not making it. Do you want to take her to the slaughter house while she's still walking?" "No," I told him, "I'll bank on the 60%." It was a call I had to make, and fortunately it was the right one. She delivered a healthy bull calf.

Only a few days earlier, I had made a different call. We had an "alert downer," an animal that was alert but could not get up. He did not respond to antibiotics, and the consensus of the experts I consulted was that he probably would not make it without hundreds of dollars of care (and that would be no guarantee of restored health). Having only paid $200 for him, the decision was clear. It was the first time I had needed to put down in animal, and the sense of relief that the animal was no longer suffering was enormous.

People wonder how I can do these things - make these decisions that can seem so cold. I don't quite know how to describe it. On one side, I have to maintain a cool and reasoned head - after all, I'm running a business, and a business runs on dollars and cents, not emotions. On the other side, I have assumed responsibility for other lives, and they depend on me to do right by them. And in the final analysis, the best I can really do, is commit to doing what is best for the animal.

Reunion at Wells College

I spent the first weekend of June as the guest of Wells College, in Aurora, New York, where I gave a talk about Frances Cleveland and had a book signing. Those of you who are following this blog, and have read my book on Frances Folsom Cleveland, know that this liberal arts college was her alma mater. 2010 represents the 125th anniversary of her graduation from Wells. (The Aurora Window, right, in Main Hall, was created by John LaFarge, a noted stained-glass artist of the late 19th century. Frances Folsom Cleveland is said to be the model for the window, although she had long since graduated from the college when it was created.)

Frances was a loyal alumnae and devoted 40 years of her long life to the school as a trustee. She guided the school through a crisis of leadership and again through a major fund-raising effort. It was Wells that provided a place for her beau, and eventual second husband, Thomas J. Preston, Jr., and, more importantly, it was Wells that enabled her to step into the role of first lady at the tender age of 21 without missing a beat.

Meeting the alumnae (and now, since it has become co-ed, the alumni) that have experienced and graduated from Wells only reinforces my sense that this small school has enormous reach. Wells women are accomplished and successful in a variety of professions. They are poised and self-assured. When Henry Wells obtained a charter for the college in 1868, people questioned why he would want to educate women. One hundred and forty-two years later, there is no reason to ask the question. Meeting and talking with the alums says it all.

Wells is rich in history. It's founder was also the founder of the Wells Fargo Company, and the school still has one of the three remaining original coaches from that company. A clock, once owned by William Seward, Lincoln's Secretary of State and the decision-maker behind the Alaska purchase, hangs in Main Hall. Seward was a resident of the nearby town of Auburn.

We stayed in the Prophet's Chamber, an apartment reserved for speakers located in the school's historic Main Hall. My husband and I had come prepared to stay in the dorms, and I was surprised and honored to be given the keys to the Chamber. I also quickly learned that we became the object of deep envy, because staying in the Prophet's Chamber is a special honor. (Left: The Bell Tower of Wells College's Main Hall.)

People asked me if I thought the Chamber was haunted, as that is the rumor. If there are indeed some rambling ghosts, they were dormant our first night on campus. My husband and I had the best sleep we'd had in a week. However, the next evening, I was awakened periodically by a strange knocking. There were thunderstorms that night, and I thought for sure I was listening to the rumble of thunder - except that the knocking sound came from the interior hallway, not from outside the window. Nevertheless, we awoke in time to get to the airport by 7 a.m. to catch our 8:15 flight. If there are truly ghosts, they had once again gone into hiding.

Wells' graduates are loyal. The oldest class with representation graduated in 1945 - 60 years ago! Such commitment is a testimony to an educational institution that provides more than just an education - it offers a life-changing experience.

I am deeply grateful to the staff at Wells for hosting my husband and me, and allowing me to share a little piece of their history - both as a biographer of their most famous alumna, and as a participant in an annual event that retells the story of a remarkable college.

This Elusive Thing Called Marriage

Tipper and Al Gore are calling it quits. The quintessential political couple, who have publicly weathered some of life's most turbulent storms and boasted in a co-written book that they were 'joined at the heart,' is getting a divorce. Regardless of the reason behind the reason, which is none of our business, theirs is a cautionary tale. If the Gores, who unabashedly demonstrated tasteful public displays of affection, can say they have grown apart, what does that mean for the rest of us?

I can remember a Wise Woman telling me, shortly after I became engaged 30 years ago, that marriage was hard work. Hah! I thought. We're going to be different. It will come easy. What work? I was, after all, in the throes of a hormonal and pheromonal high, powered solely by adrenalin, considering that I neither ate nor slept.

But, in fact, my marriage has been, shall we say, a series of leaps from frying pan to fire. I've been singed around the edges a time or two, but not yet burned to a crisp. I suspect that if the singeing moves to second or third degree burns, perhaps I will consider joining the ranks of the Gores.

That is not to say, I will admit, that I have not contemplated divorce. It has been a little more to the forefront of my mind in this last year, post-leap. We moved from a little unincorporated community to a 29-acre farm in the middle of nowhere. Lest you doubt how much inside nowhere I am, consider this: 10 miles to the nearest convenience store; 11 miles to a supermarket or post office. I can't say that I was browbeaten into it; my name is at the top of the paperwork. What I can say, however, is that I was not prepared for the isolation or the distances I have to travel to get back to my version of civilization.

Yet, when I contemplate my fantasy life of a with-it middle-aged Manhattanite, I realize that I'm too old to get a job that pays me well enough to buy a half-million dollar apartment in Manhattan. And then, when I think about the numbers, I also think about what we paid for our 29 acres, and, well, Manhattan is terrific, but the real estate, comparatively speaking, is overpriced.

It is now about 6:30, and I expect my husband will come into the house in the next half an hour. We'll find "the clicker," (our term for the TV remote control) and put the TV on "Jeopardy." Dinner will be in the oven. We'll sit down and share a meal, watch the game and reconnect after our day apart. We'll probably apologize again for the silly argument we had earlier, and after 30 years of marriage, yes, we still do argue, and talk about whatever we think we need to discuss. We relish the time together because, after rearing four children (as did the Gores), we feel we have earned this special intimacy that comes from three decades of shared experiences. If we continue our conversation from last night, it may be about the Gores again. Whatever happened to them is a wake-up call to each and every married couple, regardless of how secure we feel in our respective marriages. No one is immune from the tug of individuality, and this elusive thing called marriage is a fragile thread that is too easily broken.

Writing Biography

A member of a book club that recently read "Frank: The Story of Frances Folsom Cleveland," as its monthly selection (thank you!) asked how I had managed to research and write biography. It is a good question.

Biography is, of course, the story of someone's life. Unlike fiction, in which the author must create every aspect of the novel - plot, characters, actions, motives, setting - biography offers a natural backdrop and a natural order to the organization of the material. You have a person who has been born, had a childhood, formative years, adulthood and, eventually, death. That, at least, makes the organization of the book easy - but finding material, particularly when one is researching an historic figure who was fastidious about concealing her private life, - is the heart of the challenge.

My early research was characterized by a simple timeline - key dates (birth, college years, marriage, etc.) - that was enhanced by noting the names of influential people and historical events associated with those dates. In writing about Frances, I spent untold hours in the Microfilm Division of the Davis Library at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, poring over the microfilms of the Grover Cleveland papers, the Washington Post, the New York Times and the Chicago Tribune.

A research trip to two key places in Frances' life - Wells College, her alma mater, and the Grover Cleveland Birthplace Museum, in Caldwell, New Jersey - provided access to unique archival material. Inter-library loan enabled me to access additional materials although, to this day, I regret not having found the resources that would have enabled me to spend about a week in the Library of Congress going through the papers of many of Cleveland's cabinet members.

Then there is the pure serendipity of finding interesting little tidbits - a name, a reference, a quote that pops up that makes sense because I've been looking at the larger picture. Those are the gems that are the researcher's equivalent of panning for gold and finding the sought-after nuggets.

"Frank" is the product of many rewrites. The first set of rewrites occurred to prepare the manuscript for initial review; the second rewrite was the result of an honest, and much needed, critique. The challenge, to address the observations of a demanding reviewer (who was on target with the comments), was to demonstrate in the telling of Frances' life that she was not just another Gilded Age matron who did good works because it was expected of one in her social class. The message was clear: if I thought Frances was interesting enough to research and write about, convey to readers that she is worth reading about.

If the feedback I have received from readers is any indication, I succeeded in my task.

Remembering The Ladies

(Top image: Lucinda Frailly, a/k/a Frances Cleveland, and the author of "Frank: The Story of Frances Folsom Cleveland";

Bottom image: "Frances" describes the details of her wedding gown to the audience at the National First Ladies Library event, "White House Weddings.")

The National First Ladies Library, located in Canton, Ohio, has chosen to remember the nation's first ladies - those women whose warmth, style, intelligence and subtle political maneuvering helped their husbands attain the presidency of the United States.

Last weekend, May 7-8, was my second trip to this relatively new national treasure. I was hosted for a book signing of my biography of Frances Folsom Cleveland, in conjunction with the Library's program called "White House Weddings."

The event, which showcased all of the nation's White House brides, which included presidential wives and daughters, adopted the decorations used by the Clevelands for their White House nuptials. The NFLL's attention to detail even included the ribbon-tied white gift boxes with a piece of wedding cake inside - a memento the Clevelands gave to their wedding guests.

Frances became First Lady at the same moment she said "I do" to Grover Cleveland in the Blue Room of the White House. This is where the wedding ceremony of the 49-year old portly bachelor and the 21-year old comely Miss Folsom took place. Frances had returned just five days before from her seven-month trip to Europe. She and Cleveland had initially planned a quiet and private ceremony at the farm of Frances's paternal grandfather, Colonel John Folsom, but Folsom's sudden death as Frances, her mother and cousin were aboard ship returning to America changed those plans.

The Cleveland wedding was as small and private as one could make it, considering the parties involved and the venue. Cleveland's cabinet members and their wives, a few close friends of the couple and family members made up the party of 30 attendees. The Clevelands left for their honeymoon location under cover of darkness and boarded a private rail car, but newspaper reporters found them out and followed. Even in the days before paparazzi and telephoto lenses, the media managed to intrude on what should have been an intensely private occasion. It was the beginning of a long and antagonistic relationship between the presidential couple and newspaper reporters.

The honeymoon literally didn't last long, and the couple returned to Washington within a week of the ceremony - Cleveland to resume his presidential duties; Frances to embark on an entirely new life in the public eye.

Frances Folsom Cleveland - "The Missing Years"

One of the challenges in writing biography is the ability to confirm your sources. What that means "in translation" is that some information that a writer uncovers during research may not make it into the final draft, because there is no way to verify the material.

This is the case with some of the information that I learned about Frances Cleveland - most of which came from family members who were willing to talk with me about her, with the understanding that it would be off the record.

My daughter wrote a kind and fair assessment of the book, Frank, and she echoed observations that I have heard from others and that a blogger from England noted in her review of the book. What else did Frances do following her marriage to Thomas Preston? Did she do more than engage in a variety of volunteer work?

Well, the answer to that question is 'yes and no.' Frances' volunteer activities framed the basis for her entire life. She was driven by an internal sense of duty that drove most of her activities. I believe that sense of duty was initially planted by her commitment to the Presbyterian church, of which she was a lifelong member, reinforced by the tutelage of Wells College's "lady principal" (i.e., dean), Helen Fairchild Smith, and supported by Grover Cleveland, who had the same type of internal compass (Cleveland's last words are reported to have been: "I tried so hard to do right.").

Duty also dictated her role as a matriarch in the lives of her four surviving children, and she stayed engaged in their lives, and in the lives of her grandchildren, until her death. Here's a snapshot of some vignettes that were not included in the book:

Son, Richard, divorced his first wife, Ellen, because her alcoholism had become more than he could cope with. Frances, concerned about the maternal influence of the three children from that marriage, made a point of having them spend time with her during the summer months at her home in Tamworth, New Hampshire. Ann Cleveland, the eldest of Richard's children, was close friends with her cousin, Marion Cleveland, the daughter of the youngest of Frances and Grover's offspring, Francis Grover Cleveland. Throughout her life, Frances insisted on strict observance of the Sabbath. However, one Sunday evening, Ann decided that she would go bowling with Marion. The next morning, "Granny," as Frances was affectionately called, summoned Ann to her office. "Where did you go last night?" Frances demanded of her granddaughter. Ann replied that she had gone bowling with her cousin, Marion. "What am I supposed to say to Mrs. Findley?" (Frances' close friend who also had a home in Tamworth). Ann wanted to know why her going bowling with Marion would be a problem; after all, 'Granny' wasn't chastising Marion. "Marion's allowed to go bowling on Sundays," Frances explained. "She's in the theater."

Frances loved the theater, and she was once quoted as saying she could spend every night there, if she had the chance. During the latter years of her life, she sold tickets for her son Francis Grover's summer theater, located in Tamworth, and Thomas Preston served as the usher. By the 1930s, very few people recognized the white haired woman who cheerfully sold tickets as a former first lady, and she said that she liked the anonymity, because it allowed her to listen to honest comments about the performance, that she would then pass on to her son.

One of the unresolved questions of Frances' life was the sexuality of her second husband, Thomas Preston. A bachelor until he married Frances when he was 52 years old, there are some hints that Preston may have been a homosexual. Some of his behaviors point to the possibility: his manner of dress and his interests; the frequency with which the couple went their separate ways for extended periods of time; his extended bachelorhood.

The other side of the relationship is that it is very clear that there was companionship between the couple. As pointed out in the book, Preston traveled all over the world with Frances, something Grover Cleveland never would have done. He played the piano at their Tamworth home on Sunday evenings for an in-home worship service and hymn-singing (Frances was reported to have had a beautiful soprano voice), and, as noted above, he served as an usher for Francis Grover's summer theater. The "jury is out" on his sexual orientation, but the commitment the two had to each other appears to be real.

Mines, Memories and Disasters

The sad and tragic story of the explosion and deaths at the Massey mine in West Virginia this week ignited powerful memories of my growing-up years in southwestern Pennsylvania in the 1960s, when mining accidents were a routine occurrence.

The Washington Post has characterized the deaths of the 29 miners as "the worst U.S. mining disaster in a generation." In one sense, the paper's observation is an unspoken statement to the improvement in mine safety. In another sense, it is also a reminder that some things really have not changed in over 50 years.

The Post's columnist, E.J. Dionne, wrote earlier this week that there is a "heartbreaking sameness to how we respond to mining disasters." Indeed, yes, there is a heartbreaking sameness to how we respond...to any disaster.

The explosion at Massey's Upper Big Branch mine is considered by most who have examined the company's practices and safety record to have been avoidable. The company was cited multiple times for safety violations by the board that oversees miner safety for the industry. The sad fact is that that same board, although it had the authority to do so, did not suspend mining operations until the violations were corrected.

Now, of course, the requisite finger-pointing has begun, and it will be followed by the requisite congressional hearings and concomitant outrage, which will result in either more regulations on the books or some piece of legislation to be fought over by the lobbyists for the mining industry. More likely, the end result will be nothing but that sameness that Dionne refers to: inertia.

We tend to react most strongly when human life is needlessly lost, as in the case of this mining disaster. We react somewhat similarly when family's finances are needlessly lost, as has been the case in this last year and a half during the severe economic downturn that has cost many families their homes and retirees their pensions.

Like mining, there is an oversight board for the financial industry. In fact, there are multiple oversight boards: the SEC that exists to regulate activities in the stock market; the Federal Reserve that oversees banking activity; the FDIC that insures bank customers' deposits. And yet, just as is the case with Massey, there were signs of violations of regulations and evidence that the rules were stretched beyond their normal elasticity. Little, if anything, in the way of suspicious activity in the financial sector was brought to a halt by regulators before disaster struck.

And, so, we reacted with heartbreaking sameness. Finger-pointing. Blame. Congressional hearings. Proposed legislation. New regulations. And...wait for it...yes, as signs of economic improvement emerge, we can fully expect the resumption of inertia.

In early 2009, reports surfaced about the possibility of salmonella occurring in peanut paste being produced by Peanut Corporation of America, and shipped from its facility in Georgia. The company had been cited previously for various violations, including sanitation and rodent control issues. Regulators failed to shut the Georgia plant down until the conditions were corrected.

And, so, salmonella entered the food supply through the paste, a common ingredient in a variety of foods, including snack crackers, granola bars and cereals. We reacted with heartbreaking sameness as news of disease caused by the contamination was made public. Finger-pointing. Blame. Congressional hearings. New regulations. Proposed legislation.

There is a point at which this sameness, which is heartbreaking because it does not lead to real and lasting change, needs to stop. We need to take a holistic look at how we respond to disasters, regardless of their origin. The knee-jerk reaction is to heap regulation upon regulation as each new permutation of human behavior is revealed at the expense of innocent people.

But, as the adage says, rules are made to be broken. It is in the nature of human beings to find ways around those things which constrict their desired outcomes. New regulations on the books, be it for mines or for banks or for food, may assuage an anxious public. It might make good stump speech fodder for legislators, but it won't change basic motivation. Just as soon as a new regulation is on the books, business owners who find the rule too restrictive for their tastes, or for their profitability, will pay lawyers to find a way to bend the law without breaking it.

How, then, do we create a society which reduces needless and senseless loss? Consumer demand for more transparency in how companies conduct their businesses is one approach - let consumers vote with their dollars. Removal of government contracts for chronic violators is another step. Why use taxpayer money to reward companies that don't play by the rules?

Perhaps the simplest, and easiest, approach is to examine the rules already in place and address the reasons enforcement is spotty, and in many cases, just plain lax. That means beefing up the investigative staffs of the regulatory agencies, putting teeth into the enforcement side and rewarding inspectors who actually do their jobs.

More rules only creates more burden - on the law-abiding businesses that play by the rules, and on the regulators who are overwhelmed by their workloads. Scaling back would be a step in the right direction. In fact,, scaling back would be a nice change from reacting with mind-numbing sameness to a disaster.

Presidents and their Secrets

It was late spring 1893, and Congress was getting ready to wind down and leave Washington before the city's miserable heat, humidity and mosquitoes arrived in full force. The Washington papers, ever curious about the plans of its recently re-elected president (to his second, albeit non-consecutive, term), reported that the Clevelands would spend the summer at their rented home in the cooler farming section of the city (yes, there once was such a place - now known as the Cleveland Park section because the Clevelands had lived there).

Then, just a few weeks after the First Family's plans were announced, a new report came forward - Mrs. Cleveland would prefer to take her daughter, Ruth, to the family's summer home at Buzzards Bay, Massachusetts, to keep her away from Washington's oppressive heat. And, by the way, the portly president was now on a new diet, the Banting program, to lose weight.

Such was the start of a presidential cover-up that remained a secret until 1917. The truth was this: President Cleveland had a cancerous growth in his mouth and required immediate surgery. Cleveland insisted upon complete secrecy because the country was on the verge of economic collapse (not unlike what we have recently experienced financially these past two years - although it was the man, J.P. Morgan, who literally bailed out the U.S. Treasury back then, not the other way around as happened in 2008 when the U.S. Treasury bailed out the company founded by Morgan). Cleveland feared that the country would collapse completely if the true state of his health were revealed to the public and to possible financiers abroad.

Mrs. Cleveland's departure to Massachusetts was the start of the ruse. The cover-up continued with Cleveland leaving Washington, ostensibly to go on a fishing trip, on the yacht of his close friend, Commodore Benedict. The surgery was performed on the yacht as it lay anchored off of New York City, and Cleveland convalesced there until he could be safely deposited at Buzzards Bay.

Newspaper reporters became suspicious when the president remained out of contact for as long as he did, but a cool and unflappable Frances Cleveland assured the reporters that her husband was enjoying some time away from Washington. The seriousness of the growth found in Cleveland's mouth necessitated a second surgery, again performed secretly, as well as the fitting of a rubber jaw so that the president could speak clearly.

A diligent reporter for the Philadelphia Eagle actually uncovered the full story in late August, but the White House successfully prevailed with the paper's editor to have a retraction printed before the information became widespread. The public never fully knew the truth about their very, very sick president until one of the dental surgeons, Dr. W.W. Keen, published his account of the events in a 1917 issue of the Saturday Evening Post (ostensibly with the approval of Mrs. Cleveland).

Many of us routinely question the veracity of reports coming from the White House - regardless of the occupant - because time has shown that not all information from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue is completely truthful. Modern presidents could learn a thing or two from the second Cleveland administration - their tactics of concealment would rival anything a modern day politician might contrive to prevent a story from becoming known to the public.

Frances Cleveland and her Alma Mater (Wells College)

What an absolute thrill it was to spend the better part of this week at Wells College, in Aurora, New York. This beautiful campus, founded by the same man who started Wells Fargo Company, Henry Wells, sits on the shores of Cayuga Lake, in New York's Finger Lakes region. While it is a small school, Wells is rich in heritage, and it also has a little-known history of graduating young people with a far and significant reach.

Frances graduated from Wells in 1885. In 1887, the school named her as its first alumna trustee. She was one of the first two women named to the trustee board; the other being Wells's "Lady Principal," (what we would today call a dean), Helen Fairchild Smith.

Frances took her trustee responsibilities seriously, and she attended the meetings regularly and served her alma mater for forty years. During that time, she worked with the administration in the rebuilding of the school's Main Hall, which burned in 1888. She solicited a contribution from the philanthropist, Andrew Carnegie, to build a library on the campus, completed in 1911 and named in her honor. Frances was instrumental in handling a crisis in the school's leadership, in 1912, and she headed Wells's Million Dollar Campaign, in 1922. This campaign, which asked alumnae to give or solicit donations totaling $333 each, was successfully completed in 1924.

Education was a passion of Frances's that stayed with her throughout her life. She was one of the first of Wells's "girls" (the school went co-ed five years ago) to be notably influential in American life.

Time often dims the memory of contributions that individuals have made to the greater good of a community. To see the stately and well-maintained buildings that have been on the Wells campus for over a century, and to know that this school continues to prepare young people for successful lives, is a good reminder that one person's contribution can easily outlast that individual's lifetime. Such is the case with Frances Folsom Cleveland.

To see a photo of Wells College president, Lisa Ryerson, "Frances Folsom Cleveland," and me, alongside Frances' wedding portrait, click here: http://wellscollege.wordpress.com/2010/04/01/missed-charter-day/

Sleeveless First Ladies

I still have the March 2009 issue of Vogue magazine. Granted, part of the reason I'm hanging onto it is that I am a notorious pack rat. Throwing away anything that I think might have a future use is against my nature. But I have specifically saved this issue, because First Lady Michelle Obama, wearing a sleeveless dress, is on the cover.

When the March issue of Vogue appeared on the stands, Mrs. Obama had only been First Lady for about six weeks. Even so, she had already started a buzz in the fashion world because of her taste in clothing, and, especially, her tendency to wear sleeveless dresses. I read the commentaries on her "sleevelessness" with a sense of bemusement. Some things never change.

One hundred and twenty-three years earlier, in mid-1886, another First Lady was making headlines because of her sleeveless attire. That First Lady was Frances Folsom Cleveland, a young, lithe, extremely attractive woman, who had returned from her pre-wedding trip to Paris with a trunk-ful of new clothes. Naturally, her new role as the nation's First Lady was a two-edged sword: her beautiful and stylish attire would be on display during Washington's social season, and her clothing would be the subject of much discussion.

Her sleeveless dresses, with their low necklines, were indeed a subject of much discussion. The most outspoken group was the Women's Christian Temperance Union, which sent her a letter asking her to dress more modestly as an example for young women throughout the United States. The letter from the WCTU was especially curious, considering that Frances was a professed teetotaler, and that her college roommate was the niece of the WCTU's founder, Frances Willard. (The WCTU never did take a full liking to the nation's First Lady; it also criticized her for using a bottle of champagne to christen a ship, suggesting she should have used something non-alcoholic.)

Sleevelessness was not the only thing that Washington's society writers noted about the First Lady when it came to fashion. They found it newsworthy that she removed her bonnet when she attended theater - which was quite regularly - and started a trend that was ultimately seen as respectful to those who sat behind women wearing large hats that normally blocked the view of the stage.

The one "fashion statement" that was attributed to Frances, but which, in fact, she had nothing to do with, was the elimination of the bustle. That rumor was started one hot summer day in 1887 when there was no real news and a reporter needed to file something with his paper. He announced that Mrs. Cleveland's new wardrobe would no longer feature the bustle, and women's clothiers immediately packed the contraptions away in the basement. When Frances returned to Washington in the fall and embarked on a shopping trip, she asked for a bustle. "But Mrs. Cleveland," the sales clerk informed her, "ever since you stopped wearing the bustle, we took the remaining ones we had and put them in the basement. No one is buying them any more!"

"In that case," Frances replied, "I guess I really will have to stop wearing them." And she did.

Frances never waffled on her views about sleeveless dresses and low necklines, though. Her 1899 official portrait, by the artist, Anders Zorn, renders her in a sleeveless gown with just the right amount of decolletage to still be considered modest.

Why Write About Frances Folsom Cleveland?

"Why did you pick her?" is a question I am asked nearly every time someone hears about my book, "Frank: The Story of Frances Folsom Cleveland, America's Youngest First Lady." It's a fair question. Frances is not, as one person told me, "in the upper constellation of first ladies": that stratospheric region inhabited by Jackie Kennedy, Eleanor Roosevelt, Dolley Madison and Abigail Adams. The fact that Frances was considered a hostess on par with Dolley Madison has long been forgotten, and the uncanny parallels with Jackie Kennedy have never been fully drawn.

There are quite a few "firsts" associated with Frances. In addition to being the nation's youngest first lady, she was the first to marry a sitting president in the White House; the first First Lady to give birth to a baby in the White House; and the first to remarry after her husband died (Jackie Kennedy is the only other first lady to do so).

There are the forgotten "firsts": a kindergarten in the White House for preschool children; the first First Lady to graduate from college; one of the first two female trustees of her alma mater, Wells College. Frances played a behind the scenes role in finally getting copyright legislation passed to protect American authors, and following the presidential years and the family's settling in Princeton, New Jersey, Frances was instrumental in the founding of the New Jersey College for Women.

Newspaper articles, as well as her letters, reveal a woman of strong and determined character, with an egalitarian streak that endeared her to the public and to the White House staff. Her husband, Cleveland, who came across in public as gruff and taciturn, actually had a better sense of humor and was an outstanding raconteur in private. Frances, perhaps because of the demands on her to watch her children and household while Cleveland spent hours in the presidential study, in a fishing boat or on a hunting trip, was friendly enough. But she also had a stern and unyielding streak that remained with her throughout her life.

Historians refer to Frances as a "transitional" first lady. Although she continued to maintain a very traditional posture as the White House hostess, she did, in fact, understand the value of parlor politics. She played that game well enough that sometimes even her husband, who believed women should not be in politics, had to support what she was doing.

The Business of Writing

Last Sunday, March 14, I had a small quote in the "Personality Parade" column of Parade magazine. (See http://www.parade.com/celebrity/personality-parade/2010/03/jacqueline-kennedy-onassis.html.) For one day, I made the top 20 U.S. history bestseller list on amazon.com. During that Sunday, I was in the top 4,000 books sold, according to their rankings.On Monday, I was off the bestseller list and I had dropped to 42,000, and now.... Well, we won't go into that, but let's just say you can add a few more zeroes to my place on the sales charts.

There are a lot of books being written, and in spite of the proliferation of the written word - albeit in shortened form, such as texts and tweets (and blog posts) - book reading, in general, is down. Book publishing is not a profitable enterprise. Even the major publishing houses count on blockbusters to pay the bills for all of the other mid-list and less-than-mid-list books they publish. Every author who has a book published is expeced actively to promote his or her work.

This past week, I had the great honor to be on an author panel at the Virginia Festival of the Book. It is an opportunity afforded to only a small number of authors, and I consider myself extremely fortunate to be a part of that select group. This was also the first time that I attended the event as an author - and a different perspective generates a different response to one's experiences.

Not only did I pay attention to what had motivated authors to pick their topics and what was involved in their research, but I especially noted that every single one of us is trying to sell our respective books. We are first selling ourselves, the writer as human being, and in that newly established rapport we seek to sell the prospective reader on the merits of reading our particular book. In the vast collection of potential reading material, we strive to convince a reader that ours is one of the books that merits attention.

Several years ago, I had the opportunity to serve as a consultant to a very artistic and business-savvy potter. I marveled at how he successfully operated out of both sides of his brain - the artistic side that created one-of-a-kind wares, and the business side - that understood what it took to sell those wares. I find myself, the MBA who writes history as a hobby, now in that same category - the writer who must also be business-savvy. If I'm going to do the work to research and write a book, then I want people to read what I have written. And if I want people to read what I have written, then I need to find every means possible to let them know about the book - and about me.

That, in short, is the business side of writing.