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.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
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"?
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"?
Saturday, August 14, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, June 28, 2010
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.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
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.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
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.
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.
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