Retrospect Book

I hadn’t realized how closely Patti and John had listened when I’d described my experience at the Chilmark Writer’s Workshop on Martha’s Vineyard, a wonderful, supportive writing workshop given by Nancy Slonim Aronie, an island legend (and beyond; she teaches at Kripalu, is featured on “All Things Considered”, and just published her third book). I took it three times between 2003-2011. It wasn’t about how to craft an excellent story, but rather about finding one’s voice and being in a magical writing circle where everyone divulged revealing tales about themselves. Nancy talked about various aspects of writing on each of the four days of the course, then gave us prompts, including one to write overnight and spend at least 15 minutes on it. I confess, a few of those stories made their way onto this site. We grew as we shared these intimate stories. Nancy insisted that we only give positive comments. John picked up on that too. So Retrospect became a place for supportive comments, not criticizing. Long-distance friendships were made. Serious discussions took place. Personal tales revealed.

John, Patti and a close friend of theirs worked long and hard to craft a user-friendly platform where Boomers could share their tales on a weekly basis, based on site-based prompts, or choose a story-line of one’s own. Positive comments could be offered, but only by vetted users of the site. The administrators hoped to build a wide community and a huge inventory of stories around shared prompts relating to topics from our collective experiences. It worked well for a long time, but it also took a lot of time and effort on everyone’s part to come up with interesting, probing prompts and keep improving the application while attracting new writers and readers.

I was flattered when my friends approached me in the late fall of 2015 with the request to be a beta tester of the site (we had discussed the idea over dinner once when we saw them, earlier in the year. They know me well and knew that I am not shy about telling my stories and I had some good ones to share). John helped me set up my online profile and knew that if I could use their site, then it was tech-friendly enough for anyone. They gave prompts four weeks in advance. I like to write ahead, so I can let my thoughts marinate, then come back and edit! My assignment was to write three stories and comment on three others, just to see how it would go. The first prompt was “What We Ate” (again, based on the first story always written up in Chilmark, which was “Dinner at our house was…”). The story went live on December 14, 2015 – 9 years ago.

Brisket

I was hooked. I wrote and wrote – every week for eight years. I wrote weeks ahead so that I had a story to put up, even when we were traveling. But keeping this site going took a tremendous amount of effort, not just coming up with new, interesting prompts, but gaining new authors and readers, keeping out the spam, keeping the software running. So, after three years, my friends decided it was time to pack it in. I wrote a fond tribute to them for the prompt “Turning Points”, which went live on December 31, 2018.

A thank you note for being a beta tester from Patti

Moving On

Yet, several writers didn’t want this great site to end, so took it over from Patti, John and Susan, with new Admins and a new infusion of capital. After a few month’s hiatus, it started up again on March 1, 2019 with the prompt “New Beginnings”.

“Retro” Revival

I used to post my stories to Facebook, but discovered that wasn’t a good idea, for privacy reasons, so asked my readers to indicate who would like to receive a link each week as the story went live. The new Admins moved the publishing day from Monday to Saturday and by this time I had a nice list of people to whom I sent the story link. I decided that I had to write a letter of introduction before sending out the link, so somehow, I wrote two stories each week (in a manner of speaking). My list grew and changed, as more people learned about these stories. And after several years, these new administrators had also run their course. But again, current writers stepped in to take the site over, planning the new prompts each week. Yet with each iteration, features were lost on the site (we weren’t keeping up with changes in underlying software).

By the end of 2023, I had written 360 stories. It took a lot of time to think, write and search through old photo albums, looking for just the right photos to use to illustrate my stories. And I felt like I’d said what I had to say. When I told my son that I was no longer going to write on a weekly basis, he said 360 was a good number – I had come full circle. So at the beginning of this year, I only wrote when a prompt really spoke to me, or I found an old prompt and wrote a story when I was really upset about something.

It seems I wasn’t alone in taking a step back. Now, very few people wrote on a weekly basis, so it was determined that this would be the final prompt. We had a great run. The site will stay live, so people can continue to read the stories, or write if the spirit moves them (and I will have an opportunity to print my stories – I haven’t saved or printed anything since 2018). We made great friends along the way (we even had a Retro get-together or two – here is a local one, though NYC friends drove up for this brunch). There are four writers at this table.

May, 2023
Brunch with Retro writers (and a few spouses)

Now I bid you adieu. Be kind and take care of one another. Keep in touch, I still want to hear from you. And keep telling your story.

Woodstock, VT Oct, 1980, Photo by Alan Jackson

Growing up in Michigan, where we have each season, I appreciated each one for its unique character, but autumn was always my favorite, with the glorious colors of the changing leaves, the crispness of the air, the bonfires we had after we helped my dad rake the leaves (no longer permitted, but I did love the smell), the rustle the leaves made underfoot. As the Jewish New Year arrived, it became a contemplative time. I grew older and more self-reflective.

I think of myself now in the autumn of my years yet I know that winter is hard upon me. I’ve had surgery on several toes that still bother me and this year, on my left ankle, discovering a great deal of inflammation in the capsule surrounding the joint. I feel aches and pains in various joints and my back is an ongoing dilemma; still I fight on. We’ve lost close friends. All parents are long gone. As the youngest of a large generation of first cousins at the age of 72, my cousins are leaving me behind. I deeply mourn each lost loved one. Words don’t come as quickly as they once did. I still have the enthusiasm, if not the energy. After 21 years, I still sing in my chorus, but have lost my top notes. I wonder how much longer singing will be satisfying.

Now there are two adorable granddaughters to love and hold dear. They keep us young, while also exhausting us. We marvel at the imagination and joy that emanate from such little people. They are in the spring of their existence, just beginning to bud and flower. We can’t wait to see them in the full bloom of their summer.

As someone with a December birthday, winter was always a festive time for me, though mine was often combined with other occasions like Hanukkah, as seen in this photo, my sixth birthday, with the decorations above the mantel. In Detroit we always had snow on the ground by December 10.

Ready for 6th birthday party

Coming from Russia, my grandparents didn’t know their birthdays. My grandfather celebrated his on Christmas, so we always went to Toledo to celebrate and there were lots of home movies of the grandchildren kissing our grandparents in front of a big, decorated tree, as we would go out to a nice hotel for a festive meal; something I now find ironic, since it was brutal pogroms that caused my grandparents to come to this country in the first place.

A dear friend was my birthday “twin”; we didn’t just share a birthday – we were both Midwesterners born on the same day, 45 minutes apart. For years we celebrated our birthdays together. Here we are 10 years ago.

With “birthday twin”, 2014

Marianne lost her battle with cancer in September, 2023. This painful loss serves as a reminder of my own mortality; that I am in the winter of my days. Her widower and I held each other closely at her wake, “What will we do on December 10 now?” I assured him that we would continue to celebrate, to pay tribute to his wonderful wife. Last year he wanted to be with his children for dinner, so we went to brunch. This year, we had quite the adventure.

He is a former bio-tech executive and still sits on many boards. He had to be in Washington, DC on the 10th, so we scheduled dinner in a nice Newton restaurant for the 11th. He asked to push back the reservation time a bit to ensure he could make it, given the timing of his flight. Then WEATHER happened. I got alerts about a “bombogenesis”, or a “bomb cyclone” happening on the 11th. It rained all day on the 10th, but accelerated on the 11th with a low pressure area rapidly deepening. The temperature climbed from the 30s into the 60s. I looked at my husband and said, “Rich isn’t going to make it back for dinner tomorrow night”. Sure enough, around 12:30, I got a call, “My flight was cancelled. I’m booked on an earlier flight, in a Uber on the way to the airport, but the flight is due to leave in 45 minutes and I still have to clear security. I’m trying! I’ll let you know what happens.” At 1:13pm I got a text that he’d made the flight (it was still delayed, but got into Boston before the worst of the storm)! We all waded our way through high winds and pouring rain and convened at the (packed) restaurant, for a wonderful meal and a toast to our friendship and Marianne.

Celebrating, despite the weather

Climate change means that I no longer have a white birthday. This was the first time I had a bomb cyclone for my birthday. I guess I have to be prepared for change and decline. Those are the only constants these days.

Island Home, the “newest ferry”; seen in 2014

I know how lucky we are to own the home that we do on the island of Martha’s Vineyard, seven miles off the coast of Cape Cod. (Holmes Coffin House.) It is well-situated in the Historic District of Edgartown. We walk to almost everything. But getting to the island can be challenging, particularly this season, as there were MANY ferry cancellations due to mechanical issues with the ships, or crew shortages. If one person called in sick, that entire ferry’s service had to be scraped for the entire day, and this was a busy summer. So no one who had reservations on those boats was guaranteed passage that day and had to scramble. During the peak of the season in July and August, this could be terribly inconvenient. What if you were trying to get to a doctor appointment, or flying out of the Boston airport later in the day? Tough luck.

As a home owner, I am allowed to make up to 10 reservations in January, when the reservations for the season open up, and I do make mine then, but plans change. (I normally am on the island from late May through the first of October; then I learned that my 50th Brandeis Reunion would be the last weekend of September, so I changed my reservation. A Rose Museum opening and lecture earlier in that week caused another change, and now I incurred a change fee. When something came up on that Monday, there were no ferries off. And it was like that for the entire month of July and August; we could not get a ferry off if we wanted to). On an Islander Facebook page, someone complained that he had a doctor appointment later that week, but the ferry website showed NO FERRIES available for weeks! This is unacceptable. Everyone griped about it all summer. The website frequently showed nothing available. Even if one calls the reservation line, the operator looks at the same information that we do. Evidently the trick is to go in person to the office – something that a person off-island cannot do. The people in the terminals have real-time data, but that doesn’t help those of us who are trying to get or change reservations from someplace other than the island.

And storms would cause ferries to be cancelled or diverted from Oak Bluffs to the more sheltered port of Vineyard Haven, but if you didn’t check, you might not know, leaving you high and dry.

Constant notifications this season from the Steamship Authority

Businesses said their revenues were down because people couldn’t get to the island. (Somehow, car traffic seemed almost as bad as usual during the height of the season, however.)

Because we live so close to the water and frequently dine on the harbor, we do get to see some spectacular yachts in port. After dinner, we’ll walk over to gawk.

Yacht in Edgartown harbor, 2017

Yacht is Tisbury, 2024

Many of these are available for charter. Dan looks them up. The fees are beyond comprehension, but we do like to look at them. Years ago, when we owned small boats, we’d take them out for close inspection and to watch some of the races taking place in the inner harbor.

One foggy September morning, as I left the island to come home for chorus practice, I got a lovely shot of Vineyard Haven harbor before a surly dock hand told me I was too close to the edge of the ship. Being on the water has its own charm. I find it relaxing to see nature in all its beauty. I just want the Steamship Authority to run smoothly. It is clear that the fees for ferry tickets for passengers as well as vehicles will increase next season, as the SSA ran a huge deficit this season and the manager announced that he will step down next year. Costs go up, reliability and service decrease. And this is our lifeline to the mainland. What are we to do? I hear calls for the Steamship Authority to be taken over by the state and become a public utility. Then I look at how badly managed the T (our subway) is and think better of it. There must be someone who knows how to manage the place!

Foggy morning, as seen from the ferry

Larry Bird in college

One hot summer day in July of 1978, I flew into Terre Haute, Indiana. I must confess that Terra Haute had a peculiar oder. The airport was full of larger-than-life photos of their hometown hero, Larry Bird, who grew up down the road in French Lick. I rented a car, got directions and began my drive to Columbia House Records. I was about ten weeks into my new job as an Education Specialist for Advanced Systems, Inc., a company that provided video training for tech people of all stripes.

As an Education Specialist, I saw existing customers to help them decide what videos best suited their educational needs and ultimately, renew their contracts with the company; so my job was sales support and renewal. The contact person at Columbia House had not been seen by anyone from ASI in a LONG time.

This was the plant where records were produced. The lobby was small and had gold records and photos of their bigs stars like Barbra Streisand on the walls, but not much else in terms of decor. The chairs were plastic and not comfortable. Vendors probably did not spend much time there. I introduced myself to the receptionist and asked to see Roy Chitwood. I was told to take a seat and wait. And wait. And wait.

I was taught in my recent sales training class that the rule of thumb was to wait 10 minutes, then be on my way and make a new appointment, but I had traveled in from out-of-town and it became increasingly clear that Roy wanted to make a statement about his anger with my company. So I patiently waited. A half hour slipped by before he came out to greet me and usher me into his office. He had blond, curly hair, a thick mustache and wire-frame glasses. I sat politely as he vented his anger. He had bought a big (now obsolete) contract from us years ago, then not heard from anyone from the company until I called to set up our appointment. He let me have it. I heard him out.

“The customer is always right”. Another sales aphorism; more or less true (at least you try to appease the customer). I apologized. I told him that I would try to do better. We talked about ways to use what he had and swap out what was no longer useful (ASI had this problem with many of its older customer base and had devised a method to help). We got into a discussion about what was wrong with “the world”, “kids” (I was in my mid-20s but carried myself well), customer support and follow-through.

Then I broke another hard and fast sales rule: never talk about religion or politics (remember – this was a long time ago when the world was a kinder, gentler place, much less divided than it is today). I said, “those who don’t remember history are doomed to repeat it”. The point I tried to make was about the lack of education or appreciation for the history of what came before us – a point that seems increasingly relevant today. And to back up my claim, I told him how the battle for control of Jerusalem was won by Moshe Dayan in the 1967 War because he went back to the Bible and discovered an ancient text that described a forgotten path that gave him access to the old city (I no longer remember all the details, but something to that effect). This provided him the element of surprise and he won the battle.

Roy, a devout Baptist, loved this story. He probed a bit more, asking if I’d ever been to the Holy Land. I had been there to visit my brother, studying to become a rabbi, only a few years earlier. He became quite animated, invited me back if I’d bring photos from my trip. I promised I would if he would promise me the contract renewal. We agreed to our deal and each kept our bargain. I left out the photos of 19-year-old me in my little bikini at the Dead Sea.

At Masada, 1972

I thought about all of this because I recently heard a talk by Dr Kimberly Manning, a doctor at a hospital in Atlanta, GA and teacher at Emory who spoke about the human connection and how important it is. In her training, she learned (and teaches to her students), the importance of learning everyone’s names, saying “please” and “thank you”, just sitting with patients, learning from them, listening to them, being PRESENT.

In our hurried world, full of social media, with so little human contact, that made a big impact on me. Really listening to each other. She said she has a podcast and posts on Twitter a lot (I can’t call it X, that is ridiculous), even if is just to say that she has spoken at a conference. And she, in her 25+ years as a practicing physician, has witnessed a coarsening of the conversation. Now people don’t hide their identity when they come after her on Twitter, denigrating her, calling her names, no longer lurking in the shadows. They think it is OK to verbally abuse her good work because of who she is. She is an African-American, proud that she is a product of two HBCUs, who then did her internship and residency at Case Western Reserve in Cleveland, and for the first time in her life, learned how it felt to be a minority in the room. She observes people, defines herself as a “story-teller” (as I do of myself). She is not afraid to cry as she tells these stories. Her work is with the indigent and dying in Atlanta, and often has to leave their room to have a good cry. She tells her students it is OK to do just that. She weaves her own narrative into her clinical practice to prove her points.

I had to sit in a waiting room, doing penance to appease the anger of my customer 46 years ago, but I gladly heard him out and was rewarded for the effort. I listened to him and he listened to me. Are we no longer capable of listening to one another? Is this what we have become? Dr. Manning told us she awakens each morning with an affirmation, being thankful to open her eyes and start a new day. So perhaps, rather than dwelling on the chaos and hate, I need to learn from her and do the same.

My daily intake

I have strived to be healthy, but life had other plans, beginning with severe migraines decades ago. A brilliant neurologist put me on a “cocktail” of medications more than two decades ago to tamp those down. Those account for three of the bottles in the photo and I take those every evening.

While dealing with those migraines, a masseuse mentioned to me that I was a prime candidate for bone loss and asked if I’d ever had my bone density checked. I had not at the time, but asked my internist about it, was checked and already had osteopenia (I am now in full-fledged osteoporosis), so began taking medication for it, which helped, but now I take daily calcium (the big bottle) and an additionally prescribed potassium supplement.

More than 40 years ago, I had extremely mild allergies, but living inside our home during renovation more than two decades ago, tipped me over into a real allergic reaction to dust (as well as some pollens), so I take Singulair on a daily basis as well, and can no longer tolerate being on a construction site. Though I’ve been diagnosed with very mild asthma, I’ll take a puff or two of an inhaler for chorus practice or a concert to insure I have maximum lung capacity, as it decreases as we ages.

For some reason, over the past eight years, I’ve been plagued by styes in my eyelids (I’ve had severe dry eye for more than 30 years), which require a lot of hot compresses, but also antibiotic eye drops and pills. I’ve had two in different eyes since February. This time, my doctor has put me on a low dose of doxycycline for three months to try to prevent any further attacks, but now I must be careful in the sun, as I am very susceptible to sunburn. Always something, right?

The indignities of aging are hitting home with increasing frequency these days. I had ankle surgery in late January, which went smoothly. The joint was fine, but loads of inflammation was discovered in the capsule around the joint so I will see a rheumatologist in October to try and discover why. I took none of the prescribed pain-killers, but the recovery has taken longer than I anticipated. Our bodies do not snap back as quickly as they once did. I must learn patience and acceptance but I still want to dance at my 50th Brandeis reunion in September.

Lippes Loop form of IUD

I began a new job in May, 1981. I had interviewed for it for quite some time, (Walt at MDS), and had to convince two hardcore male chauvinists that I was the right person for the job, though my immediate supervisor was enthusiastic about hiring me. The two older men hired a man my age (with less experience) at the same time…just in case I didn’t work out, so I came into the company with a chip on my shoulder and something to prove. The product was a combination of expensive software and consulting services. It had a long, complicated sales cycle. I was (of course) the only woman (I was in my late 20s at the time of my hire) and there were only a few on the sales side.

The company was founded to do marketing brand models. Our side of the company was comprised of smart MBA-types who implemented the large-scale financial and marketing modeling using decision support systems, an innovative technology, supported by the multi-dimensional proprietary software that was used by our company, now available for sale, called Express. It was true that I had limited knowledge of both software and business. Yet with my theater background, I had outstanding presentation skills, had been a successful salesperson in a tech-adjacent industry for over three years, had excellent follow-up skills and could always bring along one of those smart MBA-types for follow-on presentations to customize presentations and explain the usage of Express for each customer’s needs. But learning how to present this product took time and my new mentor and I went on a lot of calls together for many months.

Aug, 1981, Cathy Stephenson, Betsy, Christie

In early August I went on my annual trip back to my beloved camp in Northern Michigan with my dear friend Christie to see the operetta, sing with the high school choir and hang out with our former teachers. We did this for a decade; it was a constant on our calendar, an oasis of joy and refreshment of the spirit. We shared a small cabin and talked about everything. During this visit, I commented that I had a period that hadn’t ended. I bled for 5 weeks. Christie does not suffer fools lightly. She looked at with me with concern. “Betsy, that’s not normal! You should see your doctor as soon as you return home.” Of course she was correct. But I had a history of irregular periods and breakthrough bleeding. I was not in pain, no cramping or fever, so I hadn’t been concerned.

I called my doctor’s office as soon as I returned to Boston. He was on vacation, and given my history of irregular periods, his partner wouldn’t see me. He told me to wait for my doctor to return the following Monday, which I did. I saw him that Monday afternoon. I had a sales presentation scheduled at Liberty Mutual (around the block from my Back Bay condo) with my manager on Tuesday afternoon.

I saw my doctor on Monday afternoon. I still had in a Lippes Loop from years ago. He examined me and drew blood. I got a call from him at my home the next morning, where I awaited Barry to come for our appointment. The doctor said, “You’re pregnant and we don’t where.”” What do you mean, ‘you don’t know where?’ What are my choices, my ear or my elbow?” He tried to explain to me about an ectopic pregnancy, but he never used the words “Fallopian tube” and I didn’t understand. He said I should pack an overnight bag, meet him in his office as soon as I could and we would go together to the hospital, which adjoined the medical building. My heart began to race.

I called Dan to come home from his office and waited for Barry to show up (no cell phones in those days). Barry came within a few moments and sat with me, trying to keep me calm, poor dear. He was such a nice man (he is no longer with us, having lost a battle to cancer some years ago). Dan came home a bit later and Barry bid a hasty farewell. Dan and I drove out to the Newton-Wellesley Hospital, went to the doctor’s office, then on to surgery.

The doctor used a laparoscope through my navel to see where the ectopic pregnancy was implanted, then cut it out of my left Fallopian tube, leaving a huge incision along my abdomen, and me considerably less fertile, with only one working Fallopian tube. His partner, who wouldn’t see me a week earlier, came by on rounds on Wednesday morning to check on the incision. He was dressed for his golf game (in those days, doctors played golf on Wednesdays). He had evidently assisted at the operation and closed the incision. He seemed pleased with his handiwork and commented that it was a good thing I came in when I did, as it was about to rupture (which might have killed me at the worst, but certainly would have caused serious complications). I commented that HE wouldn’t see me a week earlier. I had somehow offended him with that remark. His rebuttal: “I’m not GOD!” I was in the hospital for four days before being released.

Healing from an abdominal incision like that takes a long time. It left a long scar. I was out of work for the better part of a month. The other new hire was very kind to me. He visited me in the hospital, brought my mail and office gossip. He told me that Barry’s VP was overheard saying, “Why was she trying to get pregnant anyway?” WHAT? Did he not understand the point of the IUD? It only motivated me more. Of course I wound up being the top salesperson in the office (indeed, there was a time when I was one of the top software salespeople in all of New England). I showed them!

When I finally did become pregnant with David, I left this OBGYN practice immediately. I would never let these men touch me again.

With all that is going on in reproductive health these days, I think it is important to share this story as widely as possible. I was lucky. Despite some delays, I was able to get the life-saving help that I needed, covered by insurance. I didn’t have the state or the NOT Grand Old Party and “religious” fools telling me what I can or cannot do with my body! I would likely not be here to tell this story in today’s climate, depending on where I live. And certainly wouldn’t have my two wonderful children and granddaughter with another on the way. MY BODY, MY CHOICE!

As with cooking, I did not learn to do laundry from my mother. She had household help for much of her life. I learned to iron (a task she NEVER learned) in the costume shop at camp in 1967. That was useful. We had a service that washed the sheets, but we had to make our beds and we had inspection every day. We did “hospital corners” for a neat look, so a quarter could bounce off the bed (if this sounds like the military, camp was very regulated in those days). I still make the beds that way, and though in Newton my cleaning lady does the sheets and towels, I do them in our Vineyard house, including after company leaves (that is true in Newton as well; I only have cleaning help every other week and don’t like a messy house).

a “hospital corner” on the sofa bed for a recent holiday visitor

I first did my own laundry when I went to college in 1970 – as my mother-in-law would say, “a college load”, mostly mixed, but at least I knew to separate the darks from the light. There were machines in the basement of our dorms, but we needed quarters to use them. That was true of every building I lived in until we owned a condo or house, so I’ve never used a laundromat and had the convenience of being inside my own building, though with more units than machines, there was often a wait or someone would remove your clothing if you didn’t get down there fast enough and you’d find your wet stuff in a heap somewhere.

These days, with all the athletic fabrics, where the colors don’t run and then dry very quickly, I have trouble getting a dark load together, and trouble convincing my husband that dark sweatshirts and jeans still need to be washed separately. But I really don’t want my undergarments to get tinted blue. It is an ongoing struggle; (no, he does not do laundry unless he is by himself on the Vineyard for a few weeks. Then he really does a college load).

It can take a while to move laundry from the washer to the dryer, as some fabrics don’t go in the dryer and need to hang dry. Those I need to ferret out as I move things into the dryer. Dan wears a lot of Icebreaker athletic gear, which is made of merino wool and cannot go through the dryer. We try to have a system where he leaves it hanging on the side of the hamper separately, but does not always remember and I don’t always notice when I start the load, so it sometimes goes through the dryer and shrinks a bit…oh well! Can’t get it right 100% of the time. But I give it the old college try!

Let me begin by saying that I have not widely shared this story; perhaps I’ve told a handful of people, total, in my entire life. So it is with more than a little trepidation that I share this here, but it fits the prompt perfectly. I thought long and hard before I chose to write about it. This is not a chapter in my life I dwell on or choose to revisit often. I remind every reader that I was a naïve 18 year old at the time, feeling her way in the world; just dumb enough to think she knew much, when in fact, she knew very little. Be kind in your judgement as you read this.

I was assistant stage-managing my first show at Brandeis, a Main Stage production of two new one-act plays, with my junior friend Cindy, who was also a mentor to me. I called the first show from the lectern off stage left; “The 50 Year Game of Gin Rummy”. It had a two-person cast – a “lights-up, lights-down show”; easy to call. The other play, “Nocturnes” was very complicated with tons of cues. Cindy called that one from the booth high in the back of the theater. We each were on headsets and could hear one another, as could the people running the lights.

May 1, 1971 was the tech rehearsal, when all the lights, with their levels and exact placements are set, cues are run, any wagons that have to come on or off the stage were pulled (this was long before anything was electrified). Every cue was set and rehearsed. It made for a long day. The rehearsal ended around 11pm and I was exhausted.

Side view of Spingold Theater

We call Spingold Theater the “cupcake building”. It is round with three theaters, rehearsal space and a dance studio in the center of the circle; classroom, costume shop, Green Room, dressing rooms on the floor below and scene shop on the lowest level (accessible from the lowest, parking lot level, with a large elevator to bring the set pieces up to the theaters). Since the theaters are back to back, it is not a thoughtful design, as the noise from one production (if it is loud) bleeds through the walls to the other theater back in the day when there might be multiple shows running at once (due to budget constraints, this no longer happens). But running around the circumference of the theater to find where you want to be, or how to get to the lower level can be confusing to the uninitiated. There is a narrow corridor from stage left out to the outside perimeter, but you need to know THAT door, and THAT corridor, otherwise you will get lost.

And that is how I found myself, quite late that night, face to face with a curly-headed stranger. Like Alice through the Looking Glass, he had opened an unmarked door and found himself in a narrow corridor that led him backstage. He had no idea how to get out. I was tired and cranky.

For those of you who have never met me in person, I am 5′ tall and at that time, weighed 90 pounds. I remember that I wore a too-tight Harvard tee-shirt my parents bought me when they were in the Boston area a few years earlier for my brother’s 1969 Brandeis graduation (of course I didn’t wear a bra, this was 1971 after all), and brown, hip-hugger jeans. Nothing out of the ordinary for a long day at the theater. He wore sandals, blue jeans and a suede, fringed jacket, sort of hip-looking for the time. We passed in very close proximity in that tight corridor. He stopped to ask me a few questions, but started on a sour note: “How old are you?” (Fighting words for me.) My rejoinder, said quickly, in one breath: “I’m 18, I know I look like I’m 12, but I’m 18.” Startled, he asked, “What do you say when people tell you that you look like you are 12?” ” I tell them to go fuck themselves.”

Me in my dorm at end of freshman year, 1971 – poster of my dad provided by my cousin, Alan Jackson. Everyone thought Dad was a movie star.

OK, we were not off to a “great” start. His eyes grew wide. I didn’t care. I was SO tired of that question. Clearly, I had piqued his curiosity, which honestly, was not my intention, though now I can see how my response was provocative (but that is how I spoke at that time in my life – I did like the shock value). He regrouped, then asked if I could show him how to get out of the theater. I told him I had to gather my things, but would be ready in a few moments, so we were off. It wasn’t difficult if you knew how to do it. He chatted with me on the way out. What did I want to do, etc. I told him I was a Theater major, hoping to be an actress.

He had a little red sports car parked in front of the theater. One didn’t see many of those on campus. He enjoyed seeing my reaction. As he opened the car door for me (!), he pulled out his business card: it was embossed in gold and red lettering and said his name: Jason Warner, and had the name of a well-known studio: Warner Brothers Seven Arts. I was sort of dumb-founded. If one could see a thought-bubble over my head, the words would read, “I’ve been discovered”. But I said nothing to him. As if he could read those thoughts he said, “That’s right, I’m Jack Warner’s son. I’m in the Boston area visiting friends, thought I’d check out Brandeis. I think you have potential”.

I carried that card in my wallet until I was pickpocketed on the subway while visiting a friend in New York City my senior year. But I remember it clearly. While trying to find the logo for this story, this is the logo that I found for the company at that time:

Warner Brothers 7 Arts logo (his business card did NOT look like this)

I assure you, the logo on his card did not resemble this. Too bad we didn’t have smart phones in 1971. Then I could have googled him and his phony logo. But I couldn’t 52 years ago.

What did he mean by his interest? He didn’t know anything about me, he hadn’t seen me do a scene, heard me perform a monologue. WTF? He invited me into his little sports car. I hesitated. He could see I didn’t trust him and he was right. I sat in the passenger seat with the door open, my leg out the door, my foot planted on the ground. He wanted to get to know me better, but claimed to understood my hesitancy. “What do I know about you, besides that business card?” “Is there someplace on campus we can go and talk? I want to talk about your career?”

Oh, this guy was good; he kept this young girl intrigued.

My mind raced. Where would I be safe at this hour? What was open with people around. The Student Union was brand new, having just opened the previous November. It was open 24 hours a day and always had a guard at the front desk. I thought we could go to the front lounge there, where the guard could keep a watchful eye on me, so I suggested we drive around the campus to the Union and I got fully into his car. My heard sank as he drove right past the Union and parked in a dimly lit little lot behind the library, out of the way. Now I was on high-alert. But his banter wasn’t threatening and I parried each comment. I tried to stay calm and present.

He told me he could get me on “Laugh-In” right away (it was a hugely successful show at the time). I brushed that offer away. “I’m an artist, I don’t want to be on some vulgar TV show!” That flummoxed him. He’d just offered me the moon (which I don’t think was even produced by Warner Bros. but who knew that in the moment). We continued to talk about my ambitions (such as they were). Somehow, I mentioned that I had posed nude for a senior studio art major. He said he’d pay a lot of money for that painting. I told him it wasn’t for sale. It was hanging in a gallery on campus, part of the student’s senior portfolio (and the pose was twisting and back-facing, showing little of me besides legs, back and shoulders).

It must have been close to midnight when he told me had blue balls. I didn’t know what that was. I didn’t have much experience in the world and did not plan to increase mine now! He unzipped his fly and proceeded to whack off in front of me. I was horrified, but tried to stay calm. When he finished, he gave me a kiss and a snuggle, then asked if he could see me to my dorm. Even now, I can feel my heart beating wildly in fear and desperation. (Why didn’t I leap out of the car and make a run for it? Don’t you think that crossed through my mind; but I reasoned that he’d run after me and then he wouldn’t be as relatively gentle as he had been, I feared. Running would likely trigger some huge, negative reaction. No, better to placate as much as possible until I could get to safety with other friends on campus.)

Dear lord, I thought, how am I going to get rid of this guy? My roommate hadn’t slept in our dorm in days, but I fervently prayed that tonight would be different. We drove the short distance around the perimeter road to my dorm, Deroy, and he followed me up the stairs to the second floor. And there, talking on the pay phone at the end of the hall, was Carol, my roommate. I don’t think I’ve been so happy to see anyone in my life!

“There she is! That’s my roommate. Good night, Jason”. He kissed me goodnight on the cheek and walked out of life. I never heard from him again. Perhaps he figured that I wasn’t as easy a mark as he’d hoped. I was not overly-awed by his bravado.

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My senior year, Dan and I bought a black and white TV for my dorm room, as we were all but living together (though he graduated the previous year; he lived with his parents in nearby Newton and came over most nights after dinner). I had the news on before dinner one night and was half paying attention when an ominous story came on. A young woman in Cambridge had been raped. She’d given a description of her attacker to the police and the sketch from the police artist was shown on TV: a curly-haired white guy with a round face and even features. He looked suspiciously like Jason Warner. I started trembling. I paused for a moment, then picked up the phone in the suite and called the Cambridge police.

“I just saw the story on TV of the Cambridge woman who was raped, along with the police sketch of the rapist. I had a run-in with a man who looked very similar about three years ago out in Waltham on the Brandeis campus. I could identify him in a heartbeat.” The person on the other end of the line asked if I’d been sexually assaulted. “Not exactly” I replied. “I had a narrow escape. He had masturbated in front of me; perhaps he is escalating”. The person thanked me, but said it was not likely to be the same person after so many years (having watched years of the “Law and Order” franchises, I now beg to differ, but nevermind). So that was it and I forever closed the door on “Jason Warner” until choosing to share this predator with you now.

I had a close call that day, no real harm done except perhaps to my psyche. And a lesson learned about being taken in by strangers. Don’t engage, right from the start, no matter what the person says. Be polite, smile, walk away.

1966 Chrysler Dealers Newspaper Ad

I used to joke that I had motor oil running through my veins. Thanks to my great uncle: Uncle Meyer, as I’ve written about before, most of the Sarasons came north from St. Louis to Detroit to work for GM (my father worked in Flint for the Chevrolet Division starting in 1937, but after WWII, did not return to GM. With a partner, he got a used car lot, which became a DeSoto Dealership, then a Chrysler Dealership. He is the man in the lower right-hand corner of the Featured photo, with pith helmet in waving hand). He had a cousin who owned a Buick Dealership, another with a Cadillac Dealership. One brother was comptroller of GM, another worked at a Pontiac Dealership. On the other side of the family was a Ford Dealership. Motown and all that it entails, is a huge part of who I am.

Woodlawn Cemetery, final resting place of Aretha Franklin, her father, and Rosa Parks, is one block from the little house where I lived until I was almost 11 years old. We moved out of Detroit because the tax that funded the schools was voted down. The school system was already overcrowded and soon it would fall apart altogether. We built a house in a near-suburb, right by the Detroit Zoo and moved on October 1, 1963. Until we moved, I attended an integrated school, with an excellent curriculum, far ahead of what I would move to. I skipped a half grade when I moved (complicated system in Detroit), so was young for the peer group, but had no problem keeping up academically, only with the social life.

The Motown sound was huge as I hit my adolescent years and that was what we listened to (also British invasion music – we loved the Beatles too – but we were proud of our homegrown music) and we learned to dance to that music. We practiced dance moves while waiting for our cooking projects to finish in Home Ec class. My mother wanted to be a professional dancer (she moved to New York in 1935 to study with some of the greats) and I picked up my natural rhythm from her, as we used to dance together when I was a tiny little thing.

As teens, we practiced the dance moves of the Four Tops, the Jackson Five, Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, the Supremes and loved Marvin Gaye, Aretha, Tina Turner and all the other soul and rock singers coming out of our home town. We all could rock out to them, or do smooth moves at our school dances. My dance moves were not unusual. We all did them. I got a lot of attention for my dancing style when I came east to college, but back home I was just one of the pack. Learning to dance the way that the Motown singers did was just what I knew how to do. No biggie.

My new school system was lily white, but I spent my early years seeing integration at work. I also grew up in a liberal, Jewish household, where the ideals of the New Deal were firmly embedded. My family was committed to charitable work, I attended Sunday School at our liberal, Reform Temple starting in kindergarten, going through 12th grade (girls were not yet bat mitzvahed – that would come two years later, too late for me; I was Confirmed in 10th grade. I was an officer of my confirmation class and helped to write the service). Being Jewish was as important to me as coming from Detroit. My father was on our temple board; my mother volunteered for Hadassah, the Brandeis University National Women’s Committee, National Council of Jewish Women.

Confirmation Class, 1968 (first row to the right of center)

All of these influences turned me into the person I am today; a committed liberal, who seeks to “heal the world” (one of the tenets of Judaism), who still loves Motown music and can out-dance most people, though I’d love to learn the new dance moves too. They look pretty cool, even to this 71 year old.

We were recently on a deluxe cruise around Italy and Croatia with some well-heeled travelers on a beautiful ship, 600 passengers in all. We certainly didn’t meet most of them, so could make up stories about the lives of people we only saw in passing. Several evenings we had to wear formal attire. On almost every other night, men had to wear jackets, women wore cocktail attire. During the day, we could wear anything. One man, whose cabin was on the same level of the ship as ours, I frequently saw in workout clothing and on the two days that I used the gym, he was there, working hard with heavy weights, doing crunches, and an aerobic workout. I’d peg him to be in his 60s, with a full head of silver hair, but who knows. He looked good.

1980, starting line of Boston Marathon

Back in Dan’s marathon running days, he worked out with the same group of guys, all members of the Greater Boston Track Club. One used to say sarcastically of anyone who was NOT is shape, “yeah, he’s got his number”, referring to a qualified number to run that year’s Boston Marathon (in those days, one had to run a sub 2:50 marathon to qualify for Boston; there were no charity runners). The phrase came into being after our friend saw the photo I took at the finish line of the 1980 Marathon. It was a hot day and Dan did not finish the race that year. He “hit the wall” at Heartbreak Hill and crashed at a friend’s house, who lived right there on Commonwealth Ave at the time (ironically, we now live around the corner). I waited at the finish line (we then lived in the Back Bay), snapping away and got a photo of the first woman across – the infamous Rosie Ruiz, who hopped on the subway, hoping to be in the middle of the pack, but accidentally WON the race, so I took her photo as she came across the line.

1980, cheater Rosie Ruiz finishes Boston Marathon

Our friend took one look at the cellulite on her legs and said, “yeah, she’s got HER number”, and a slogan was coined. Dan and I still use it, as we did when we saw that buff man, heading to the gym every day on our cruise, but not meant sarcastically. We really meant it when we saw him.

(A college friend excelled at sussing out cosmetic surgery and gave me pointers. I do not mean to be harsh or catty with some of the following comments; just making honest observations – some women do “refreshes” and look great. Some women either go too far or their doctors are not skilled and they do NOT look great. I can usually tell the difference.)

Toward the end of the cruise, we sat near a group that included the buff man and his wife, a blonde creature who’d had too much plastic surgery, wore her cocktail attire with a leather studded jacket draped over. I began to imagine they were from Texas and he wore a Stetson when not cruising (I heard a slight drawl from him, not enough to be from Alabama or Mississippi, which is why I dreamed he was an oil man from Texas; purely speculative, of course).

I pointed out another woman that same evening (a good one for people-gazing – we had a great view of the dining room). She had cheek implants and blown up lips. How could I tell about the cheeks implants, Dan inquired? I just knew (thanks to my college friend). They certainly did not look normal. Her husband looked much older. That might have been a mirage. I have a friend, someone I’ve known since my college years, who is very involved in the art world in Boston and Palm Beach. He made a sardonic comment to me once about the women in Palm Beach. He said there are so many “smiling” faces (faces pulled too tight by plastic surgery) who are not happy. I felt like I saw some of those aboard this ship. Some were immaculately groomed and dressed in beautiful gowns. They were not on any excursions we went on. Perhaps they luxuriated all day at the spa.

View to the pool from the top deck

The ship had lovely amenities. I took a “Pilates” class one afternoon. It was unlike anything I’ve taken and I’ve taken a lot of classes over 14 or so years. This was a series of squats and lunges, using weighted hand-held balls, then some shoulder bridges and push-ups. OK, we’d call that some form of Pilates fusion here in the States. The teacher was a young German man. At least I got a body workout. The other woman in class was German, dressed in leggings and a long-sleeved shirt. She spoke perfect English and informed us she had a shoulder injury, so couldn’t actually do much in the class, but I admired her persistence. She wasn’t familiar with this form of Pilates either.

After class, Kamil, our instructor, asked what shows we’d seen (at 9:30pm there was always some sort of entertainment). She liked the Motown review we’d seen the night before. She wasn’t happy when I gave the Vegas-style dancers in their sequins, doing ballet moves, a thumbs down. I informed her that I come from Motown, started to sing “I’ve Heard it Through the Grapevine” and dance properly to it, as any true Detroiter would. The instructor was impressed. She just sniffed and said she enjoyed the show as it was performed. This woman knew nothing of real Motown. I thought she might be around my age, perhaps a bit younger, hard to tell. Foreigners don’t know how to dance like we did, growing up in Detroit. They just want a show. But hearing the show singer with a foreign accent perform “Proud Mary”…well, no one can rival Tina. Or Aretha, as that same woman tried to sing “Respect”. I can’t imagine anyone rivaling those originals, or ever coming close.