by Beth Broderick

I was trying to apply my spray deodorant, which was easy enough on the right side. I just grabbed the can with my left hand, aimed at the armpit, and voila! Protection courtesy of questionable ingredients, which may or may not have dire consequences for our health down the road, but we use it anyway because we do not want to be a stinko. I guess we all figure that if it kills us, we’ll at least die smelling fresh! You’ve got to give it to the personal hygiene folks; that’s some seriously good marketing. Spraying the left side was the tricky part. The fingers of my right hand, which protruded from the brace I had been instructed to wear, were not capable of applying even a small amount of pressure. There was no way to spray my left pit with my left hand, so I tried setting the can on the counter and crouching down so my armpit was level with the spout and sort of mashing the top with the forearm of my good hand. No dice. I tried triggering it with my right elbow, and this sent the can careening across the bathroom where it launched itself against the shower wall.

Gol dang it! It was clear that I would need a different solution, so I rifled through all of my bathroom products and found a small sample of some kind of roll- on stuff which promised 24-hour protection. I shudder to think what kinds of compounds make that possible, but it was a thousand degrees outside, and I had a dog to walk. I could not pry the lid off, so I stuck it between my molars on the right and tugged with my good paw. Success.

I grabbed an SPF 50 shirt and painstakingly threaded it over my banged-up arm, did my best to tie my sneakers, and then, with considerable effort, managed to harness up my 90-pound dog. We were off. Admittedly a little worse for wear but undeterred from our morning ritual.

When I recounted the story to Eric, he was not all that amused.

“Why do you think this happens so often? These accidents?” He asked. “Is it your eyesight? Could you have an inner ear imbalance? I’ve seen you nearly get creamed by traffic in the city so many times. It’s like even when you are looking, you don’t see where you are going. It’s very worrying.”

That was a reasonable line of questioning. He had a point. I do have an explanation of sorts, but it’s a long one, and knowing why this stuff happens has done exactly nothing to change this state of affairs, so after some 60-odd years, I have decided to just accept the situation.

That was the day after I took a pretty good fall in Griffith Park. It was a beautiful morning, and I was ambling along my favorite path near the creek in Fern Dell when my foot must have caught on a tree root or small divot. I flew a couple of feet and landed hard; my head went thwack against the cement, but thankfully, my right arm took the majority of the impact. Knees scraped; left elbow ground up and bloodied; the shirt sleeve shredded. I was a bit dazed at first, and it took a minute before I could try to stand. Fairness stood watching the effort, his back leg shaking.

I sat and gathered my wits, then walked well over a mile to get home. It wasn’t good. I knew that, but I am fairly unfazed by these sorts of events. I drew a bath so I could wash all of the affected areas and let the warm water comfort my battered flesh.

There was a decision to be made, and I honestly did not think twice. Urgent Care or the ER or some such event was definitely on the horizon, but I had a hair appointment, and that would have to come first. Anette, who handles my color, cut, and all the things that need handling on my head, was leaving for Europe. This was her last day at the salon before a three-week tour. My roots, which are white and silver, were already beginning to draw attention to themselves, peeking through the honeyed blonde I have chosen to obscure them with. I know that I am not fooling anyone. We all know that someone my age is hitting the peroxide, but to allow physical evidence of that in the form of inch-long regrowth is the stuff of scandal.

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I dressed carefully, my right hand already beginning to balloon, filled a towel with ice, and headed to the salon. I drove with my left, careful not to rest my torn-up elbow on the window. By the time I arrived, the sleeves of the white shirt I had thrown on for sun coverage were wet with blood. Anette eyed this warily as I hung it on the hook at her station.

“Shouldn’t you maybe go to the hospital?” she asked gently. “That hand is pretty bad.”

“I will after this. No reason to go running over there. The hand will be the same kind of mess three hours from now, but my hair will be a bigger mess in a month, so let’s just get it done, and then I’ll go.”

She nodded and set about mixing my color, tightening my extensions and all the attendant fuss of a hair appointment. We chatted about her plans overseas and how I was feeling about the movie I am making at the end of the month. My ice was melting away, so Anette ran to the AM/PM to get more while my hair dye processed. After two hours, I was ready to head out, sporting blonde locks and a fresh blow-dry

As I dressed, Anette eyed my swollen hand with apprehension.

“That is really … you really should have that looked at. Urgent Care at least.”

I planned to do just that, but the swelling indicated I could be in for a longish visit to the medical folks, so I ducked home first to take the dog out for a pee break. I worked in a call to my sister Laura, who said I should just bite the bullet and go to the ER because most of the clinics and walk-in joints don’t have X-ray facilities.

Ewwww. NO. A big fat no on the damnable ER if I can help it. I actually like hospitals. I like the people who work in them and have compassion for the people that need to be in them. The nurses and doctors are up to their necks in paperwork and charting and rules, rules, rules, but most of them still manage to administer care with a heady mixture of knowledge, kindness, and grit. The people who staff them are remarkable citizens, and I commend them at every turn, but the emergency room is for folks who’ve been shot or lost a limb or had a giant tree fall on their person. It is not the correct purview for a lady with a bum hand, a gooey elbow, and very good hair.

I could not use the fingers on my right hand, which is dominant, so I used the left to hunt and peck through GOOGLE, one letter at a time until I found a location that had full X-ray services and, as a bonus, a parking lot located in the rear of the building. Huzzah!

“It’s probably nothing. I am just being silly to worry about it, but better safe than sorry, I guess,” I said, smiling at the pretty young nurse who was checking my vitals, which were predictably fine, though my blood pressure was a bit lower than my normal, which is very low.

“BP always this low?”

“Yes. I take after my Dad. His resting heart rate was so low that his nurses used to check it again and again, thinking there must be some mistake. He was fine, of course, until he wasn’t. He made it to 93, drinking champagne all the way home, so a good run, I’d say. I am okay with that hereditary scenario.”

The attending physician’s assistant rolled in. She was beyond pretty, a stunner. The place was lousy with competent beauties. I was impressed.

She gave me the once-over, then instructed the nurse to take me to X-ray. The whole business was handled swiftly. The X-ray technician turned out to be another beauty, and I thought to myself that it was a good thing they were located in West Hollywood, where the female form does not sway a lot of fellows; else I could imagine legions of straight men limping in with fake ailments, just for a chance to feast their eyes on the drop-dead gorgeous staff in that joint. The Physician’s Assistant returned shortly after.

“We will wait for the radiologist to take a look, but if you can see right there,” she pointed to the back of my bad hand near the wrist. “You can see a fracture. We’ll need to put you in a brace for 6 to 8 weeks.”

“Ah, okay.”

“You are going to have a pretty good black eye, but your pupils are not dilated, so I think that will be the worst of it with the head injury. We need to clean up that left elbow, and I am going to give you some prescrip

tion ointment to put on it. Going to give you an oral antibiotic as well to have on hand just in case.”

“Blah blah blah.” Was what I heard at that point. I was supposed to go cook dinner at my sister’s, and that was off, dammit, and this all sounded like a big hassle. I would have to go to the pharmacy, elevate my damaged hand, and most of my plans for the rest of the week would be considerably altered. I decided to drop by the girl’s place for a few minutes before heading home to the drudgery of semi-convalescence. On the way there, the pain I had somehow not felt until that point became acute. ‘Stupid, stupid consequences,’ I thought.

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The girls fed me, loaded me up with Motrin and an ice pack thingy. Little Kalen gave my knees a sweet hug, and I headed out to hit the pharmacy on my way home. The next day I went to Trader Joe’s and bought a lot of stuff that could be heated in the microwave and got on with the business at hand of caring for my bum hand.

THE BODY IN QUESTION.

Fairness and I have kept up our walks but have mostly stuck to well-paved roads and even-ish sidewalks. Two days ago, he begged to go to the park, the same one where I had gone ass-over-teacup on that fateful morning. I studied the ground with every step, cautioning the dog to “stay with me” and forbidding him to tug on the leash. He kept one eye on me the whole time as we hiked our favorite trails. I thought about what Eric said, about how disconnected from my physical form I always seem to be, to the point of not acknowledging pain. I know it’s the PTSD. I have been to my fair share of therapy sessions, and I know that leaving my body is how my psyche learned to cope with the physical and mental trauma of my childhood.

I also don’t care.

I am 67, and this is the deal. I cannot imagine that I am going to have some great transformation at this point. I am likely to go on banging my head on my way through life and stubbing my toes and bruising my shins. I should probably give up strenuous outdoor activity and ride an indoor bicycle instead. I should stick to non-injurious forms of exercise like Yoga and Pilates, but we all know that ain’t gonna happen. So, I have devised a plan. As soon as my right hand works well enough to hold one, I am going to get a stick, a proper walking stick. I may get a few. A stick for rough terrain and one for city streets, a hand-carved number for dress-up walks; I’ll get one with an electric charge at the end that can ward off intruders, both the human and canine variety. There are a lot of options when it comes to sticks for carry. I have seen a few folks in the park, trekking along while using ski poles for balance.

We are all crippled in one way or another, and at this stage I think it is fair to embrace our handicaps and just get on with it. I have zero appetite for personal growth and no interest in changing my routines.

I am going to get me some sticks, by God, and I am going to stick to my ways in more ways than one.

On we go …

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by Beth Broderick

My friend Dennis has dinner with his sister Linda at least once a week. Her house is a straight shot down the 35 Freeway, and, traffic permitting, it requires about 25 minutes’ travel time. They are both good cooks, but Dennis loves to make dessert, so he usually has some treat in tow. A frozen margarita pie, pecan dandies, or everyone’s favorite: lemon bars. After dinner, they like to sit on the porch and gaze out at the greenbelt that abuts her property. The trees rustle with the wind and the hum of the small species that dwell within their protective canopies. Sometimes they get out a pen and paper, but most of the time they just sit a spell and let the list come to them…

…the list of all the reasons that they are glad they will be dead soon.

There are the regulars, of course. AI, Driverless Cars, Melania Trump’s hats. Dental implants, Out-of-control wildfires, Oceans filled with all manner of human waste. OnlyFans. The Horror Movie craze. There are new ones every time they meet as the world around them evolves beyond the pale of what they know of life and have come to expect.

I have my own list, of course, but it is so long that we will have to give it its very own column. There are some days when I am so flabbergasted by it all that I devolve into helpless laughter and other days when I just cannot take it anymore. Last week was a case in point. I had been on the verge of tears for so long that when they finally fell, it was frightening. Too many tears, falling too fast, making gibberish out of my sentences, defying reason. I had been frustrated at every turn by a pretty mundane set of circumstances, but my body felt differently about it; my psyche felt harmed. It was only the machines, just the AI algorithm, that were causing the trouble, but there was no human available to override the erroneous system. It was just me versus the machines, and the situation had worked my final nerve.

“Just tell them this is not for you. This is ridiculous. We will find you something … I house crazy people. Some landlords are actual breathing humans; we will find you one of those. Tell them you are done.” My sister Laura was trying to navigate my meltdown. She works with a mentally and physically challenged population, and in that moment, I felt like one of her clients. If it sounds like I may have been overreacting, that’s because I was, but my attempts at stress management had failed. The application process had driven me around the bend. It should have been a snap, just a simple rental application, but the system kept glitching and demanding the same documents over and over, and the whole business was giving me a nutty head.

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I am just not accustomed to being treated this way. I have for so long had a perfect credit record and a 100% perfect payment history. My generation of women knows all too well how difficult it is to break through, to buy a car, a home, or start a business. We cross those t’s and dot those i’s when it comes to finance, and most sales and rental folks are very glad to see us, but that is not always enough.

I have bought and sold many homes, but in the early years this was finagled by my “financial management” team, which had major pull with the banks. That was great, but I paid a high price for leaving my money in someone else’s hands. Very high. Really, really high.

BOOM. IT’S CALLED DIY.

So, I manage myself now, and that has gone fairly well. The mortgage that I took out some ten years ago was turned down initially, because I am a professional artist and banking systems are not calibrated to comprehend the way that I make a living. Their machinations are dead-set against the likes of me, but in that case, one of the bank officers, a lovely man named Collum, stepped into the fray. He went to the higher-ups and painstakingly explained what “residual payments” are and why I receive them in amounts that range from $1.00 to 5,000.00. I got that loan, not because I am a great candidate—a no-risk risk, which I am—but because a human being explained what makes me different and an exception to the rules was made.

I am not sure that would happen today. Everything from veterinary services to rental properties to grocery stores to the purveyors of entertainment has been corporatized. Those massive conglomerates do not cotton to human employees. They want us to place our order online, to check and bag our own sundries and groceries, to wait our own tables. I recently stayed at a hotel where they instructed me to check in using an iPad-looking thing and then make my own set of room keys.

I eyed the contraption provided for the purpose warily. The attendant took pity and did the job for me. I thanked him and headed to my room. The whole DIY aspect was worrisome, as was the over-the-top decor. Several walls were filled with photographs of young people of every color in every size and shape. The wallpaper repeated itself, so that the same folks were looking out at me from every angle. There were only two people over thirty, the lines around their eyes putting them somewhere close to 40. There were zero 67-year-olds in the picture. The joint was not designed with me in mind.

Oh boy.

I had already paid for a four-night stay, so I took a deep breath and decided to make the best of it. I had hoped to reset my nervous system and booked my visits with pals to leave room for a daily nap. I was over-tired and over-stressed, and my PTSD was staging a full-blown opera in my head. Thoughts and music swirling together and beating arrhythmically against the sides of my skull.

Having finally found an apartment that met all of my needs and was willing to house my there-to-fore “breed-restricted” dog, I was running into snag after snag in the application process. I use a mailing address for safety reasons. I have not gotten mail at my home address for the last 30-plus years. The machines could not comprehend this fact when assessing my utility bill, which was charged for one place and mailed to another. My credit report was perfect. The bank statements showed requisite funds were available, but the utility bill was a bridge too far for the AI program assigned to assess me. I sent proof of renters, earthquake, and auto insurance with the current address, but that dang electric bill gave the rental office fits.

I submitted an insane amount of documentation, and it was never enough. I eventually begged the building manager to put me on the phone with a woman from the main office. I finally got through and explained the situation, and Stephanie resolved ten days’ worth of hassle and frustration in ten minutes flat.

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The truth is, this should not have sent me reeling, but I am finding that I do not handle stress well these days. Many of my older pals describe a similar lack of plasticity when it comes to these kinds of challenges. I guess I thought growing up would eliminate those defects in my character, that I would age into a wise old gal who took things in stride and was measured in her response to day-to-day frustrations.

Nope.

Now that I am in my ripe old oldness, I have less bandwidth, less patience, and less willingness to put up with bull.

“What if I am getting mean? What if I am turning crotchety like my mom?” I recently asked my pal Michael. “I called a woman a bitch in the park yesterday.”

“Well, why? What happened?” he inquired.

“Because she was out of line. Her off-leash dog came charging toward us, and I put my hand up and said, ‘Whoa!’ to make it stop, and she started yelling at me.”

“You are making it worse. Just be quiet, and we will take care of our dog. You don’t need to react.” She snapped at me, shaking her head with superiority.

I wanted to say: “I am not supposed to react? You are not only breaking the law but violating park rules. Dogs are supposed to be on a leash. The rule exists to protect the wildlife that makes its home here. The law is there to keep all of us creatures safe, including your dog.”

What I said was:

“I guess you know everything, huh? Why don’t you just put your dog on a leash, bitch?”

That was not very nice. Of course, she was also not very nice, but I could have been more measured in my response or, even better, just kept my mouth shut. I have made many mental notes to this effect these past few years, but I seem to be running low on filters, and my inside voice keeps busting out.

The hotel turned out to be kind of perfect. I hobbled down for coffee to go every morning and drank it nestled in my comfy bed while doing NYT puzzles. Then I would head to the roof and spend an hour in the well-shaded pool, which was shallow and perfect for swirling dreamily, my head tilted towards the clouds. Once dry, I would amble through the tiny gym doing just enough to offset the effects of the sumptuous lunches and dinners I had planned with good pals. My shoulders started to come down, my breath to slow, and at last, my sense of gratitude returned with a sly smile.

The move to the new place may well be nerve-wracking, the solutions to the inevitable problems not close at hand, the tears may fall, and the epithets fly, but I know where I am going. Mostly. Living forever sounds dicey as hell, and I’m just gonna say a big no to that, but in this moment, the good news is that I am not dead yet.

On we go …

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by Beth Broderick

Sometimes it happens. I will see a place, or taste a food, or hear a song and be flooded with memories. The search for a new smoke-free environment has led me to some nostalgic locales. This has been a welcome distraction from the drudgery involved in looking for a new apartment. The endless scrolling past ad after ad for the new mixed-use buildings which now dominate the landscape, hoping for a bit of charm, a scintilla of originality, can wear a person down. I know the young folks like those places, but they leave me cold. Their tiny box-shaped rooms are supposed to be offset by the abundance of common areas. There are lounge rooms, a pool, dog-washing stations, and billiards; one I looked at even had a podcast suite and a bourbon room. The latter also has lockers where you can store your private barrel-aged bottles, and then I’m not sure what happens next. Are neighbors supposed to meet there armed with shot glasses or maybe lowball tumblers with one giant cube of ice and pour themselves a drink from their respective lockers, and that’s the deal? The young man who showed it to me seemed very proud of that one. He loves all of those perks.

The new high-rise builds are also a tad disingenuous. The “Pets Welcome” phrase in the amenities section does not hint at the fact that there are many exceptions to this sunny offering. I made a few appointments and showed up in person, only to discover that they all have “breed restrictions.” It turns out that my Doberman/Hound/Dane mix, the lovely, gentle Fairness, is doggo non-grata in all of the corporate-owned housing in Los Angeles, which is a lot of the housing in this joint. I never liked those anyway but was trying to keep an open mind. They are now officially off the list of possibilities, which means more scrolling and squinting. I asked my sisters to keep an eye out, and they sent me a gem the other day.

The photo showed a gorgeous place on North Sycamore, full of rounded archways and ornate design. Gazing at the image of the grand old building prompted some fond and not-so-fond recollections of my life nearly forty years ago.

I lived across the street from that place when I first moved back here from a long stint in New York City. I was young and broke and trying to find a job. I had a teeny bit of savings but was mostly living off of a Shell gasoline credit card that my Dad had slipped me, unbeknownst to his wife. The respective housing units are directly across the street from one another, but proximity is the only thing they have in common. The place I occupied at the time was a small studio with a window that faced onto busy Beverly Blvd, an old air-conditioning unit drooping slightly from its frame. It was rundown and raggedy, but it did have a nice pool in the center of the ten units. It was there that I met my dear friend Lance, when I was trying to get dressed for an audition and could not fasten the top button of my outfit. I wandered out to the pool to see if there was anyone about who could lend a hand, and there he was. He was hella handsome with a mega-watt smile and a charming New Zealand accent. He did up the buttons and wished me good luck.

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We became fast friends, and that took some of the sting out of living in that shabby place; he gave that drab environment some spark and sass. We helped each other prepare for auditions and scratched up some decent meals in our tiny kitchenettes. The streets in the neighborhood were often littered with broken glass as thieves regularly smashed in the windows of the cars lucky enough to squeeze into a space there. We often had to park a few blocks away, and it was not considered safe for girls to walk home by themselves late at night. I tried it a few times and was definitely nervous about the situation when I was cast in a show at the Pasadena Playhouse. I begged the folks who ran the Honey Baked Ham store, which shared the alley behind us, to let me park there when I came home after 11. They very graciously allowed it.

I imagined that the folks in 308 were untouched by all of this. They had secure parking and gorgeous trees outside their elegant windows. They glided by the rest of us and nestled into their gilded lodgings with barely a glance in our direction.

I used to stare at the commanding structure, studying it every chance I got. I would sidle up to the sculpted wrought-iron gates and peek into the windows, dreaming of one day being able to live there or somewhere like it.

Lance died suddenly after developing a mild cough. I was shocked when he told me he was HIV positive. I had to sit down on the curb across from the dream villas; I had moved on at that point, but he was still on Sycamore. I had run an AIDS program for several years and should have been unshockable, but I was not prepared for it. He was so full of life, so buoyant. Lance never walked up a staircase; he bounded to the top, taking three steps at a time. I could not believe that such a life-force would be snuffed out in mere weeks, by a damned virus. This came on the heels of my five years as a volunteer in NYC, witnessing the same thing happen to boy after boy and man after man. Still, I was not prepared to lose him. I have kept a jar of his ashes with me and moved them into every new abode. They are right now sitting on the bar in the living room. I have kept him close for nearly 30 years. He was something. He was someone. They all were.

A FEW ROOMS LATER.

In the years since, I have bought and sold several large houses and lived many different kinds of lives in them. Single gal making it on her own, married lady cooking for two, well-employed hostess of fundraisers and gatherings, heartbroken divorcee rattling around. One or two were quite glamorous, the others homier, but still chic. At this stage in my life, an apartment at 308 Sycamore is not an impossible dream; now it would be a good fit.

But the realtor won’t call me back, dammit.

In the course of hunting new digs, I have found myself driving around looking at streets I have always loved and blocks that felt special to me. The other day, on a whim, I put Grape Place into Google Maps. Years ago, I tried to buy a small home there. I was single again and wanted something manageable. I put an offer on a darling little ranch-style home on that teeny tiny street. I wrote letters to the owner begging her to sell it to me. She didn’t. She sold it to a friend, which was nice for her pal but rotten luck for me. Or was it?

I bought a house on Beachwood Drive instead, and there I met my dear pal Don W., who lived next door and was a fantastic neighbor. He put a gate in the fence between our two yards in case I ever felt unsafe and needed someplace to run to. We attended each other’s performances and whipped up some good meals in our very nice kitchens with our very good equipment. It was Don who introduced me to my second husband. The marriage did not work out, but I am not sorry that I met him. He was there when I had to have a hysterectomy and came to the hospital every day. He helped me heal from that, and I am ever grateful. We probably should NOT have tied the knot, but judging by the over 50% of marriages that end in divorce, we are keeping good company there.

If I had bought 6300 Grape Place, my life would have turned out very differently. I wanted to see it, and it turns out that it is exactly seven minutes from where I am here in this smoldering ashtray of a place on Beachwood Drive, so I followed the directions and wound my way up narrow streets, making no fewer than eight turns before finally locating it. I recognized the house instantly. It is still a bit rundown, but it has a good aura. A black sign with white lettering was posted out front.

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“Coming soon.” It had the name and number of the realtor who will be representing the sale. I took a picture of it because even though I do not feel this is a good time to buy real estate, I HAVE to know what they plan on asking for it. When I tried to buy it over twenty years ago, the asking price was $389,000. I don’t think there is any unit of housing in Los Angeles that would go for so little now.

You can never go home again…

…maybe that’s what the old saying is getting at? You definitely cannot go home again to the home you never had, which is now triple the price, or at least you shouldn’t. That much is certain.

On we go …

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by Beth Broderick

I have begged and pleaded. The building manager has spoken with them many times over the course of a year, but my neighbors are deaf to our entreaties. They continue to smoke inside and outside of their apartments. The fellow above me smokes in the bathroom and bedroom, which constantly floods my hallways and rooms with carcinogens. They smoke in the units below me and above me, beside me and across the way. When I took this apartment, it never occurred to me, nor was I warned that I would be living in such a toxic environment. There is one lady who lives downstairs and across from me, who brings her coffee cup and an ashtray and sits on the stairs directly under my bedroom, puffing every morning. I race to close the windows as my chest begins to ache and my throat constricts.

I recently ran into her in the parking lot of Trader Joe’s and took a chance.

“Hi. Can I talk to you for a minute? I just need to ask you something about—er— you and smoking? On the stairs?”

“I am on the phone.” She snapped angrily.

I had not noticed the tiny earbuds she was wearing. I waved an apology and headed to my car.

“Hey, wait! I was on with a client, so thanks for that! Not cool.”

“I am sorry.”

“Well, what do you want?” She said, softening a tad.

“I know you are trying to do the right thing. You are the only one who cares to at least go outside, and I appreciate that. It’s just that I am surrounded by smokers, inundated with it, and I have a terrible reaction to it. You are often smoking on the stairs right beneath my bedroom window and …

“So that’s you? That’s you closing the windows? Slamming them? I hear someone doing that.”

“Yes, I am sorry, but my chest burns; it’s still burning from your visit this morning, and I was wondering… Do you think I could give you my number so that when you are on your way to the stairwell you could shoot me a text? Then I could close up that side of the apartment. I am badly affected by it.”

“No. I am not doing that. That feels weird.”

“It would be such a big help … just so I can close the windows. I have to open them because the man upstairs smokes inside constantly and it is making me sick.”

‘That’s Nicky. He’s been there forever … not gonna change.”

“If he could just step outside?”

“Nah, he won’t. Used to be worse. They used to party until the wee hours. Crazy loud and all of them smoking and drinking. You’re lucky he’s older now.”

“Well, it’s still pretty rough living underneath him. If I could just give you my number…”

“Well, we should have each other’s number anyway. We ARE neighbors.”

“Okay, great. Thank you.”

Later that night I got a very, very long text from her. It was full of helpful ways that I could change my behavior, so that I might be better at accepting the deadly filthy habits of everyone around me.

“Living here is a dance. You just have to think of it that way. What I think you need to do is have your windows sealed and then get some air purifiers. I have one in my place, and they are great.”

She thoughtfully added several links to air purifiers that I could order from Amazon. She then sent photos of smoke-blowing machines that help chase foul air out of a building. There were several pictures of smoke removal devices to accompany that advice as well. Expensive gadgets those. The text went on and on, assuring me that it was my duty to purchase this equipment and get myself sealed up tight. She ended with:

“Or maybe moving would be a good choice for you. For some people, that is ultimately the right solution. I just wanted to share some ideas that have helped me over the years in case any of them would make your situation a little more comfortable. Wishing you all the best …”

This is why there are wars.

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I was so gob-smacked that I could not bring myself to write back. What to say?

“Thank you so much for this truly stunning example of passive-aggression. You should be teaching this stuff. I mean, you are in a class of your own. I’ll write you a letter of recommendation! “

Or how about: “Why don’t you go %$ck yourself, you and Nicky the scumbag Sh%ithead upstairs! Eat %6ap you poisonous trash bag! Getting sick because you are thoughtless and Nicky the scumbag is a derelict is not a discomfort; it is &#$(ing life-threatening!”

Instead, I just did not reply. I did not want to start a fight. Well, I do WANT to. I want to punch her and Nicky the scumbag right in the kiss-a-roo, but while I am not necessarily smart enough, I am definitely OLD enough to know better.

The next day, I received another text, this one in ALL CAPS, demanding to know whether or not I had received her thoughtful message??!!!!!

“Oh. Sorry. Yes. Thank you.”

That was the best I could do. The whole situation is infuriating, and that gal is a piece of work. Honestly, it might be worth shelling out the twenty thousand or so dollars it will cost to relocate, so that I don’t have to come up with a civil response the next time I see her.

I have, for the last thirty years or so, lived in houses. Stand-alone buildings. This whole apartment building thing is not familiar to me. I thought it would be best at my age to live somewhere that I wouldn’t have to worry about maintenance, so I am giving it a try. The place is run-down, but inside my unit there are huge rooms and a terrific kitchen, and it is not all bad; living here has its upsides. The building manager, a filmmaker from Eastern Europe, is a lovely man who does his job with a gentle heart. I like some of the folks that I see in the elevator or pass in the lobby. I enjoy being greeted by them. We pet each other’s dogs and say: “Take care!” “Have a great night!” or some such pleasantry. I have spent a huge portion of my life in hotel rooms, so I have learned to be flexible and can adapt to most any environment, but this one is fixin’ to kill me. Literally … and that burns me up.

A LIFETIME OF EXPOSURE.

When my Grandmother died of lung cancer at the age of seventy three, we all went right on smoking. It was a family practice. I was eleven when I took up the habit. All four kids started young, and Mom was our accomplice, our partner in crime. I tried to quit at least a dozen times in the ensuing decades, but did not manage to do so successfully until I was nearly fifty, almost twenty years ago. I empathize with people who are chained to the habit. For childhood smokers, it is especially difficult to give it up.

Anyone could surmise that my sister Kim was putting her health at great risk. She smoked more than two packs a day and compounded that with copious amounts of marijuana. She smoked joints, bongs, and spliffs, and spent hours sitting under a tree in her backyard dedicated to the practice. She was at an acupuncture appointment, hoping for relief from the tremendous back pain she was suffering, when her body began to shut down. She spent two days in the ICU, where medical professionals tried in vain to solve first one, then another mystery as her body was ravaged by crisis after crisis. They could not save her.

Tests later revealed that she had stage 5 lung cancer. There was nothing anyone could have done.

Mom made it to eighty-three, but she struggled mightily with COPD and slow-growing throat cancer. She would switch back and forth between regulars and menthols, because the latter cooled the severe burning sensation that often took hold. We wore gas masks when we cleaned out her small apartment, and I tried to get her outdoors whenever possible, but there was no avoiding exposure to the plumes that constantly encircled her. When my sister called me to tell me that Mom forgot to smoke for an entire day, we knew it was the end. I changed my flight and got to LA the next morning, begging her from the gate at the airport and then the taxi on the ground to wait for me. I did not want my sister to handle her departure without me by her side. Mom waited; she was nothing if not strong-willed, and I was grateful. She died in my arms just forty minutes after I arrived.

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Three months later, my flesh was covered in raw rashes, and blisters were all over my hands and feet. My joints were so inflamed that it was excruciating to walk; I could barely turn a doorknob. My GP had no idea what was happening but sent me to a dermatologist who immediately referred me to a rheumatologist. Psoriatic Arthritis. It is genetic and a nasty disease but treatable with prohibitively expensive medications, so—treatable if you can afford insurance that will cover those. Many cannot. I am truly lucky that I can take them and that the illness did not manifest before the advent of today’s pharmaceutical solutions; I would be in a wheelchair by now. When I asked the doctor what triggered it—what caused the mutation to awaken and attack me—he said the two most common factors are stress and repeated exposure to smoke.

My Mother both loved and hated me, because I was the one who stood up to her, called her out on her sometimes abhorrent behavior. As a child, her excessively violent blows routinely fell on me, but I never backed down. There were younger children to protect.

Oh yes, she did. She managed to go out swinging and lighting one cigarette off of the other, leaving me forever wounded in body and mind.

She got me good.

So, I am putting up a fight in my building because no one should have to live in a polluted environment. Walking through the hall on the way to the kitchen for morning coffee, my chest burns as I pass through the smelly remains of Nicky the scumbag’s smoking hot extravaganza in the rooms above. He is up all night puffing away, and it travels through the vents in the bathroom. I will fight and hopefully make this apartment safer for the next tenant, because I will also leave. I’ll pay the money and endure the disruption, because my well-being depends upon it. I have to protect myself, something I have only late in life learned to do. It was a hard lesson.

My brother, sister, and I have all broken free of the addiction that helped to numb the pain and quiet our jangled nerves. I have worked hard to make it out of the smoldering hell of my childhood. I have a great life, one I treasure, one I built against significant odds. I am not about to let a bunch of thoughtless, nicotine-riddled so-called “neighbors” set my health on fire. No, I am not.

On we go …

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you!

by Beth Broderick

I made time, which is not easy, as my not-so-subtle workaholic tendencies always put up quite the argument. Yes, I should have stayed home and worked on the many projects that are crying out for my attention. Yes, there are lists of things that need to be done. Print Bob’s script. Pose with Ivy Cove bag. Letter to building management to report neighbor for smoking in the bathroom. Book flight. Pick up SSD 1 TB for the ballet company, whatever the hell that is. All on the to-do, on the should-be-done. I wished I had just a little more time that day, but it would all have to wait. I wanted to see my family, so I took a French bath, gave the pits and bits a quick once-over, and headed out the door.

I love to frequent a weird old Italian market in the Valley called The Monte Carlo. This is the first odd thing about it, because Monte Carlo, the place, is located on the French Riviera and is not in any way, shape, or form Italian, but that’s the name of the joint, and we all just go with it. As you enter, there is a quaint little dining area to the left. The locals pour in after soccer games and graduations, or just because, to dine on fresh pizza and pasta. They line up to order and are given a number, then everyone crowds into the booths with a soda and tells stories while they wait for their food.

It’s a fun ritual to observe, and the mostly male staff is non-plussed when a child knocks a whole pie to the ground or elbows her Shirley Temple sideways, flooding the table. The items are replaced at no cost, and the young tears of frustration are quickly dried. A great scene, but not what I am there for. I head to the right and take a number. There is always a wait, but the ancient, hair-net-clad gentlemen behind the counter move with surprising speed. I will peruse the gluten-free section while awaiting my turn or cadge a bottle of imported balsamic glaze to drizzle over their house-made burrata.

There is a whole case of gelato made right there, and another filled with pastries, cookies, and cannoli. The aisles boast some very good affordable imported wines as well as dried pastas, herbs, and oils. The deli counter is bursting with options. There are gallons of fresh marinara and meat sauce, cases of cheese and imported meats. Homemade sausage and neatly grated mozzarella, all sold in amounts large or small. Huge lettuces and other fresh veggies line the simple wooden bench in front. A visit there is, for me, the adult version of being a kid in a candy store. They even have eggplant prepped and fried to a golden crisp, ready to be molded into a parmigiana. Heaven.

Once home, I set out all of the ingredients that I will bag up and take over, making sure to put the new stuffed toy I picked up for the nephew at Disneyland where it would be remembered. It is a lovely snow leopard, a little bigger than the other stuffies I have given him. It gratified me to hear recently that he often cradles the Winnie the Pooh doll I picked months ago. I am told that he offers it cookies and treats too. The alphabet puzzle I gave him last week was a dud. He liked dragging the box around by its corded handle, but opening it and playing with it? Nope. No chance. Big yawn. He ran around the house with a broom and a dog brush instead and shot the occasional basket with his blue ball. My sister Laura and I had a good time putting it together, but the most we could get him to do was put a few pieces back in the container afterward.

It’s hit and miss with kids and gifts, but always fun to try.

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My sisters and I have a ritual. At least one night a week, we take turns choosing a meal to share and providing the ingredients to compose it. I suggested that I pick up the fantastic rustic bread and the above-mentioned burrata along with fixings for a spaghetti dinner. The girls had peaches in the fridge from their bi-weekly farm delivery, and I had some small Persian cucumbers and sweet ripe tomatoes on hand. A perfect early summer menu emerged. Fresh peach/tomato salad with cucumbers, mint, and burrata topped with a light homemade balsamic dressing, followed by simple red-sauce pasta with fresh sausage (regular and vegan) on the side and meatballs for the lad.

He is eighteen months old and a whirling dervish. His moms are madly in love with him but admit that his energy level is at times so over-the-top that they have to rotate taking breaks in order to maintain their sanity. I love being able to go over and make a meal for them, so that they can relax for a few minutes. He was sleeping when I arrived. I smiled to see his Winnie tucked under one pale, chubby arm. The girls sat at the counter, and we all shared a glass of wine as I puttered around the kitchen. I have cooked so often there that I know the ins and outs of their well-stocked galley, but I still struggle with the “child locks” on the cupboards and stovetop. I can futz with those magnet thingies for what seems like an eternity, but I only occasionally manage to get things open. Sarah is the handy one in the family and is regularly required to intervene.

We set the table outside and set up FaceTime so we could keep an eye on the baby as we ate. Dinner was delicious, the salad bursting with sweetness, crunch, and tang, the pasta simple and satisfying, and that damned bread! I am not supposed to eat it; the gluten activates my psoriatic arthritis, but it is so delicious that I had to have one piece and then just a little bit more. Sarah explained to me what an SSD with 1TB is and where to find one. The girls went over the new words that Kalen is finally using. He is physically very adept, learns how to use tools and toys quickly, has terrific balance and perfect aim, but until recently he was not that interested in talking. He is coming on strong now. “Mama,” Kitty,” Cheese,” and Doggie” are frequent utterances. I have tried to teach him to call me BB, but he is so far indifferent to that proposal. He can use sign language too. He’s got “good job, “all done,” and “more” down pat.

He woke up groggy and a bit cranky at first but soon stood on his ladder/stool at the kitchen counter and shoved fistfuls of spaghetti into his mouth. I rinsed off the dishes, and we took turns refilling his plate when he pointed to the pasta and tapped his fingertips together for “more”. Then we were off to the races, singing and dancing and careening around the living room. I can keep up with him but admit to being a tad winded from the jig-like dance interludes. I told him about his present as I took it slowly out of the plastic Disney bag. The snow leopard was a big hit. He hugged it tight and took it everywhere, intermittently placing it on the coffee table so he could offer it some water from an empty cup.

ONE MORE WAVE.

There is never enough time to spend with my nieces and nephews and the new batch of grands. Some are blood, and some are not, but all are family. Lauren and 2-year-old Luna are in Colorado, where she and her husband have built a good life. Jenica is close by with Andrew and Lily; her brother Adam has settled with Zoe and Hannah in Kansas. I don’t see any of them often enough. Neither Conor nor his brother, Journey, has tied the knot yet, but I am betting that one will be heading down the aisle soon. Meghan does not seem the marrying kind but may surprise us. She has been a devoted aunt and caregiver to her best friend’s two girls and may end up finding her way to one or two of her own. Maya is still in college and way too smart to let anything interfere with getting a good education, but like her own multi-talented mom, I suspect she will find a way to do it all.

The littles will grow and, like their parents before them, will begin to drift from me. The day always comes when a visit from their beloved aunt is no longer a special occasion. They will, in what will feel like no time at all, greet me with a quick smile and perfunctory hug and then go back to plans with their teen friends. It is a bittersweet moment, but an important development along the way. Their parent(s) and I will watch them bang out the front door with equal parts awe and terror, then we will collapse onto the sofa and remember when.

I have often been asked why I did not want children. (Which, for the record, is rude, insensitive, and reeks of misogyny.) I did. There were years where I desperately wanted them, and I tried and tried and tried, but my body had other plans. I had had four surgeries to remove tumors before finally having the hysterectomy, which would give me back my health. I was just 40 years old. My second husband did not want kids, and by the time that marriage imploded, it might not have been, but it felt too late for me to adopt on my own. I have my sorrows, but I do not have any regrets.

Unto each life … a little rain.

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By eight o’clock, little Kalen was growing weary, kept resting his head on his new buddy “Snowy,” and I had a long-Ish drive across town. The girls and I had packed me up with to-go containers from my last visit and a few grocery odds and ends that would likely go unused in their house

“Hey, K, I have to go. BB needs to leave. I am going to go home now, okay?”

It took him a minute to register this. He tootled around with Snowy and paid little attention until I picked up my bags and slung my purse over my shoulder, and then his eyes went wide.

His mom, Sarah, wrapped him up in her strong arms and headed toward the bay window that looks out upon their street. He looked at me with pleading eyes, his little hands clapping his fingertips together. “More, more, more!”

“Aw, he’s signing ‘more’ for you. He wants more of you,” she said.

I waved enthusiastically. “I have to go, honey. Meet me at the window.”

His lip began to curl with disappointment, but his mom held him tight.

“Aw. Sorry, baby; we will wave from the window, okay?”

Outside, I rapped on the glass and made faces, waving bye-bye. Then I would leave and quickly jump back into the picture, getting weirder with each wave. He laughed and laughed, and I repeated the bit a few times, then made my way off the porch. There was still time for one more comedy moment, so I parted the bushes and appeared out of nowhere, mugging and goofy-eyed. I got a huge reaction and, as any good performer knows, that was my cue to disappear into the night. Always leave them laughing.

Driving home, I smiled ruefully, remembering his little hands pleading with me to stay. I want just a little more, too, buddy.

Just a little more of all of it … every damned day.

On we go …

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you!

by Beth Broderick

“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking.”

It was twenty-five minutes into the flight from Miami to Newark, New Jersey, too late for the standard welcome speech that is often given from the cockpit. The one where he or she (but let’s face it, still mostly he) welcomes the passengers on board, introduces the names and home city of the flight attendants, and then gives a quick rundown of how the flight should go.

“Looks like we are going to get to Philadelphia in about 4 hours and 26 minutes; wind speeds could get us there a little sooner. Weather should be pretty clear, maybe a few bumps about midway where we will have to ask you to stay seated with your seatbelt fastened. But we should have a mostly smooth ride. The weather in Philly is cloudy with a chance of rain, and it’s about 65 degrees on the ground there. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight.”

You don’t have to tell me twice. I actually love flying. It is one of the only times that I EVER sit back and relax. I crack open a good book, indulge in the salty snacks provided, put my feet up as best I can, and allow myself to drift off into another world

This announcement had a different tone. I sat up.

He sounded calm but concerned, and while I did not panic, I admit to having felt a flush of worry. Firstly, we were in a large-capacity plane with a full tank of fuel, which technically would make us too heavy to land. These weights are calculated very carefully according to flight duration and anticipated speed. I looked out the window next to my seat, searching for clues as to what was wrong. As we approached, a wide variety of emergency vehicles were assembling below. Two fire trucks and several smaller red ambulance-sized vans were standing by, with a few more on the way. ‘Uh boy,’ I thought.

We landed without incident. There was no smoke or skidding, no listing to one side or the other. The tires did not give way under our girth as we rolled toward the great gaggle of first responders. who were racing toward us.

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Turned out that the oven in first class was acting up; the stewardess had smelled something burning. A fire on an airplane could spell disaster, so the captain had made the right call. It was very dramatic for a few minutes as the emergency crews assessed the damage and checked the plane for injuries caused by our abrupt, overweight return to terra-firma. The inspections were going to take a while, so we were allowed to deplane, but ordered to stay in the waiting area for updates about our flight. There were not enough seats there, so some folks were milling about while a large gathering stood shoulder to shoulder staring at the lone attendant manning the desk, trying to collectively will her to give us a hint about what lay in store.

I headed to the bar.

A glass of chardonnay was very much in order at that point. It was tiny and crowded, with the two barmen trying to serve drinks as well as pizza. I jostled into position and waited patiently. The gentleman next to me ordered a beer to go, and a bell rang. Perfect. I could enjoy a glass of wine while following the erroneous order to stay in the crowded boarding area. As I made my way back with my to-go glass, I passed two young gay men who were obviously returning from vacation. They were dressed in beach-y outfits, sandals, and straw hats, but their body language was tense. One of them seemed more than a little anxious.

I held up my glass and pointed in the direction of the bar. “They sell it to go here.”

They looked at each other and then back to me with wide eyes that said, ‘Oh, thank Gawd!’

There is not much to be said for Florida in my book, but take-out cocktails at the airport are definitely in the plus column. One of the men hightailed it to the bar, and I settled down on the carpet near the window and took out my phone.

“Expect major delay,” I texted the friends waiting for me in New Jersey. “Emergency landing. Everything is okay, but this could take a minute.”

“Dinner reservations for 8. Your favorite Italian. Think you’ll make it?”

“Fingers crossed.”

I looked up, and the two men I had spoken to earlier smiled conspiratorially and toasted me with a couple of beers in plastic cups. I tipped my less-than-stellar glass of vino toward them with a big grin.

When life gives you lemons …

I have been traveling for years and have had some pretty major disruptions and delays. Detroit and Chicago in the winter are always dicey. I have spent many a night at the Hampton Inn near the infamous Michigan city. Ditto the O’Hare Hilton, where you can find good beds and a decent burger. Atlanta and other Southern cities are tricky in the summer, when tropical storms can gather speed and knock your plans right out of the sky. Coping with these problems is part of the deal we must make to avail ourselves of the engineering feat, the--to me, at least--mind-blowing miracle of air travel.

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When I fly, I always wear three layers of sunscreen. One clear and two tinted, which, I have convinced myself, provides more protection. This is because Martha Stewart says that if we are seated by the window, we should always keep it shut tight. The UV rays above 10,000 feet are incredibly strong and can damage our skin. I always fly in the window seat, and I keep it open for much of the ride. There is no way I am going to miss the sight of the Pacific Ocean as we glide over it, arcing toward the heavens. I am not about to skip seeing a deep blue river snaking through rust colored canyons, or the majestic emerald, sage, and piney hues of our national forests. I delight in staring at the clouds below, always filled with wonder at the fact that we can soar above the weather they contain.

The Miami flight took hours to resume, but we made it to Newark in one piece. The First Class passengers had to endure cold snack boxes instead of a proper warm meal, but they did not grumble. At that point, everyone just wanted to get where they were going. I should have landed at 1 pm, but it was after 7 before I had luggage in hand and headed toward the ride-share waiting area.

I texted my friends once again. “Made it.”

“Huzzah! Why don’t you meet us at the restaurant? It’s halfway between us.”

“Brilliant. Will do.”

BETTER LATE THAN NEVER.

When I arrived at Nettie’s House of Spaghetti, Russell was waiting outside to transfer my luggage to his car. The boys had a good bottle of white already on the table, and I settled into the cozy booth, grateful to be in their company. We ordered what these days is too much food, as we are all older and our appetites have diminished. The broccoli rabe dish is a favorite. It is cooked down and ever so lightly creamed, then molded and delivered in a soufflé-shaped mound. Over the next few days, I used the leftovers in omelets and incorporated them into sauces for pasta.

Andrew had to go back into the city, so Russel and I hiked and ran errands and toured about. He drove me past the large former military barracks, now under construction, which will one day be an outpost of Netflix studios. New Jersey has been making a BIG play for production and is poised to become the Hollywood of the East. We visited a fantastic Italian market and walked on the beach at the end of every day. It was a wonderful visit made possible by the privilege of hurtling through the air in a giant vessel.

Thursday, I flew into Chicago to see pals the night before going into rehearsals for a live Sabrina the Teenage Witch reunion show. Fierce storms had all of the area airports closed down, and we circled and circled and circled so we could burn enough fuel to land in Indianapolis and wait out the raging winds. Now we needed to re-fuel in order to leave, and there was a long line of vehicles ahead of us, so we sat for hours on the tarmac waiting our turn to gas up. It was tedious, but we eventually took off, made it to our original destination, and landed without further incident. Later that night, rogue tornadoes raged through Indiana, leaving chaos and destruction in their wake. Whew. Those travel Gods can be tricksters, and it’s no fun being waylaid, but I was grateful to have dodged that bullet.

A lot of folks complain about air travel these days. I have friends who will not do it unless absolutely necessary. It is expensive to be sure, and arrival times can be disrupted by several factors, some of which are dubious. The planes are getting larger; the new ones so gigantic that it would seem impossible to keep them aloft, but gravity is no match for today’s technological advances. The space allotted each passenger is smaller and more cramped than ever, the snacks are puny, and the add-on charges for luggage and seat assignment are unfair. The mergers in that industry have made for less competition, and there is little incentive to cater to the customer.

All of this is true, but I am undaunted and always ready to go when the spirit of adventure calls. I have learned to expect delays and endure complications with equanimity. Flying, to my mind, is still a gift, one that I am ever grateful for. Many of my friends live on the other side of this great continent, and yet I can leave my place after breakfast and be there in time for dinner. Ain’t that something? Ain’t that just the best damned thing?

On we go …

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you!

by Beth Broderick

On Saturday, I was three pages into the new column for today when I somehow accidentally hit a series of keys that sent the material into the ether. Gone. Deleted. Never to be seen again. Gol dang it!!! This new keyboard bedevils me. The configuration has led to the constant insertion of the number three into one out of six words that I type. My fingers somehow graze it on their way to a t or e or d. That is super annoying, but not as annoying as erasing my whole article! I turned to Google and followed all of the different protocols intended to help me retrieve the lost material. Nope, there was apparently no coming back for the words I had painstakingly strung together with the intent of sharing them with you all. The thought of trying to recreate the piece made me want to lie down and bang my head, so I didn’t.

I took a shower and went to the gym. I am aware that this is not the typical order of things. Still, I needed the shower to calm my frazzled nerves, and I needed the gym to make up for the sizable serving of lasagna I had had the day before, followed by Chocolate Peanut Butter ice cream. As I have said before, I am a one-flavor gal; love my vanilla chocolate chip, but that peanutty/chocolatey stuff is a comer. I am still thinking about it, and the fact that a shower of chopped salted Spanish nuts would put it right over the top. AY yum.

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The loss of the article started me thinking about erasure, about what is and isn’t here. My address book is huge. There are hundreds of entries, many of them outdated or incorrect, but I cannot bring myself to delete any of them. Several years ago, I was at the store having my data transferred from one phone to another. This was before we had the whiz-bangery of the “cloud,” back when we had to do things manually.

In addition to the duplicates and no-longer-accurate information, I still have the numbers and addresses of people whom I have lost. Still have Gary, Stacey, John, Michael, and my sister Kim. Dad’s old cell number is saved, Mom’s too, and many, many others. Though some have been gone for years, I simply cannot hit delete on what is most certainly by now someone else’s number. To erase them feels too permanent. Should their memory begin to fade, there is the chance that I might scroll past their name and be filled with recollection.

An author I worked with years ago passed away at a fairly young age; he was one of those people who died from complications of everything. He had a slew of life-threatening conditions and fought valiantly, but they eventually wore his body down. Once he accepted that he was going to die, he actually had a blast doing it. He got pals to build a wooden coffin that he designed to be fastened together only using horseshoes. He sent me pictures of it; he loved that thing. I think they also fashioned a mausoleum of sorts for his remains. After he passed, his widow kept his recorded voice on their answering machine. For years. At first, it was sweet and sort of nice to hear his voice again, but as time wore on, it became jarring and kind of weird.

It is important to remember the dead but not cling too tightly to them. To go on living fully for ourselves, we have to let them go.

I remember the popular soap operas in the 80’s and 90’s often had a storyline in which the leading man or woman had been injured in an accident and lost all memory of the life they had led before it. Their entire history had been erased. These folks usually had pretty checkered pasts, marked by adultery and theft and run-ins with the law. The other characters spent days and weeks and sometimes months trying desperately to remind these folks of their former lives. Those stories always got me thinking. If a person does not remember having committed a crime or done someone wrong, should they still be held accountable? If they are no longer that person, no longer living that life, then does that other person still exist?

COME UNDER THE LENS.

I did a photo shoot last week. The modeling agents wanted a “beauty shot,” which is a specific kind of photo. They need to be tightly framed, and the make-up should be either very subdued or wildly obvious. These pics are sent to cosmetic companies and advertisers who are looking for faces to represent their products. The agency sent me to Daryn, a young photographer who uses the technique that I was told we needed for success.

“Okay, I have to admit that I’m a huge fan,” said Cynthia while she was setting up her kit to work on my makeup. “I grew up watching you. My sister is freaking out that I am here. We were both huge Sabrina people.”

Cynthia is 39 years old, which places her squarely in the demographic of my fan base from Sabrina the Teenage Witch. She would have started watching it with her sister when she was around 9, an ideal age to start believing in magic and talking cats.

“You’re an actress?” Daryn the photographer asked.

Like a lot of people her age, Daryn has never seen my work; she has no idea what kind of career I have had. To her, I was just some old lady model that someone asked her to shoot. If new generations have no idea that I existed, then, did I? One hundred years from now, there is a good chance that nary a soul will know that I was here. It is a part of aging; the slow relegation of our beings to the background. We know this, but it is still weird, like asking a young person about the Beatles and getting a blank stare in return.

We erect monuments and pour material into archives; we paint on canvas and walls, with oil, chalk, and charcoal. We make pottery, fashion jewelry, write columns and books, make movies and television shows, and record songs. All of that contributes to our culture, our sense of who we are and where we came from. But there is no guarantee that new generations will know of it or us. One person’s antique treasure is another’s worn-out trash. One person’s delight in an “oldie but goodie” is another’s dreary eye-roll.

Walking past the new young residents of my apartment building is a reminder that while I am not yet a ghost, I am fading from view. My voice may call out from behind a screen for a few more decades, growing fainter and fainter with the years, but it will, one day in the not-so-distant future, cease to be heard.

One of the reasons that despots attack arts institutions and topple statues, censor libraries, burn museums, and ransack private homes is to erase the collective memory, so that they can institute a new culture that both fears and reveres their power. When their reign of terror inevitably comes to an end, remnants of the old culture reappear and insert themselves into the new.

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Our stories somehow live on, traded underground, whispered in the dark. They are always worth telling, and I believe that they continue to exist somewhere in the universe. They can never be totally degraded by the bludgeon of time; even if no longer told or read, they are still felt in the bones of those who follow us.

“All that breathe

Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh

When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care

Plod on, and each one as before will chase

His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave

Their mirth and their employments, and shall come

And make their bed with thee.”

-William Cullen Bryant “Thanatopsis.”

I am not sure if this is a better column than the one that got away, but I am grateful that you are here to read it, and that I am here to write it down. I have been deleting threes from this text for an hour, but my words persisted. I managed to avoid erasure this time, so for now at least, they have not been scrubbed from the record.

On we go …

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you!

by Beth Broderick

I can dream, can’t I? I live in a fantasy world for a not-insubstantial portion of every day. My mind fixates on an idea for a business, or a new place to live, or a complete change in course on my career path. I have done this all of my life. I can build an entirely new imaginary existence for myself in the time it takes to walk the dog (approximately 90 minutes).

Say I go to visit a friend in Asbury Park. My mind begins to assess the situation. Could I live there? What would my life be like? Miami? Maybe. The art scene is vibrant, and the multicultural vibe is cool. What about Palm Springs? Mexico City? Detroit? The possibilities are endless.

“I used to think there was time, you know? That I could go back to New York City and work on stage again, or head to my old stomping grounds in Venice Beach,” Dennis said as he stared at the giant oak in his Austin backyard. “Somehow, I ran out. I’m in my 70’s; there is no way I could do that now. The window is too small, and the change would be too drastic. This, right here, where I am, this is it. This is my life for as long as I’m on the planet. Weird. I had so many plans.”

I know that my time, too, is short, and most, if not all, of my pipe dreams are just that. But I do love them so …

An ad popped up in my Instagram feed the other day, which prompted my most recent foray into a “what if” scenario. It featured a video camera moving slowly and lovingly around a leafy locale in Topanga Canyon. A woman’s sultry voice accompanied the images:

“This property, listed at 1.3 million, features three small homes on one big, beautiful lot, each with its own distinct personality.” (I don’t have 1.3 million lying around, but go with me here.)

I was transfixed, studying each small home in the charming estate. Which would I live in? Could I Airbnb the other two? Maybe it would be better to have at least one full-time renter? That would be more reliable. I started the video over. I think I would choose the cabin-like structure referred to as “Angel’s Nest.” It has the largest kitchen.

I would build a big fence around the perimeter, something that complements the natural setting, maybe wood or bamboo in a neutral shade of brown. Or, I could give it character and paint it green to match the foliage. That way, the dog could run and run and run. He is happy with our lives, but on the occasions that we visit pals with a yard, he is ecstatic to have the chance to roam freely. He could have the “zoomies” any time that he wanted.

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A yard. That would be sweet.

It would be farther from my sisters and nephew, but closer to the beach. Friends could come and stay for extended periods of time in one of the other abodes, or maybe a few of us could retire there together? I would definitely put in a lap pool. Swimming is a required activity in all of my dream lives.

This is one of my regular fantasies. I spend time in the water whenever I can, but I don’t dare put my dyed blonde hair in a swirl of chlorine. I dream of diving, of doing laps of butterfly or backstroke, but for now, I am only allowed to paddle about, careful to keep my head and shoulders above the undulating blue.

So, in my new Topanga life, I would need a lap pool. I would miss the epic grocery shopping available to me here in Beachwood. I routinely toggle between six different grocery stores because they each have one item or another that I prefer over the competition. I wonder if there is a local paper? I could write articles in the town rag about life in Topanga. I bet there is a coalition to preserve some of the historic buildings. (Does Topanga have historic buildings? Is it actually a town?) I could join the boosters, and we could have meetings at the local family-owned coffee shop, where, against all I know of myself and my propensity to cook at home, I will have become a regular.

I have really enjoyed thinking about this newest possible new life. This mental exercise has got legs. I visited a friend up there once, but it was nighttime. I have made a note to take an afternoon to explore the area, because … Topanga Canyon, I mean, maybe? Why not?

My friend Mellissa lives in a big, beautiful home where she is raising her three big, beautiful sons. She wants, one day, when everyone is grown and on their own, to get an apartment in Manhattan with a panoramic view of the city lights. She plans to take up smoking again and sit with a perfectly blended cocktail in her well-appointed living room and stare out at the wonder of the nation’s largest city.

I, too, have a New York City life on the back burner at all times. I never tire of strolling purposefully down the streets and boulevards there. I would be a walker in a walking town. Heaven. There is no snow, sleet, or sweltering heat in the projection of how my life there would pan out, and I think it’s best to leave that fantasy intact, unless it threatens to become a reality. Then somebody who loves me needs to get the net.

AISLES OF “IF”.

About halfway up my street, there is a charming little mom-and-pop grocery store, next to the storied Beachwood Cafe. It is run by the son of the original proprietors and features a lot of essentials and last-minute finds. The shelves are sparsely filled, but they have everything from dog food to birthday candles, things one is grateful to find in a pinch. I stop in a few times a week during one of my walks. The employees all greet Fairness with a smile, and I love being able to dash in to pick up a pepper or a small bag of fresh herbs. They carry the only flavor of ice cream that I am helpless to resist Häagen-Dazs Vanilla Chocolate Chip, the devil in a carton.

Some twenty years ago, the deli counter near the wine and spirits was well stocked and famous for its tuna salad, among other delights. Now it is barely functional. There are a few meats and cheeses available for slicing, and there are usually one or two “salads” on offer. One of potato or macaroni, and the other almost always is a turkey/cranberry concoction, which features too-big chunks of meat with dried cranberries and walnut halves.

After every visit, I dream about taking over the deli counter and stocking it with delicious takeaway foods. I would have a tray of chicken paillard. There would be a lemon dressing and curls of Parmesan to add on at home. I would have things like pasta salad with pesto and three peas. Cold shrimp mixed with dill and mayo and topped with sliced nuts. There would be chewy, crackly almond cookies and butterscotch brownies. Rich coconut cake would be sold by the slice, and fluffy chocolate pots du crème available in compostable containers. I would sell out of everything by 5 P.M. and head home to take the dog for a long walk, then have a leisurely dinner at my favorite French bistro. A chef’s life. Of course, in the dream, my hands do not cramp and ache with crippling arthritis, my joints are flexible, and the physical demands of cooking for the multitudes are easily met.

Some days, I am a resident in legendary Palm Springs and write a weekly column there called “This Old Life.” I get talked into running for city council and then mayor, because it is the one place where I would be considered young enough to do so. I start a program of expanded underground water storage and restore train service between the desert and Los Angeles. Everyone would compost, and traffic would cease to be an issue. We would start a collective that would gather all of the unwanted fruit that is tossed out every year and turn it into specialty marmalades. The proceeds would go toward job training, housing, and rehab for the homeless. I am a great mayor; they end up naming a street after me.

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There is one in San Francisco. I have always wanted to move there just to live on Broderick Street. In that scenario, I do not have to avoid gluten and am able to eat my weight in chewy, tangy sourdough bread. I go to the Wharf for fresh seafood three days a week and take the ferry over to Marin on Fridays to meet a friend for lunch. (I do not know a soul in Marin, but I am sure I could find a willing companion.) Sunday, I indulge in an Irish Coffee at BV’s and then stroll down to Golden Gate Park to watch the young families fly kites and play tag.

I have a great life. I love my neighborhood and my proximity to the gorgeous Griffith Park. I am grateful for my long career and enjoy juggling the actor/writer/model life. It’s not as if I dream of other lives because I am unhappy in my present state; I just love imagining new ways of being in the world. What is it like to run a tasting room at a winery? Host a cooking show? Own a seaside gallery? I am still blessed with an abundance of energy and have a creative engine that is wont to crank into overdrive. I enjoy asking “what if” because the one thing that I am certain of is that, to age well, one has to be flexible and able to adapt to new circumstances. There may be little chance that I will enter into any of the worlds mentioned above, but I believe in keeping an open mind, because it feels important to remember that I am free to change, anytime for any reason. It’s the freedom that is at the heart of my imaginings. They say if you can dream it, you can do it, and, well–I probably won’t. But they also say …

”Never say never!”

On we go …

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by Beth Broderick

We had seen it, some time ago: the sign for the “California Botanical Garden.” It sits on 846 acres in Claremont, a historic and quiet community about 40 minutes south of Los Angeles as the crow flies. It is one of many smaller interior California cities that are chock-full of history, including Azusa, Arcadia, Glendora, and Upland, just to name a few. Most of them were groves in the old days, where lemons, oranges, and olives once thrived, but now they are neighborhoods, still leafy and fruited, the scent of citrus and jasmine all around.

I grew up in California, but that is a region I have never before explored. As a young, newly-driving teen, I headed straight to the coast when given the chance. The legendary Highway 1 held all of the mystique and most of the allure. San Luis Obispo, Carmel, and San Jose charmed with beauty and sass. The quaint Danish traditions of Solvang, and the rich food and wine scene in Santa Barbara never disappoint. Then, of course, there are the big guns at opposite ends of the state. Chilly, scenic, ritzy San Francisco and warm, laid-back, storied San Diego.

Though I lived for two years in Pasadena, one of the oldest cities in California, I never ventured east-southeast, never traversed the hillsides in between. The interior towns of San Bernardino County didn’t catch my attention, but they are quite something to behold. They hold the history of California in their DNA. Those towns are teachers.

We were driving along, on our way back from attending the theater in La Verne. Another lovely historic place I had not experienced until that time.

We made a note to go as soon as our schedules would permit. The moment arrived this past weekend, though we were both pushing the envelope to embrace it. I had just flown home from the East Coast, and he was 48 hours hence headed to Europe, to tour with his aging mother. One thing we both know is that with our busy schedules, there is never an ideal time, so we honored the commitment.

This particular Sunday, a few members from Dean’s church were gathering to observe a spiritual stroll through the gardens. I was relieved to learn that this was an entirely unstructured endeavor; we were not required to stick together. I am a fast walker and prefer to go at my own pace; Dean easily matches my stride, but most folks cannot. The group leader fanned out a collection of cards in his left hand, and we all were offered the chance to choose one. This card was to be our inspiration, was intended to give us food for thought. Like a fortune cookie for believers, without the sweet treat to entice.

I chose a card and glanced at it. The title was “Seasons of Growth.” Below it was a longish paragraph, and off in the margin in small print were the words: “walking thoughts.” I walk ten miles a day, so I know a thing or two about those, but I read on. The message was a tad sappy: “Every season represents a cycle of change for our Earth.”

“Well, that’s a bit of the genius of the obvious,” I thought, but I continued to the end.

“Today, as you walk, contemplate this season of your life. What season are you in? How does it feel to be in this season?”

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Huh. Those questions kept repeating over and over in my head.

“Look, Dean, a little bunny!” We stopped, and he snapped a picture.

“Oh, how sweet,” he later declared.

We had come upon “Children’s Woodland,” a play area made entirely out of old tree stumps and hollow logs. Not fancy, but there were plenty of things to hop on and crawl through. An old-school playground where the kids have to figure out how to entertain themselves. The tots on hand were managing to do just that.

We strolled past all manner of beautiful species. Great wild-looking Joshua trees, Torrey pines, Western Junipers, and stubby Scrub Oaks, all of which had flowering shrubs around their perimeter. The question kept popping up:

“What season of life am I in?”

THAT CRISP AIR.

I am not sure which would be assigned to me according to the rings around my trunk. I am sixty-seven; have a little over a decade to go before I reach the age of life expectancy for women. I will live past it, of course, is what I say to myself; but whether or not we choose to believe it, the data tells a story.

I am sometimes confused about where I am in life. I am still busy with deadlines, auditions, and photo shoots. I enjoy all of the activity but admit that I crave freedom from the many obligations that consume my precious time in this body and on this planet. The creative drive that has fueled my life keeps pushing me forward, while the contemplative part of my soul craves quiet and ease. If and when I allow myself to feel it, there is a schizoid pull in opposite directions.

What season? Crap, why did I read that card? What season?!

I am well past spring, that is certain, and I have never been much of a summer gal. Most would say a woman my age is entering the winter of her life, but that feels too cold and brittle. I am not who I once was, but I am still limber, still moving through space, still learning and yearning. I am not yet frozen, and though my bones may in fact be, I do not feel breakable.

Let’s go with Fall. I am in the Fall season of my life. I have shed a lot of my finest feathers; time is stripping me down to the basics. My senses are dimming, vision and hearing straining for input, reading lips, and cupping one ear. I wake with stiff joints; my flesh does not stretch as tautly over the sinew beneath. Objects slip easily from my grasp, and I spend an inordinate amount of time each day trying to find my keys. My phone is never where I am certain that I put it …

… okay, LATE Fall. Dammit.

I am in the LATE Fall phase of my time here. I am haunted by the ghosts of loved ones lost and know full well that the hobgoblins of fate could trip me up any day. My friends are coping with demons like AFIB and high blood pressure, many avoiding grapefruit because it interferes with their cholesterol-lowering meds. I have my weird heart issues and the damnable Psoriatic arthritis, but except for low-grade anemia and meager platelets, my blood work looks great. I am keeping the Grim Reaper at bay, giving the terrors of All Hallows’ Eve a run for their money. There is a chill in the air, and I am wrapping myself in layers, but I am not yet bending into the wind.

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One thing for sure about seasons is that they change.

Winter will come for me as it does for all of us, and I want to be prepared for that final stretch of life, but as of yet, there is no plan to speak of. Where will I be as I sip some tea and watch the outlines of the day unfold? Which rail will I hold onto when I can no longer perceive the depth of the stairs beneath my feet? What community will I seek to share those last days and nights with?

I do not know the answer, but the final question on the card at the entrance to the garden asked, “How does it feel to be in this season?” I can give that one a whirl.

I am far enough along in the late Autumn of things to feel some nostalgia for the brightly colored passions of my youth. I love deeply but am now devoid of the white-hot emotions that once stole my breath and squeezed me tight. I can still be roiled by events, upset by injustices, and offended by a lack of regard, but I breathe through it, treat upset as routine. I walk all those feelings toward the hills and climb with them high enough that the light renders them transparent. Dark thoughts cannot hold me for long; I simply don’t have time to spare for them. I am thicker and slower, but somehow, feel lighter and less weighed down.

I am celebrating Thanksgiving as often as possible. Not the one that champions the conquering and cruelties of our forefathers, but the essence of the holiday. I am gathering near my loved ones whenever and wherever I can. I am making time to see the beauty all around me and to feast on the bounty of my blessings. I am saying grace over and over and over again, at times under my breath and others, singing it to the heavens. I am saying it and praying for it every day.

Grace.

On we go …

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you!

by Beth Broderick

“She’s coming today. Pray for me.”

“Oh, boy. Did you hide your laptop?”

“Shoot! No, I forgot. Thanks for the reminder.”

Jeremy, Jeff, and I all employ M.E., a housekeeper who came highly recommended by my old pal Don.

He was absolutely right about how thorough she is. Cleans the place down to the nubs, but he left out the part about her being a one-woman wrecking ball. The most accident-prone person I have ever known, a title previously held, in my wide swath of a circle, by yours truly. I once dove off a diving board and missed the pool.

Okay, so maybe she is the second most spatially challenged gal among us, but boy howdy, is her track record is impressive.

Between our three homes, she has killed two computers and sent an insanely heavy ceramic bowl crashing to the floor of Jeff’s place. He had to have the hardwood in that room re-sanded and stained. She has busted my ballerina statue to smithereens and once positioned a large bottle of dish soap in such a way that it emptied itself into my broom closet when I opened the door. A sudsy mess that was a clean-up as endless as you are thinking it might have been.

She has been coming to my place of residence for two years now, in two different spaces. She was hard on the one in Beverly Hills, but here in Beachwood, she is setting new records for mayhem. Every single time she cleans, she renders both sets of sliding glass doors in the bathroom shower inoperable. I am not strong enough to lift them back onto their tracks, so I have to wait until someone with adequate hands comes to visit to have them set them right again, only to have her return and yank them off-kilter. If she cannot figure out how to open something, she will attack it with such brute force that the mechanism is completely shot, unusable. She will break a faucet handle right off.

None of us has the heart to let her go. She is a sweet gal and works hard, and all of our dogs like and trust her (which is a big deal for canine parents). When she is due for a visit, we all make sure that we can be out of the house or at least earshot of the banging and clanging, the whacking and wringing. My nervous system is not cut out for it. I would rather come home to the very clean and likely shambles that my apartment has become. I prefer to deal with her visits after the fact.

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Two weeks ago, I welcomed M.E. and handed her two treats to feed the dog, a ritual that they both enjoy. It is almost impossible for me to concentrate when she is around, so I hightailed it to the gym, ran errands, and even allowed myself to eat a yummy late breakfast out at “Swingers,” the cafe that was central to the movie of the same name. Still bohemian, still run-down, still one of my favorites. Not all that clean, but darned cozy.

I headed home, hoping that I had given M.E. sufficient time to accomplish her mission.

Upon arrival, I was disappointed to see that she was still in the middle of her routine. She does not clean one room at a time, but rather does bits and pieces of all of them at once. This leaves everything in complete disarray for several hours. I have tried to suggest that she finish one room before starting another, but I have not gotten that message across. I speak Spanish well enough to communicate with most folks, but she is reluctant to have a conversation in her native tongue and prefers halted pidgin English, which is very hard for me to understand, because she has a peculiar way with it.

She also mimes things for me when there is a tool that she wants or a cleaning product she would prefer to use. We manage.

I was heading to the kitchen when I heard loud banging on the sliding glass doors that lead to the outside. There is a lock, of course, but also a long piece of wood that my sister had cut to prop into the grooves at the base to prevent entry by unwanted guests, human or otherwise. When my sisters came to visit after I first moved in, they were impressed by the size of my place and the evident, though spotty, old-world charm of the building, but Laura was quick to note the vulnerabilities:

The girls measured every door and window and went to Lowe’s, where they had rods custom-cut to fit in the sills and prevent anyone from being able to open them from the outside.

How did M.E. get out there? What was the chain of events that led to my housekeeper being stranded on the veranda for hours? She preferred not to say. Just flew past me when I unblocked the sliding glass door and went straight back to work. I barricaded myself in my bedroom and caught up on some reading.

After she left that afternoon, I studied the scene. The window screen had been hastily replaced and needed to be refit. So, she must have been cleaning the large window in the dining room and decided she needed to polish the outside of the glass. She could have opened the nearby sliding doors and walked out onto the patio, but instead she climbed out of the window and stepped onto the bench below. She then removed the screen and shut the window so that she could reach every part of the pane. Once it was shiny and streak-free, she attempted to re-open it to climb back in, only to find the latch had fastened. I shudder to think of the force she used in attempting to free it up, and the assault on the sliding doors, which she no doubt delivered with muscularity, but my sisters would be happy to learn that their safety precautions held strong. M.E. proved without a doubt that they are effective.

She is over seventy and has recently been let go by a client of 25 years.

“She say me no come more. No me quiere. Veinte directoras.” (She doesn’t want me. Over twenty years.) She shook her head.

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I empathize with her former employer and can understand why that happened. I am sure that I could find someone a bit easier to communicate with, a little less hard on things, and it is tempting to try, but no.

Jeremy, Jeff, and I are holding steady, hiding the valuables and hoping for the best. Jeremy has given up asking her what she would like for lunch, because she just looks at him funny when he does. He picks up something new for her to try every two weeks. Jeff offers leftovers. I leave out fresh fruit and snacks. We all give her bonuses at Christmas time. She wears the same size shoe as me, which is very uncommon. My feet are weirdly small for my size. 6 to 6-1/2. Hers are a match, which is some serious luck of the draw, because I am always finding a new pair uncomfortable or an old one that has gone unused and needs to be given away.

POLISHED BY PERSISTENCE.

When I relocated from Beverly Hills to Beachwood, she insisted on showing up to help me meet the moving van. She had to navigate two new bus routes to get to the place, and she was late, but she managed. It was a cold winter, and the apartment was freezing. I gave her my sweater and wrapped a travel blanket around my shoulders. I had her start in the bedroom, because I knew if she put away my kitchen equipment, there was a good chance I would never find it again. She tackled box after box, breaking each down expertly as it was emptied. My friend Gail came and brought chicken sandwiches and salads. M.E. took hers with her into the next room and kept right on working between bites. Gail figured out how to make the heater work, and slowly but surely, the three of us put the place together enough so that the dog and I could sleep in a bed and wake to a coffee pot and cup, a water bowl, and chow.

It was late, nearly eleven o’clock, when her husband came to pick her up that night. I pressed several bills into her hand. She accepted it without looking to see what I had offered. I paid her more than double her regular fee, hoping she would be pleased when she got in the car and counted it. She deserved it.

M.E. has worked hard all of her life. She loves her family, absolutely dotes on her granddaughter, and has never once complained to any one of us about anything. Her visits are disruptive and chaotic, but cleaning this place is a hard job, one that I am loath to do. I have learned to enjoy the game of trying to figure out where she has put a prized utensil or stacked a favorite mixing bowl. I manage now to squeeze through into the back of the shower because the doors won’t open. I am nonplussed when I find Windex in the laundry hamper or furniture polish in the fridge.

The place is clean, the dog is happy, and most, if not all, of the damage can be undone. I have learned to be patient with my wildly impulsive and impatient housekeeper. She is a quirky little gal, but if a place needs cleaning, by God, she is going to clean it … come hell and hot water, M. E. is going to make it shine.

On we go …

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you!

by Beth Broderick

Genius. It is sometimes hard work to earn the designation. The New York Times puzzles are not designed for giver-uppers. A person can stare at the boxes which contain the words one hopes to group together in CONNECTIONS for a good while, trying in vain to see what binds them in a category. The hints are there, hiding in plain sight if one has the fortitude to suss them out. Perhaps they are all a shade of green? Or the names of musicals or hockey teams minus the first or last letter? Maybe they are elements of a larger puzzle or science project, or can they apply to the composition of, say, a robot?

CONNECTIONS is the first game I play every morning, or at least every morning that I do not have some urgent matter at hand, like a dog with a tummy ache or catching an early flight.

“Imma get some coffee.”

I whisper this to Fairness who, upon sensing me stir, will have snuggled next to me with head on my belly hoping I am awake enough to deliver some affection. I caress his face for a while and trace my hand down the back of his neck. Then it is time.

“You go sleep-sleep. Mommy get some coffee.”

That’s about as articulate as I can be at 6 AM. I trundle off to the kitchen and pour a glass of coffee over ice then add Trader Joe’s special nut milk. It comes in a white box and is extracted from a combination of macadamia nuts, almonds and cashews. It is heaven. I pad back to bed and open the Times app and head straight to the Games section. I used to find it impossible to resist the siren call of breaking news, but it is all so horrific now that I find it best to absorb it slowly over the course of a day. I cannot face the trauma and absurdity of our current political state first thing in the morning. I blow right past it and start my day with a different challenge.

First CONNECTIONS, then WORDLE. I cannot move on until these are solved. After that it is LETTER BOXED. Here, one is given between four and six chances to use every letter which is written on the edges of said box by connecting them directly. Each can only be used one time. It is particularly gratifying when I am given six opportunities and manage to solve it in four or less. This is the first instance of the day where there is a chance I could be called a “genius.” If one can find a word which uses a large number of the letters offered, the screen will flash the compliment for you. If it is a ho-hum word that you have entered, it will merely say “awesome,” which is nice, of course, but it isn’t the “g” word. The one I crave.

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Next up is SPELLING BEE. There are three more puzzles to go after it, but it is often so difficult that when I am stumped, I have to toggle back and forth to give my brain a chance to reset and try again. The difficulty is determined by the letters in play on any given day. If there are an I and an N and a G, coming up with words will be easier and the puzzle knows to demand more word from you as a result.

“Gumming miming ginning umping pumping”

All of the letters can be repeated for this one and 99 percent of the time it is possible to find at least one word that uses all seven of the letters in the grid. Today was YKPAHEC The H was in the center which means it must be used in each word:

“Ache achy cache check cheek cheeky…”

My fingers were flying across the grid this morning.

”Each, heck hack hake happy peach peachy and then the big one… paycheck!”

That did it. The word Genius appeared along with a little picture of a bee with a graduation cap floating above it. YES! The sight of that sets me buzzing. It is going to be a good day. Well, maybe, but at least we are off to a great start.

Then it is a breeze through STRANDS and MINI CROSSWORD, the latter so simple that it is played for time rather than difficulty. “Congratulations! You solved in 48 seconds!” My mind initially balked at PIPS, the final game of my morning. It is based on Dominoes but has some distinctive features. Blanks squares are free zones, and certain others have to total to a sum or be equal or less than a variety of numbers. It was the numbers that threw me at first, I am a words / letters gal. I kept at it and now can master the easy and medium challenges, but have yet to solve a hard one, because it’s downright, well ... hard.

Someday …

I am largely uneducated. I was accomplished enough in school to be allowed significant advancements which resulted in my being a high school senior at the age of fifteen, so I am no dummy, but I am also not what you would consider a scholar. I earned an A. A. degree at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts, which does not remotely compare to the hefty achievements of most of my peers, many of whom have Master’s degrees and lofty PhD’s, and almost all of whom have at minimum a Bachelor’s.

My dear old pal Eric generously edits this column for me so as to spare you all evidence of my grievous grammatical shortcomings. His notes in the margins sometimes reflect his frustration with these.

“How many times have I told you there is no need for a comma in a sentence such as this one?”

He has a tendency when exasperated to clutch his head. I always picture him that way when I read his notes. He is a good egg, bless him for putting up with me.

I feel badly about my ineptitude, but I guess not badly enough to rectify it. I write and write and write and hope that I don’t offend too many of the rules, but I of course continually ignore the cardinal one which is. “You should know the rules before you break them.” Oops. Sorry, Eric.

NO MARVEL THAT.

I recently attended the bi-annual Erma Bombeck Writer’s Conference in Dayton, Ohio. It was a wonderful whirlwind of a weekend. A great chance to see old friends and make new, all of whom are aficionados of the written word, which, Instagram or no Instagram, still holds value for many of us.

The first night, we had a keynote speaker who is a very successful writer / podcaster. She is a Midwest gal with a winning way who relished stories of her sweet and sassy old dad and told anecdotes about her endearing children. She was clearly very pleased with the way her life was going. She was kind and funny and well received, though may have come off as a touch too self-satisfied for some of us in the room.

“We want to tell our stories in an original way to avoid using adverbs and adjectives, don’t we?” She admonished at one point. Folks took it in with a nod. It was clearly not the first time the educated and up-to-speed crowd had heard tell of this new-ish rule.

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‘Huh,’ I thought. Adverbs and adjectives are clearly not in vogue these days. I wonder how many I have used in the past. I immediately tried to conjure up some pages of my work in order to mentally scan them for trespass. I was running that over and over through my head and had stopped paying attention, when I suddenly heard a new voice. It was time for Q and A, and someone had stepped up to the mike, the exchange that followed went something like this:

“I would like to press you about your opposition to adjectives.”

I knew the voice. It belonged to my old friend, the wonderful writer Annabelle Gurwitch.

“In my last article for the New York Times,” –she paused slightly to let that sink in–I used more than one and I am not sorry.”

“Well, of course there are exceptions to every rule, but we want to avoid them if we can.”

The speaker had not anticipated confrontation. She smiled, but her eyes shot daggers.

“In the Times I was trying to explain that I no longer have the ability to fall deeply for someone but rather feel only mild emotions in that regard. What I believe I said is that I no longer have a ’marvelous capacitance’ for love.” (It was that word, or maybe even a longer one like it.)

“Well, marvelous is a good word, isn’t it? To marvel is such a nice thing.”

“I used it as an adjective is my point. So, maybe that is acceptable after all. It was, at least, to the TIMES, which I write for frequently.”

“Well, okay then,” said our now-quite-annoyed-but-trying-to-be-pleasant speaker. “But I am the one up here now, so maybe you can talk about that when you are up here.”

“I have been up there twice, and I am just saying that adjectives are not against the law.”

I have no idea if those were her actual words, but to my mind at least Annabelle crushed the argument. I have paraphrased that entire exchange, but that was the gist of it. They are both well educated, far more so than myself, and they actually knew what they were talking about, which I kind of don’t, and also don’t care, so I suppose it is cheeky of me to take a stab at their exchange, but that is the essence of the dust-up.

She smiled. Teri hadn’t loved it. It had worried her a tad, but she is a writer, a wordsmith and she liked the way “scrap” felt in her mouth.

“A scrap. You are right. It was just a scrap.”

It was a beautiful conference full of wildly talented speakers and lecturers and attendees. Teri runs a tight ship, and she does it with solid leadership and a great deal of heart. She loves writers and writing and that is evident in every aspect of the sold-out event. A wealth of originality and humor and sophistication was on display in all of the teachers, speakers and students alike.

As for me: I learned a lot and it was definitely brought home to me that I will only ever be a genius at around 6:35 AM, and even then, just according to a game on my phone, but I plan to keep writing to you all just the same. I promise to keep a lid on the adverbs and adjectives, because, you know, that’s a thing now, but I’m not shakily making any wonderful promises.

On we go …

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by Beth Broderick

“The AV Heart Block is still there.”

The new heart specialist was reading my EKG.

“Still first degree, I hope?”, I asked

“Yes. No change from the last report with us. The chart says you were here three years ago.”

“Sounds about right. The Rheumatology folks are always asking me to come back here, just to be certain that the medication I take is not causing any problems. I never had the AV block thing until I took Humira for a year. That stuff put the whuppin’ on me.”

She smiled. I liked her instantly. I had to switch because my former doctor at the Pacific Heart Institute is “concierge” now, which is annoying. (What about the American health care system is not?) It costs thousands of dollars per year just to be seen by her. We have to join a club now to get care. My Rheumatology office charges an annual fee before they will agree to treat you, and if you have a disease like Psoriatic Arthritis, believe me you are going to pay it. Thankfully this woman, Dr. Cazzulino, still sees patients the old-fashioned way … because they have an appointment.

“Any questions for me?” she asked.

“As a matter of fact, there is something I really do want to talk about.”

She nodded, somber and attentive.

“This hole-in-my-heart deal,” I said.

“The septal defect … CHD,” she said reflexively.

“It occurs mostly in women, correct?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Okay, so here is why that is interesting to me. I have been told repeatedly that no one treats this anymore for some reason and here’s the thing: I now know three different individuals with the same condition who have undergone surgery, just–you know–for the routine stuff. Knee replacement, etc., regular old-person stuff. And all three had a stroke afterward because of the hole or CHD or whatever. So, is non-treatment the medical equivalent of the raft? You know how, in tribal days, when a woman was considered past her use-by date, they would just put her on a raft and send her down the river? Have y’all just decided that if I stroke out at 70 because my hip hurt and it turns out I needed a new one … you’re good with that? We septal-defect broads will have worn out our welcome at that point, so who cares? Is that the deal?”

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She tilted her head to one side. It was clear that no one had ever asked her that before, and the question gave her pause. She straightened her hair.

“Well, people your age …” She glanced at the chart.

“67,” I said.

“Yes. 67. We feel there are a lot of reasons you could have a stroke at that point.”

“Three.” I held up my three fingers on my hand for emphasis. “I know three women with the condition who have now had a stroke. That seems to point rather directly to the HOLE. Fried chicken and sodium and stress notwithstanding, the evidence indicates that there is reason to suspect the HOLE played a large part.”

“Well, I see your point, but there are risks to repairing the hole as well, so there is that to consider.”

She was a bit uncomfortable. It seemed like she was making a note to have a better answer next time.

“I am good with the crippling disease and the brain farts and the jowly bits and the shitty hair part of getting older, but I do not cotton to the notion of a stroke. That is no bueno.”

She laughed and rearranged the bangs on her forehead. “Have you ever had a CT scan?”

“I have no idea. People have poked around in there, that’s how we know about the MVP and the CHD and the AV thing.”

“Well, it’s probably time we take a look. I am going to send you to Tower Imaging and then we will run some more tests here and follow up. Sound good?”

“Yeah, okay.”

IT’S IN THE BLOOD.

I was not always proactive about my health. That sort of thing does not run in my family. Both my parents were in the medical profession. My mother was a nurse, Dad a hospital administrator. They were neither one keen on doctor visits.

My mom smoked two to three packs a day and had a very impressive drinking career. When her throat started bothering her, she soothed it by rotating a menthol cigarette in between the regular Benson and Hedges she adored. When she finally got it checked, she was shocked to hear about the cancer. Had not seen that coming.

We buried her with a bottle of scotch, a carton of cigarettes, three crossword puzzle books and a People magazine.

Dad was so certain that he would outlive his MUCH younger wife that he opted to have his pension end upon his death, so that they could draw more in the interim. He was 1) male, and 2) giant. Two accidents of fate which generally point to a shorter life span. It just never occurred to him that he might die, much less go first, which he of course did, but to be fair to his assessment he had a good long run. Made it to 93.

He refused to be buried and would not hear of a funeral. He had no intention of dying and no desire to broach the topic. He is in an urn on my brother’s mantel. His wife, who did in fact outlive him, and is still going strong, did not want his ashes, so Ben took them. No one knew what else to do with him.

I am still not great at doing the check-ups and the scans and colonoscopies and all of the preventive measures we are supposed to take to guard our health. I get to it, but these things are not top of mind. I only do it so that if, by chance, I die of one of the things we are all constantly scanning and x-raying and “oscopy-ing” for, people cannot whisper:

“Well, she NEVER did the testing and now she’s a goner.

Just goes to show you.”

I still let things go until I cannot take it anymore. I have, for the last 6 months, been stuffy and sneezy and congested and felt punk. I coped with this by eating my weight in chewable Children’s Zyrtec tablets. When I finally went to an ENT, the nice doctor did a scan, said I have a sinus infection, loaded me up with medicines and treatments and as a result I felt better in three days than I have in months. I would say “lesson learned,” but that is highly doubtful.

I am not the most health-mindful person in many ways, but the septal defect / stroke thing gives me pause. I just don’t like the sound of that, and I find it suspect that the (mostly) women who have it are not treated for it. I smell a raft.

I exercise and eat right, have low blood pressure and have good “good” cholesterol, which I don’t care who says good is bad now, my good is good and that is that. I am doing my best to live a long, healthy life, but we never know what is lurking inside these vessels we inhabit. Our bodies are built to break down; our lives meant to come to an end.

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My parents’ approach was to simply deny the whole possibility of dying until it became imminent and then they made what I consider a graceful exit. Mom stopped eating and waited patiently for death, which she trusted would come quickly, and it did. The day before he left, Dad winked at his nurse–“You know, Meghan I think this thing has finally caught up with me” –then succumbed just hours later.

We humans are not great at planning ahead. Scientists believe that this is why we as a species cannot seem to address climate change. Whilst knowing that we are in the midst of a terrible drought, we will tell ourselves that the rain last Tuesday means we are ok. We lack the ability to grasp the future we face even when there is ample evidence as to the dire outcome it may entail. That is not great news, but when it comes to living and dying, there is a big upside to denial.

I am going to run these tests and then give up worrying about the whole hole thing. What if they fix the damned thing and I die from the anesthesia during a colonoscopy shortly thereafter? I’d hate to prove their point.

Maybe it is a good thing that De Nile “ain’t just a river in Egypt.” We all need a little of it sometimes and how lucky am I that it runs in the family?

Just gonna go ahead and get me that raft and float right on down.

On we go …

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you!

by Beth Broderick

I read about it in AARP magazine, so it must be true, right? A recent article stated that walking is one of the most beneficial exercises that a person of a certain age can engage in. It is safe, (as long as you look both ways and NEVER trust a green light in Los Angeles–folks run through reds on a regular basis here), free, and good for the mind as well as the body. This is old news, of course; most of us have known this all along. But they have added a new twist. They have added weight to the recommendation. This has been a trend with the younger fitness crowd for the last several months. I see young gals sporting strapped-on devices at every turn. I suppose they are seeking to attain the eternal Holy Grail of extra thin-ness, which is still worshipped in Hollywood. I have held myself to that standard for decades, and lately it’s been a struggle. I have been fighting with two pounds for months. I want to weigh my traditional 118, but my body keeps redounding to 120–which is not a big deal, but also not 118. One night of indulgence can push me over that. I am always one eggroll away from bad news on the scale. It’s not surprising that I came out of the gate swinging once the practice of strapping on pounds in order to shed them had been approved for the oldsters. No, but really all I care about is my health and building, you know, … bone density and such.

Also, the moon is made of green cheese.

The suggested starting point is between one and five pounds, depending on your fitness level. It is highly recommended that one don a vest outfitted with adjustable weights, but absent that, they say just toss a book or two in a backpack, strap it on, and get going. I dove in with a vest procured from Amazon that packs a whopping five pounds, and is easily adjusted. I started slowly-ish, wearing it only for the evening walk Fairness and I take before his dinner time. The stroll wends its way uphill gradually and lasts between 45 minutes and one hour, depending on my schedule. It is a nice way to button the day and prepare for my evening activities, which mostly consist of enjoying a glass of Chardonnay and eating some kind of vegetarian meal.

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I am not a vegetarian, but I have been doing my own peculiar version of “food-combining” for years now and I swear by it. The philosophy is simple: Protein and carbohydrates should be eaten separately. Protein should be eaten with vegetables during the day, i.e.: eggs with spinach and mushrooms, and a side of avocado and sliced tomato. No toast, no hash browns, no grits or tortillas or pancakes, none of the fun stuff. Lunch can be salad and tuna or turkey or cheese, maybe a burger patty without the bun. No French fries, no potato salad, no chips of any kind, though coleslaw is admissible. Dinner is the opposite; dinner is all carbs and vegetables. Baked potato with broccoli and asparagus, pasta with spinach and peppers, air-fried veggie tots with an artichoke and some brown rice. The theory goes that one does not need protein at night because we are less active then. Carbs burn quickly without proteins beside them and give you a better night’s sleep. You get the picture. You can have all of the things you love as long as you eat them at the correct time and in the right combination.

This is supposed to keep your metabolic rate high and help you burn fuel efficiently. It works pretty well, does not have to be exact, and is not a “diet.” No calorie counting, no guilt, no hassle, and weekends are exempt. Have a bit of toast with Sunday breakfast or a traditional dinner plate on Saturday night. The plan lets you live a little, but come Monday, it’s back to the basic rules. I have been eating this way for decades; it has served me well.

This is not the “Hollywood” diet which boasts a lot of variations, but which, to the best of my knowledge, consists of eating very restricted calories by day so that one can enjoy a meal out with pals at night. This makes sense but could never work for me. My activity level is too high, and I need lots of protein to keep my energy up. I have tried eating oatmeal for breakfast in a nod to heart health, only to find myself feeling famished and exhausted one hour later. It’s so good for you that I endeavor to have it for dinner on occasion, though I eschew the “savory” variety. I need brown sugar, butter, pecans, and a few raisins in the mix and that is that. I am all for doing my heart some good, but I am not eating turmeric-dusted oatmeal. No thank you.

I swear that damned five-pound vest has got to be ten at least. The box it came in said “5 pounds” on the side but it is possible that someone made a mistake … because boy howdy is that thing heavy. It took some getting used to for sure, but I am sticking to the plan. I wore it for my two-hour Saturday hike and it was not too great a burden. I felt fine when I got home. It was a tad telling, though, that my traditional 30-minute nap was extended that day. I just could not get up. I ended up dozing for two hours in the afternoon, which felt naughty and luxurious in equal measure. I am trying to convince myself that the two things are not related, but …

THE HEAVY HAND OF TIME.

If I had tried it a day later, I could have blamed the exhaustion on the time change, which we all keep saying we hate, but go on adhering to anyway. The correct way to say it is Daylight Saving Time, not Savings Time, which, who cares? But there you have it. It is a peculiar tradition. Some say it was meant for the benefit of agriculture, others believe we adopted it to enhance evening baseball games. Not so. Farmers have actually campaigned against it, as it robs them of a much-needed hour to get crops to market in the morning. It was not enacted to help baseball, but the extra time does give clubs a chance to start later and increase their attendance for night games. If you have even been to a Dodger game and sat in awe as the sun set in the distance at around 8 p.m. you know this is good stuff. DTS was originally suggested by a British politician who thought it would be nice to expand the leisure time folks enjoy after the workday. It was not voted on there until long after Germany became the first country to give it a whirl. We started fussing with it in the 1940’s, but it did not become law in the United States until 1966, which is seven years after I was born, so–not long ago at all. Ahem!

It is a mixed bag. The extra daylight causes energy costs to go up, but there is some evidence that it helps crime rates go down. Many believe that the loss of sleep is to blame for an increase in minor car accidents in the first week of the change. Our poor dogs think we are all mean for withholding their supper until 5, when they know for certain that it is already 5. We can explain until we are blue that they have to wait because it is only four, it is to their minds, and in point of fact, FIVE, clocks be damned!

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Over a dozen states have voted to make it permanent and get rid of the whole turning back the clock business. Congress has been trying to pass such a law for some time now, but they haven’t got around to it, seeming to have their hands full keeping up with the antics of a chaotic White House.

So, for now we have extended daylight hours to look forward to, which will give way to darker times in the coming winter. I find it quite charming in early spring and less so in the dead of summer when the heat persists well into early evening. I, for one, am not looking forward to strapping that (ten pounds, I swear) vest on at 6 PM when it is still 85 degrees out. I am tired and sweaty just thinking about it. Of course, there is a good chance that I will have jettisoned the whole weight-carrying business by then. I wore it again on Sunday and it is a bear. Firstly, it’s heavy, and the backpack thingy is giving my posture bra fits, and I am not sure I can maintain my finishing-school spinal alignment while hauling the damned thing around.

Those young gals make it look easy, but it will put the whoopin’ on ya at around the fourth mile. I mean having denser bones and a slimmer waistline sounds good and all, but I have to be able to stand up straight and stay awake long enough to enjoy it.

It is very nearly the official start of spring, March is on the march, the 20th just around the corner. Los Angeles got the memo early and is boasting very warm, too warm days, while some of you on the east coast are still coping with a harsh winter season. Wherever you are, and whatever the weather, this one thing is true for all of us: the time it is a-changin’ once again. It is the one thing we can be sure of until the day that we can’t.

On we go …

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you!

by Beth Broderick

I worked for a summer as an employee in the Sequoia National Forest. I was reeling from the tough final year at the Academy of Dramatic Arts and needed a break. I am not sure how I knew about it, but I managed to secure a position as a waitress in the restaurant at the main lodge. Housing was provided in cute little cabins, and meals were free on workdays. It was a healing environment, the great trees offering canopies of protection and peace. I walked and walked among them, passing deer and giant brown bears, inhaling pine, and bathing in the green.

At least once a week, the peace was disturbed by the sounds of sirens as, yet another tourist was felled by heart attack or stroke. They had worked all of their lives and waited for retirement to finally see the scope of the country they called home, only to have the trip cut short. It was a cruel fate; seemed to me to be damnably unfair. But I was told it was a regular occurrence; happened year after year.

Today is my birthday. It is a rather unremarkable one. 67 is a dull number, really. Even 68 has a bit more pizzazz. This time of year is loaded with birthday celebrations, as quite a few of my closest pals were born around the same time. Russel led us out of the gate with a bang, spending his 60th in Asia, bathing elephants and swimming in the warm waters. Then it was Mike and Jeff on the same day. Michael quite literally took the cake this year with a three-day extravaganza celebration of his 70th. Jeff had a quieter affair of drinks and dinner at his local hangout. I am opting for an even quieter night of takeout and wine with my sisters and the baby. That will do nicely. Nancy, Cookie, and Sara are all in the same window. They spend their birthdays with kids and grandkids, but we will squeeze in a “ladies’ lunch” next week. Andrew will follow us all with his usual no-fuss style, a simple dinner out.

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All of this celebrating is making me think about time and these markers of its passing. I think about those new retirees seeing the great forest at last and being felled by the altitude, finding themselves with less life than they had planned. They missed the sweet spot: the span of time between relinquishing the responsibilities of employment and finding oneself hobbled by the onset of old age and infirmity.

My pal Eric is in his 70s and newly married. He and his husband are determined to experience the best that retirement has to offer. They have been cruising and traversing this great planet at breakneck speed, heading off for 30 days of discovery here, then a long weekend there. Eric still has a few responsibilities, is wrapping things up with some longtime clients, but he has firmly refused to add new ones. It takes discipline and planning to effectuate a happy final chapter. He and his husband have that in spades.

Michael nodded. His work is his life in many ways, and the same can be said for me. I am here writing on my birthday, because it is what I do, who I am. It is hard to figure out where the stopping point should be/could be. The engine of creativity still churns away in us both; we have projects to see through and ideas yet to be fleshed out. There is still work to do, but for how long?

I dream of a river cruise through Europe. Bryan and I like the sound of a bicycle tour of small towns in the French countryside. I am determined to see the sights South America, the beaches of Uruguay, the mountains of Colombia, horse country in Argentina, and the cultures of Chile and Peru. Mike wants to go to Africa; he has pals there. My sister wants to see many of the historied swatches of America. Savannah is up next on her bucket list, which is long and varied.

I also want to finish the book, and the kids’ book, and get the movie into production, and maybe finally launch my dream of a cooking show. The trick is going to be finding the balance between these competing desires. I have all of my life defaulted to work, but that will need to change or at least shift at some point in the not-so-distant future. My 72-to-82 projection for this timeline is contradicted by the actual numbers. Average lifespan for an American male is 76.5, female is 81.4, so the odds are most of us would croak off in the middle of the “sweet spot” I have proposed.

I ordered myself two “posture bras” for my birthday, because I worry that by hunching over my computer I could end up with forward-sloping shoulders or, worse, the dreaded hump. My mom had one of those. Her entire skeleton curved forward in what appeared to be an attempt to protect her heart. “My heart is fine,” I tell myself. “Shoulders back, tummy in,” I say at least twice during every morning walk. I spend a lot of time in my head, thinking, daydreaming, writing in the air. It is work to try to stay in tune with my body.

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I also treated myself to a new pair of coveralls from “Free People” and a darling green sweater from the place next door. My sisters ordered Indian food, and a few friends surprised me by showing up with wine. It was a fine birthday spent in some of my very favorite company. The 14-month-old nephew entertained with gusto and kept us all busy and laughing.

CRAVINGS ON THE HORIZON.

My life is already pretty darned sweet. I am happy when I am walking in the green hills near my home or wending my way to Palm Springs, taking in the gorgeous views of snowy mountains, or driving down Pacific Coast Highway, awed by the grandeur of the ocean waves that crash into the shoreline. I am fulfilled when I hear back from those of you who read these pages and weigh in with thoughts of your own. If I can keep the lights low enough and my eyes kind of squinty, I see in the mirror the woman I still feel myself to be. There are so many ways that I am buoyed and blessed, but my mind is restless, my spirit craving adventure.

I think my friend, the great actor Judith Ivey, has pegged the spot or is at least straddling it with admirable agility. She still accepts acting work but does not allow it to interfere with standing travel plans. She and her husband have a group of old pals who love to go exploring, and she honors those occasions. They are planning those long-awaited adventures and keeping ski vacations and beach excursions on the books. They have recently been blessed with their first grandchild and are over the moon about it. She is making it work.

Where to land? When to retire? What to keep? What to let go of?

I am at an age where I expected to be steeped in some kind of wisdom, but it often eludes me. I don’t have all of the answers or even a majority of them, but maybe that’s a part of it. I am still learning how to be a grownup, still pondering the future with tilted head and mixed emotions, still young enough to wonder just how I should go about being old.

The only thing that I am entirely sure of is that I have all of the problems that everybody wants.

That’s a pretty damned sweet spot.

On we go …

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you!

by Beth Broderick

LUCK

The force that seems to operate for good or ill in a person’s life, as in shaping circumstances, events, or opportunities.

With my luck I’ll probably get pneumonia.

Good fortune; advantage, or success, considered as the result of chance.

He had no luck finding work.

A combination of circumstances, events, etc., operating by chance to bring good or ill to a person.

She’s had nothing but bad luck all year.

Some object on which good fortune is supposed to depend.

This rabbit’s foot is my luck.

-dictionary.com

I have written about luck before. It is a concept that confounds me. I wrestle with the idea of it, with the way that, good or bad, it is present in our lives.

I have an old friend who has, for most of her lifetime, perceived the people around her as lucky, or at least luckier than her. She has a deep envy of people who are, or were, born into money. This used to hurt my feelings.

“J, I have made it entirely on my own, supported myself all of these years, and built a decent retirement portfolio to boot. Why do you feel that the folks from silver spoon crowd are superior to me … to us?”

Well, not entirely on my own. I had a lot of help from friends in the early years and, even with a total of eight kids to support, my dad found a way to bail me out here and there. Almost no one is successful “on their own.” There were agents who believed in me and casting directors who went to bat on my behalf. There was my sister, who encouraged me and was ever by my side. J was in and out of my life as our pursuits took us to different locales and communities, but she was also a source of support.

J was a scrapper like me. We came from households held together with spit and sealing wax by single mothers. J’s mom craved attention from men; she was a looker and lived to attract the male gaze. She married four times, and when she was on her own, she shuffled men in and out of her girls’ lives on a constant rotation, with the single-minded intent of landing yet another spouse.

My mom craved Scotch and menthol cigarettes and was a mixed bag of feelings when it came to men. Her hatred of them just barely edged out her fear of being alone. She had her reasons.

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Was I unlucky to be raised in a chaotic household where rage and violence often won the day? Or was I lucky to be in an environment where there were no rules to speak of that could be broken? There was freedom in that, and it served me well, so I would have to say that it’s a tie.

J excelled in school, and I somehow sailed through, in spite of my notorious poor attendance. We both wanted out of that school and that town, were driven to escape our crazy childhoods.

J ended up with a husband who was a whiz in finance, and they lived a very high lifestyle together, but it was never good enough for her. They ran in circles of folks who were to the manor born, who were effortlessly wealthy, and it burned her up.

She couldn’t explain it, but she felt strongly that the rich are chosen somehow, are divinely delivered to this earthly plane through a great giant granting of good fortune. She was certain that she had been gypped by the Gods. In spite of means, which offered her lovely housing and exposure to fine things like great restaurants and ease of travel, she felt betrayed.

I never understood it.

A DIFFERENT LEDGER.

I don’t think of fortune as related solely to financial wherewithal. I have had the “good fortune” to sustain a long career, to make and maintain decades-long friendships. To be housed in a body that functions pretty well. Even the crazy disease that I cope with feels like the luck of the draw for me. Everyone my age is dealing with some form of malady. I got dealt psoriatic arthritis, which will surely cripple me down the line, but for now is mostly just painful. Pain is no match for my mulish determination, barely puts a dent in it. I have friends dealing with much worse, so I will willingly, if not happily, take the pain.

“Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.”

• Attributed to the Roman philosopher Seneca.

• Appropriated by Oprah Winfrey.

• Seneca is, somewhere, smiling about that.

That’s the thing about luck; it is all around us and also in short supply.

We are lucky to be living in an era of relative ease. Amazon makes shopping a breeze; transportation is available in a dazzling array of forms. Most of us have cars, but can also avail ourselves of scooters and rent bikes and buses and trains and Uber and Lyft and flights to anywhere a person can think of wanting to go. There are superhighways and Big Box stores and all manner of entertainment delivered to us at lightning speed, wherever we are, whenever we want it. We are offered a dazzling array of choices and cradled by convenience.

We are unlucky enough to have lived in recent times through a recession, a pandemic, wild and unprecedented catastrophic weather events. Gun violence is the leading cause of death for children. Children. We are bombarded with a 24 hour news cycle that assaults our nervous systems and disturbs our sleep. We are enduring a political climate that is off-course, unstable, and downright ugly. The future feels impossible to predict.

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I was at dinner with old friends a while back. Jonathan and Stacy had a long, successful marriage and two brilliant and beautiful kids. The ALS that would claim her life had begun to manifest in Stacy’s speech, and her gait was unsteady, but she was buoyant and glowing. We were engaged in a lively conversation after a good meal. In earlier days, we would wrap up with bedtime stories for the kids and a nightcap for the adults once the dishes were done. The kids had by then grown up, and we all stayed at the table after it was cleared. We had decided we would engage in a rousing round of Bananagrams. Jonathan went to get the game, and Stacy made her way to the bathroom, where she lost balance and went down with a thud, striking her head. When we retrieved her and determined that she was okay, we gathered around and prepared to play. Her son put his head on the table and took a deep breath.

Then we all smiled and got on with the night.

A lot of the young people in my life are struggling. Job opportunities are scarce, and the bottom has dropped out of several industries. The tech and entertainment fields have been particularly hard hit, but manufacturing, too, has stalled, and is losing ground. It is difficult for them to see where their luck might lie in this era of uncertainty.

It is a hard time to be young and talented. It wasn’t easy for me in my day. There were the requisite tears and dashed hopes and down days, but compared to now, it was a cakewalk. For these kids the whole “preparation meets opportunity” thing is ringing a bit hollow, as the latter is in very short supply.

They will fight their way through it–they will have to–and hopefully will create a new way to express and monetize their creativity. Some of the best, most productive eras in human history have followed horrific wars, terrible depressions, and devastating diseases. This is a tough time, but hopefully the struggle will produce real breakthroughs and lead to a kinder, gentler, and more sustainable way of living and making a living.

I had a young man contact me on CAMEO last week. He wrote asking for a pep-talk. “I have lost another grandparent,” was the only reason he gave.

As I talked into the camera, I ended up recounting a lot of the people I have lost in my life. I told him about how I always think of Stacy when I walk by Red Oak Drive, and of the way that Gary could make me laugh and laugh. I spoke about spending time with Michael’s grandkids and seeing so much of him in their smiles. I spoke of my own grandparents passing (I left out the fact that two were suicides, which only begins to explain my parents’ troubles.) They were gone before I could get to know them. A missed opportunity? Maybe. Maybe not.

“The thing is,” we got to have them. You got to have grandparents that you loved enough to miss and to mourn. I got to have friends and family and pets who are gone now, and it broke my heart to lose them, but they have mended me, too. Their memory sustains and guides and fills me with gratitude. We are lucky, you and I, to have loved them all.”

I hope it helped. It’s not easy to feel blessed when you are reeling from loss, when you are overwhelmed by grief or weary with frustration. But we must. This crazy, weird, mixed-up time is ours to behold and to mold. I never shared J’s disappointment with our personal origin stories. Mine has crippled me in some areas and empowered me in others. I have had my share of fortune, both good and bad, and felt privileged to receive it.

Life is long if you are lucky. I will be 67 years old this month. Ain’t that some serious damned luck?

On we go …

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by Beth Broderick

I recently spoke at an event for the newly formed Pride Bar Association of the Inland Empire. There were several people honored that evening. I received the “Stonewall Legacy Award” alongside Abby Rubenfeld, an attorney famous for her pioneering spirit and harrowing victory at the United States Supreme Court, which established marriage equality for people in the LGBTQ community. My resume pales in comparison, but we were both present at a crucial moment in our Nation’s history.

The two of us were on the front lines of the AIDS crisis in the very early years. She pursued legal remedies and political avenues of support for persons with HIV/AIDS, while I served on the social service delivery side, providing meals and counseling, and other basic needs. We were there to witness a time that is etched into our beings, has forever imprinted itself upon our psyches. A time and a cause that is largely being forgotten and relegated to the history books, well, one hopes it is in the books. I want to believe that it is, at least in places where history still matters. I am afraid it may be lost entirely in others. History is tricky that way.

There was a dinner and program planned for that evening, but there was also a session beforehand, which was designed to give people a deeper understanding of our histories.

That afternoon, sitting beside Abby during a plenary session where the lawyers in attendance could learn about our work, we were in synch. I explained the basic nuts and bolts of the illness in the early days and what we set about doing on the ground to try to ease the suffering of so many. Abby talked about the legal side of things and how she ended up prevailing against all odds. When it came to what we witnessed in the early mid-eighties, we could have finished each other’s sentences. Two women who, on the surface, could not be more different. Abby is short of stature, long married to her wife, with whom she shares a quiet life, several children, and a gazillion animals. I am tall, straight, and childless, have spent a noisy life in front of the cameras, and have one dog.

When we were there in the 80s, we were just two young women trying desperately to get help for, and to raise awareness of, young people who were dying of then-unknown causes. Because the disease first affected gay men in disproportionate numbers, we faced a society full of prejudice and fear, and even worse, indifference. President Ronald Reagan never even said the word, though he knew it was happening. He and his staff often joked about it. I guess young people dying was funny to them. It wasn’t to us. A lot of folks remember his tenure fondly; I am not one of them.

It also soon became clear that people from all walks of life were at risk for infection. AIDS was not then and is not now a “gay” disease. As it grew from a crisis into an epidemic and then swept out into the world, creating a pandemic, it was not picky about who it killed. The virus is not interested in your identity, sexual or otherwise; the virus is interested in reproducing itself and finding a host where it can thrive.

I am often asked to speak about that time and encouraged to write about it, as I was a firsthand witness to the horror and tragedy that fell upon thousands and thousands in the early-to-mid-80s and remained a death sentence until 1996, when the “AIDS cocktail” was introduced. That was the first medication able to disrupt the progress of the disease and a precursor to the terrific drugs available today. I always go when I am summoned, and I always tell the story of that time, but it is always impossible for me to do so without emotion. Last week, I was grateful for the plenary in the afternoon, as it gave me a chance to work through the tears that inevitably threaten to choke me when I share what happened. Several of our listeners wept as we spoke. I teared up several times that afternoon but held steady.

A few people in the audience asked what they can do now to help those who face new forms of discrimination and prejudice. Without hesitation, we both answered: “Get involved.”

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Go to City council meetings. Go to church. Go wherever folks gather and tell them the truth. Support politicians who believe in civil rights for all. Donate, knock on doors, help them win. We can both tell you from experience that elections have consequences. It absolutely does matter who is elected to office. As we saw in the 80s and are seeing all around us now, in places like Minneapolis and beyond, it can be a matter of life and death.

I hope we got through.

Abby and I took photos with the class at the end of our session. It was a good event.

We made a note to keep in touch and look for opportunities to help educate people about the early days of the crisis. In order to honor the thousands who died, it is important to keep the memory of what happened to them alive.

At the dinner, Abby spoke before me, introduced by her daughter, who was a delightful presence. Abby spoke of the struggle, the harrowing battle to establish equal rights for the LGBTQ community, a battle that is being fought again in the face of a new political regime, which seems determined to set back all of the progress that has been made. She is a good speaker and a true legend in the legal field. The audience was on their feet as her remarks drew to a close. Then it was my turn as the final speaker of the evening.

My good buddies Jeremy Bernard and Michael Alden took turns introducing me, and I sat there, moved by my two old friends and, of course, trying unsuccessfully not to cry. Then the Realm Ballet company, for whom I serve as president of the board, somehow managed to perform a beautiful piece in the middle of a hotel banquet room. It told the story of a young man telling his beloved that he has AIDS. It was gorgeous and, of course, foiled my efforts to hold back tears. Then it was my turn to speak to a group of folks who had, by then, heard a lot of speechifying. My words were printed in comically large font, so that my old eyes could see them in the dim light. I somehow got through it without breaking and managed to hold the audience’s attention. I was grateful for their enthusiastic reception. A long night. A good night.

I am reprinting the speech here because it speaks to a time in my personal history that has informed every waking hour of my life since. It is in the exact form that I read from that evening. It is called “Gay Men’s Cancer.”

Thank you, Jeremy, and Michael and Chasen and the Realm Company.

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Gay Men’s Cancer, no one knew what else to call it then. No one knew what it was or what caused it, but young men were turning up in doctors’ offices with strange symptoms. Some were flu-like, others were old people’s afflictions like Kaposi’s Sarcoma and weird stuff like Toxoplasmosis. None of it made any sense. No one could explain the rapid decline in fellows who were otherwise young, healthy, and strong.

I had been reading about it in the Village Voice weekly newspaper and other non-establishment sources, this strange disease that was spreading. It was worrisome. The whispers were growing louder. It was clear that something was wrong, very wrong. Then one day I read that a NY State senator intended to introduce a bill to quarantine all gay men, which to this day I do not know how he proposed to do that.

“Nuts!” I thought. If we could get it from the air, we would all have it. If we could get it because we touched the rail on the subway stairs and rubbed our eye, we would all be sick.

Ridiculous! But fear and prejudice can make people ridiculous, and we know all too well, that it can make them dangerous.

I decided that I had better sign up to help. I found an office in the village. It was tiny, fit only one desk. It was the beginning of Gay Men’s Health Crisis. The young man behind the desk did not cotton to me, gave me the side-eye. I couldn’t blame him. It was hard back then, to know who to trust.

“Look,” I said. Just take my number and let me fill out the form. I have been on my own since I was sixteen. I know what it’s like to be away from family on the holidays. Just take my number.” He did so reluctantly.

I got a call the next day

“Are you a woman?” The voice was breathless, excited. “Are you really a woman? I need a woman so bad!!” He pleaded in his thick New York accent.

“Yes. Yes, I am. How can I help you?”

His name was Peter Avitabile, and he was organizing a Thanksgiving dinner at St. John’s Episcopal for a few men who were sick with the “cancer” and needed volunteers to cook and clean and serve.

“Yes, of course. Of course I’ll be there.”

What I saw that night as eleven young men came through our doors took my breath away. The disease had ravaged those boys. Some were covered in dark purple lesions; others had faces hollowed out by wasting syndrome. They were all skeletal. One 6’2” boy could not have weighed more than 120 pounds. A few used canes to steady themselves; one was in a wheelchair. I greeted everyone, then ran to the ladies’ room holding back tears. ‘You will not cry,’ I told myself. “You will not cry’. I stared into the mirror. Those young men had the courage to come here, and you will go out there and honor that. You will go out there and smile.

And I did. We served dinner, and I made sure to sit with each young man and touch him. These plagued, untouchable boys. I held their arms, patted their legs, looked deeply into their eyes, and I smiled. We talked about regular things, like where they were from, what their favorite holiday movie was. I was 23 years old at the time, but I put out my best Mother energy. When a young person is sick, they need their parent, and those fellows didn’t have that.

At the end of the night, Peter came over to hug me. He was on the shorter side and I was in heels, so his face got sort of squished into my chest. Not exactly where a young gay kid from Long Island wanted to be, so he threw himself on his knees, and he wrapped his arms around my legs, and said:

“Will you help me? I am starting a program. These men are all alone. We need to help them.”

“Yes, of course,” I said. “Of course I’ll be there.”

We started serving dinner once a week at St. Peters Lutheran on 5th Avenue. We needed to address the fear and consequent isolation that accompanied the illness. It wasn’t just people’s bodies that were suffering; their minds and hearts were terrified and filled with confusion and, sadly, too often shame.

Imagine being 19, 20, 21, years old. You are in New York City in 1984, ready to tackle life. You have talent. Maybe you can sing or have a keen design sense, or maybe you are good with numbers and headed to wall Street. Maybe you feel called to teach kids with disabilities or want to be a five-star chef someday. You are in New York City and finally able to be who you truly are, who you were afraid to admit to being back home. Here, you are free. Free to be gay and to be with others like you who have all finally found a place where they feel welcome. It is exciting and the possibilities are endless.

Then one morning you notice a small purple spot on your cheek, the size of a dime or maybe a nickel and gazing at yourself you think, “Am I losing weight? … Weird, it looks like I am losing weight.” But you don’t think much of it. You’ve never been to a dermatologist, so you make a note to ask around and see if anybody knows one and to eat more now that you are running every day. You have heard rumors about some gay thing, but you’ve barely been out. It can’t happen to you.

Within a month you are doubled over with abdominal pain, and there are three more lesions, one of them on your chest, the size of a grapefruit. You cannot call your parents. You cannot tell your boss. You cannot even go outside without everyone knowing. You are 19, and you are terrified and totally alone.

We wanted to make sure there was somewhere those young people could go, where they could get help and find counsel and comfort. We centered the gathering around food. Volunteers showed up to cook meals and to serve. There were just a few in the early days, but we somehow made it work. We insisted on using real plates and silverware, so people felt appreciated and welcome.

I learned how to work with city systems, and we were soon able to provide a free grocery store and later added clothing. In those days, even if we could set someone up with SSI benefits, that was not enough to cover rent and food. Life expectancy was 6 to 8 months. People lost so much weight so quickly that they had nothing to wear. The program grew rapidly. We started with about 13 attendees and quickly grew to 50, then within two years we were serving well over 100 people every week. The virus was identified as HIV; the condition became known as AIDS, Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome

We worked hard to address the basic needs of those young folks in crisis, but we also worked hard to provide entertainment and had special performances after dinner. We had pianists and jugglers and magicians. Sharon McKnight joked and yodeled, the legendary Carol Cooke sang, and many others from the Broadway and Off-Broadway world made appearances. Parents and family members were welcome. There weren’t many, but the ones who showed up warmed our hearts. Incredibly, some moms and dads continued to attend even after they lost their child because they knew that people needed parents, so though they were broken-hearted, they came and continued to give unconditional love. A true inspiration.

That’s the thing about doing something so hard, so unpopular, so supposedly risky. You meet more than your fair share of heroes. There were so many terrible, ugly things about that time in our history, but there was good too. So much good.

There were the wholesale vegetable guys in midtown who were, well, I don’t want to say they were part of the mafia, but (they were part of the mafia) , who gave generously every week. The lady from the 89th street block association who gave us a turkey one year and showed up the next with three cooked ones and a pot of gravy. There was the bakery on 9th Street who emptied their shelves every time I came by and the restaurants in the theater district who gave on a regular basis. There were the performers who graced our benefits for free and the caterers who made sure the audience was sated. Every Tuesday morning, I would get in a cab and head to midtown to start picking up donations for that night’s dinner. A huge vat of soup here, a pie there, giant bags of carrots. Usually, after the second or third stop, the person driving would turn to me and ask what the hell was going on, and I would explain what I was doing and why. And every time… I swear, every single time, that cabbie would sigh, turn off the meter, and ask, “Where next?”

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“Look for the helpers,” the late great Mr. Rogers always advised. Look for the helpers.

Sure, there were crappy bits. Many of my peers in the straight community shunned my participation.

“You can come to the party, but not if you are going to talk about that stuff you are doing. No one wants to hear it, and it’s gross.”

I didn’t go to that party or any of the others, and I didn’t miss it, because I may share their sexual identity, but those folks are not my tribe.

My tribe does not consist of people who are straight or gay or black or white or urban or suburban or actors or writers or steel workers. Those markers are immaterial to me.

All of you here tonight are in those seats because you were asked if you could help and you said yes.

I look around this room and I see my tribe.

AIDS is no longer a death sentence. It can be easily treated, and even more important, it can be prevented with medication!

So when people tell you that all hope is lost, you remember that. That is what can happen when people come together to stand up for what is right. Hope can be abandoned, but it is never lost.

So I’ll leave you with one last thought…

In the very early days, when we could not get people to help us or even to hear us, I would say to the other volunteers, “You just need one.” Every person has another twenty within their sphere of influence. Some have more, of course, but most folks have at least twenty, and if you can get to the one, you can get to the rest of them. So in this time where fear is once again running high, where prejudice is being stoked, when some people are being ostracized while others are literally hunted and hijacked, we will have to take it one by one, person by person, to prevail over the darkness. No matter what the future brings, you are not alone… we can and we will win the day. You are part of a special group, the only group I ever want to belong to. You are part of the group that, when asked if they could contribute replied:

“Yes, of course. Of course I will be there.”

Thank you for being the helpers, for bringing your generous hearts and brave spirits here tonight. I will sleep better for having met you and gazed upon your gathering. I will rest easy, knowing that MY tribe is ready, willing, and able to meet the moment.

You’ve got this!

On we go …

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you!

by Beth Broderick

“Don’t move!” Michael’s tone was friendly but firm. “We don’t know what is going to happen with your medication. So far, it’s looking crazy expensive. Your place is great. We can keep working on it; just don’t move right now.”

It’s not that I LOVE to move. I mean it’s a hassle, of course. The packing and sorting and heaving and hoeing. It’s a lot to deal with. I am just pre-disposed to not mind it as much as say … EVERYONE else I have ever met. Moving is a major stressor for most folks; it is said to be one of the biggest we encounter in our lives. I don’t mind it. I must actually enjoy it on some level, because I have done it literally dozens of times. Back in the good old/ bad old / just plain old days, we all carried address books and had a Rolodex on our desk. My friends’ rule of thumb was to enter my information in pencil as it was sure to change within a short amount of time.

Over a period of 20 years or so, I moved from the Fairfax district to Hancock Park, to Hollywood proper, and then up to the Hills. Then I tried out life in Venice, which was cool, but too far out, so I high-tailed it back to the Hills. From there I headed to West Hollywood and then to Hollywood proper again, then over to Beachwood, then further east to Los Feliz before ending up back west in Culver City.

There are so many ways to live in Los Angeles, so many neighborhoods, each with its own unique offerings. I loved trying them out, taking fresh routes to see old pals, exploring new markets and local joints. Loved studying the architecture prevalent in my new locale and finding the parks and hidden stairways and secret gardens.

It was over ten years ago when I took a place in Austin, Texas. I wanted to experience life outside of Los Angeles and New York City, the only two places I had lived as an adult. I lasted two years in the first neighborhood and then dwelt for an all-time personal-best record of seven years in the house I owned there before returning to Los Angeles. Texas was fine. I met a lot of great folks and enjoyed the ease of travel from the middle of the country. It just wasn’t home. Not that I would know exactly what that feels like, but L.A. is closer to the bone for me.

I have been back a total of three years and have moved twice already. Lately my trigger finger has been poised over the Zillow app, itching to do it again. My current place is big and beautiful inside, but shabby on the outside and lacking a few things that I thought I would be fine without, but I am now pretty sure that I NEED, or okay maybe just want, but whenever I want something, I am accustomed to getting it, and that is how it always starts.

I have never had an attachment to a place. People mean a lot to me; houses and apartments not so much. I can be happy anywhere; make any environment livable. This made me a great candidate for a profession that required constant travel. Once I unpack, pick up cheese and grapes, and put some flowers in a vase, I am good to go. Travel is easy for me. Being “home” is not.

I am living back in Beachwood, which is my favorite neighborhood in Los Angeles, and as noted above, I have lived in most of them. I love it here; love the artsy weirdo vibe of the place, and the proximity to the magnificent Griffith Park is a big, huge selling point. I have heard that there is a spectacular park in Glendale with the best hiking trails in the region. I might throw the pup in the car and go give that a spin, but as much as I love an adventure, I draw the line at living in Glendale. That is a big no; that is a bridge too far, even for me.

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The sign read ”3 bed 3 bath.” I had walked by it countless times, but that day I dialed the number. A lady named Linda got back to me right away.

“Hi. Yeah, I am interested in the apartment for rent on Beachwood Drive. I live just up the street.”

“Who is it for?” Linda asked imperiously.

“Um, well–me. It’s for me.”

“You and who?” she demanded to know.

“Me. Just me.”

There was a long pause. Then she spoke to me as if I were an errant child.

“YOU? Just you??? Do you have good credit?” She was clearly disappointed that I am a solo female. She did not like the sound of that one bit.

“I think it’s 832 or 835.”

“Oh.”

“Do you want to show me the place or not?” I asked. I was becoming impatient with her.

“Well, there is a couple that wants to see it, so maybe you could come after them.”

“Wow, what a bitch!” I thought but did not say.

“Okay, Linda,” I said with no small amount of derision. “You let me know when the COUPLE wants to see it and I will come down if I can.”

It took dear Linda three days to lock down a prospective tenant worthy of her time. She invited me to come down when they were done looking. I was really annoyed by her prejudice against my single-female-dom, but it’s not the first time I have encountered that, so whatever. I went.

HMMMM. It had possibilities.

“Michael, I looked at a place; it’s just down the street. It’s not perfect ... but…”

“How much more?” Michael asked.

“Over $1,000 more, plus moving costs.”

“That’s a lot.”

I went on to describe the new place in detail. Three bedrooms plus three full baths. Huzzah! Kitchen: mediocre, but bright, dining room: basically non-existent. In-unit washer and dryer. Yahoo!!!! Living room: super-small and weird, angles in such a way as to offer almost no wall space … deal breaker?

FREEZE THE MOVE.

“It has so much of what I want, but it’s just not good enough, right?” I knew the answer.

“Not to justify a move, no honey, because then you will have to move again. The living room definitely sounds like a deal breaker and this is not a good time. We don’t know how we are going to resolve your medication situation.”

“You are right.”

I felt relieved, if a tad disappointed, as the thrill of the new gave way to the reality of the present.

The Screen Actors Guild has finally succeeded in forcing me off of their medical plan. They have changed the rules repeatedly in recent years, determined to get rid of anyone over 65. First, they abolished the “age and service” category, which would have qualified me for life. Then by excluding residuals from the earnings requirements for members my age or older, they finally backed me into a corner and cut me off. They won’t even allow me to buy in with COBRA. I was told that I could spend $1,200 per month to do so, but they would only pay in second position.

I wanted to say a lot of things. “Don’t call me ‘senior’! I am furious right now and sick of y’all calling me ‘senior.’ I am not running around calling younger folks ‘junior,’ so you can buzz off with that crap!” That was what I wanted to say, but I didn’t. I took a deep breath and thanked her for her time.

So, I filed for MEDICARE, thinking to myself ‘it can’t be that bad.’ Turns out that it can be. It’s bad. Really, really, crazy bad.

Firstly, the folks from the Social Security Administration are threatening to charge me $575 per month just for Plan B. This is punishment for having had a good earnings year in 2024. SAG is punishing me for having a less good year in 2025 by dropping me entirely. An ffing “senior” gal can’t win in this America joint.

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The long and short of it is that as of now, after adding PLAN G, PLAN D, and a supplemental for dental vision and hearing, I will be paying close to $1,000 per month and the medication I need is not covered by any of it. My doctors warned me of this, but I thought there must be some way around it. No. None. I can try to qualify for transfusions, but that’s all they’ve got. Michael found a source in Canada, where the shots I take will be $1,400 per month. So, in order to keep walking, which, according to our government, is a non-essential medical goal, my insurance/medication nut will be $2,400 per month.

I will manage it, not happily, but I will figure it out. The worst thing about it is that I will be okay, but what about the others? 9% of the population carries the gene markers for Psoriatic Arthritis, which is in the Lupus family. A large percentage of them will be hit by it. What happens to those folks? They will be given steroids and pain pills and a cane or walker and be sent on their way; that’s what will happen. The richest country in the world is throwing a large percentage of “SENIORS” under the bus and charging some of them up the wazoo for the privilege.

So, the future I have dreaded is here. All right, I will make the best of it. You can be damned sure that I will find a way to make it work. A few things will have to change, of course, changing being first among them. My penchant for moving, for pursuing an environment that is better or at least newer, will need to be curbed. My place is lovely, after all … it’s fine. I am telling myself that I can always re-decorate. I am restless by nature; will have to find some way to keep it interesting.

Ironically, in order to keep my arms and legs in working order, to keep my body moving, my new mantra will have to be:

“Don’t Move!”

I do love me some irony … most of the time.

On we go …

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you!

by Beth Broderick

“1954 was my favorite year,” the voiceover that narrates the start of the classic old film “My Favorite Year” declares. “In 1954, a Buick looked like a BUICK,” the rich, heavily New York-accented voice continues, as the camera lingers on the grille of a classic Buick sedan. “Nowadays a Buick looks like a Ford, which looks like a Pontiac,” he laments. (I am paraphrasing, but you get the gist.)

He had a point. Today’s cars are not nearly as ornate or elegant as the one depicted in the movie, but they are equipped with life-saving devices not available then. One has a better chance of surviving a collision in one of our modern vehicles. They may be lackluster to look at, but they are more than machines. They are giant computers on wheels, capable of parking themselves, detecting raindrops, displaying live satellite images of traffic on your dashboard. So, take that, 1954! We are not as sightly up here in the 2000’s but we are capable of some serious whiz-bangery. (Really, though, something should be done about those hideous Tesla trucks. We should have known Elon was getting wiggly when he approved those contraptions. An eyesore on the roads.)

When it comes to years, one is tempted to play favorites. In my youth, I was inclined to make definitive statements about such things.

“This year sucked!!” I might have said in response to career frustrations, or personal turmoil that had been a feature of the month’s past. I am sure that in hindsight there was more nuance to that narrative, but time felt so plentiful, life so well guaranteed, that it was easy to label a year that didn’t go entirely my way as a bad one.

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That feels ungrateful now, in light of the dwindling number of years available to me. Mom made it to 83 … not bad … until I realize that number is less than two decades away for me. Not even 20 years left if my fate follows hers. Dad made 93, which gives me a bit more breathing room, though he went that distance with some considerable handicaps in the fourth quarter, most notably the complete loss of his eyesight. Macular degeneration runs in the family. I am swallowing those lutein vitamins like candy and crossing every digit, but the possibility looms.

I look back on even the toughest, leanest years of my life with fondness and appreciation.

The year I entered the American Academy of Dramatic Arts was complicated, wonderful and terrible in equal measure. I rented a room near the school in Pasadena from an older woman named Mrs. Snyder. She was in the process of learning Braille as her vision was dimming and she did not want to be caught off guard. Something to consider there, now that I am remembering it. I was 16 years old and lied my way into a waitress job at Bob’s Big Boy. The hours were long as I raced from class to work, but there was a sense of discovery at every turn and, even with all of the doing, there was a respite from the chaos and violence of my mother’s home.

Mrs. Snyder worried that I worked too hard. She would wash out my uniforms by hand and hang them to dry in front of the oven, which was always on. In hindsight that was a bit unwise, but I was touched by her care and concern. She would make oatmeal and save a portion for me on the stove. I politely tried to eat it, though it had usually congealed into a thick paste by the time I got home. I loved her and I loved school, though I was often sleep-deprived and winging it, sneaking in study time on my breaks from work. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was where I was supposed to be.

My rare time off was spent exploring Pasadena, the oldest city in California. There were a few tiny, old-timey buildings on Colorado Blvd. which offered counter service for breakfast. There were no more than 5 or 6 stools in each, but wait times were short and the food was hearty if uninspired. There were bookstores and old movie houses and a host of good cheap restaurants, my favorite of which was “Pie ’n Burger,” a local legend of a joint, still in operation today, which serves only those two things, good burgers and great pie.

There were two engineering students living next door and they dazzled me with their intellect and grown-man-ness. I can still smell the after-shave the taller boy wore. Whenever he stopped to talk to me, I nearly swooned. At school, I was exhausted and out of my league, as most of the other students were 20 and older, but I was determined to succeed. There was a tense moment or two or three, when the folks who ran the school somehow found out that I was only 16 years old.

The one sure way to get me to do something is to tell me that I can’t.

I begged and pleaded and pledged to work as hard as I could to earn the right to stay in class. I assured them that I knew I had what it took. They agreed to let me stay, but let me know that I was on notice. One slip-up and I would be out. I doubled down and won over most of my teachers with diligence. I have always been a confident test-taker, so I breezed through those without much effort. The administrators eventually backed off, and my shoulders started to go down.

One night I got home from a shift at the restaurant at about midnight. I threw on pajamas and got into bed, trying to get as much rest as possible before the alarm sounded at 6 a.m. I was drifting off when I suddenly bolted up. Something was wrong; I was sure of it. I made my way down the hall.

“Mrs. Snyder? Mrs. Snyder, is everything okay?” I looked toward the kitchen where the ever-burning oven remained on without incident, then I saw a beam of light under the bathroom door. I knocked and knocked, calling her name, but there was no answer. The door was open, so I pushed it in and saw her lying on the floor. She was immobile, but alive. She could not speak, and I did not know if she could hear me. I ran to the desk and searched for her daughter’s phone number and called her. She promised to send an ambulance. I did not know what to do, but I could not let my friend lie there on that cold floor. I was sure she must be freezing.

I ran to my room and grabbed the blanket and pillows from my bed, then raced to the bathroom. I covered her little body, then put her head on the pillow in my lap. I just sat there talking to her quietly and stroking her soft cheek. I knew in my bones that it would not be long.

Mrs. Snyder lingered for just three days. The daughter was furious. She blamed me for the whole situation, for not finding her mother sooner, for calling her first before dialing 911. I was immediately kicked out of the house and went on a mad scramble to find a place to stay so that I could finish out the year at school. I was devastated, but I pressed on.

There were 100 people in my freshman class. Only 25 were invited into the graduate year. I was one of those 25.

It was a tough year. It was terrible and wonderful and scary and awe-inspiring; all of the things that life can be rolled into one big, messy first foray into adulthood. Oh, and I lost my virginity somewhere along the way.

Like every year before it and since, it could not be described as either good or bad. It was fully lived and, as such, was both. It began as 1975 and ended as 1976.

A YEAR TO COME.

2025 was a bad year for a lot of folks in my industry. Production is down and has taken wages and work hours with it. What little filming there is, is often being shipped overseas where it can easily escape union oversight. The battle over the sale of Time Warner and its subsidiaries is being watched with great trepidation. There has been a relentless move toward corporate consolidation of the entertainment industry for decades now. The relaxation of our monopoly laws and political indifference to their enforcement has narrowed the number of employers to an ever-smaller group of big guns. A very few, very powerful folks now call all of the shots and own all of the mechanisms which distribute content to your screens.

Actors, hair and make-up artists, writers, directors, film crews, and teamsters are all suffering. It is an actual job that many of us have done for a very long time. Most are at a loss as to what to do, as things seem unlikely to rebound anytime soon. The 2024 rallying cry of “Stay alive till twenty five” has rung hollow; it seems in hindsight to have been laughably optimistic. This was not the year’s fault. 2025 did not ask to be painted with the brush of disappointment.

Some bad things happened and some good things didn’t, but I am not blaming the year itself. The year consisted of days counting themselves from one Sunday to the next, of months holding court with their bounty of birthdays and bat mitzvahs and graduations and then ceding ground to the next one, biding their time until it was their turn to be lived through once again.

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For me, the frenzied activity of the holidays has given way to the tedium of tending to a seasonal cold. Winter has begun in earnest in Los Angeles, where the burnt wheat colors of our grasslands have flushed green with the recent rains. The hills are a deep emerald, offset by hues of olive and pine; the streets are washed clean by floodwaters. The new year will arrive in the midst of another big storm that is heading this way. 2026 will make a wet and wooly entrance, full of both menace and promise as “years” are wont to do.

I do not know what the year will hold in store for me, but I am grateful to herald its arrival, humbled by the opportunity to live it, eager to breathe it in.

Wishing you all the very best in the coming days, but you know … there are no guarantees, so hold on to your hats, ’cause anything could happen. It’s just a year, only a year in the life, but it is ours to behold…ain’t that grand?

On we go …

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by Beth Broderick

It’s that time of year when the world falls in love. Every song you hear seems to say, “Merry Christmas” or something along those lines, depending on from which vantage point you view the situation and what you want to celebrate this season. I just want folks to have a happy something or other.

Happy Holidays, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa …. whatever floats your festivities boat.

It all means more or less the same thing, though of course many of the pesky details diverge, which has, throughout history, caused wars and such. So, for now, let’s set those aside.

What it ALL means in the main, what we can all agree on, is that we are ALL busy. Very, very. Busy, busy.

What remains of 2025 is being compressed into a December full of events and obligations, full of shopping and giving and taking and partaking. The notes are everywhere …

There are six performances of a new ballet by The Realm Company, all of which I am promoting, not less than four of which will require my attendance as the president of the board. It is a Christmas show, of course, but it is based on the legend of “Krampus,” the marauding bad boy of Norwegian legend. Not your grandma’s Christmas ballet, it is sexy and dark and thrilling and deserves to be seen. Work to be done there to spread the word. It is part of the job description and, make no mistake, I am a volunteer, but it is a job.

I got a note from a banker this morning saying that he never received the necessary forms from me, which I sent no less than five minutes after they were requested, but which somehow landed in the ether of the internet and never made it to his desk. I almost cried. Thought that was one tiny annoying detail off of my plate, but no, delivery was “incomplete”.

Argghhhhhhhhhh!

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Of course, I took a good sharp inhale and phoned him, and we sorted it all out in minutes. But my bedevilment is a sign that I may be a tad overwhelmed. A teensy bit stressed out. I love this time of year, and I also hate it just a little.

Dinner with friends a few nights ago at the legendary Musso and Frank involved the requisite sighs of disbelief that the holidays are so suddenly upon us. Happens every time, of course. We are once again amazed that the year has gone by in a flash. We are, as always, worried that our packed schedules may be too packed. We don’t want to miss anything, but also, at some point, would love to sit down and take stock. Year-end and all. What worked? What didn’t? What are my priorities? Should they be different going forward? I try to attend to these thoughts, but am inevitably interrupted

DASHING THROUGH WITH JOY.

It will be my 36th Christmas party. The 36th time we have gathered together to create beautiful gifts for the women in the emergency shelter at the Good Shepherd Home. It is a longstanding event, attended by an ever-growing and changing group of folks. Don cannot make it this year but will send soaps. Ditto Bruce and Cookie, who have donated by Venmo, but Sabrina and Dani will come for the first time, as well as Carmen and a few others. Anthony and Miguel are holding it at their place again, which is truly a blessing. They have the perfect space for it and are consummate hosts. Laura and Sarah always have financial skin in the game but will be there in person this year as the baby is big enough to stay with a sitter. Yay! This is as much their tradition as my own. Elizabeth broke her toe at Thanksgiving, so cannot do the shopping, a full-day affair that involves crawling along the aisles in TJ MAXX and Ross trying to find 32 of everything we need. 32 mascaras, 32 lotions, 32 hair bands, 32 face wipes, etc., but she will be there on the night and is a whiz-bang organizer. Whew. It will be great. It is always great to be with good people doing good things.

That’s the big one. Once those gifts are delivered to the nuns, it’s a lovely sleigh ride down the calendar toward the big finish. There are other events, of course, and I am going to love each and every one of them. I am particularly looking forward to seeing my nieces when the oldest visits from Colorado with her lovely husband and child in tow.

Somewhere around the 22nd, I will be able to goof off a bit, go see Dean and Jim, hang out with the dogs and chill … until the 23rd that is. Then it will be time to finalize the menu, finish shopping, and start prepping for dinner on the 25th. I keep that one small these days. Just the sisters and a few others, and of course, the nephew. It’s his first. He is a year old this month, and of all the things moving at warp speed, that is the one that takes my breath away. It goes so fast. The other night I watched him pick up a pasta noodle and gnaw on it, and I could not believe that this is the same person as that little fellow I met 12 months ago. So tiny then and so sleepy … I would stroke his cheek to keep him alert enough to drink his bottle. Now he is 30 pounds and tearing through the house, able to stand long enough to wipe all of his toys off of the shelf. He is ever on the move and eager, getting into mischief with his best friend Bruno, a 110-pound German Shepherd.

He just wore a suit and tie to a wedding! And shoes! Shoes! DANG!

So fast. Too fast, and also perfect. December brings us home to the fact that another year has given way to memory. When I was younger, there was real consternation about how that time had been spent, serious determinations to be made about how to do so in the future. Now I am just grateful to have lived it.

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New Year’s is a marker too distinct to ignore. There are others, of course, and at my age, they come tumbling toward me at a relentless pace. The children are ever-growing, and many whom I once held as infants are now full adults. There are new emails from the government which detail the future benefits available to me from Social Security and Medicare. There are new lines on my face that run in a crisscross pattern from my chin toward my earlobe. I have some friends with new hearing aids, some friends who definitely need them; and I am getting some not-so-subtle hints that it is only a matter of time before I will, too.

Someone on the street asked me how old my dog is this morning.

Then I realized that I have been saying that for two years. When I first got him, I would answer “almost three,” which was the vet’s best guess. Over time that became just plain three, but it occurred to me today that he is actually four and a half, almost five, which is half the life expectancy for a dog of his dimensions. I can barely grasp that, but there it is. Maybe I will just stick with saying three and avoid thinking about it entirely.

Whatever you celebrate, and however you do so, I wish you a joyous, messy December full of friends and feasts and frolic. January will be here soon enough and bring the chill and thrill of a new winter. We will once again get serious about a future, which is ours to behold and to mold. A lot of things have changed, as our country has taken a turn. Many uncertainties abound, but the holidays are here, by God, and we can count on that. The trees will go up, the gifts will be wrapped, and the candles lit. The pies will be baked and the toasts made. There is real comfort and true joy in that.

Time is passing and the ball will drop once more, but before it does, it’s time to get busy. Very, very. Busy, busy. After all that is said and will be done, these are, and ever will be, the good old days.

On we go …

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by Beth Broderick

Clank, rattle, bang, hum. Uh-oh.

There were signs, of course. It had been clear for a good while that the machine which has served me dutifully since 2011 was losing the will to live. The mechanics of the thing had begun to lag, causing a maddening delay between my typing of a letter and its actual appearance on the page. It became easily confused and struggled to keep up with my various needs. It could not stay awake for longer than two minutes if it was not connected to a power source. In all fairness, the computer is not the only thing getting old around here. In my dotage I often forgot to plug it in and so disappeared in the middle of several important Zoom calls. It just conked out, causing me to frantically re-engage by phone, returning to the meeting frazzled and apologetic. Thankfully I am up front about my meager abilities in the arena of all things technical, and these unforced errors were accepted with grace by my colleagues.

It was painfully clear that my darling device and I were approaching the last of our time together, that we would soon have to part.

I put off the inevitable. There was the expense, of course, and the dreaded trip to the Apple store where people decades younger than myself would offer to assist and, in doing so, become very quickly apprised of my incompetence. There would be a cock of the head, a raise of the eyebrow, a smile which said, “Oh dear. You are one of those” when I explained that I had never been able to figure out the back-up machine thingy and would need a hand transferring my (to me) precious data. Also, I was truly attached to it. We have been writing together for years, taking breaks to search for goods on “Chewy” and “Amazon” and “Ortho-foot” We knew each other’s quirks and customs.

I petted it, offered encouragement, and deleted as many files as I could to try to reduce the burden on the slender laptop. I became fanatical about plugging it in and learned to accept the starts and stops, the hiccups, and the general lackluster performance it offered. We were scraping by, getting along, and then one day it all changed. The dear thing struggled to awaken after an afternoon nap. I would carefully connect it, only to have it insist, against all evidence to the contrary, “You are not connected to the Internet.” It would complain and stubbornly refuse to acknowledge its errors. Then the racket began.

SURVIVING THE ICE AGE.

Clank. Rattle. Bang. Hum. It sounded like one of those ice machines that lives under the stairwell in an old motel. I dearly love an ice machine, have made many a trip down the hallway or around the back or wherever one is located. The plastic liner, dutifully if clumsily installed into the bucket, provided to gather the precious cubes as they rat-atat-tatted down into view. I have spent days, weeks, and months traveling for work, and ice is a big part of how I adapt to my new surroundings. At night it can be used to chill wine or sparkling water or a brick of good cheese. In the early mornings it is often required for filming—a washcloth can be soaked in the icy water that’s left. This can then be applied to the forehead and eyes in hopes of soothing and contracting the heavy lids and under-eye bags that I don’t want the cameras to see. Those machines are always a welcome sight.

I love the click, rattle, bang, and all, just not when it is coming from my computer.

It was time for hospice, time to get serious about winding the old girl down and heading out for a newer model. I could not find the time before leaving for Cancun on a modeling job. It was impossible, so I dragged her to Mexico, planning to use her only in an emergency. I am totally dependent on my computer, and I could not think of leaving her behind. I was also terrified that she would give up and go to her grave taking all of my writings and passwords and saved bank codes with her. Dammit, why had I not tried harder to figure out that external hard drive business?

I hesitated for a long time before entering the computer age. I clung hard to my old ways. I loved writing full story lines out on crisp white paper with my cherished rollerball pens. I was certain that embracing the new technology would have a bad effect on my creativity; could dull the edges of my thoughts. Ridiculous, of course, but that’s how I felt.

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I had come of age when telephones were still attached to the wall. When there were “answering services” wherein messages were retrieved by live humans who were on call to respond to our telephones. I had to call in and talk to one of those folks to find out who had called to talk to me.

When I began my career, my agents would send me scripts, printed out on real paper and delivered by messenger. Paperwork like taxes was done by hand and sent in by mail. There was no such thing as an “e-bill.” Bills were sent by snail mail and returned in envelopes which contained handwritten checks. Anyone under 40 reading this will think I speak of a Stone Age, but to my mind, it was not long ago. Not long at all.

Now all of these things can be accomplished with the press of a few buttons, the stroke of a couple of keys. It is a miraculous invention, the computer. It influences every aspect of our lives. Our cars are computers, our phones are computers. We have “smart homes” where the lights and locks are controlled by remote machines. We have no choice but to embrace them, no option but to dive into the technologies that now support our very existence.

I am in. I am not all that good at it, but I am in, if a tad reluctantly. I am not entirely convinced that all of this is a positive. We have gained so much in terms of ease and immediacy, but we have lost things, too. The speed at which we now process information is rapacious. I sometimes think we know too much of the world outside ourselves and not enough of the one around us. Every waking moment (and some of the sleeping ones) of our lives is informed by the fact that we are wired in. We are all expected to be reachable at all times, no matter our location, no difference the hour.

Now, when I travel, I meet mostly the tops of people’s heads as they glue their eyes to their phones. We used to exchange greetings, engage in conversation, but no more. Even in the glory and green of nature, most of the folks I encounter on my hikes are plugged in to some kind of machine. The beauty of birdsong is lost on them; the sound of wind rustling, of leaves crunching underfoot, or the scurry of a small animal never heard. And yet …

I have just typed those sentiments on a brand-new computer that is a joy to behold. It is sleek and black and matches the ebony paint of my wooded desk. My old one was filthy and banged up, but this new machine is pristine, the screen larger and clearer, the mechanics whiz-bang. The girl who helped me with the sale and transition spent three full hours of her day at work trying to make sure that I could transfer all of my data successfully. There was so much of it that what was begun in the store would take another 4 hours to finish at home, but she made certain I was set up to have a great outcome.

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All of it was handled with ease, and I was giddy with excitement when I brought my new treasures home. She also sold me a new watch and set that up, too. This required me to download a new operating system on my old phone, which is very old and will soon need to be retired. The young saleswoman told me all about the marvel of the new iPhone 17, and it sounds like a humdinger. The need for a new one looms, but I am not ready. I have had a great good helping of New and may need to cling to some Old for a while yet. I am fond of my giant iPhone 10+ and, ya know, it still rings, still calls my sisters, and registers my texts.

I will get the 17 someday, someday soon, or at least soon-ish. Gotta keep up with the times, right? And that new camera, come on now! I am going to get to the getting of that. Any day now, the getting will be gotten. I swear.

Happy, Happy Thanksgiving to you all. I am truly thankful for your readership and support. Your appreciation and encouragement have given me a new direction in life and I am profoundly grateful.

On we go …

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you!