FIRST MENTOR

A confession: I’ve gotten a lot of compliments about the name of my  blog , anne-otations.  But the truth is, I stole  it.  On the distant day of my 12^th birthday, my grandfather wrote me a three-page letter of advice about ladylike behavior and titled it  annotations.  (My name was originally without the e.) Grandpa was addicted to puns and I’ve inherited that.

He also bequeathed some expert advice about writing. Most of us have someone in our past who first encouraged us to write. He was that person for me.

His name was Samuel Archibald de Bear. (As a child, I was told that our Dutch  deBear side of the family was related to the deBeers of diamond fame, but I’ve never seen a karat of that.)

Grandpa was born in England and became the Sports Editor for the London Times.  In a story that’s legendary in our family, the publisher was offended by something Grandpa wrote  and punished him by giving his byline to another staffer. As we writers can understand, that was a blow not to be taken lightly. Grandpa tried to sue, but to no avail.  Unfortunately, this caused him to be blacklisted by other publishers.

Unable to find newspaper work Grandpa took himself off to America, along with a wife and five children  (one of whom became my mother). He had hoped to continue writing about sports, but knew too little about the intricacies of American athletics. So he got a job in advertising.  Another family legend has it that when the Ballantine ale logo of three rings was created, he supplied the famed caption: Purity, Body, Flavor.

He also became the mentor of the young granddaughter who was myself. My grandfather was the only one who believed I would become a writer.

This didn’t deter him from being a severe critic. Reading  my typical adolescent flowery phrases, he warned me about being “self-indulgent.” Clutching my manuscript, I protested that I loved my “poetic” words. He said that whenever I wrote words I was in love with, they should probably be erased.  It was the best advice I’ve ever been given.

One of the last times I saw him, when I was a rebellious 15- year -old, I broke the news that I intended to become an actress.   ”You’ll outgrow it,” he predicted.

I did detour into acting and it took decades before I came back to what he had insisted I was born to be: a writer. He didn’t live to see this, for he died just weeks after that final conversation ,

Yet to this day, whenever I applaud myself for a “poetic” phrase,  I invariably discover it calls so much attention to itself that it distracts from the story. Or that it makes for pretentious dialogue, not the truth of how the character would be speaking.  In those moments, my grandfather’s voice gives me strength to press the delete key.

This blog post is my belated tribute to him.

BOOKS: Widow’s Walk – available through iUniverse; Turning Toward tomorrow – xLibris.com;Ten Women of Valor – createspace.com – also Amazon and Amazon Kindle

LINKS: Facebook, LinkedIn

COMMENTS:

“What a beautiful relationship you had with your grandfather.” – Susan R.

“A beautiful story – really enjoyed it.” – Warren A.

A NEW LIFE, LITERALLY  

I hadn’t expected to be writing a blog about Beatrice. But there was no Beatrice before this week.  She’s my niece’s newborn daughter.  Her family describes  her as “healthy, happy and hefty” (she weighed in at nine pounds!).

Although she’s more than a thousand miles away I’ve already seen her, thanks to the Internet.  There she is on the screen, eyes closed, oblivious to all the curious people viewing her.  Although encased in a blanket from head to toe, she seems vulnerable in this chaotic world.

But  it’s the second picture that moves me to tears:  a triumphant  young mother  holding her baby close.

I’m awed by a new life coming into the world, and tender about that Madonna-like image. But I confess to another feeling – envy. How lucky my niece is to have motherhood so new. I remember the days following the birth of my own daughter, my first child, and how I prayed that I’d be a good mother. Meaning, no room  for failures.   I would always love her “unconditionally,” as the saying goes. Of course, the unacknowledged hope was that she’d love me just as fervently.

Predictably there were many stumbles in the years that followed. Though I’d give anything to have a giant-sized eraser, no technology provides that.

Years ago, when a friend gave birth to her first child I told her, “I envy you because it’s a clean slate.”

“But I’m not,” she said.

Her savvy words have echoed through the years.  For we all bring into any new relationship our warts and wounds, our neediness.

So my hopes this morning are not only that my niece will be a wise and loving mother, but that she will forgive herself for the moments when she isn’t. When exhaustion or – yes, resentment – take over,  or when her own needs conflict with her daughter’s.

It makes me look again at my relationships with my now grown children, and with my partner, my sister, friends.   I’m so prone to pointing an accusing finger at myself – should have said,  shouldn’t have done…But I seem to have amnesia about the moments when I managed to do it right (whatever “right” is).

In a recent issue of   AARP Magazine,  actress  Sharon Stone talked about her major mistakes, that resulted in losing parental rights to her son. She could have dissolved into overwhelming guilt about what she labeled her  “stupid” decisions.  But that’s paralyzing.  Instead,  she confides, she’ s making a stronger self and a better life by  reminding herself:  I also made a lot of great choices.

It’s something to think about this April morning when the year is still open to hope, and the scenario for a new mother and child is yet unwritten.

BOOKS: WIDOW’S WALK – available through iUniverse.com; TURNING TOWARD TOMORROW – xLibris.com; TEN WOMEN OF VALOR – Createspace.com and Amazon [also Amazon Kindle]

LINKS:  annehosansky.com, Facebook, LinkedIn

COMMENTS:

“Wonderful blog – love it!” – Ben Kassoy

Getting rid of clutter seems to be the popular activity de jour.  I do subscribe to the equation that less is more (freedom, space, etc.),  until it comes to the actual execution. I use that word deliberately for in getting rid of things (or attempting to) I feel as  if  I’m  executing parts of myself.

This week, oversized garbage bag in hand, I tackled the closet in my son’s room. When I say  “his “room that’s a misnomer. For the little boy who grew up here is now two thousand miles away, a father to his own little boy and girl.

For the past 20 or more years the sole closet in that room has served as a catch-all storage place, items thrown in that have no resting place anywhere else. Saved for the mythical day when I’ll find a use for them.

To get back to the closet– or rather into it – out came a pair of curtains that no longer fit any window in my apartment. So they got tossed  – or did they? A week later, they’re still on a chair waiting for me to decide.

Out came an oversized straw tote bag.  A gift from a neighbor who moved away – how many years ago?   “You can use it for picnics,” she assured me. In all that time I’ve never been to a picnic, nor have I found any other use for it.   In fact, to be honest, I forgot the bag was there. At least it could be recycled.  (Recycling takes away guilt about these “abandoned” things.) I carried it downstairs to offer to another neighbor, carried it back upstairs the next day. After all, I just might go on  a picnic sometime.

Why have I kept the keyboard of my old computer? My little grandson played with it once when he visited, pretending it was plugged into an imaginary outlet we drew on the wall. Maybe I should keep it for him, except that he has already outgrown such childish play. Toss, keep, recycle? None of the above?

Yet items such as these are the easier ones.  The difficult are those interwoven with my lost youth.  Today I make a second foray into  that closet.  I find a bulging  scrapbook,  ragged edges poking out.  Down it comes from the shelf. Opening the torn cover I see disintegrating pages holding my years as an actress. My “other life,” as people call it.  I turn fragile pages, inhaling the dust of decades.

Faded programs. “I didn’t even remember I once acted in My Sister Eileen,” I tell my partner, who has ventured into the room. (A born hoarder,  he doesn’t believe in throwing out anything less than 100 years old.)  I stand there reading each program for its cast names, to see which of these young actors became famous. Score: zero.

Dozens of telegrams – the witty, the affectionate – wishing me luck, hoping I’ll ”break a leg,”  assuring me I’ll “steal the show,”  that  I’ll rise from my Act 1 death in Ten Little Indians  to a lively curtain call.   Wires from people I barely remember and lost friends whose memory stabs me.

Photos  of scenes from shows.  Each bringing back the actor I’d worked with – loved – hated .  “This woman was a famous actress who blew up at me between scenes because I was getting laughs she wanted,” I tell my partner. Feeling again my indignation at being berated. Wasn’t I also proud  I’d  been so good at comedy?  (Where is my sense of humor these days??)

Here are the glossy PR photos, close-ups of a face that seems like a stranger’s. Was I ever that young? That unwrinkled?

I may not ever look at these again. Too much memory.   Chances are that no one else will ever look at this collection either, after my real life demise.  My children may or may not  be briefly interested in the contents. More likely they’ll be frustrated at having to sort through things their mother wasn’t thoughtful enough to discard.

Yet why do I repack this mess neatly in a box (a GAP box, no less) and carefully paste a label on it to read THEATRE?  Back it goes on the shelf.

Maybe we need a new definition of “clutter.”   I’m told it’s anything you haven’t used in five years.  A mathematical  boundary.

But what if it momentarily brings back the sweetness of a lost time?

WEB SITE: annehosansky.com

BOOKS: Widow’s Walk, Turning Toward Tomorrow, Ten Women of Valor.

COMMENTS:

“Wow!  Did I relate to this. It’s me to the nth degree.”– Warren A.

“Really interesting . I’ll tell others to visit this.” _ Edinalva

WHAT IS “VALOR,” ANYWAY?

As a veteran complainer, I frequently (daily?) rail against what I see as the unfairness of my personal fate and overlook the treasures of my life.  So I’m humbled at discovering what Leah managed to do.

She’s one of our historic Biblical heroines. In fact, she and her sister, Rachel, inspired me to write my newest book, Ten Women of Valor,  because they  had to contend with sharing the same husband. Since I’m big on sibling rivalry I thought these sisters would be the easiest stories to write.  They turned out to  be the most difficult for, as I discovered, “valor’ isn’t always easy to recognize.

I wanted each of the ten heroines to describe the personal act of courage that altered her life. Confronted with a patriarchal world where husbands and fathers ruled the roost as well as the realm, our spunky female ancestors found ways to triumph.   Some acts were obvious and thrilling. What could be braver than single-handedly cutting off your enemy’s head, as Judith did?  And what of Esther, risking her lovely neck by daring to intrude into her tyrannical husband’s royal court?  I even discovered the ”Jewish Joan of Arc” in the form of Deborah, the first woman to help lead an army. (As a side note, the military leader she selected was named Barack, which means “lightning”!)

Yes, there were numerous acts of valor – but I ran into trouble finding it with Leah.  Victimization, yes, for her father ordered her to replace her sister as the bride on the very wedding day!   She then lived in docile obedience to a husband who preferred his other wife – who happened to be her sister – though he regularly impregnated Leah anyway.

Though Rachel was the beloved wife, Leah was the fertile one. She gave birth to her first child – a boy, success! (Women were rated by how many sons they produced.) Being human as well as feminine, Leah’s first thought was: Now my husband will love me more than my barren sister.  Alas, it didn’t work. Two more babies – both boys – and again and again Leah beseeched God to miraculously make her Jacob’s favorite.   Apparently God had more pressing things to take care of, which proves that whining doesn’t work.

Then Leah gave birth to a fourth boy. But this time she changed  what in modern parlance is called a ”mind set.” She vowed to rid her heart of bitterness, envy and self-pity (a Herculean task!).  Instead of her why-doesn’t-he-love-me lament, she became grateful for her four beautiful sons.  Her prayer of gratitude was the first recorded words of thanks to God (who doesn’t get gratitude all that often).

Leah was centuries ahead of the current pop psychology to find three things each day to be grateful for.  I was  intrigued by reading about the routine that our First Lady has created with her young daughters.  Each evening she asks them what was the rose that day and what was the thorn. The reality is that roses don’t come without thorns.  Accepting that – as Leah did – is “valor”, too.

BOOKS:

WIDOW’S WALK, TURNING TOWARD TOMORROW, TEN WOMEN OF VALOR

LINKS:

annehosansky.com

iUniverse.com

Xlibris.com

New York Women in Communications

Widows (and widowers) could use lessons in self-defense. The verbal kind, I mean. Not to protect ourselves from muggers, but the barrage of comments from people who might (might not?) mean well.

One rainy evening soon after my husband died, I went for a solitary walk and had the misfortune to encounter a neighbor.”Do you miss him much?” she asked. I was tempted to say, “Who?” She then informed me that despite her husband being a pain in the neck, she didn’t know how she could manage without him. I heard that kind of thing a lot.”Who takes care of the car now?” The same one who always did: me.

“How do you manage all alone at night?” asked the woman next door.”Aren’t you afraid of prowlers?” No, just neighbors.

When I optimistically told a friend I was starting to feel better, she shot me down with: “I hear the second year is harder.” I fled to my bereavement counselor in tears, telling him if the forecast was for “harder” I was giving up. His calm advice: “It’s different for each person.”

I was told that some people just couldn’t deal with my tragedy. One of my oldest friends liked everyone to be “cheery.” For years we had chatted on the phone each week, but lately she seemed to have misplaced my number. When I told her I wished she’d call more often she said, “I’m afraid you’ll sound depressed.” (I’m contagious?)

Then there are the numerous souls who seem to be checking their watches to make sure you’re on target for “getting over it.” The mesage is: “Isn’t it time to went to a movie (on a trip, on a date, down the aisle, etc.)? I debated telling everyone I was in a different time zone. Instead I assured them I was”working on it.” That made them feel better. But that pales compared toi the chorus of, “Get on with your life.” The first time someone said that to me was the day after the funeral!

All this was 20 years ago but, as we discover, problems don’t stop coming. We can be dragged down by conflicts with work, partner (or ex), children, the economy, and all the et cetetras. So the answers I rehearsed as a widow are still helpful. I tell people,Yes I will get over it — in my own time.  Yes,, I know everyone has problems, but I’m not “everyone.” And, yes dear friends and foes, I am indeed “getting on with life.” In my own stubborn way.

Humor helps! That’s my number one advice. So to those who tell me, “Keep your chin up,” I quiip: “Both chins.”

–Anne Hosansky

BOOKS: Widow’s Walk – available through iUniverse; Turning Toward Tomorrow –  Xlibris; Ten Women of Valor — createspace.com and Amazon [also Amazon Kindle]

LINKS: annehosansky.com;  Facebook;  LinkedIn

COMMENTS:

“I wish you could have been by my side to offer a retort when I didn’t have the emotional strength to do it myself.”- Karin P.

“I’ve never been a widow but I did lose both of my parents when I was a child, so I’m familiar with the hurtful misguided things people say when you’re grieving. I enjoyed reading your post.”- Laura Holland

“You have done a marvelous job. This post will help a lot of people.”  –   Alexia

The “season to be jolly” is more often an obstacle course, especially if you’re going through loss of one kind or another. (If you’re the rare man or woman who has never had a loss, cease reading and get drunk on your eggnog.) For so many of us, Christmas or Chanukah,  plus must–be-merry-New Year’s Eve, can be riddled with memories of  someone  who’s missing.  After my husband died, I tried to distract myself at holiday times by gamely going to parties, only to find that other people’s festive spirit (and spirits!) left me feeling even lonelier.

Months after Mel’s death I was invited to a holiday party that was also a 30th anniversary celebration. A party celebrating a long-time marriage was the last thing I wanted. On the other hand, this was my husband’s brother and sister-in-law who had been enormously supportive. Conscience wrestled with “who-needs-this?”  My sage bereavement counselor (Dominick Bonanno of Cancer Care) urged me to go because otherwise I’d beat myself up with my usual guilt. But he added memorable advice: “Make space for yourself within the socializing.”

I dutifully went to that celebration. But surrounded by other people’s noisy joyousness and toasts to “long-lasting love,” I felt as though I were sinking. Then I remembered those words of advice. How do you make “space” in a crowded ballroom?  Grabbing my coat I slipped outside into the frosty air.  There was no point in crying, the tears would have frozen on my face.  Besides I was stunned by the glitter of moonlight on the snow.   Looking up, I saw the stars brilliant in the darkness and felt the enormity of the universe. Somewhere up there, I thought,  Mel is watching me.  I remembered how he had written in his farewell note to me, You are a creature of life.  “How am I doing?” I asked him.  Despite the silence I no longer felt  alone.  I stayed there for a while,  then went back to the party able  to share in the festivities.

At the dinner table someone told a joke. I laughed with the others. “Mel would have enjoyed that,” I said.  There was an uncomfortable silence, as if I had intruded something macabre.  I wanted to tell them, don’t keep his name on a forbidden list. Include him, too.

“Making  space” still echoes within me throughout the holidays, with all the distractions and busyness .  Though I welcome the companionship of people I truly enjoy being with, it’s taken practice  to learn how to turn down unwelcome invitations . It’ s also  taken strength to enjoy being by myself.  Last Chanukah I was a deep shade of blue because my children were far away.  But instead of going to a dinner party I wasn’t eager for, I decided to splurge on an orchestra ticket for Carnegie Hall.  The wonderful concert was balm for my spirits. The next day my would-be host asked, “How could you be alone on a holiday?”” ”I wasn’t alone,” I told him. ”There were lots of people there.”(Humor helps!)

“Making space”” also means putting a wall around my writing time. I try to write every day, which means not going to chatty luncheons in an effort to be “nice.”  As the poet Carolyn Forche advised, “Be at your desk at the same time every day, so your Muse will know where to find you.”

Successful holidays to each of you!

BOOKS:

“WIDOW’S WALK” –  iUnoiverse.com

“TURNING TOWARD TOMORROW” – xLibnris.com

“TEN WOMEN OF VALOR”-  Create Space.com

LINKS:

annehosansky.com

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COMMENTS:”

“Very insightful and uplifting.”  – Victoria

“Awesome article.”- Kit Successo