Beth Broderick: Wit and Wisdom for the Ages from the Aged Podcast

The Great Erase

Wit and Wisdom 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. 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 There are hundreds of entries, many of them outdated or incorrect, but I cannot bring myself to delete any of them.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. “Ma’am, I’ve never seen this many contacts! This is going to take a while. Maybe you could go run some errands or grab a bite and come back.” 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. “You never heard of the Beatles?” we ask, our tone incredulous. They shrug. “No, sorry.” 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. 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! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe [https://bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]

Dream Life

Wit and Wisdom 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. 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. “When I am 72, I can cut my hair and swim every day, dunking my head at will. It can turn green at that point or be a frizzed-up mess, and it won’t matter more than a poot in a windstorm.” I think this often; sometimes even say it out loud. 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. 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 … We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe [https://bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]

'Tis the Season

Wit and Wisdom 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. “Oh my God, Dean, we have to go there! I would love to see it! The Botanical Garden!” “I have lived here for twenty years, and I’ve never been.” He shook his head. 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?” 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. 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! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe [https://bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]

Come Hell and Hot Water

Wit and Wisdom 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. 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. “I go DASH. Is good? Dog he eats?” 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: “Not safe. Not secure. We need deadbolts and jamming rods. That balcony can be easily breached,” She said, peering over the side to the pavement two stories below. 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. 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! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe [https://bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]

Genius

Wit and Wisdom 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. 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. ‘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. “Aw, it was just a little scrap.” I said later to the woman who runs the conference. “You gotta love a little scrap!” 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 … We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe [https://bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]