RAMAPO WARD VOTE

As regular readers of my Blog will notice, today's offering is quite serious.

I have been a resident of the Town of Ramapo for a great many years. My family moved from New York City to a gorgeous little village called Spring Valley at the height of the building boom of the 1960's. The whole town could be found at Pakula's Bakery on a Sunday morning, buying rolls and pastries. We went ice skating in shifts on the pond behind Memorial Park -- the kids who owned their own skates went first. After a couple of hours, they came home and loaned their skates to those of us who had none; then we took our turn skating for a couple of hours. I was afforded the opportunity of a stellar public education by this District. As a child, I lived in safety and harmony with our diverse friends and neighbors. No one ever locked their doors at night -- there was no need. Houses are yards were tidy, if modest, and we all looked out for each other.

Somewhere along the line, I grew up and got married. I can still remember walking around the block with my then-fiancé, and running into someone who was gathering signatures for something called "The Village of Chestnut Ridge." I didn't see the need to have a separate village, and said so, but this lady seemed to think that it would somehow "protect" our area from degrading due to a certain "element." I told her that I would be proud to live next door to anyone who could afford our taxes, and refused to sign.

Fast forward about a decade and a half.

Without moving, we were now living in the Village of Chestnut Ridge. As I had predicted, the extra layer of Government had resulted in higher taxes and not much else. The quality of life in our area was still quite high, and our schools were still the pride of New York State. And then...

I had never paid too much attention to local politics, and certainly not to the School Board. We had no children so it didn't affect us. I thought. Then we began to hear rumblings of discontent from friends and neighbors who did have children in school. Test scores were going down. The graduation rate was dropping. One or two members of the school board seemed to be overly concerned with lowering school taxes, even though their own children attended private schools. Another few years passed and I began to read about troubles in our school district in the newspaper. Our taxes were staying nice and low, though. On a whim, I went down to a School Board meeting. The rest, as they say, is history.

I won't bore you all with the litany of woes that have befallen our school district in the ensuing years. You are all too familiar with them. I will, however, do my level best to convince you to vote in favor of a Ward System this day, Tuesday, September 30.

First of all, you may wonder what a Referendum is. It is a Special Election or Vote on a matter of great importance to the ENTIRE Town. Remember a couple of weeks ago when Scotland voted on its own independence? That was a Referendum. A referendum vote is so important that special pains are taken to ensure that ALL residents have a chance to cast their ballots. Remember when Scotland lowered the voting age to 16 in order to let more people vote? Under New York State Municipal Law, ANYONE over the age of 18 who can prove they are a legal resident of the Town of Ramapo can vote in this Referendum. Period. You do NOT have to be a registered voter to vote in this Special Election; this Referendum. That means that if you are a high school senior and you have reached your eighteenth birthday, you may vote in this election. Imagine that -- actually being allowed to have a say in the future of your own schools.


What is a Ward System and why should you care? I'm glad you asked. Under our current system, our Town Board Members are elected by popular vote and serve the Town "at large;" that is to say, all of the Town Board represents ALL of the Town. In theory. In reality, the Town Board is stacked with members who have a vested interest in keeping our school taxes low. What do lower school taxes mean? Lower school taxes mean an inferior public education. The graduation rate for students in the East Ramapo School District is 61.2%, compared to a national average of approximately 78%. The drop-out rate for students in East Ramapo is 17%, compared to a national average of approximately 3%. Under the Ward System, our town would be divided by area -- for the purposes of elections -- , with a representative (Town Board Member) assigned to each area. This would ensure that MORE members of our community would have their voices heard. It would be difficult, hypothetically speaking, for our entire Town to continue to elect a corrupt Town Official, such as a Supervisor, for example.

Another component of this public referendum is whether or not to expand the number of the current Town Board from Four members to six members. We currently have four members. This referendum, if passed, would increase that number to six. So we would have a more diverse population being represented in our local elections, and there would be more representatives.

The Ramapo Town Supervisor's office is currently under investigation by the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) and the Securities and Exchange Commission (SEC). Councilman Daniel Friedman (D, Ramapo) has taken the nearly unprecedented measure of asking New York State Attorney General Eric Schneidermann and New York State Comptroller Thomas Di Napoli to investigate malfeasance in the office of the Town Supervisor (St. Lawrence). When a member of the Supervisor's staff questioned what she perceived to be improper fiscal activities within the Office, she was defamed and suspended from her job. She is now suing Christopher St. Lawrence (and others) for $2 million in damages. In 2010, the Ramapo Town Council approved a resolution giving the town's backing to $16.5 million in bonds to be sold by the Ramapo Local Development Corp to fund the currently named Provident Baseball Stadium in Pomona. An overwhelming 70% of Ramapo voters REJECTED this resolution. Chris St. Lawrence went ahead and built the stadium anyway, claiming that it would not cost the taxpayers anything. Instead, we taxpayers are on the hook for $60 million in expenses related to the stadium.

Perhaps the greatest insult to our Town came on January 13, 2008, when Supervisor Chris St. Lawrence made this victory speech, thanking his supporters: http://youtube.com/watch?v=GzdliD9c

This is the Town Supervisor who has been elected over and over again under our current voting system. This is the Town Supervisor who would likely NOT be elected under the Ward System. This is why your YES vote is so important today. Please, vote YES for the Ward System and for the Addition of two members to the Town Board. To find your polling place, go to: http://www.preserveramapo.org Our future is in our own hands.

(If html links are not displaying properly, please check back for updates. You can reach the links by copy/pasting them into your broser. Thank you.)

Downton Bloggy

(To be read in your most posh British accent unless you ARE a very posh Brit, in which case, carry on.)

I am at my wit's end. I must - I say, I simply MUST - put two rather important letters in the post as soon as possible. However, our printer has ceased working and so I am not able to print out said letters in order to put them into the post. It is astounding that, in our advanced society, such a thing might happen. It has never - I repeat, NEVER - happened before. If one could simply call upon a service person of some sort, and have a new printer delivered and installed, one would be very happy, indeed.

As if the lack of a working printer were not enough to send one into apoplexy, there does not appear to be a single postage stamp in our household. However shall I cope? I searched the postage stamp drawer thoroughly. I even asked my spouse if perhaps, he might have a stray stamp or two that he might give me. To my chagrin, he did not.

With incredible effort, I dressed myself warmly (for it is a very cold night, indeed) and drove myself to a public printing service establishment. My cheeks burning with shame, I swiped my credit card, logged onto the World Wide Web, and printed my documents. Pulling said documents from the printer with great haste, I ran to my car, where I sat, momentarily, to regain my composure, before driving on to the supermarket to purchase a book of stamps.

As it was embarrassing enough to be in such an establishment after dark without proper escort, and fearing that the management of said establishment might look with suspicion upon such as wretch as myself if I simply purchased a book of stamps, I also purchased a loaf of bread and a bit of good, aged cheddar.

To my horror, the only cash register which was open was at the self check-out. Glancing about to be sure that none of my peers might also be in the supermarket (ridiculous thought though that was) I checked out my own items. If my unfortunate situation could possibly worsen, then worsen it did. It worsened greatly, and with terrible, swift speed, for, when I asked the clerk for a book of stamps, she replied, "I don't have any and Customer Service is closed."

Closed! How utterly riduculous! Why would an establishment have a Service for Customers if they had not the proper staff to keep it open when a customer might need it the most? Livid, and yet humiliated, I fled the supermarket for the relative safety of my car, where, without even taking the time to compose myself, I drove home straitaway.

As I will obviously be haunted by these events, and will be unable to sleep for many minutes, I have set them down in this way, in order to purge them from my feverish mind. O! If only we had servants, I would ring for tea but, as one can imagine, after this dreadful past hour - an hour of my life which I will never regain - I fear I can do nothing whatsoever except to sit upon the sofa and sigh.

A FOURTH OF JULY VALENTINE TO MY NEIGHBORHOOD

This Fourth of July has gotten me thinking about Freedom. We have so many freedoms in this country that we tend to take them for granted. We have the freedom to worship as we wish or not to worship at all. We have the freedom to read everything that has ever been written or not to read anything. We may express our politics views boldly or have no views to express. With all of the many freedoms with have, also comes responsibility. In fact, I would say that the more freedoms we have, the more responsibility we have to use those freedoms wisely.

When I was not much more than a baby, my parents moved to a burgeoning new community. It was filled with apples orchards, farms, ranches, fresh air. It was a safer and healthier place to raise a family than in the cramped city where my family had previously lived. With his status as a veteran of World War II, my father took advantage of a provision of the old GI Bill which offered veterans a mortgage with no down payment. Using every penny of their savings for the move, my parents purchased a house. Then they set about turning it into a home.

Our community was a lovely place in which to grow up. We had huge amounts of land surrounding our cozy little cottage style houses. Many families had been neighbors in the city and had moved here for a better life. We city kids learned the joy of walking barefoot on the grass in the summertime and sledding safely down our hill in the winter. You could do that back then because everyone looked out for one another. Big kids looked after little kids, parents looked after everyone’s kids, our family dogs walked us to the bus stop in the morning and waiting faithfully to pick us up in the afternoon.

We grew and learned to ride bicycles. We rode everywhere in those days because it was safe. We explored our own neighborhood and ventured into neighboring towns and villages. We made new friends.

There was a wood surrounded our new neighborhood. We spent endless summers exploring the well worn paths that were said to be Indian trails. On one journey deep into the woods, we found an old Army Jeep. We hopped into its rusting hulk and pretended to be driving through the Ardennes or to the Russian front. We knew our history. Our fathers and mothers had lived it.

As the years went by, the inevitable suburban sprawl began to overtake our magical woods. A developer knocked down an old castle and built another development with larger houses. Some of our better-off friends moved into those newer, bigger houses. We were happy for them and went to birthday parties in those houses. For a while.

Towards the end of our elementary school days an even newer, larger development started to go up in our beloved woods. We formed a little-kid militia which we dubbed “The Cavalry,” and we rode through the new streets, shooting our water pistols at the construction workers and throwing a few rocks, too. Those were our woods. How could they keep building more houses? Soon there would be no land left.

By the time we got to high school, we had real grown-up responsibilities. The girls all became baby-sitters and the boys all had paper routes. When we learned to drive we took on even more responsibilities. We had to attend school, hold down an after-school job, look after our younger brothers and sisters. We had to start thinking about colleges. We had to start planning for our futures.

Our street had always been a dead end. They are called “No Outlet” streets today. My Dad had chosen the lot wisely with the eye of a former farmer. It was on the highest ground so there was never any basement flooding and we caught the cool breezes of a summer’s night. It also kept our little neighborhood very quiet.

One day, I noticed that there was construction at the end of our street. Developers were building more homes. These were the largest homes we had ever seen. They were so large that we couldn’t imagine who would live in them. These houses dwarfed the lots on which they rested. They seemed out of proportion. They seemed wrong. And then the unimaginable happened; they broke through our dead end street because they wanted egress to the neighboring towns.

The traffic on our quite street doubled, then tripled, then quadrupled, then we lost count. Shiny, expensive sports cars from these new houses roared through our street as if it were their private drag strip. Car radios blared late into the night. Drug deals started to go down on unlit corners in our neighborhood. We would find the paraphernalia the next day, along with garbage, cigarette butts and condoms. We called our local police and begged them to help. They explained that their job had been made very difficult by the fact that, at the end of our street, they no longer had jurisdiction. It was a different township. They tried. We all tried. Our safe, quite community became a memory.

I had moved into the upstairs of our tiny mother-daughter house after my grandparents died. I scrubbed and painted and laid flooring and turned the tiny apartment into a lovely space for myself. Of course I had to pay rent. That was the responsible thing to do.

Around this time I met my husband to be. We connected instantly and passionately. On our first date I knew that we would marry. He was living in another town at that time; a town in which I was working. I began to spend more and time at his apartment. I liked being in a town center. It had life and energy and I could walk to work. We became engaged. Then we had to decide where to live. His place was in a great location but it was a studio and was almost twice as expensive as my apartment upstairs in my parent’s house. It seemed the logical choice to temporarily move into my place and save for a place of our own. My mother doubled our rent.

The years went by and we settled into our tiny space. We kept saving but never quite got enough of a down payment together before the housing prices went up. The crash of 1987 happened and I lost a great job in the City. We had to cut back on expenses. We stayed.

Neighbors moved away. Many of their children bought their family homes and raised their own families in our neighborhood. It underwent a renaissance. It became integrated. We even had a gay couple down the street with adopted children. We adopted a dog and started walking around, learning the names of our new neighbors. Everyone had dogs. After a speeding car filled with drunken teenagers killed my parent’s dog one night, we knew it was no longer safe to let our dogs run free. Just another price to pay for breaking though our dead end street.

My Dad retired and developed emphysema. I started helping with the yard work, raking leaves in the fall and shoveling snow in the winter. I liked it. It was good exercise and I didn’t have to pay for a gym membership. Mostly I liked being out in the yard with my Dad. He was diagnosed with a partially blocked carotid artery in his neck. For the first time in his life, he had to go to the hospital. He was 75 years old.

Dad seemed to decline rapidly. He had several other surgeries over the next several years and his breathing worsened. One beautiful Spring day he went out into the yard with his oxygen tank strapped to his back to clear some fallen branches. A branch scratched his arm. Due to the massive steroids that he was on for his breathing, he had very little immune system left. The scratch became infected, the infection spread to his bloodstream and he died within a week.

When the shock wore off a little, I hired an estate planning attorney for my mother and insisted that she get her affairs in order. It was no small task, as I have come to learn that my mother suffered from a learning disability all of her life. I purchased the house from her and became her housekeeper and estate manager. She continued to insist that we pay her a monthly fee because she had so little income, so we did. It was the responsible thing to do. In time, she developed dementia and then Alzheimer’s disease and is now confined to a nursing home. For the first time on our married lives, my husband and I had our own house.

Being homeowners took some getting used to. I had to try to remember all of the household repairs which my father had taught me. I also undertook a complete, organic redesign of the yard. That’s an ongoing project.

About six weeks ago, a sign appeared at the end of our street. It read “This road will be closed. New traffic pattern.” We didn’t think much of it. There had been a tremendous amount of damage from a freak October ice storm and we assumed the road needed some repair. Perhaps there were underground cables that needed upgrading and we would have to take the long way around for a few weeks.

Four days ago, a barricade was erected at the end of our street. There was a sign which read “Road Closed.” I called our Village Hall. A meeting had been held in the neighboring township to address the increased traffic flowing from our street. They didn’t like it. They wanted a private community. Our mayor spoke out against it at this meeting. Leaders of our police, fire and ambulance crews said that it would create a safety hazard. Since emergency vehicles now had to go out of their way to reach our homes, that added detour of five to seven minutes could mean the difference between life and death. The people in the big houses didn’t care. They wanted their children to be able to ride their bicycles all over the street with no sense of responsibility that cars also drive on that public street.

The people in the big houses have a lot of money. They drive expensive cars, have lawn services, built-in swimming pools, fenced yards. They have clogged the street – a public street – with cars for parties for decades. Every Fourth of July, they set off so many illegal rockets that the air is choked with smoke and one cannot see to drive. They scowl and curse at us when we drive on their street. And now they want a private community.

This Fourth of July I will be watching as these people shoot off their rockets, causing a hazard to all. They will drive up and down their street, radios blaring. They will laugh at us in our little cottages and continue to throw garbage and condoms over the barricade. Human beings are not meant to live behind barricades. There is something in our nature that longs to be free. Free to walk our dogs and our children; to ride our bicycles. Free to think that we are all equal and have the same rights. We will fight for our rights but we will lose. They live in the big houses.

So time will pass. Our street will become a dead end again. It will become quiet and safer again. We will get to know our neighbors even better. It will become what it was always intended to be: a better place to live, with fresh air, where children can walk barefoot in the summer and sled down the hill in the winter. Maybe we’ll throw a block party for the Fourth of July next year. I’m looking forward to the future of our beautiful little neighborhood. Come visit us any time. And oh yes - Happy Independence Day.

Writing my Next Chapter

First the good news: I was cast in the Metropolitan Playhouse’s production of “House of Mirth.” The bad news? Halfway through rehearsal I injured my ankle and had to drop out. Yes. Ouch.

As a female actor of a certain age, I am well aware that there are not so many roles out there for me. Of course, I play all the “mom” roles in the smaller films, and do quite a bit of festival and workshop roles. And I have my teaching and coaching, my online business and my blog to keep me busy. But still. This was “House of Mirth.” At Metropolitan. Take a guess how often that happens.

And, let me tell you, I jumped through so many mental hoops, trying to come up with a way of staying with the show. I even considered, albeit fleetingly, trying to find an unscrupulous “sports doctor” to give me a shot of cortisone so that I could walk. Then I put my ankle on ice and did what any other self-respecting actor would do in the same circumstance: I whined.

“It’s not fair! This can’t be happening! I love this show. Who does Edith Wharton anymore? My costume shoes were so pretty! I’ll never work again.”


As I sat there in misery, flipping through my emails on my Droid, I came across this:


Weekly Tip for 3.23.12 March 2012


Weekly Tip for 3.23.12
THE 6 MAGIC WORDS TO MAKE IT IN OUR BUSINESS.
Where were these words before?!
We often get asked, What's the secret to succeed in this business? How do I make it? What are the magic words? We've always said, No such quick answer. BUT, after a recent "aha!" moment, there IS an answer. And it is:
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I subscribe to a newsletter from Scott Powers Studios. If you’re in this business, working in New York and you don’t know Scott, you should. It’s uncanny, but it seems that whenever I need a pick-me-up, whenever I need that edge of confidence to go into an audition or callback, Scott Powers Studios sends me their Weekly Tips Newsletter and it seems to have been written just for me. I read on.

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DO WHAT IS EXPECTED OF YOU.

No excuses. No "yeah-buts." No "extenuating circumstances." No nothin'
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“Do what is expected of me?” It’s really that simple?

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Simple? No, deceptively complex. It turns out, every "issue" or "challenge" or literally everything that occurs that is wrong, a disappointment, a letdown, not getting the job, getting fired or losing representation, revolves around if somebody has not done what is expected of them. That goes for actors, agents, casting directors, managers, you name it.
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I had won the role and, through no fault of my own, was now unable to play it. I could hear the exasperation in my director’s voice when I tried to tell him that it would all be fine. I’d rest my ankle, keep icing it, take anti-inflammatories. Then somehow, a miracle would happen, and I’d be able to go back to rehearsal, still wearing the ankle brace and somehow finding a period show that would fit over it. Yeah, right. He graciously, if trepidaciously, agreed to let me sit out two rehearsals. It would all work out. I’d be all better and still get to be in this incredible production. I fell asleep with my script in hand, dreaming about rehearsals.

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Can you do what is expected of you? If you can, we have seen those before you succeed, sometimes spectacularly.

If you can't do what is expected of you? We have seen those results, too.
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The next morning I could bear no weight on my foot. With Scott Powers’ words ringing in my ears, I gave myself permission to cry a little. Then, I called the director and asked to be replaced. Believe me, that hurt more than the ankle. In my desire to please (and to work!) I realized I was justifying like crazy, trying to come up with some way of continuing on when it really was hopeless. I could not do “what was expected of me,” which was to complete the rehearsal period and perform for a month. (Yep, an entire month. In New York. Doing Edith Wharton and Clyde Fitch.) And when that realization hit me, I knew I could not jeopardize the production for my own ego. With sincere regret and disappointment, my dear director, the wonderfully talented Alex Roe, agreed that it had to be done.

Am I happy about it? Not one bit. But it was the right thing to do. Sometimes doing what is expected means stepping down. With a little luck (and a lot of physical therapy ) I hope to be able to hobble in to see my now former cast mates. It will still hurt. And it will still have been the right thing to do.

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We all write our own books. And there's nothing wrong with starting a new chapter. Like right now.
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Go out there and write your next chapter. I’ve just written mine.


www.Metropolitanplayhouse.org

www.scottpowers.com

getworking@scottpowers.com

SANTA CLAUS IS REAL

I read with dismay an article about a second grade teacher in Nanuet, New York, who told her classes that there is no Santa Claus. She said that parents are the ones who bring gifts to children on Christmas. Well, I’m here to set the record straight.

When I was little, my parents took my brother and me up to the North Pole, New York, which everyone knows is the official headquarters for Santa when he is in New York. Of course, he spends most of his time at his home in the North Pole at the top of the world, reading Christmas lists, supervising the Elves who make all the toys, and eating lots of delicious gingerbread that Mrs. Santa Claus makes for him.

As soon as I saw him I knew he was the real Santa Claus. My parents had already explained to me that Santa has thousands and thousands of helpers who go to stores all over the world during the Christmas season, writing down the names of all the children and the toys that they hope to get for Christmas. They wear the official uniform of the North Pole, which is the familiar red suit with white trim, and black boots. Many of Santa’s helpers also let their beards grow so that they are nice and long for the Christmas season. But this Santa Claus – the real Santa Claus – looked a little different from what I expected. He was wearing a plaid shirt and work jeans, and his official red uniform coat was draped across the back of his big chair. He was also wearing work boots and not his official black boots. When I asked him why he didn’t look like all of the Santa’s helpers that I had seen in the stores, he said that he only wears his dress uniform on Christmas Eve. Otherwise, he wears his work clothes, so that it is easier for him to do all the work of planning for Christmas.

We had a long talk that day. He asked me if I had been good that year, and I had to admit that I sometimes argued with my brother. He explained to me that it’s natural for brothers and sisters to argue sometimes, but the important thing is to love each other. He said that even people who love each other can argue once in a while, but they still love each other, no matter what. Then he asked me what kind of toys I wanted for Christmas. That’s when I asked him the question that had been bothering me for a long time. I got really brave, looked him in the eye and asked,

“Do you really bring us the presents or do they come from our parents?”

He smiled knowingly and chuckled a little. Then he looked me straight in the eye.

“Suzy,” he said. “Of course I bring the toys. When you were just a baby, I brought all of your toys. When you got a little older, I asked your parents to help me, and they bought one or two presents. Then when you got much older, I told your parents that I really needed their help. I explained to them that I make sure to personally deliver presents to all children; especially the very young children. But the world is very big and I need a lot of help. So when children get a little older, I get in touch with their parents and show them their children’s Christmas lists which come to the North Pole. I tell them which toys I can bring, and they help me out with the rest. Usually, they buy the sweaters and scarves and I bring the toys that we make at the North Pole.”

I was surprised and a little disappointed.

“But Santa, “I said. “I thought you brought all the toys to all the children.”

“Well now, Suzy,” he continued. “As I just explained to you, the world is very big and there are so many children who want so many toys. That’s why I need helpers. I have my helpers who go to the stores, and I have my secret helpers – all of the parents in the world. Christmas is a very important holiday. We celebrate the birthday of Jesus Christ on Christmas. As Jesus taught us, we must all help each other; rich and poor, young and old, black, white, yellow, brown, red… all the people in the world need to help each other.

“And now there is something that you can do to help me.”

“Help you, Santa?” I asked.

“Yes, indeed. When you grow up, if anyone ever tells a child that I don’t exist, I need you to tell them this story. Tell them that you met me and we talked about the real meaning of Christmas. Tell them that I am very real and I most certainly bring presents to all the children of the world. Childhood is a very precious time, and it is a very short time. Children need something to believe in. Tell them that they can believe in me.”

This year, I finally got my chance to help Santa. I am telling all the children in Nanuet, and Rockland County, and New York State – and in the whole world – that Santa Claus is real! He’s real and he’s kind, he brings the presents and he loves us very much. And I should know, because I met him when he was out of uniform!

And it Was Such a Beautiful Day

It’s almost 5:00 in the morning of September 11, 2011 and I cannot sleep. I almost feel that it’s going to happen all over again and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

Let me bring you back ten years ago to that day from my perspective. My husband and I were on our annual vacation to Cape Cod. I woke up, grabbed a shower and made my breakfast to eat out in the backyard of our rented cottage. As soon as I got out there, though, I realized that it was too hot. The sun was shining in a cloudless sky and it was already about 80 degrees at 9:00 I the morning. So I came back inside where it was cooler, and put on the television to watch the weather report. I saw an image that confused me. It was the image of one of the Twin Towers, completely shrouded in smoke. Dan Rather was saying something about a plane that had crashed into the World Trade Center. I called my husband from the next room and said, “A small plane crashed into one of the Twin Towers. How awful.” I also noticed the now ubiquitous headline crawl along the bottom of the television screen. I started to read it, but that was long before we were used to watching an image and reading the crawl at the same time, so I soon gave up. From what I was able to glean from the crawl, it appeared that a Cessna or other small plane had gone off course and crashed into one of the Towers. We started talking about the time when a small plane crashed into the Empire State Building. We felt terrible for the pilot and any passengers, and hoped that there wasn’t too much damage to the Tower.

Concern turned to shock, though, as I heard Dan Rather say that the second Tower appeared to be in danger of collapse. I thought that it must have been a terrible jolt for one little plane to cause the other Tower to be at risk. Then I said, “Wait a minute. There’s something wrong. I can’t see both Towers. Where’s the other Tower?’ My husband, Jim, thought that it must have been hidden by all the smoke. I started to drink my coffee and eat my bagel. Then I watched the Tower collapse before my eyes. I said, “They’ve imploded the Towers. Why would they implode the Towers?” Then I heard Dan Rather say, “And the second Tower has collapsed.”

I felt as though I had been punched in the stomach. I could barely breathe. I tried to speak but no words would come out. When I was finally able to mutter something I said, “Those Towers hold fifty thousand people. Fifty thousand people.” I could feel the bile rise into my throat and I ran to the bathroom to vomit. When I came back out, Jim told me that there were several other planes in the air which appeared to be heading towards Washington, D.C.. One had reportedly crashed into Camp David. And then I knew. I whispered, “We’re under attack. My God, we’re under attack.”

As we watched, sketchy reports began coming in. The White House had been hit. No, it was Camp David after all. I asked, “Where is the President?” but Jim didn’t know. No one knew. Time stopped. My husband’s face was ashen. I asked, “What’s happening?” and he said, “I don’t know. I don’t know. Who could have done something like this?” I choked out the words, “Bin Laden. It could only be Bin Laden.”

We stared at the television screen for hours, too shocked to cry and barely able to speak. We saw people jumping out of windows. Jumping out of 110 story windows. I wondered if they were showing the same footage in New York. I wanted to call my parents who lived about 25 miles north of New York but I didn’t want to tie up the phone lines for the emergency workers. I wanted to go home. I wanted to go to New York, my beloved New York, the city of my birth, the city of my ancestors’ birth. I wanted to do – I don’t know what. Help rescue people? Help clean up? Help somehow? Jim said that we needed to stay put until we had more information. I felt the need to be with people. I needed to go to the beach. Jim said, “Let’s go do something normal for a while. I can't stand watching this anymore. Let’s go play mini-golf.” I didn’t want to play mini-golf. I wanted to go to the beach. I wanted to be with people. I wanted to go home. But we went to play mini-golf. Like two zombies, we bought our clubs and asked the man at the desk if he had heard. We told him we were from New York. He laughed and said, “I bet you’re glad you’re not there now.” I said, “No. I wish I were there now, helping my City.” He looked confused. We played mini-golf. Then we drove around aimlessly. We found ourselves in Chatham, wandering around. We stopped into the only store which was still open. The owner was about to close. She said that a man had come in earlier, also stunned and wandering around. He said that he worked at Cantor Fitzgerald and was on vacation. He said he had nothing to go back to. Everyone he worked with was dead. We drove somewhere else; I don’t even remember where. A store. Maybe a department store. I must have bought something. I don’t know what. While I was on line, the two women ahead of me were talking. One said to the other that her husband worked at Otis Air Force Base and they had gotten the order to scramble.

As we drove back to our cottage, we saw hastily made, hand-written signs for a candlelight ceremony on the beach that night. I asked Jim if he’d like to go. He said “No.” We put the television back on when we got in. Someone was saying that there was no truth to the rumors that fighter jets had scrambled to try to intercept the jets that were flying into buildings. We learned that the Pentagon had been hit, but apparently the White House had not. There was another plane in Pennsylvania that had crashed. We finally managed to put a call in to my parents. My father said that there had been an enormous jet flying low over their neighborhood, flanked by F-16’s. My father would know because he had been in the Army Air Corps during WWII, and in the Air Force Reserves for some years afterwards. I told him that we had heard on the news that the President had ordered Air Force One to fly over the World Trade Center site, and that he must have seen Air Force One. Then I asked him if this was what it was like when Pearl Harbor was attacked. He said, “This is worse.” At that point, I began to tremble because that was the first time in my life I had heard fear in my father’s voice. He said that they could see the smoke all the way from lower Manhattan, that fighter plans were flying overhead and they were terrified. I told him that I wanted to come home and help with the rescue effort. He said, “Don’t, Sue. You’ll destroy your lungs. Don’t go down there.” I told him that I loved him and would call again the next day. I could hear a catch in his voice as he said, “Love you, too.”

I went to the candlelight ceremony on the beach by myself that night. It was beautiful, I guess. Someone handed me a candle and someone else handed me a rose. We lit the candles, said some kind of prayers and then cast the roses into the ocean. Someone was filming for the local news. He asked me where I was from and I said “New York.” He couldn’t say another word.

******

Two weeks later we were back in New York. Jim had gone back to work and I went to the City. I could only take the train down to 14th Street, so I walked the rest of the way downtown. It looked like a war zone. It was a war zone. Tanks and jeeps were in the streets, National Guard were everywhere. I didn’t recognize anything. Everything was closed, boarded up, destroyed. I asked a National Gaurdswoman where I could go to pay my respects. She said, “You can’t get any closer than Trinity Church, ma’am. It’s not safe.” I thanked her and tried to find my way to Trinity Church amid the smoke and ash. I kept looking up, as if I expected to see the Towers. I kept closing my eyes, then looking up, hoping that it had been a dream. But all I saw was smoke and ash. When I got to Trinity Church, dozens of people lined the barricades, looking in the direction of the Towers. I fell to my knees. They were gone. They were really gone. Some people sobbed, some people spoke in hushed tones. Most people prayed.

The most vivid memory I have of that day is the smell. As I got closer and closer to the site, I kept smelling something horrible. The ash became so dense that I had to cover my nose and mouth with a cloth. A wave of revulsion hit me as I realized that I was smelling still-burning, decomposing bodies, and that the ash that I was breathing in had once been three thousand human beings.

After a time – I don’t know how long – I went into the only shop that was still open that far downtown; the Au Bon Pain Pastry shop. I ordered a coffee and a chocolate croissant. Nothing has ever tasted so good before or since. Amid the destruction, the rubble, the ash and smoke, life was going on. The clerk told me that they had stayed open continuously, making gallon after gallon of coffee for the First Responders.

******

It has now been ten years since that horrific day. As I said at the top, I keep feeling that I can someone stop it from happening. That I know now what’s coming so I can warn someone. But it already happened. It happened a long time ago. It happened a moment ago. And it was such a beautiful day.

FREEDOM

I’ve been thinking a lot about freedom lately. What does freedom really mean? Does it mean different things to different people? Can there be any one definition of the word?

235 years ago, freedom meant that a group of British colonies, suffering under enormous tax burdens and the tyranny of a far away King, wished to chart their own course. They wished to break away from their mother country, the country in which many of them were born, and to live as a new, independent nation. Benjamin Franklin spoke of how we had already become a new nationality – we needed a new nation. He was talking about change. Evolving needs for an evolving people.

Thomas Jefferson’s brilliant Declaration of Independence became a shell of its original form as compromises and changes were made to the document. Certainly the greatest of these changes was the institution of slavery. The entire economy of the Southern colonies was based on this unspeakable institution. Indeed, without the removal of the abolition clause, it is most probable that Independence would not have come into being. It would take nearly another hundred years, and a bloody civil war for this horror to be abolished. And it would take all the way into the Twentieth Century until civil rights legislation passed Congress and was signed into law by President Lyndon Johnson.

But this new nation was still not much more than an idea. White, male, land-holders were full citizens. Africans and women were property. There was still a revolutionary war to be fought and won, and win it we did, against seemingly impossible odds. Now we had our new nation – and nobody seemed to be able to agree on what sort of nation it ought to be.

The United Colonies evolved into the United States. Wise men evolved their thinking to include Africans and finally even women as full citizens. We expanded westward and fulfilled our manifest destiny. And we decimated an indigenous population along the way. Towns and cities began to spring up. A railroad stretched from one end of the continent to the other. The industrial revolution drove a growing economy. And we went to war again. And again, and again, and again.

Today, we face a new kind of war. A war based on the corruption of religion. A war which would catapult women back into the Nineteenth Century; A war which has shut down access to basic reproductive care in several states. A war which would define marriage in the most narrow of terms. This war seeks to deny science and the discovery of new medicines and new treatments for devastating diseases. This is a movement which is turning back time; turning back our nation to a time before Evolution was proven to be a fact. Turning back time to a point where religion was not separate from the State. Where the personal, religious beliefs of a bunch of white, land-owning males are the basis for deciding what is best for everyone. Where civil rights are trampled in the name of “security.” Our every movement is caught on camera; our every keystroke recorded for posterity. And why? Because “our God” is better than “their God.” Our shiny new nation, filled with such hope for the future and yet tarnished by such corruption, is evolving once again. This time, it appears to be evolving backwards.

But I see a glimmer of hope over the horizon. I see New York State, the site of our nation’s first capitol, standing once again as a beacon of equality. I see people taking to the streets to protest rights which are being stripped away from them. And I hear a voice, way in the back of the crowd, saying “But I’m not really free. I’m not really an equal citizen. That’s wrong, and that has to change.” What is freedom, America? To me, it means respect for every human being, regardless of whether or not I agree with them. It means compassion for those in despair, both in our own nation and around the world. It means no longer denying oppression and despotism when it occurs around the world. Freedom means choice. Freedom means that the State doesn’t get to tell me what I can and cannot do with my own body, or who I can or cannot marry. It means being able to watch the fireworks on the Fourth of July in public with my newly engaged gay friends. It means to me what it meant to John Adams; “All Americans, free forevermore.”




What does freedom mean to you?

Daddy on the Edge: Daddy on the Edge of Weddings, Equality and "Evolving"

Daddy on the Edge: Daddy on the Edge of Weddings, Equality and "Evolving"

WHO CARES WHAT I'M WEARING?

There is a column in the Sunday New York Times Styles sections entitled “What I Wore,” in which people of whom I’m never heard tell us what they’ve worn in the past week, day by day, outfit by outfit. This usually includes references to high end designers and second hand shops in the East Village. These people have some wardrobe, let me tell you. I can’t imagine where they fit all of these clothes in those notoriously tiny NYC closets. Sometimes I think they must turn an entire bedroom over to their wardrobe. I know one woman who has turned over the entire upper floor of her Park Ave. duplex to her extensive designer wardrobe. And I mean designer. Gucci, Chanel, Valentino, Prada, Balenciaga (the real one), Halston. It’s wardrobe Heaven up there. At 80-something, this fine lady is still a perfect size zero and still occasionally models. She drives a red Jaguar, which is garaged next door to her apartment, to her country house in New England on the weekends. I had the great pleasure to work with her on a play in which she played a beautiful, fine lady with a great wardrobe. One stultifying humid September afternoon, I spent hours with her, going through her closets to find the perfect outfit for her character. (I was the costume designer on this particular production, though I usually work as an actor. When there’s work. When I’m not directing. Or coaching. Or designing. Oh, you know, it’s show biz.) When we were done, we took our repast of Haagen Daas vanilla ice cream and instant coffee. She regaled me with the story of how she had a coupon for the ice cream and was able to get it for half price. She always uses coupons. Always. Why pay more than you have to for anything? Smart lady.

So I was reading the Times column today and thought, “No one has ever heard of me. Why don’t I go through my wardrobe day by day for a week and send it to the newspaper so everyone can read about what I wear, why I chose it and where I bought it?”

Monday: Dark wash jeans (Sears), a black camisole (Target. These are genius! Cotton and just enough spandex to act as shapewear and a layering piece. And at $8.99 I scoop them up by the handful in every color) and blue, cotton-rag sweater (JC Penny.) I love that sweater and often wear it on chilly days. It’s so comfy and it looks like denim so it pairs nicely with denim. On my feet where my black Rockport’s. I have two or three pair in black and one pair in brown. Approved by the American Orthopedic Association, they are classically styled oxfords that go with absolutely everything. I topped it off with a brick red, full length down coat which was a Christmas present from my parents about 15 years ago. (That Lands End wears like iron.)

Tuesday: Dark wash jeans (Sears), a black camisole (Target) and a black cowl-neck, three-quarter sleeve sweater (Sears clearance.) Black Rockport’s and a London Fog trenchcoat (Macy’s) completed my look.

Wednesday: I worked from home so I chose to stay comfy: black yoga pants (Target), Black camisole (Target) and an orange hoodie from my favorite Cape Cod outlet, Cuffies, alas, no longer there. (I so miss that Cuffies. Of course, there’s still the Cuffies in Dennis, but the one in West Yarmouth was so big and well-lit, brimming over with T-shirts, shorts, my beloved hoodies, baseball caps, all conspicuously emblazoned with the words “Cape Cod”… Ah well.) On my feet were my stand-by tan suede moccasins (Lands End).

Thursday I visited my mother at the nursing home so I wanted to look nice. I wore dark wash jeans, a black cotton long-sleeved top (vintage) over a black camisole and for a pop of color, a teal cotton flyaway sweater (Marshalls, if memory serves) and teal pashmina (from a film shoot.) Black Rockport’s and my trusty Lands End down coat served as outerwear.

Friday was another dreary, rainy day in the suburbs of New York, so I opted for comfy and warm: dark wash jeans, black camisole, cranberry colored cashmere sweater (Gap) and a red plaid chenille scarf under my red down coat. Black Rockport’s kept me on my feet and stylish at the same time.

Saturday we went to see a fabulous production of “Tartuffe” at Seton Hall. I chose dark wash jeans, a black camisole, black cowl-neck sweater and rusty-burgundy lacy cotton top. I love this piece. I bought it at a shop in the Cape Cod Mall years ago and it is my go-to blouse when I’m feeling “arty.” It looks vaguely like something you’d see at the Renaissance Festival, but I refer to it as my “Stevie Nicks top” because I would wear it to sing rock music. If I were in a rock band.

By the time Sunday came around and the weather still had not warmed up nor dried out much, I actually recycled a look from earlier in the week. Dark wash jeans, black camisole and black cowl-neck sweater, minus the teal flyaway sweater. Black Rockport’s and my London Fog trench kept out the damp.

So, that was my week in fashion. New York Times, I’m waiting for a reply.

How to Pack for Two Weeks at the Beach

I've just returned from a lovely, relaxing vacation on Cape Cod. Well, as relaxing a vacation as one can have with a six-month-old puppy and a husband who doesn't go to the beach. Yes, my little hubby doesn't like to swim in the ocean. Doesn't like to sit on the beach. Not without good reason, mind you. He has vision problems that preclude his being able to see without his contacts, and his vision cannot be corrected with glasses. And he's not a fan of seaweed.

So our vacation consisted of sleeping incredibly late every day, having a lazy brunch on our private deck off the master bedroom of our rented cottage, and actually having the time to read the newspaper. Then I would walk down to the beach in the late afternoon, just when the crowds were thinning out and the sun wasn't strong enough to burn me to a crisp. About an hour later, the hubby would drive all the way to the beach with the puppy, and drop her off with me for her swimming lessons. (It's half a mile - tops - to the beach)

Gracie the pup had never been to the ocean, and was initially reticent to step into the surf. Perhaps she inherited a fear of seaweed from her dad. But after several days of slow coaching and encouragement, my little girl was doing the doggie paddle like a pro. She would then sit in my lap on the jetty, eliciting "Awww's" from passersby.

While dogs are not technically allowed on the beach in season, I noticed that the locals all bring their dogs down for a dip at about 6:30 - 7:00 in the evening. Gracie had a regular doggie playgroup nearly every evening. Just as the sun began to set, we'd all head back to our respective homes or cottages to get ready for dinner.

Now, here is where the title of this piece really comes in. Over the course of two weeks, I found that I wore: a bathing suit; shorts and a top; sandals or flip-flops; sometimes a sweater. What I packed was: a really nice dress in case I booked an audition (I did not); a strapless beach dress; three pairs of crops; a pair of jeans; a pair of shorts; two sweaters and a hoodie; two pair of sandals; one pair of nice shoes; one pair of flip-flops; three cover-ups; four camisoles; eight tops; two summer scarves; a straw hat; pajamas and a robe. I also brought along a full set of makeup (just in case that audition popped up, or if we went out to a fine restaurant); day cream; night cream; eye cream; my headshots and resumes (see above), and a ton of reading material.

After twenty years of vacationing on the Cape, you'd think I would have known better. But we used to go in September when the weather was very changeable. Now that said hubby works as a teacher, Septembers are out and August is in. It's really not that much different in terms of crowds, and the economy has kept the rental rates flat. But it is warmer.

So I've devised a list for all of you who will be heading to the beaches next Summer:

A bathing suit or two (sometimes they don't dry out overnight, and there's nothing worse than pulling on a cold, damp bathing suit)
One cover-up or pareo
One pair of shorts
One pair of crops
One pair of jeans (in case it gets chilly, or you go the the movies, where the air-conditioning is blasting)
Five or six colorful tops
One nice dress in a crush-resistant jersey (This can be black, but it's more fun in a color. This is what you'll wear should you get that audition or go to a fine restaurant.)
Flip-flops (if they're black, you can wear them to your audition and/or restaurant. as well as the beach)
Good walking sandals
Your regular skin care items (this you really can't leave at home, because you have to take extra care of your skin at the beach)
SUNSCREEN
A sun hat
An umbrella

You can pack all of the above in a carry-on. Bring a beach bag to carry any prescription medication that you are taking, and maybe one beach book. (Summer is not the time to catch up on your Dostoevsky.) Also, you can use it to collect shells, beach glass and pretty pebbles, even though your home is already overflowing with these items.

If you do land that audition, go to your friendly neighborhood drugstore and purchase eyeliner, mascara and blush. Better still, you should be able to fit that much makeup and one lipstick in your purse. You will never end up wearing any makeup otherwise. After two or three days, the sun will have kissed your skin with a soft, warm glow, even through the sunscreen.

Then you will be able to relax and kick back, never having to worry about how you are going to fit everything back into your suitcase, along with all the gifts you will have purchased, when you are trying to check out at ten o'clock in the morning.

A special note on wearing black: don't. You're at the beach. Everyone is happy. You're happy. Save the black for when you're back in New York. The obvious exception, of course, is that audition that you keep trying to land. If you're a New York actor, it's almost expected that you will wear black. Hence, that one black dress. But you'll stand out more if you wear red. Or blue, green, aqua, turquoise, orange - whatever color brings out your tan.

Oh, and about the pajamas and robe - we had house guests for a couple of days. That was the only time those items were needed. As I said, it was a lovely vacation!

The Nature of Friendship

Hi Friends,

A very sad event happened this week that got me thinking about the nature of friendship. I was trolling around the net and came across a web page for a community theatre to which I used to belong - the magnificent Elmwood Playhouse in Nyack, NY. I joined their page, and the first post I read was information about a memorial service for an old friend who had passed away - two weeks ago. I scrolled down and saw previous posts which told of our friend going into the hospital, then falling into a decline. Then there was a call to everyone to get to the hospital if they wanted to say their final goodbyes. Following that post was information about the wake and funeral, and then a memorial service the next week. And I had missed it all.

I sat at my computer for I don't know how long; staring at the words on the screen, burying my head in my hands, and muttering over and over again, "I don't believe this, I don't believe this." I couldn't believe that, after 25 years of knowing this incredible man, I could have not known of his passing. We had so many friends in common; folks who still worked at this wonderful theatre, friends who had helped him out in so many ways. Friends who never called or emailed to let me know that he was failing. I sent an email to many of these friends, telling them that I felt sad and hurt that no one had contacted me. Two people wrote back; one had also only just learned of the news after the fact, and the other had only just learned - from my email. I wrote back to everyone and said that it seemed that everyone assumed that everyone else knew, or would find out. I suggested we get together for a toast to our departed friend. And I told them that, although we were not in the best of touch, I loved them, and hoped that something like this would not happen again.

A couple of days have passed since this sad incident. I spoke to my shrink about it, and she commiserated. I spoke to some other friends, and they commiserated. Then I realized today that I haven't cried. Not one tear. I loved this man. He was a force of nature; designing Broadway-worthy sets for forty years. We worked for the same company in NYC for a while and would occasionally commute together. I respected his work, drank in his knowledge of theatre -- feared his wrath. But mostly, I just loved him. His was like a big, scary Rottweiler with the heart of a Golden Retriever. And he was always there. I could walk into that little theatre anytime of the day or night and be pretty darned sure that he'd either be there, or was expected, or had just left. He designed the set for one of my first Equity shows at the Helen Hayes Theatre (now Riverspace). In later years, my hubby (Jim, in case you don't know him) began to work in theatre education. Whenever he did a show, our friend designed it. Between Jim and the kind and talented Jack Gremli, our friend had at least two or three jobs every year. And yet, as I thought about all these memories, I didn't cry. I began to wonder why.

Maybe I'm still in a state of shock. Maybe if I'd been able to see my friend in the hospital, or have gone to the funeral, or the memorial service... maybe if I'd picked up the damn phone and called him once in a while. He wasn't the type to ask for favors or help, and he didn't pick up the phone much himself to call others. But I knew that. So what stopped me? Did I think I would be bothering him? Did I think it would be too much trouble for him to hobble to the phone on his feet as he began to lose toes to diabetes? Was I afraid the conversation would be awkward: "So, how many toes have you got left?" Or did I just assume that, if anything really bad happened, I'd just hear? Well, I heard, alright. And, even though I still can't believe it, it must be true - I read it on Facebook.

So while I can wallow in righteous indignation that no one called me, I have to come to terms with the fact that I didn't call my friend. Oh sure, I chatted from time to time about this set design or that prop that I needed to borrow. But when he really needed his friends, I wasn't there. I can only hope that he knew that I cared. I did tell him. And he'll always be in my heart. But don't be surprised if you get a phone call from me out of the blue - just to say hello. I'll be trying to be a better friend. The way I wish I had been to our beloved Robert Sven Olson.

I'm crying now.

Democratic Family Values

My Fellow Americans,

With the most important Presidential election in our lifetimes less than two weeks away, I can no longer remain silent about what I see as an attack on my family values, and the family values of millions of Americans who still consider themselves, well, Americans. We are the great silenced minority of women (only 51 % of the population), forward-thinking social moderates (known to Republicans as "Liberals"), fiscally conservative (again, in Republican-speak, "Tax and Spend"), who would love to see our Constitution restored. We are your gay cousins, your lesbian sisters, your environmentally conscious neighbors. We believe that a small, committed group of citizens can effect change. And, oh yes, some of us even believe that a woman can become President of these United States.
To counter the attacks on our family values, I have put together a photo essay of a typical week in the life of a Democrat; namely, me.


This is me operating my "battery-operated Lawn Machine."

Note how easily the battery pops out for re-charging. I can mow half an acre on one charge.


















I, too, have an energy plan. It involves changing all the light bulbs in our house to compact fluorescents. Average electric bill during the summer months: $15.00. And that includes the air conditioning that we rarely need to turn on, because we use insulating shades on the windows, and take advantage of breezes at night to cool the house.


But being a Democrat isn't all work and no play. We like to attend the theatre and movies. Here I am (right) at the press opening for "Forbidden Broadway," with the director of one of my films, James Darling. And here is the star of the show (left), the lovely and talented, Cristina Bianco, with another one of Jim's acting students, Sam Civarella.
















I also recently attended the premier screening of Ron Cole's film, "Practical Magic," with his cousins and my dear friends, Josh and Scott Zenriech.

But it takes some effort to look good and present a polished, professional look to the public. So here I am, getting my $1.50 makeover (I have already vowed to either return my lipstick to the CVS, or donate it to charity after the awards-show season):










In keeping with my Democratic Values, I will drive to all the SAG Award Screenings and after-parties in my energy efficient, 10-year old Honda Civic. (30 MPG city/37 MPG highway). Note that I have purchased a Terrapass to offset my car's carbon emissions.












Now that I've had some fun, I call this next section "Taking the Gloves Off." The way I see it, we do not have a viable candidate for President in this election. Obama is untested, radical, cagey in his answers, and cannot explain away his associations with some very nefarious characters. His economic plan is naive at best, and dangerous at worst. There is no such thing as "refunding" tax money to those who have not paid taxes. That would be called "Welfare." Despite John McCain's repeated requests for Town Hall meetings, Obama has refused at every turn. Tomorrow night, he will spend some of his bazillion dollar war chest to buy air time on the major networks, delaying the start of the World Series, to put out another canned infomercial. Could it be that he doesn't want to be ripped to shreds in a true open forum, the way he was in the question and answer style debate against Hillary Clinton?

John McCain is a true American hero and patriot. He comes from a long line of military men who have served their country admirably. But he wants to overturn Roe v. Wade, and that is my litmus test for a candidate. If the Republicans are, indeed, the party of less government, what the hell are they doing in my bedroom, telling me not to use birth control and not to have an abortion? How, exactly, is anyone's marriage threatened by gay and lesbian couples being given the right to marry? Are any of you, personally, threatened by this prospect? Will you end up in divorce court if your gay friends and relatives share the same rights that you and your spouse share? And his choice for running mate would be laughable, were it not so tragic. Sarah Palin has been set up as a beacon of Christian morality and conservative family values. Apparently, she did not feel that she and her husband needed the sanction of their church before they started a family. They were married a mere eight weeks before their first child was born. Under her administration in Alaska, tax credits were issued to those who owned private planes (such as her father-in-law), and those who ran snow-machine shops. (such as her husband and herself) And while she holds herself out to be "just plain folks, who shop at 'The Target'," she is walking around in a $150,00 wardrobe from Neiman's and Saks. Finally, as an animal lover, it sickens me to think of her hanging out of a helicopter, shooting wolves with automatic weapons. But, to quote one of her long-time friends, "They have a good, Christian marriage where they shoot guns." I've been searching through my Bible and can't find any mention of shooting guns as a pre-requisite for marriage. As for those who say that her family should be off-limits, and everyone should lay off criticizing her clothing and calling her a beauty contestant -- uh, she was a beauty contestant. And she was the one who trounced out her family as an example of Republican Family Values, so as far as I'm concerned, they are fair game. Including the 17 year old daughter who seems to be following in her mother's footsteps when it comes to starting a family. Isn't this the party that preaches abstinence? It sure doesn't look like anyone is abstaining up in Alaska.

I was in our local diner tonight, and overheard a conversation between two women who were seated at the booth across from mine. One of them said, "What went wrong? How did this happen? How did these two men become the only candidates that we have to chose from? Is it that no one else wanted the job, so we've got the bottom of the barrel?" The most qualified, experienced candidate was Hillary Clinton. For whatever reason, the DNC decided that they would not back her. I guess that, even in the 21st Century, there are just too many good old boys who are threatened by a strong, intelligent, qualified woman leader in this country. It is my fervent hope that, after the next President screws us even more into the ground economically, politically and socially, Hillary will run again in four years. It is my even more fervent hope that some of you will realize that it was not simply because she was a woman that so many of us wanted her to be President. It was because she would have made the best President. May God protect the United States of America. We're going to need all the help we can get.

Suze News

Hi Friends,



Welcome to my blog! This will be a very basic message, just to get things rolling.



I just had the delight to meet my all-time favorite actor and inspiration, Meryl Streep. She was "In Conversation" with Jonathan Demme at Riverspace in Nyack. The evening was magical. After a fabulous pre-show reception (with the best apple/brie dumplings in the world!), we were escorted into the theatre, where we had front-row seats to an incredible evening of talk and clips about the history of film acting. Afterwards, we met and chatted with Ms. Streep and Mr. Demme. They were so charming. At one point, Jim and Jonathan were talking camera angles, while Meryl and I were discussing the genesis of the grand style of silent film acting. I felt as though I were in a dream. And she is stunning! I hope you can all attend some of the wonderful programs and entertainment offered at http://www.riverspace.org/.



Unfortunately, the batteries in my camera went dead, and Jim accidentally erased the shots he took of Meryl and me so, alas, there is no photographic record. But it was an evening that I will remember for the rest of my life.



We also had a wonderful conversation with Bill Irwin and his wife who, it turns out, has done some work at a school not five minutes away from the old Chestnut Ridge homestead. They are so cool and down to earth.



I'm in the process of putting together a more political blog, which I hope to have out by next week. It will be a pointedly comic look at Democratic Family Values. Stay tuned.



All the best,



Suzanne