True Stories Well Told

By Nancy Levinson

“Some years back psychologists, observing the intense emotional attachment that fans develop toward actors and other celebrities, named the phenomena “parasocial relationships, with fans investing time, energy and emotion in stars who are unaware of their existence . . . fans even will feel as if they own the celebrity or as if they are a personal partner.” — New York Times, July 31, 2022

I was a fan once. In my earliest movie-going years I was much taken with bigger-than-life actresses, Natalie Wood and Margaret O’Brien. One day Natalie actually appeared live in a department store downtown, publicizing a line of little plaid dresses with starched white Peter Pan collars. If you bought a dress, she would sign her name with a ballpoint pen on the collar. My mother made the purchase as my heart leapt, and my idol penned her autograph. At home, I would not allow this treasure to be washed.

During my early adolescence, new stars twinkled in my eye. Elizabeth Taylor and Jane Powell were tops, and I idolized Esther Williams. On a big screen and in a deep-water pool she dipped and flipped, each swim scene climaxing with rising music while amidst a fountain she emerged gloriously in a turquoise or raspberry swimsuit and matching flowered headdress upon perfectly coiffed hair.

Then there were the men. Heart throbs. Montgomery Clift, Audie Murphy, and yes, Rock Hudson. Magazines called Motion Picture, Photoplay, and Silver Screen, priced a dime each at the drugstore, contained full-page pictures of these dreamy faces up close. I carefully cut them out and pinned them on my bedroom walls. One could also write requests directly to studios in Hollywood, California and receive glossy 8×10 photos. Free!

Soon I became a Doo Wop music devotee, mooning over The Four Lads, The Four Freshman, the Platters. . . with friends I listened to records in listening booths in a department store (the same store where Natalie Wood signed my dress) and occasionally paid ninety-nine cents to buy one. Johnny Ray was all the rage, too. Yes, I was fan of the singer and his outrageously dramatic performances. “Cry” and “The Little White Cloud that Cried.” Oh, how I cried! And Screamed! That came to be known as hysteria. Later I would understand the emotional and hormonal needs of early-teen girl mobs squealing at Beatles concerts.

One hot summer evening I was in my room upstairs, singing loudly along with Johnny Ray on my victrola when the doorbell rang. On the front step stood the boy next door with two friends, arms outstretched while they burst into song, wildly imitating me and my idol. Then they busted into uncontrollable laughter.

Well, the time was right for me to move on anyway. I was just learning to play tennis and following the greats of the day, especially Maureen Connolly. Once I got a ticket to an indoor arena match between Jack Kramer and Pancho Segura. The following week I bought a white shirt and shorts like those pros sported and wore them all summer on my neighborhood park court. (washed) I wasn’t fawning. That, of course, was the proper court wear. As I watched those athletes on screens, small and large, I learned strokes, swings, rules, good manners, and proper behavior in competition. Looking back, I might say that I’d become a student!

How innocent I was as a young fan! And what a different time before Celebrity Culture invaded with yet more movies, TV, live heavy metal and rock concerts, Sunset Boulevard- style billboards, and ever-present social media. And don’t the big-name stars revel in limelight attention, money, power, and privileges! A two-way road.

Wikipedia includes a large entry discussing “celebrity worship syndrome,” some crazed enough to involve stalking and attacking performers on stage. Security guards are employed full-time. Psychologists and journalists offer a range of explanations for current fandom, often reaching a place of obsession. Fascinated, many feel attached to the wealth, fame, and glowing glamour. Others may be somewhat small-minded or feel empty or powerless, and a relationship they conjure becomes one of love, sometimes, sadly, even believing it to be requited.

For myself, in passing time I began taking to heart all manner of personalities, dead and alive. . . artists, writers, journalists, symphonic and operatic performers. . . Occasionally, I have written letters to novelists and editorial columnists praising their work. I join standing ovations in theaters and concert halls, but I am not a fan, as such.

I am a devoted admirer.

© 2022 Nancy Levinson

Nancy is the author of MOMENTS OF DAWN:  A Poetic Memoir of Love & Family, Affliction & Affirmation, as well as a chapbook, The Diagnosis Changes Everything. Her work has appeared in many journals and anthologies, including Poetica, Sledgehammer, Hamilton Stone Review, Panoply, Constellations, and Fleas on the Dog. In past chapters of her life, she published thirty books for young readers. Her youthful years were spent in Minneapolis.  It happens that she now lives in Los Angeles, only minutes from Hollywood.

By Barbara Vander Werff

When my BFF, Sandy, was in hospice, she had a sense of peace. Her disease was devastating and a shock to everyone. After her diagnosis of pancreatic cancer, she died four weeks later. For those of us she left behind, our profound loss of a friend, mother, grandmother, and wife would be felt far beyond the memorial service.

I looked around my house at all the things she had given me over the years. She knew me. They fit into my life, into my environment, to help define who I was. Other things were bought when we were together, while shopping or on adventures. Sometimes picked out by her, sometimes me, with a nod from her in approval. Sometimes she would look to see if another was available for us to share in a treasure found. Now, they were memories. It made me anxious to think, what now? Who would I explore with, talk with, call when I could not find my way? She was never coming back.

But then I thought about her sense of peace. She knew what was important, she lived a good life, she had been a good person. She had given her all to her family, friends, work, passions, those things she believed in, and most of all, to herself. She was ready to find her peace in death because she had found it in life. The initial diagnosis was heartbreaking, but she accepted it and moved forward. Toward death?

Besides memories of my friend, scattered throughout my house are my collections. As I look deeper, my life unfolds and I wonder if I feel at peace. I have pictures of family, collections of cameras, Boston Terrier figurines, and books. It is my journey of many years to find peace.

Because, what my friend has shown me, is this: if we do not achieve peace in life, how will we ever achieve peace in death?

© 2022 Barb Vander Werff

Barbara Vander Werff grew up in Randolph, Wisconsin, before moving to Madison to go to college and work in health care at the University of Wisconsin Hospital and Clinics. She did some technical writing for clinical textbooks in diagnostics, ultrasonography, and radiology management. Now retired, she is enjoying writing about life. Where have we ended up, and why?

By Faith Ellestad

I had been crying for weeks. How could this have happened? Our beautiful, earnest, sweet natured little boy, our youngest child, was leaving home. He had reluctantly agreed to live at home his first year of college, but he was a sophomore now, more than ready to stretch his wings and move to the dorm.

Truth be told, that year at home had not been particularly smooth.  Ethan hadn’t wanted to go to UW, he wanted to go to Stevens Point where most of his friends had gone.  He was not impressed by our arguments that that living at home would save a lot of money, (something he had not done), and if you graduated from a renowned university, it would pay off in the future. The future seemed a long way away to Ethan, so whenever he was home, he pretty much sat around staring at us resentfully from the depths of the big blue club chair, and we began to question the wisdom of our decision as we stared stonily back from the couch across the room.

Nevertheless, I couldn’t deal with the idea of him moving away, and tears welled up every time I thought about it. His dad was more sanguine.” He’ll only be 3 miles away” he would reassure me, but there was an undertone of exasperation that was not entirely disguised. “Yeah, Mom, he hates when you do that,” his brother had commented, unhelpfully, on more than one occasion, indicating my ever-present damp tissue.  He had been sharing space with his brother, and was probably eager to have the upstairs all to himself.

None of this had any comforting effect on me as Dorm Move-In Day arrived.  Ethan, a gifted procrastinator, had deferred preparations and was just starting to sort through his possessions. 

“Do you have any sheets?” I asked? “No”.  “Blankets? Towels?”  “Uh, No”.

“Are your clothes packed?”  “Oh, yeah, I guess I better do some laundry”.  That meant another couple of hours I wouldn’t have to say goodbye.  I offered to run a load through and my offer was accepted, although if there was gratitude in his answer, I missed it.  Even so, in the privacy of the laundry room, I started to cry again.

Upstairs, a few books had made it into a box along with a vast collection of CDs. “Dad, can you help me carry my TV down?” The TV was gently placed in the back seat of our car. His brother carried down the DVD player, and I brought down a speaker.  And another speaker.  Laundry, most of it clean, was tossed into a basket and taken to the car.  He was almost ready to go.  He bent down to say goodbye to our old dog, which was so sweet, I choked up again.  He waved goodbye to his brother and turned to me.

“Mom,” he said sternly, “if you don’t stop crying, you can’t come!”

That dried up the tears instantly.  I wasn’t going to miss the move-in experience. I squeezed into the back seat, in a tiny sliver of space not taken up by Ethan’s many earthly goods, most of them electronic.

Arriving at Witte Hall, we found a drop-off space, snared a large wheeled bin and joined the parade of students and parents trying to maneuver the wheelbarrow –like conveyances into the elevators.  Once in the dorm room, we met Ethan’s roommate, located his side of the room and began to unload. We were directed to put the TV, VCR, disc player and speakers on the desk, CDs in the bookcase above, and everything else on the floor of the tiny closet.  Our work there was done.  One last look around and it struck me.  The desk was completely covered with entertainment supplies. I saw that his dad had noticed this as well. Not wanting to appear judgmental, I tried to stop the question burning my lips, but couldn’t.  “Ethan,” I asked, gesturing toward the desk, “where are you going to study?”  It was clear he had not given this part of dorm life even a passing thought. He pondered for a moment and then said, quite pleased with himself, “Well, there IS a lounge”.  OK. Allrighty then.  Time to go. 

I struggled hard and managed to give him a dry-eyed hug, then twirled around and fled to the hall while his dad said goodbye. We walked briskly to the elevators and I noticed I was not the only mother in a state of red-nosed, streaming-eyed distress.   Most of the dads just looked solemn.  A few were even smiling.

I dreaded going home to the reality of a house devoid of his presence. I didn’t know how I would react.  We stepped inside, the dog thumped her elderly tail in greeting, there were dishes in the sink, and a coke can on the coffee table.  Ethan had gone to the dorm, but his essence lingered here at home. 

© 2022 Faith Ellestad

Faith has been writing to amuse her family since she was old enough to print letters to her grandparents. Now retired, she has the opportunity (and with Covid restrictions, the time) to share some personal stories, and in the process, discover more about herself. Faith and her husband live with an elderly cat in Madison, Wisconsin. They are the parents of two great sons and a loving daughter-in-law.

By Barbara Vander Werff

In Randolph, Wisconsin, it was a rite of passage. You turn 16 and get your Driver’s License. Then you drive through town, make a right-hand turn at the stop sign, and when you hit the edge of the village limits, you step on it and head on out to the “mile corner.”

Any kid in Randolph knew about the ritual and when you were 16, it became part of your driving routine. The difference for me was that it changed my life.

It started with driving your parent’s car and on a weekend, you could see Oldsmobiles, Buicks, Fords, and Chevies making the trip to the Mile Corner and back. They were shiny from a wash on Saturday night and a gas tank filled with 25-cents-a-gallon gas at the full-service Phillips 66 gas station and a bottle of Coke.

This Sunday would be different. On my trip through town, after “Young People’s” at church, I noticed a motorcycle behind me at the stop sign. A flip of my hair, a move I learned from Margaret, who had a locker next to mine in High School and was much more experienced than I, and I made my right-hand turn. With one eye on the rear-view mirror, I saw the motorcycle and mysterious helmet was still behind me. The Mile Corner would be the true test. Surely, Dad’s Olds would leave a motorcycle in its dust.

When I stepped down on the gas and looked into the rear-view – all I saw was helmet! A U-turn at the four-way stop and I headed for home, only to be followed by the motorcycle, right into my driveway. After he removed his helmet, he looked familiar, although he didn’t go to my school. His grandfather had worked with my mom and used to entertain me by wiggling his ears.

And so it began. We dated through my senior year. He turned into my first love.

Now, graduating from high school, I had a decision to make. I had applied to several colleges both in-state and out-of-state, and been accepted to all of them. He had just finished technical school and had been offered a good job in town.

At Graduation, he gave me a present in a very small box. This decision would change my life, my dreams, my path. This decision could fill my life with regret!

….to be continued…

©  2022 Barbara Vander Werff

Barbara Vander Werff grew up in Randolph, Wisconsin, before moving to Madison to go to college and work in health care at the University of Wisconsin Hospital and Clinics. She did some technical writing for clinical textbooks in diagnostics, ultrasonography, and radiology management. Now retired, she is enjoying writing about life. Where have we ended up, and why?

By Marlene Samuels

Ruthie Whitefish and I were best friends from the time we walked and talked. As “besties” we naturally mimicked one another, dressed alike, wore our hair alike, even mirrored each other’s behavior. Unlike me, Ruthie was an Olympic-caliber temper-tantrumer. Remembering her tantrums reminds me of my terrifying, exciting adventure: being lost in a jam-packed department store during the Christmas season.

What did Ruthie’s tantrums have to do with my adventure? Simple: tantrums were the brilliant technique she employed with impressive effectiveness to control her mother. Mrs. Whitefish, a meek woman, confused good parenting with ensuring her children liked her. She realized that the most effective approach to stopping her daughter’s performances was to comply with Ruthie’s demands of the moment.

The Ruthie Method was straightforward. Whenever Ruthie failed to have her way, she’d launch a full-blown temper-tantrum, preferably in public spaces. These guaranteed Mrs. Whitefish’s instant compliance. Often, in multiple public venues, I’d witnessed Ruthie’s magical powers. So impressive and effective were they, I couldn’t wait to test them out. My opportunity arrived — Christmas season of my third grade.

Christmas shopping was in full bloom. Montreal, where we lived, was aglow with lights and decorations and I was mesmerized. Stores on St. Catherine’s Square and along downtown’s boulevards were dressed with massive wreaths and candy canes. For me, decorations also signaled Hanukkah. Saturday before Christmas, Mom and I boarded the streetcar downtown for a day of shopping. We’d buy gifts for teachers, presents for relatives in the USA plus “surprises” for my father, brother and me.

Downtown was teaming with women like my mother, with kids in tow, men agonizing about gifts for their wives and children, and roaming packs of teenagers. After lunch, we entered Eaton’s Department Store. Mom grasped my hand firmly and we snaked through mazes of congested aisles toward the toy department. As we passed under the glistening candy-cane arch, my senses were assaulted by wonders I had no clue existed. I was overwhelmed by dolls, incredible games, colorful books, and stuffed animals of an unimaginable variety.

Mom busied herself consulting her gift list and became distracted searching for her pen. I saw my opportunity and bolted toward a wall overflowing with stuffed bears. It was love at first sight! I knew precisely what I wanted but also believed my life might end without it. I yanked a fuzzy brown creature from his display pedestal then, clutching him to my chest, raced toward my mother, rehearsing my plea as I ran.

“Mom, look! Can we get him, please? He’s so soft and cute and I don’t have anything like him!”

“Put it back. And no, you don’t need it. Need isn’t want.” My mother explained, her voice firm. “You’re a big girl. This is for babies.”

“But Mommy, please? I need it. Ruthie’s mommy got her one so why can’t I get one, too?”

“You’re not because I said you’re not. It’s expensive, you don’t need it, I’m not buying it, so put it back.” Her voice sounded scary.

“I won’t!” I argued. “I want it!” Stomping my feet for emphasis. “Why can’t I have it? You’re so mean!” That was the moment for which I’d waited — the place and time for implementing The Ruthie Method. Her method always succeeded with her mother, I reasoned, not realizing that my mother and Ruthie’s occupied polar ends of the “mom-spectrum.”

  “I want it!” I shrieked, bouncing up and down as I’d seen Ruthie do. “I want it, I want it!” I screamed at peak volume. My mother instantly turned her back and walked away. Emotion overwhelmed me. I hurled myself onto the slush-streaked floor crying and screaming as a crowd of mothers encircled me, tsk-tsking disapprovingly. Their children stared in horror.

I lost all sense of time writhing on the floor. A firm hand on my arm interrupted my performance and I was face-to-face with Eaton’s store manager. He crouched down armed with tissues and a rainbow lollipop.

“Now, now, what’s the problem?” His voice was soothing. He was no stranger to crying children, especially during holidays. “Are you hurt?” He asked, full of concern. I shook my head, no. “Are you lost?” I shook my head “yes.” Embarrassment and guilt over my performance washed over me. He blotted my tears then presented the lollipop.

“Here, this should help you feel better, then we’ll look for Mommy together.” He lifted me from the floor brushing slush from the back of my coat. We wove through mazes of displays, aisles upon endless aisles.

“What color is Mommy’s coat?” He asked. I went blank. Now all woman looked identical to me. We’d just completed our third go-around of Eaton’s first floor when movement made me glance toward a staircase between two escalators. There, against the handrail, stood my mother, gaze riveted upon us. Her crimson coat was unbuttoned, her hat perfectly positioned, a matching handbag draped over her arm. But her intense blue-eyed glare contradicted the nonchalant posture.

“There’s Mommy!” I pointed, relieved. I hadn’t a clue how long she’d been watching me yet took her time claiming me.

“Goodness, there you are!” She exclaimed mocking surprise. The relieved manager smiled warmly.

“You know Christmas is our busiest time of the year so you can imagine how many crying children and frantic mother’s I deal with. Your daughter was incredibly upset becoming separated from you but was remarkably brave.”

“I’m sure she was and thank you for finding me so quickly. I was terribly worried!” She proclaimed, poker-faced.

We finished shopping, slowed by her vice-like grip on my wrist. It was 4:30 p.m. when we headed toward the streetcar. Unexpectedly, she reversed her route leading me into Eaton’s Cafe where we shared chocolate cake plus hot chocolate for me, coffee for her. She never uttered a word about my performance. I never again implemented The Ruthie Method.

©  2022 Marlene Samuels

Marlene holds a Ph.D., from University of Chicago. A research sociologist by training, she writes creative non-fiction by preference. Currently, she is completing her book entitled, Ask Mr. Hitler: A Memoir Told In Short Story.  She is coauthor of The Seamstress: A Memoir of Survival, and author of When Digital Isn’t Real: Fact-Finding Off-Line for Serious Writers. Her essays and stories have been published widely in anthologies, journals, and online.  (www.marlenesamuels.com)