Forty Years and then some

In going through a lot of my older photographs *(yes, that makes me old, too, right?) i found a number of them which I want to find my anonymous subjects.. from time to time I ll post a picture here and Facebook, on the hopes that someone might actually know a little more than I do. The first one...an ebullient group of GI's in Phu Bai (Viet Nam) on Christmas 1970... members of the 101st Airborne Division react with gusto to Bob Hope and some of the hot numbers travelling with him. I know there are a lot of these guys hanging around, thinking.. "gee, where is the guy who shot my picture that Christmas 42 years ago ...?" Let me know if you know someone! We're just sayin'... David

Immediate Response

This would be called an immediate response, but it wasn't immediate. However, the fact that it was published on the same day (yes, it is shorter than most of my blobs), is quite impressive. Anyway, the cynic I used to be reared her ugly head today. When the health care, or 'Obamacare' was upheld by the supreme court, my first thought was, "so the insurance companies are going to benefit by one more government decision." the Supreme Court is one of the three branches of government... Remember when they decided Bush had defeated Gore? But never mind the good old days. REMEMBER this blob is about me and my cynicism. Here's the thing, if there was going to be an insurance company that would insure people at a reasonable cost (not socialized medicine but 'smart' medicine), and because there were so many people who needed to buy it, and because there is power in numbers, it would be something to celebrate. However, it's more likely to be same old, same old .... Insurance companies will make a fortune. The insurance companies have hit the jackpot -- you heard it here first. (They are already raising rates, using "Obamacare" as an excuse.) In summary, health care is a good thing. Bureaucracy is a Bad thing. Insurance is great. Expensive insurance, not so much. The insurance lobby will convert this upheld decision, which could have been excellent, into a money making proposition and neither you nor I will make any money... Again and unfortunately. We're just sayin'... Iris

Reality Cheque, Pt. I

Reality Check. This blob will be more of a list than the usual poetry I write. So, Heads up! While I would like to say that we are at a point where we, like our children, no longer need hard line phones, it’s simply not true. We don’t use the hard line phone in the same way we used to –like to communicate with the rest of the world. No, now we use them to call the cell phones we can no longer find. Never do anything for anyone with expectations of some return. Only do things for people because it is something that you want to do, and which makes you happy. If it makes them happy, that’s a gift. Disney movies are not written for children. They may enjoy them, but they will mostly miss the point. Children do not have the money for admission. Generally speaking, most ten year olds don’t have a driver’s license. Adults write and produce them, and there’s always a level of sophistication as well as a message, that only a grown up will understand. Yes, even “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.” If you are over fifty, do not listen to anyone who says, “You are too old to wear that.” What makes a piece of clothing young or old? The person who wears it. You are never too old to wear anything. However, some clothes are ridiculous regardless of age, and if you don’t want people to guffaw as you walk by, don’t wear those. Children will never believe these three things a. something is “in their best interest.” b. Someone they think they love is not worthy of them. c. Parents, despite their attempts, will never understand how children really feel about anything. Of course there are more things, but I’m saving those for later. When you get involved in a new project, endeavor, or career, never listen to anyone who says that you can’t achieve success because, you don’t know enough, you don’t have enough experience, you won’t fit in, or you are too old. That’s always bullshit, and usually says more about their ability, imagination, where-with-all, and level of competence, than it does about yours. Riding on the subway (I don’t care where you are), is a wonderful experience, an education, a way to really ‘see’ a place. When my brother bicycled from Scotland to England, and I met him we then got around by subway. At some point (yes, I was tired) I started to scream at him because I was tired of being underground –not seeing the sights. Huddled with the unwashed. In the winter it’s cold and crowded. In the summer it’s hot and crowded. Sure there is air conditioning and heat, but not on the streets you take to get there, the stations you wait forever in, or on anything but the cars—if it’s working. When it works it will get you where you want to go in a timely manner, but if it is not working and you have become dependent on it, the alternatives are never convenient or good. No matter how clean it is supposed to be, remember it’s below the surface of a city – how clean can it possibly be? Would you eat off the tracks? It’s a place where rats thrive, and garbage is not removed until it is spilling over the sides of the track. No matter how many rules there are pertaining to what you can and cannot do while in transit, it is still never going to be as pleasant as riding in a limo. This is not up for discussion. It just will never be as pleasant. (Don’t tell me about rush hour or traffic). That being said, I wouldn’t get around any other way. It’s just the minute I start thinking, wow this is great, I do a reality check and simply admit, this sucks but it’s better than not getting you where you want to go. Enough for now, enjoy the ride. More to come. We’re just sayin’… Iris

In our ongoing pursuit of a venue to workshop “Gefilte Fish Chronicles, the Musical,” we ventured north to Montreal. Why so far, you might ask? Well, it’s just none of your business. (That was just a totally unnecessary snarky remark because I had a lapse in genuine niceness). There are a few reasons. The President and Artistic Director of CETM, an intimate theater with access to a great deal of talent, has a vision for the show that is absolutely compatible with ours. He understands that it is not about one family, but the “universal family”, celebrating not only family traditions, but the people who came before and who will, hopefully, carry on for many years to come. There are large ethnic communities in Montreal, so the subject of family is familiar. And for my part, there is wonderful food, and excellent places to stay. My blob, as usual will be about my comfort and experiences because, as you know too well, it is all about me. The trip was a bit last minute, so the hotel that I adore, “Le Place d'Armes Hotel & Suites” had two rooms but for only one night –we were staying two nights. “Not to worry,” I assured my colleague, “they will have a cancellation.” In we checked, saying our hello’s to the manager, Monsieur LaRochelle and a few of the staff. They couldn’t have been more accommodating. It is a warm and friendly place to be, as well as lovely and comfortable. It’s just a great place. The location, old city, is perfect and the fact that it is located merely steps from China Town, (oye the pastries!) where there is also excellent Vietnamese fare, (the Pho Buc 97) is perfect. Despite the rain, we had a thoroughly enjoyable if not thinning evening. When we returned to the hotel, we were told that there hadn’t yet been any cancellations, but we remained positive, and extremely full. As it turned out, everyone who had planned to be in Montreal with a room at LePlace, decided to claim their rooms. But never mind, Jennifer, the assistant manager had arranged for us to be moved to their sister hotel, Auberge du Vieux-Port, on the river. Yes, they are sisters but from a different gene pool. This is not a bad thing. They are both delightful places to stay. The hotel Auberge is smaller and seems a bit older. The rooms are also smaller and a bit less modern. Also not a bad thing. Yes, I missed my soaking tub with whirlpool and shower the size of Miami, but I adored the intimacy, the view of the water, and the breakfast (which was included) at the Auberge. But the physical beauty of a hotel, and even the location, are not what makes them special. It is the people. And for us and other visitors, the most important element is the kindness of the concierge, and in our case, the limo driver Raymond, (who with the permission of the concierge rescued these wandering Jews, and made us feel like the car was our home whenever and wherever we needed it.) Jose, at Le Place and Michael at the Auberge, were absolutely outstanding. We were working, so the move was not convenient – but never mind. Jose said goodbye to us as if we were family, and Michael (who is really good humored), welcomed us in the same way. Despite the inconvenience, their performance was most professional, but they remained concerned and willing to do whatever was necessary to make us feel comfortable. And we truly did. Jose and I at the "sortie" Montreal is a bit complex. It looks like, and has the charm of Paris or Bordeaux. They have streets with names like Rue St. Catherine Street. Not everyone speaks English, but if they know you don’t speak French, they do their best to communicate. To say I like the city, and am grateful to have found a place with so much coleur, is an understatement. But to have found these two extraordinary hotels and to have been exposed to the people who make them work, was a blessing. So, October in Montreal for Gefilte Fish….. how cool is that. Send in the horse radish! We’re just sayin’…Iris

YesNoYes

No, you can’t have a big soda, but yes, you can have a donut. You cannot have three scoops of ice cream on a cone. You cannot have caffeinated beverages less than two hours before you go to sleep. You cannot go swimming until three hours after a meal and one hour after liquids. (Oops that’s what someone’s mother said), or maybe it was the Mayor of a major American city whose priorities are making decisions about what is good for you, rather than stopping the tourist buses from blocking access to buildings and the street. Who gets to decide what you, as an adult, can and cannot do. And a better question is, what’s next? No you cannot smoke in a public place, but how do you define private when nothing is private anymore. No, you can’t have an abortion, but you can have a child that you cannot feed, house, or for whom you cannot provide. No you can’t marry someone you love because they are the same sex, but you have to stay married to someone who beats you, because women are generally known to whine over nothing. Oh, and no you can’t have sex more than once a week, but yes your husband can rape you because, after all, you are married hopefully to someone of a different sex. Did I mention that statute that allows officers of the law, as well as military personnel to arrest American citizens if they think they are causing trouble? How do you define trouble? Guess you have to ask someone at Homeland Security… they seem to be in charge of everything – man, woman, beast, property, speech, the air, the sea, and probably bunny rabbits eating farmer Jones’s garden. Where did all the freedoms go? Not all the freedoms, in the sense of, you can’t be naked on a beach unless it is designated. But free to make reasonable decisions about your life, your family, and the way you choose to live your life. Yes, I am exaggerating a bit, but what do any of these things have to do with the economy or jobs, the war, or a crisis in leadership? Why do our elected officials want to control our lives, when they do nothing to help us make our lives easier, or more productive. My mother always said, “live and let live.” Clearly no one who is making those ridiculous “alloweds” and “not alloweds” talked to her. Maybe a question better than where did all the freedoms go, is --where is common sense when we need it most? We’re just sayin’…. Iris

Trang Bang: 40 Years Later

It’s difficult to explain to someone who has grown up in the world of digital photography just what it was like being a photo-reporter in the all too recently passed era of film cameras. That there was, necessarily, a moment when your finite roll of film would end at frame 36, and you would have to swap out the shot film for a fresh roll before being able to resume the hunt for a picture. In those ‘in between’ moments, brief as they might be, there was always the possibility of the picture taking place. You would try to anticipate what was happening in front of your eyes, and avoid being out of film at some key intersection of time and place. But sometimes the moment just doesn’t wait. Photojournalism – the pursuit of story telling with a camera, is still a relatively young trade, but there are plenty of stories about those missed pictures. In the summer of 1972, I was a 25-year-old photojournalist working in Vietnam, where I spent two years trying to cover the events of that war. Some stories present themselves in more obvious ways than others, but as the U.S. began winding down direct combat roles and encouraging Vietnamese fighting units to take over the battle, there were moments when trying to tell that story presented enormous challenges. On the morning of June 8th , I headed north out of Saigon with a New York Times reporter, Fox Butterfield. We were going to explore what was happening on Route 1, an hour out of town. We visited a small village that had seen some overnight fighting, but. were told by some locals that a few KMs north, there was a bigger battle going on. In the days before cell phones and text messages, this was the kind of tip you needed to end up in the right place. It was the village of Trang Bang – the kind of small scale battle that occurred all over Vietnam, in too many places, far too often. I waited and watched with a dozen other journalists from a short distance just out of the village, as round after round of small-arm and grenade fire signaled an ongoing firefight. I was changing film in one of my old Leicas, an amazing camera with an infamous reputation for being very difficult to load and as I struggled to align the film sprockets , a pair of Vietnamese Air Force Skyraiders – a WW2 propeller plane - came in low and slow and dropped napalm on what their pilots thought were enemy positions. As the planes made their passes I tried keeping up with them, making a few frames of the bombs just leaving the plane, and the smoke near the Pagoda from the ensuing explosions. Moments later, still struggling to load my camera, I saw in the distance faint visions of people running through the smoke. To my left, AP photographer Nick Ut took off running, heading towards the civilian victims who were running in desperation toward us. In that moment, when Nick’s Leica came up to his eye and he made a picture of the badly burned children, he captured an image that would transcend politics and history and become emblematic of the horrors of war visited on the innocent. When a photograph is just right, it captures all those elements of time and emotion in an indelible way. There is 16mm news footage from that day, but amazingly, the impact of the film is far less dramatic than the photographs . Film and video tend to treat every moment equally, yet those moments are not equal. A true news picture is the distillation of what is happening, the one single moment when, for better or worse, things are explained in both an emotional and visual way. Within minutes the children had been hustled into Nick’s car and were en route to a Saigon hospital. A couple of hours later I found myself at the Associated Press darkroom, waiting to see what my own pictures looked like. (A.P. served as the home away from home for many member newspapers, so when you needed a picture “wired” back to the home office, it was usually on the A.P. lines.). Then, out from the darkroom stepped Nick Ut, holding a still wet, copy of his best picture. In his hands, a small 5x7” print of Kim Phuc, running with her brothers, to escape the fire. We were the first eyes to see that picture; it would be another full day for the rest of the world to see it on virtually every newspaper’s Page One. When I reflect on that day, my clearest memory is the sight, out of the corner of my eye, of Nick and another reporter, upon realizing what had happened, beginning their run down the road towards the onrushing children. It took another 20 or 30 seconds for me to finish loading my stubborn Leica, and I then joined them .. It was real life, unfolding at the pace of life. .My own pictures from that day (one of which ended up being published in LIFE the next week) have lived in my archives for these 40 years like witnesses in waiting, hoping one day to add their version of history. For some years afterwards, I wondered what had happened to all involved. Kim Phuc, the girl in the picture, after many years of painful surgery eventually left Vietnam to study in Cuba, and later, on a stopover in Canada, defected with her husband. They now live near Toronto, where she runs a foundation dedicated to helping children deal with the trauma of war. Nick Ut is still photographing for the A.P. in Los Angeles, creating new pictures every day. I think often of that day, and of the unlikelihood of a picture from such a relatively minor military operation becoming one of the most iconic pictures from the entire war -- or any war. And since that day in Trang Bang, my sense of being “photographer ready” has never been more acute; the instinct has served me well in dozens of stories since. You never really know what is going to happen next. But anticipating what could happen, what might happen, those are the keys to being a great photographer. In March 1979, having just returned days before from covering the Revolution in Iran, I found myself in a key “pool” position at the White House north lawn. It was the official signing of the Camp David Peace Accords, negotiated by President Carter, between Egypt and Israel. It was a historic day, with plenty of TV and photo coverage. I was carrying my own three cameras, plus one each from two other photographers, as I was given a good spot, head-on from which to see the three dignitaries--Carter, Begin and Sadat. Once they walked onto the outdoor stage, I began shooting. I shot madly as they signed the documents and passed the papers among themselves. And then, at the key moment, after they had all put down their pens, they stood up and embraced, hand over hand, all round, with gusts of wind fluttering the three giant flags behind them. As I grabbed for one of my cameras, I realized the roll was completely shot. I grabbed the next camera: same result. And then the third, fourth and last cameras. Panic. I was out of film in all five cameras, and even with motorized loading, was still at least 25 or 30 seconds away from being able to make a picture. I started whispering to myself….”maybe they’ll embrace at the end of the ceremony”…. and … “surely they will stop and wave, arm in arm together,” trying to wishfully convince myself that there might be more opportunities to come. Nope. Nothing of the sort. There were no more historic hand shakes. No more diplomatic embraces. It was over, and I had no pictures of that day which to me, spoke to the event itself. These days having a small screen on a camera will help to let you know if you got “the moment,” or perhaps more importantly, if you missed it. But for those of us who come from the world of film, propelled by that gut check of wonder, the inconclusiveness inherent in shooting – but not seeing the results an instant later – gave us an additional bolt of energy, of determination to do more, and just plain creative worry. Did we have the picture? Or not? Often, when working overseas, it would be days before we had that answer. Being aware is what photography is about. Being able to see that bigger world, and your place in it. Today, 40 years on, if there is one thing which Nick Ut’s picture has taught me, it’s that there is a power, an immediacy, an accessibility in the single photograph which is unlike that of any other medium. And for those of us who walk along the sidewalks of history carrying our cameras for a living, it is comforting to know that even in today’s digitally overloaded world, a single photograph, whether our own or someone else’s, can still tell a story which rises above language, locale and time itself. And today, I try to always have a few frames of film left, and space on my memory card. Always. We’re just sayin’… David. a happier moment, reunited in Washington DC, 2009 cr: Hyungwon Kang

For the Love of India

One of the activities I love most is going to the movies in the afternoon, or even morning. There are always fewer people in the theater and they are usually older than me. Which gives me the chance to participate in another favorite activity – changing seats in the movie theater. On Fridays, Marthena and I used have lunch and to go to a mid day movie. The scenario was always the same. We would sit down, and some “Alta Cockers” (older than dirt), would sit close to us and begin to chat. Even though it was before the movie began, we knew by the level and intensity of conversation, that these people would continue to talk throughout the film. We also knew if they would be quiet, and at some point during the film, shout out, “What did she say? I didn’t hear what she said”, directed at the screen but loud enough to be heard by everyone in that theater, the next theater, and all theaters within a mile or two. We would change seats. Then, even though the theater was empty, someone would come and sit right in front of us. We would change seats. A nanny might show up with a three year old who couldn’t read the theater’s suggestion to be quiet, and even if they could read, they would never be silent for the duration of the film. We would change seats. And of course, there was always someone who brought enough food to last the duration of the movie and they were not quiet or neat eaters. We would change seats. Until at last, we would find the perfect seat, in the perfect location, unencumbered by movie guests who thought that the movies were a participatory activity. But that is not what I wanted to blob about. At some point in my long and somewhat jaded career, I produced the World Premiere of the film “Gandhi”, in New Delhi. This required me to be on location in India for an extended period of time preceding the event. Over the course of four months, I made three trips to that exotic location – the last trip lasting a month. If not the best job I ever had, it was certainly the most colorful. Never mind, it was the best. No one should go to India for less than three weeks, because it takes at least two before you acclimate to the colors, sounds, smells, the pace, the language, the climate, food, and the culture, I should have had a clue when I arrived the first time to find there were four of us who were responsible to produce two press screenings, a series of press meetings, a dinner for Embassy personnel -- British, American, and Indian, logistics for all the VIP’s and celebrities, (it was a fundraising event for UNICEF and the Martin Luther King Foundation), and a variety of tasks I could not complete if this blob lasted for six pages. It was as cumbersome as it was exciting and there was no end to the surprises: Nothing mechanical ever worked, and at that time, there was no “new” technology to break down. (The American Embassy provided electricity for the opening), oh, and everyone in India must be employed – in some job – it’s a law. Keeping that information in mind, people do not mow the perfectly manicured gardens and lawns, they cut the grass by hand. And when something isn’t working, rather than change whatever, it is repaired – even if only temporarily. For example, the cushions on the sofa in my suite (which we used for press events) were so silky that if you sat forward on them, you would eventually find yourself sitting on the floor, with the cushion. Rather than change sofas, everyday the hotel manager would send someone to my room to sew the cushions on to the couch. It never worked, but it did provide work for the seamstress. Then there was the time…. I could write a book (oh, I did). Just adventure after adventure. This is all to say, I finally saw, “The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.” Yes, it was fabulous and yes, it did take me back to my time in India, all the good as well as the bad. There were two things that absolutely helped with the time travel. When one of the actors asks, “What is it about this place that you like?” and another actor talks about the color, sights, and smells. It reminded me of the first time I rode through the streets of Calcutta. You can see the dirt, crowds, life on the streets or the poverty (talk about a homeless problem) --or -- you can see the beauty and just say “If only they would tidy up a bit.” There was one line in the film that pretty much summarized all the things I knew to be true about that amazing place. “Everything will be fine in the end, And if they are not fine, it is not the end.” We’re just sayin’…. Iris

Re- Union BHS

It was a real nice party. We had a real good time. Where to start? It was my .... high school reunion. Not important which one. The thing about a party where you get to see people you "used" to know, is that it doesn't matter how anyone looks. Everyone has changed. Of course they have. Everyone has had a life and it shows in their faces, in their health, and in their conversation. But that's not a bad thing. We all have a new appreciation for still being around. (I made it a point to hug everyone who managed to survive all those years.) We even had a spelling bee to see who could correctly spell B-o-o-n-t-o-n ... the cheerleaders mostly got it right, from years of those spelled out cheers... (remember there are two "N"s...)

We had a conversation about whether or not we should wear nametags. We also had a conversation about whether or not we should pass David off as a spouse or a member of our class. As is always the case, everyone thought they knew him, and by the end of the evening they did.

Scozzy and Iris, front & center....

Sally & Andy cuttin' a rug

Unlike past years, this was a weekend affair. Meet and greet on Friday evening. Lunch at the Reservoir Tavern (still the best pizza in the entire world), Reunion party on Saturday, and brunch on Sunday. I was sorry we missed Friday and Sunday. Once you reconnect with people who you have known for a million years, you simply want more. There is a reason for this. No matter how old you get, these friends see you as if you were still a teenager. No baggage, They don't care who you are or what you've accomplished. There is some picture sharing, one classmate had her student ID, which Andy Hurwitz (who was at the reunion and had been the President of the student government), had signed to make it official. There were happy stories along with picture narration, sad stories about the loss of friends. Mostly people were just delighted to be together to laugh and eat and of course, to dance. I am happy to report that there was lots of dancing. And people who were not physically capable of doing the jitterbug, stood and moved to the beat of music well remembered. (Who could imagine that anyone would remember the words to 50 year old songs). ` There were highlights. David taking pictures of each class (there were four, 64’ – 67’), the John Hill elementary kids, The School Street School, The Opera Club (kidding), The “Aces”, and the Vietnam Vets, afterwhich they all sang something patriotic and actually included David who was in Vietnam, under the same circumstances but carried a camera instead of a gun. I think it was the first time any group included him as a Vet. Voices raised, flags waving, not a dry eye in the house.

The other highlights. We learned that Roseanne Kelly did not die. She was happily very much there.

Jeff, Kenny, and Howie can still dance. Andy and Gary have not changed - just gotten taller. Ronnie and Joyce are still the funniest couple alive, and we are all still fun. All our teachers (Coach Moore was there and confirmed this), thought ‘64 was an extra special class. We all missed Mr. Mol, and Mr. Hino, and Mr. Kane, (who as Principal allowed us to schedule study hall on either side of lunch, so we could go to my house and watch soap operas (which was close as we got to an actual Opera club.)

Little Fuzzy with Coach Moore (himself class of '42), Gary H., and Mrs. Moore (class of '44) The best part of the evening was reminicing about who we were, or at least who we thought we were. I think this will be my last reunion. I want to remember me as I was, and I don’t think that will be possible in five more years. But you never know. I’ll let the extraordinary photography speak for itself. All persons have remained anonymous – to protect them from reality. And don't forget "the ACES".....

We’re just sayin’…. Iris

R.I.P. Horst Faas

This past Thursday marked the passing of Horst Faas. Probably as much as about anyone since Capa, he was someone whose mere mention of a name -- either first OR last, was enough to conjure up that big personality and , yes, talent, that he was. In an age when blogger-photographers rule the silicon airways, all the tricks of the modern trade --- from blazingly groovy cameras to the concept of “we’ll fix it in post…” have created a new breed of semi-famous person. It’s no longer based simply on a smart, clever, wily, talented concept of what the news is and how to capture it in a single frame – it’s all about the buzz. Some of the biggest names in the current photoblog world, while talented, would, I suspect have some issues if they were limited to shooting Tri-x on a Nikon F (model F, not an F2, F3, or F4) with f/3.5 lenses, and no focus confirmation in the finder beyond whether or not it looked sharp. Horst had a 40+ year career with the A.P. – that giant lifeblood of news – at a time when the A.P. was the biggest carrier of news around the world. If you lived anywhere but London, Tokyo, Paris or New York, it’s pretty sure that anything you saw from some place distant was through their wires. He worked in the Congo, and settled early on in Vietnam at a time when there were but a handful of American advisers and troops. In the first few years of his tenure there, he quickly figured out that to get to where the pictures were meant you had to get somewhere early, and be ready when the shit hit the fan. Of course you never really knew when, or exactly where that would be, but intelligent reading of what was happening meant that experience counted – and he certainly used his own experience to great advantage. His pictures, I was reminded this weekend, were not just your standard “I was there…” wire service kind of work. He was a damn good photographer, and his pictures often reached deeply into a situation and came out with something far more meaningful. He had a eye, and understood that above all, you had to use your feet and your wits to get your camera to the right place, so that when you pushed the button, you were able to capture that telling moment. Perhaps as interesting as his own photography was the way he tended to the A.P. stringer corps. In Saigon during the 60s you could get accreditation if you had letters from two different publications who agreed that over time they would PROBABLY buy some of your work. But for many freelancers, like myself, there was no guarantee you’d be able to pay your apartment rent or buy a meal at Cheap Charlie’s Chinese restaurant if you couldn’t sell a few images. I was lucky to have an intro at TIME (for whom I’d worked considerably in the states) but for a lot of young stringers, the fact that Horst would buy a few pictures that he might not really need, which would permit that person to be able to keep working, meant that over time he had a very loyal group of shooters. When, eventually, they DID get something of value, the first place they brought those pictures was back to Horst at the A.P. He understood the value of building that network of photographers. The ongoing competition with U.P.I. – the other major wire service – created an additional motivation to find the best work, the quickest, and get it out on the wire. There was no time for lollygagging: The old A.P. phrase “a deadline every minute” was certainly true in the sense that someplace, somewhere, a newspaper editor was looking for the best, most up-to-date images, and that was the appetite Horst tried to feed. He seemed to me to be one of those larger than life figures that belied his own physical self. I always imagine him as a towering figure, with a bellowing, resonant voice, though when in fact I would run into him, we nearly stood the same height. It was something about his overall presence which made me feel that I was in the midst of some kind of larger than life character. In the end, though, I think one of the most meaningful things he did was to work on the Requiem project: a collection of photographs from the Vietnam war, done by photographers who were killed during that time, from both the South and the North. There are some very telling stories about what it took to get the Northern authorities to release pictures for the project – they were initially reticent. Yet when you look through this book, one of the most amazing compilations of photographs of war that has ever been printed, you see how important it was to include both sides. Almost as if the brotherhood of photography had eventually managed to trump the politics of war. In what must be seen as a great and tragic irony, he fell ill in 2005 in Hanoi, just after the reunion of foreign correspondents in Saigon on the occasion of the 30th anniversary of the end of the war. In a country where he had cheated death many times, a bad reaction to a virus razed havoc with his body, rendering him more or less paralyzed from the chest down. But even though he was confined to a wheelchair for these past 7 years, his undaunted spirit never seemed to waiver. I last saw him at the opening of the memorial to fallen correspondents at the Newseum in 2008. There, on a large glass wall, emblazoned with the names of those killed covering conflict, he offered the last physical remains – a small box with bits and pieces of camera gear, mainly --found in Laos at the crash site of the helicopter which took four well known, great photographers to their death in 1971. The chopper had been heading into Laos to cover the Lam Son campaign (meant to seize control of the Ho Chi Minh trail) and was shot down just over the border. On that bird were A.P.’s Henri Huet, LIFE’s Larry Burrows, UPI photographer Kent Potter, Newsweek stringer Keisaburo Shimamoto, as well as a Vietnamese army photographer. Horst, along with A.P. writer Richard Pyle, had spent the better part of two decades trying to get to the abandoned crash site, and eventually did so, only after years of maneuvering in government channels. (see Richard’s book “Lost Over Laos.”) At the Newseum dedication, we tried taking a group shot of all the correspondents who showed up, a bigger group than any easily accessible area would hold, and even there Horst took charge, trying to arrange the group to sit still long enough for a picture. In the end, I suppose he would have liked to been thought of as a photojournalist. One who tells stories with pictures (whether his own, or at times by the wily ways of his editorship.) But have a look at his work again. (click here for a small selection on the NYTimes site) You see pictures which are, frankly, pretty damn good. My favorite image of him in the ones which have come out this week is the one on the NYTimes Lensblog – there he is with a Zeiss Contarex SLR – a fumblingly slow to operate camera which was NEVER used by professionals (the Nikons were simply better for quick operation) but whose amazing optics would have probably found a soft spot in his heart. Horst pretty much dedicated his life energy to photography, and I’m pleased to have had a chance to know him. We’re just sayin’… David

Yours truly sitting just behind Horst, along with a gaggle of journos....

Tully. Just Tully.

The other day when i was perusing Facebook, which I do to find out what’s happening with my kids and the world, I came across the Paul Tully page. No one ever called him Paul -- he was always Tully. He was a big presence, certainly in my life, but everywhere he went. Didn't matter if it was a room or a person, he didn’t exactly suck the air out of the room, there just wasn’t enough room for him and the air because he filled every space. Tully was too young when he died during the Clinton campaign in1992, in Arkansas. It was hard to imagine Tully working for Clinton, but we all figured, having never had a winning Presidential candidate, he was ready for a victory. Tully was drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes -- his staples, and he was working on a memo. He had a heart attack and died alone in his hotel room. It took a while for anyone in the campaign to realize he was missing, because he was only available when he wanted to be. But when he didn't show for a strategy meeting, everyone knew there must be problem. Tully was my political mentor and friend. He taught me how to organize a state, design a poll, be an expert Advance person, work with the media, identify voters, and basically he made sure I understood everything that needed to be done in a campaign. Best of all, he taught be to appreciate Joni Mitchell and Joan Baez. The thing I always found most fascinating about this political wizard was that he was great with a thousand people in the greater scheme of things, but he wasn't very good with one on one affection. The minute anyone got to close he moved on. We all watched as he yelled "next". He had been married and even had a beautiful daughter, but they were not part of his day to day when he was working on a campaign. He had hundreds of affairs-- as men always did in those days, especially on the campaign trail. But until right before he died, he preferred to remain without permanent commitment-- except to whatever candidate and whatever campaign, until it was over. He was like a lovable teddy bear -- big and snuggly with amazing green eyes and dark hair, always messy, and clothes always severely rumpled. Once we went to a movie in Boston and as I led us into the theater, the usher stopped him from flowing because he thought Tully was a derelict. I laughed until I cried, and so did he. When he died, we made buttons that said "92 for Tully". He loved campaign crap. Those of us who knew him and felt the absence of him, dedicated the work we did, to him... Our mentor, teacher, friend, lifeline so many times. But he's gone and finding a Tully page on Facebook, seems to minimize his immortality. At the very least, it gives me the willies. I assume someone close to him has orchestrated this introduction to Tully who was a private person. Maybe it's selfish, but it feels almost intrusive. Kind of like, "I paid my dues to be his friend, you can’t just sign up and expect the rest of us not to be upset.” If he chose you to be his friend you knew it. If you were not of his liking, you knew that too. With Facebook he has no option. He was angry at me when I left Massachusetts to travel with the candidate and his wife, and for years, he never said anything to me but "Look at you. Look at you. Big shot!" He never finished the sentence but I knew the end was "thanks to me." He was right. I was a big shot. And I did owe it all to him... And excellent political genes. We’re just sayin’.... Iris

Then I Wrote, Than You Read

It is nearly impossible for me not to do political commentary on political issues in the news, especially when they are ridiculous, a waste of time, or a waste of money. Let’s begin with waste of money—which if often ridiculous as well. (Sometimes in politics, as in life, all these things overlap.) Why in the world is John Edwards on trial? I was never an Edwards fan, although my daughter thought he would make quite a cute President. OK he spent campaign money, cheated on his dying wife, and asked his staff to cover for him. (The staff did not refuse to go along with it until they all got caught.) The man has billions of dollars and bad taste in mistresses. Surely he could have paid back that which was illegal, and simply faded away like some other infamous slime balls we have elected to office (or bankers who we forgot to indict.) It’s hard for me to believe that the people who brought him to trial a.) don’t have some kind of a vendetta, b.) are happy to play gotcha with the rich and successful, businessman/Senator. c.) Have never asked a staffer to do something to protect their good name. d.) In this economic depression, don’t have anything better to do with their time and government money. Moving on to a waste of time. Nevermind, let’s move right to the ridiculous – that’s so much more fun. Lindsay Lohan was at the Washington Correspondents dinner (why?), and Santorum asked her to take a picture of him with Greta Van Sustren? Is that almost as ridiculous as invitations to a White House Political dinners being offered to the cast of “Glee?” (And I am crazy about the cast of Glee). When I fell off my dinosaur and attended these dinners, you mingled with the Washington VIP’s, who would be considered important sources for the big deal correspondents,. But such is the state of the media. Since newspapers are irrelevant/dying (unless they are online) and young people believe Jon Stewart is giving them the real news, there is nothing you can’t Google, and that Wikapedia is actually a credible source, what would you expect. There is no news anymore. And I mean that in the nicest possible way. It’s all entertainment. That’s why an interview with the Secretary of State will get two minutes, but a just-out-of-rehab movie star will get five. Which came first? Did serious news go away because it is not as profitable as entertainment? Or is entertainment preferable to what people consider bad news – war, the economy, human rights, etc. It is not a question I can answer but I liked it better when the entertainment at the dinner entertained, rather than sat with the guests. And speaking of ridiculous,, I still get confused about the use of “then” and “than.” Although most won’t admit it, I am not the only one –and I taught English, when we were still diagramming sentences (look it up on Google). So here goes: ‘Than’ is a conjunction used in comparisons.: Tom is smarter than Bill. ‘Then’ has numerous meanings: Often with "if") If you want to go, then you'll have to finish your homework. Simply, than is used only in comparisons, so if you're comparing something use than. If not, then you have to use then. We’re just sayin’ then…. Iris

A Fun Visit "Home"

When I finally moved to Washington in 1977, (that’s when I moved out of my car and stopped driving between Boston and DC every weekend) we would drive around the monuments and Marthena would always exclaim, “How fortunate we are to live in such a beautiful place.” And she was right. Whatever you may think of the government and all the elected officials, it is a physically beautiful place to live. If you are lucky enough to be part of whatever Administration gets into power, you also find that it is not only gorgeous, it can be a great deal of “heady fun.” (OK, that may have been mostly in the past, but if it wasn’t some fun, no one would live there.) We don’t live there anymore, but there are delightful memories that I keep alive not only by telling, and retelling them, but by having friends in an Administration who are kind enough to celebrate special events with me.

with Tara, Heidi, Kerry, and Nadine Last Tuesday, Tara D. Sonenshine was sworn in as the Under Secretary for Public Affairs and Public Diplomacy at the United States Department of State. And yes, the job is even more important than the size of the title. There have been any number of people who have held this position, mostly when it what was The Director of the United States Information Agency (which was integrated into the State Department and no longer exists as one of 92 independent government agencies.) Public Affairs and Public Diplomacy have nothing to do with Public Relations. Unfortunately, preceeding Tara’s appointment, most of the Undersecretary’s never understood this. Most wanted to sell the United States to the rest of the world as if it were a product – toothpaste or perhaps a brightening detergent. This job oversees all the Exchanges programs, from Nannys to the Fulbright scholars. She is responsible for all the media operations, (libraries and electronic) cultural and educational programs in the embassies throughout the world, as well as the People to People programs operating in the U.S. This may be too much information, but for the first time in years, this Undersecretary knows that the US is not a product. Additionally, it’s as important to listen to what the rest of the world is telling us, as it is to tell our story. The Information, Public Affairs, and Press officers who serve Tara, understand how important this is. And having a leader who respects the importance of what they do because she understands how important Public diplomacy (people to people) – which differs from Political diplomacy (government to government) -- can be, means a great deal, especially during these chaotic years.

Without presenting her resumé, when the Secretary of State administered the Oath of Office — which still moves me to tears — she knew that those programs were in most competent and loving (her family is as important as any job) hands. In or out of government, being invited to that event was still great fun.

Last night was the White House Correspondents dinner (otherwise known as the “prom” of media dinners). It was the public event I loved most of all when we were in DC. The first of these dinners to which I was invited in 1977, my dinner partner was Henry Kissinger. That was only the beginning. For the first four years, I was invited by a news organization (who invite potential “newsmakers” to their tables. At the table there were always celebrities, politicians, and an assortment of reknown characters. After the dinner, there were always parties (also invited) but I was never turned away. When the Administration ended, I no longer got invites from news organizations. (You just don’t if you are one of the great unwashed.) But I still attended because my wonderful friend, Steve Daley (with the Chicago Trib) invited me to go with him. He did not invite me as a source or to make an impression. He invited me because he didn’t have to babysit for me. We worked the room separately – but always enjoyed when we would happen upon one another conversing with some colorful character. I wore the same dress every year (my Mother’s head to toe, white sequin gown.) And he was dressed smartly in a handsome tuxedo. It was always an amazing evening, where you got to see everyone in DC that you knew, and to meet everyone at the dinner who you wanted to know. Steve passed away this year. The loss of my friend was such that going to the “Prom” was simply not as important to me. In fact, if I wasn’t going with Steve, I didn’t want to go. When you live in Washington, there are those events which position you as a player. This was one of them. I just didn’t want to play without my excellent playmate. We’re just sayin’…. Iris

Oh, Those Cousins

This is one of those “sometimes you are so random, Iris” blobs. Yesterday, we rented a car so that I could go home, and David could keep shooting and not have to move all his camera crap from one place to another. As oft happens with different GPS systems, , they each give you different directions. We decided the smart thing to so would be for me to follow him .

the alleged GPS guidance vehicle Turns out, it was not so smart, because he does not know how to drive in a motorcade. He lost me at the orange light in North Brunswick – which he sped through as if he didn’t make it he would be punished for male hesitation. We were in rush hour traffic, so I turned on my GPS, which took me to the front of the hotel instead of the garage. It took me an hour to make the turn necessary to get me where I wanted to go. Actually, it took me only an hour because I took two illegal left hand turns. OK, I did give him the finger as I followed an ambulance past him. But that was appropriate behavior. Here’s the point, if he was a volunteer driver in my campaign motorcade, I would have fired him. Yes, I am sorry to share this information, but I think it’s only fair for every blob reader to know that you should never try to follow David Burnett, or any guy who has set the Land Speed record as their lifetime goal. But that’s not what I wanted to blob about.

Who knew? It was not really a surprise, but it was certainly not something I expected – it was always there but never articulated. My cousins are really special. I guess I have always known that. But it took so many years for me to see it as clearly as I do now. Maybe it’s because the first generation is gone and we wanted to make certain that we “carried on” in the way they would have insisted we do. It was without the fighting and the yelling – but we still heard their voices in our heads. (And also we do pretty good imitations of them.) Or maybe it’s because you take for granted those things that you have always had, but they are not be taken for granted—ever. Passover was an eye opener. My cousins all came together to make sure that the legacy continued. Everyone participated in whatever way they could. Even if was just to enjoy. It was all good. We had such an extraordinary time. There were sixty people in attendance. Originally, we thought there would be maybe, 30 –maybe. Then, when we started counting, it was fifty. Ultimately it was sixty. The comments I get are usually, “Geez, sixty people, the service must go on and on.” It doesn’t. We tell the story of the Jews making their infamous getaway. We say and then sing the Four Questions, and Dayenu, we eat, we talk, we drink (grape juice of course), we laugh, we catch up, we celebrate being together. Most importantly, we remember those who gave us this amazing gift of family, and we hope that, as Aunt Peppy says, “it continues long after we’re gone.” There was no drama and no politics. The people who could come, came. The people who weren’t able to attend, sent notes, or regrets, or hopes that they would see us all next year. It was a living, loving tribute to the past, and hopes for the future. It was a partnership. It was at my house, but that was just the place —like it had been at Aunt Sophie’s, Aunt Peppy’s, and Rosalie’s. It was everyone’s Seder and it will come as no surprise to know, it was perfect. We’re Just Sayin’ …. Iris

Twere a Distant Solstice

An adventure, just like in Paris, only it was a little closer. For a change, let's begin at the beginning.

Since neither of us wanted to drive through the Holland tunnel and, over the Bayonne bridge, (horrific even when the conditions are perfect). We (matty's old, my new friend David), decided we would take public transportation to see Matty's new musical, Goddess Wheel, at The Snug Harbor Cultural Center, on Staten Island. (yes, all the details are important). The show was wonderful so, well worth the effort.

We met at the Ferry, he was standing under the second A, in the enormous sign that announces you have arrived at the dock. It's been a long time since I was on that Ferry and it was going to be a pretty exciting adventure. The trip over was easy and simple -- subway to the ferry, ferry to the Staten Island terminal, short bus ride to the cultural center, off the bus, through the gate, short walk to the reception, lovely fruit, over to the theater, enjoyed the show, ready to head back to the Ferry exactly the way we came. Not going to happen.

It was raining, we had to walk around the building we had come through, over to the gate to catch the bus. The gate was locked. All the gates were locked on the bus side of the center. Walked back around the building, hoping to find an exit or maybe a cab. ( In our dreams). We did find the parking lot, there were no cabs, it was raining harder. Here's where it get's like Paris (and yes, here comes the name dropping).

I was helping to plan a Presidential trip to France, and as I always did when I was in Paris, my accommodations were at Ambassador Harriman's official residence. Needless to say, it was glorious. My suite overlooked THE gardens. Do I need to describe how elegant, how amazing, how, how, how.... I think not. Anyway, it was summer solstice. There was an area in Paris where hundreds of musicians gathered and there was a festival on the streets -- many streets. Along with the Ambassador's assistant and another female diplomat, we ventured on the Metro to this outdoor party. We sang and danced and ate and celebrated the beginning of summer with thousands of new Parisian friends. At about 12:30am, we decided to start back to the Embassy. No one told us that the Metro shut down at 1:00. So, there we were, somewhere on some street in Paris, at 1am. It had started to rain and wherever we were, there were no cabs, no people, no nothing. There was no choice but to start walking. And walking and walking and more walking. Now it was 3am. Still raining, still no one. And then, there were lights, an actual vehicle approaching. I ran into the street hoping whomever was driving would not run me over. Although, by that time we were so tired we would have welcomed an ambulance.

The teacher who rescued us was curious about why three American women were walking alone, in that section of Paris, in the middle of the night. He was especially interested in our destination -- the Ambassador's residence. There was really no way to explain the Adventure, especially the hitch-hiking (which was obviously not an acceptable means of transportation for diplomats in France -- ooh what would Pamela have thought, and we promised one another that we would never tell the story. But it was simply too amusing not to share. So what does this have to do with Staten Island? Well, in desperation I once again threw myself into the street and hailed a car to take us to the Ferry.

We waited about a half hour for the boat. We walked to the subway, but the 4 and 5 weren't running. We hopped aboard a West side #1 train. At 42nd St. I tried to change to an E, to continue uptown but east. The E was not running. I wandered back to the crosstown 7, waited for 10 minutes (because now it was raining and late into the night). Prayed that the 6 would still be running, (it was), took it to the 51st Lex stop, and finally arrived home a mere 4 hours after leaving the theater.

All in all, it was a lovely evening. And if nothing else, it gave me a great excuse to finally tell the solstice story. We’re just sayin’.... Iris

It's About Women, Not Gaps

As has often been said during Presidential campaigns, (and it doesn’t matter which political party is having the conversation) there is a GENDER GAP. Both parties argue about which side has the largest gap -- in the past there has been little contest – the Republicans have been the gappiest. And in the past the Democrats figured that women had no place to go but the Democratic party. The 'dialogue' is about how to deal with the gender gap, and it usually takes place between a bunch of men.

What’s wrong with that picture? The Democrats take the women’s vote for granted, and the Republicans have no clue about why women would hesitate to be Republicans. But they can’t get out of their own way in terms of policy decisions that will inevitably have an impact on women.

In order to explain the hows and whys of this, allow me take you for a trip down memory lane. Whatever else you want to say about Bill Clinton (and yes you can make many dirty or snide jokes about it), but during the Clinton Administration, women were in powerful government positions, and the West Wing did do their best to open channels of communication with non-governmental individuals and groups. We had a great time finding ways to make the public and government officials understand the important role that women could play if they had a voice in policy decisions. We created the White House Women’s Office, the Interagency Council for Women, and we selected delegations to world conferences that were truly representative of a cross section of women. We looked like America -- Republicans, Democrats, (conservatives and liberals), different religions, colors, cultures, organizations, sizes, temperaments and on and on. You could take a picture and see that this was an honest attempt to make sure that everyone felt included.

Flash forward to the Bush Administration. They eliminated the White House Women’s Office, the Interagency Council, and any remnant of the progress we had made in the government. They said that those things merely marginalized women and they didn’t want to marginalize us. It’s what men (Dems and Repubs) always say about any mechanism that insures women have some input in decisions which affect them.

What the men, who have always had the power, don’t get is that issues of concern to women go well beyond health, education, social issues and children. Women care deeply about the economy, national security, technology, privacy, government interference in our personal lives, and just about everything from birth to death,

Clearly, there is a gender gap. But the reason for it is because women talk about these things in ways that differ from the way men talk about them. For men, everything is black and white; women see shades of gray. Men make lists of things, women describe the items on a list. Men “cut to the chase”, women tell a story. Regardless of beliefs, women do not want men to usurp their ability to decide about their lives. Here’s an example. A woman may not believe in abortion, but she certainly does not want a man (and especially an elected official), to tell her if she can use birth control, or determine what happens in her bedroom.

Despite the stupidity of the Repubs trying to take women back to the dark ages, the Obama Administration will have to do some serious repair work if they expect women to vote at all. In the last election there were a number of us who were liaisons to the Hillary advocates, because rather than vote for Obama, they were simply not going to vote at all. Most of those important liaison people did not get government positions in order to advocate for an agenda that paid some attention to their issues. As a consequence, people who were not well versed in women’s priorities, (children) had no idea about what was acceptable and unacceptable in terms of a women’s agenda. The Obama White House was not women friendly. Mistakes were made. The men who did -- and do -- surround the President didn’t have a clue. And calling on the First Lady to be visible and involved simply may not be enough to repair the damage. Women may not vote for the Republican nominee. But there is no guarantee that they will vote for the President. The gender gap may be measured by how many women will choose not vote at all. We’re just sayin’…. Iris

apples and oranges -- oil and water?

Some would say it’s apples and oranges – you be the judge.

Gas prices are out of control. Every week we hear that they have peaked and will start to go down. But they just keep going up. If the President would simply suggest that he’s going to okay the pipe line from Canada. Repeal oil subsidies. Go into the oil reserves. Or allow additional drilling in the Gulf, you would see the prices drop - really drop. He actually doesn’t have to do anything. Just the mere suggestion that he’s going to seriously consider an energy policy that deals with the realities of what exists now (solar power, and corn, are not part of that reality), prices would drop immediately.

Santorum dropped out today, so we don’t have to worry about lunatics in the White House. Romney will be the nominee. A failed Governor instead of a failed Senator. Is that the good news? So what better slogan for Obama then, “Geez, look who I’m running against”.

I don’t mean to be snarky, because I believe there is no choice but to support the President. But it is as worrisome as when Gore ran against Bush. What didn’t matter to the general public was that Bush was incompetent to be the President. (and I mean that in the nicest possible way). He had no sense of himself, history or a curiosity about the world. But it didn’t matter. He was a likeable backslapping guy, who if he drank beer, would have been a good choice for a beer partner. This is not the case with Romney. He is neither likeable, nor does he have nay clue about the way real people have to live.

But Obama, and all the VIP elected officials (VP, Speakers, rich people, etc) are also pretty out of touch. They have no idea what it means to chose between gas, food and medicine, because you can’t afford all. They simply have no idea how all the people, who are not elected officials, or the very rich, have to survive.

There I went digressing again, when none of this, (except not having a clue), is not what I want to blob about.

We had a friend that, rather then get up to see if there was any butter, would simply say, “is there any butter”, and expect someone – preferably female—to jump up and check to see. It was not malicious or sexist, it was just the way he was used to asking for something. We dealt with it by answering “I don’t know, is there any…?” Men are good at figuring out how to avoid tedious tasks. Someone told me about her husband who would take a wet cloth and wipe a single window sill, and say, “I just can’t stand to see dirt” When at the same time, he tracks mud into the bathroom, never wipes the tub down after a shower, and rather than actually look for something that appears to be lost, simply says “I can’t find it” Which means, “so you have to look for it”

What does this have to do with gas prices? Well, like the President, who has no idea how painful it is to fill a gas tank. Some men, have no idea what it means to delegate all the crappy tasks to their wives/partners. If they had to clean the house themselves, it would be a whole lot less likely that they would expect the cleaning, laundry, cooking,and looking, to be their beloved’s job. It’s not apples and oranges. It’s just when you don’t have to suffer any pain, you have no idea how painful any of this can be for someone who does. We're Just Sayin.... Iris

Gefilte Fish Central, 2012 Edition

Gefilte Fish Central, here to report that the weekend of Seders, just couldn’t have been more amusing. For whatever the reason, maybe because it’s spring and spring always feels, fresh and clean and like all life is renewed, Passover, not New Years, is how I mark the beginning of the calendar year.


This is the first Passover that we had no one from the first generation to turn to for advice or instruction. And even though The Gefilte Fish Chronicles COOKBOOK serves a purpose, it, like my mother and my aunts, calls for a great deal of guess work. Last year, although Aunt Peppy was infirmed, we still could ask her important questions. Like, do you put the eggs in before or after you “hock” the fish (like chopping, but you do it with more enthusiasm, it takes longer, and the fish seems to fight back.) Or, how long do you need to cook the soup? Because, it seems that no matter how many times you prepare the same meal (over 25 years for me) you can never remember how to put it together. It takes a team to do it right. Our mothers understood that. They didn’t duplicate jobs. Everyone did everything. They all thought they were in charge of something. They shopped, chopped, hocked, seasoned, mixed, tasted, disagreed, talked, yelled, screamed, carried on, and never forgot the love they felt for one another.

This was both a difficult and marvelous year for me. It was difficult health wise, and we moved, and we lived in one bedroom/one bathroom for longer than I care to remember. Having almost recovered from the loss of my Aunt Sophie, and my mother, Aunt Peppy died. Kind of a one, two, three, punch. If you have suffered the loss of a parent, you understand the loneliness one feels when it seems there is no one to listen, or to hear, or who will be there as unconditionally as a parent. And for most of us, we had at least four or five parents, not just the one who birthed us. (Don’t you love the word birthed—its so Southern.)

They are all gone. Not that we don’t still think we can call them when something awful or hysterical happens, it’s just that they no longer pick up the phone.
Stephanie & Gary
Honey & Milan
Billy, Iris & Honey
a roomful of Cousins
The family has become geographically scattered over the years. When we moved to Newburgh, we chose the location because I had family there and we really needed to find a new support system. (Our Washington family was not blood, but they certainly provided a wonderful support system for about 30 years.) It isn’t easy to replace those connections. Anyway, it turned out that it was a very good decision for many reasons – not the least of which was a reconnection with the Newburgh cousins, but in addition this Passover, we (all the cousins – Florida, New York, Massachusetts and on and on) became a Team. Without any of the first generation, the second, third, fourth, and even fifth generations came together to as a Team orchestrate the most beautiful (emotionally) Seder in all my memory. The baton was passed and we took it, ran with it, and surpassed all expectations. The Matzoh balls floated feather-light. The Fish was a perfect excuse to eat Horse Radish. The Chicken was divine. And the Cholent—don’t Ask!

our array of tables
a veritable car lot on Dogwood Hills
Jack reads...
Lovey, Honey & Rosalie
Well, go ahead and ask, but there just isn’t any left to take home. It was truly a family affair and we knew, as we made our way through the service, that the first generation (probably at their own Seder), was proud beyond belief, that everyone who could, came to Newburgh to be together for this beginning of a New Year. A thank you to all my beloved cousins/family for an amazing holiday. We’re just sayin’… Iris

Tracy & Debbi

Gen.4 passes Gen. 5 to Gen.3

the Birthday girls: Milan, Tracy, Brett, Madison

Bones, Gas, and Unattractive

For years, I refilled my Boniva prescription every month, because I knew that if I didn’t, my bones would fall apart. Like some TV skeleton, I would simply disintegrate before your eyes. Well not yours necessarily, but you get the picture. Last time I went to pick up the prescription , they said I had to pay my deductible so it would cost me $135 to fill a $35 prescription—which, if I didn’t have insurance would have cost about $175 without the deduction.

Anyway when I went today, the pharmacist said it would be $75. “Really,” I said. “For the last three years I paid $35. Why did it go up?” He said it was because the drug was now available in generic, so the price went up. “Wait a minute,” I said. “If there’s a generic wouldn’t they lower their prices?” Apparently not. But now the cost of the generic was – you guessed it.. $35. What the…? Otherwise known as “OH PLEEEEEZE!”

Gas is up to over $4 a gallon in most states. So here’s what I think—why didn’t the White House think of this as well. First of all the President hasn’t driven a car or had to pay for gas, since it was $1.89 a gallon. He and most of his policy wonks (who have lots of money, mostly in trust) cannot possibly understand what it means when a person needs to choose between, gas, food, and medication. All serious needs. However, if the President were to suggest that we are going to open areas for oil development or approve the pipeline through Canada—I can almost guarantee the prices of gas would drop. And not just drop—but drop significantly. We have to remember the gas and oil companies have had record profits, while the general public has had to swallow hard every time they make a trip to the pump. It’s amazing, but when the supermarket I shop at gives me (as a reward for loyal buying) 10c, 20c and maybe even 90 cents off a gallon, I think I’m the luckiest person in the universe. And when gas is at $3.50, as opposed to $4.07, I am thrilled by how “inexpensive” the fuel is…. Well what more do you need to know?

Was that enough whining for tonight?

The other night I was out to dinner with my very cool adorable young cousin. I was facing in and my cousins were facing the door. At some point, one of them said, “this is the ugliest crowd I have ever seen in one place.” I didn’t need to be facing the door to know it was true. There was ugly everywhere. It didn’t matter if you faced out or in or upside down. And the thing that was amazing was that the “ugly” was intentional. The people actually dressed themselves to be unattractive.

My son by choice, Alex, and I have spent hours and hours doing fashion commentary about people we see on the street. He is so much better at it than I am, but he’s younger and seemingly not intimidated by everyday niceties. So the other day when were were walking on 3rd Avenue, there was a woman who’s outfit screamed critical evaluation – otherwise known as critical Assessment - or ‘welcome to the real world.’

There she was, big as life, walking right in front of me, in her metallic blue stretch pants. Don’t misunderstand, I adore anything glittery or metallic. But, I also know what I (and other people) should be wearing to compliment their bodies. The blue metal did not work on this young woman. And, if she would have looked in the mirror, (I hope) she would have realized how (I’m going to be kind), unlikely she looked in them. Yes, I meant unlikely because it’s unlikely that she looked in the mirror.

Anyway, my everyday clothing is sweats, a t-shirt and often a schmata (tied in a little bow) in my hair. So I am probably not entitled to evaluate what other people wear. But at least I know when I look good and when I’m not trying. And truthfully, I do clean up very nicely. We’re just sayin’....Iris

Oh, No You Can't Do That!

Try as I might I just can’t help writing about stupid political tricks, and I mean that in the nicest possible way. Newt Gingrich, requested Secret Service protection last week and guess what? He got Secret Service protection this week. “ OH PLEEEEEZE”

You may ask yourself, why? You are not alone. I’m still scratching my head. Here’s the law:
“Major presidential and vice presidential candidates and their spouses within 120 days of a general presidential election. As defined in statute, the term "major presidential and vice presidential candidates" means those individuals identified as such by the Secretary of Homeland Security after consultation with an advisory committee. The Secret Service (SS), has no role in determining who is to be considered a major candidate. The Secretary of the Homeland Security determines who qualifies as a major candidate….”
on the Romney trail, last month
Let me get this straight. Janet Neapolitan decided that Newt Gingrich is a major Presidential Candidate? Well, maybe a month ago, but now? He hasn’t participated in a campaign event in weeks. Not that I blame him for the request. It’s much more fun and convenient to travel with SS than without, especially if you are tired of making your own travel arrangements, driving your own car, and having to be bothered with people you don’t like. It falls in that realm of “it’s nice to be king”.

When I started in politics (yes I rode my dinosaur to work), The Secret Service protected the Candidate, and the candidate’s family when they were together. They never made decisions about the security at any campaign event. It worked like this; the campaign staff would design the event. It usually meant throwing the Candidate into the middle of (we all hoped) a screaming crowd which was driven to tears by the mere thought of getting to see this splendid political force (who they hoped would lead the nation). The Secret Service would consult with the campaign, usually insisting that the Candidate be put in a bullet proof glass box, and never allowed to shake a hand. The final arbiter in the discussion of how the candidate was introduced, was usually the campaign manager or, if the discussion got heated, the Candidate. In other words, the Secret Service would spell out the kind and seriousness of the threat, and offer suggestions about how to avoid a life threatening situation. The staff would insist that the politics of the event be considered, and ultimately, the Secret Service would protect the Candidate whatever was decided about the event. These, brave people, were willing to take a bullet for their protectee—which could not be said by any staff I ever knew – but the politics and the opinions of the professional political operatives , would be taken into consideration.

This is no longer the case. Every campaign aide thinks they are working with/for the Secret Service to protect the Candidate from the media and the public. Everyone who attends a political event, a parade, or anywhere the Candidate appears, is subject to serious scrutiny, and ultimately security will make the decision about who gets to be wherever – even if the intruder is an important political asset. Yesterday, two people who were kissing were removed by Santorum’s security detail. They weren’t lewd or obstreperous – but even if they were, why is that a threat to the candidate’s personal safety. (One of the reasons a Candidate has SS.)

Let’s be real here. The simple fact is that it’s easier for the SS, or police, to simply shut something down than to have to deal with the inconvenience of securing a site. That is not to say that the SS chooses to make it easy rather than complicated, but that should be taken into consideration when no one is permitted to cross a street six miles from where the Candidate will be. Security, like everything else about politics and campaigning, has simply decided on overkill rather than thoughtful planning and administering any political policy.

If you hurry, you can still get somewhat close to the Candidates. But make it quick, because by the time there is a nominee, you thinking you actually saw the Candidate will be a figment of your imagination. We’re just sayin’… Iris