Moving Beyond the Fairy Tale

All the recent press and TV coverage remembering the death of Princess Diana 20 years ago led me to dig up a column I wrote a few days after her fatal accident. It appeared in the West County News, a small but sturdy weekly newspaper based in Shelburne Falls, Massachusetts, on September 5, 1997. I have edited it slightly.

Like media watchers all over the world, I spent much of this past weekend glued to my television set, trying to figure out what I and others thought about the fatally photogenic woman who used to be married to the Prince of Wales. Although I never had much interest in her when she was alive—except perhaps to envy her for getting her face on a biscuit tin (see above)—I find that Princess Diana’s death has fascinated me.

At first glance, the famous, regal Diana doesn’t seem like a natural topic for an essay in the West County News. Royalty doesn’t visit our quiet country towns very often. Nevertheless, most little girls—even little girls from rural western Massachusetts—have at one time or another wanted to marry a prince. Diana’s life choices, therefore, offer a lesson to us all, even to me.

Actually, I personally never really wanted to marry a prince. When I was small I did, however, cherish a burning ambition to become our nation’s first lady. This aspiration stemmed in part from my family’s reverence for Eleanor Roosevelt, who was rightly viewed in our home as one of the major figures of 20th-century politics and society.

More importantly, looking back, I realize that my desire to act at the White House in a supporting role also came from the sex-role training of my childhood. First ladies didn’t directly seek power; they merely enjoyed influence. They operated in the traditional feminine realms of charity, entertainment, and social issues. And of course they spent a lot of time wearing nice dresses, getting their hair done, and posing for glamorous photos.

I gave up my desire to be first lady a few years ago when I realized that in order to achieve that dream I would have to marry a politician: most of these creatures are supremely unappealing to a girl of taste. Nevertheless, I never completely lost the notion somewhere in the back of my mind that first-ladyhood would be a fun and noble thing to practice.

A bit belatedly for me, since I’m supposed to be a feminist, a look back at Diana’s life has thrown into question the idea of being famous as someone’s adjunct—as a glamorous, supporting figure. To begin with, at any rate, her wifehood was her sole claim to fame, a claim staked through her beauty, youth, and aristocratic connections rather than through any qualities of character. She was definitely not a figure to emulate.

Eventually, the princess turned many of the negatives of her situation around and became more admirable. Elevated to high privilege, she managed to embrace people who were not privileged through her charitable work, using her arbitrary celebrity in a directed, life-affirming way.

Her exposure of her own eating disorder led her to challenge the superficial ideals of beauty and thinness that had in part brought her her crown and her prince—and the attention of the public.

Finally, her divorce from Prince Charles led her to demystify the notion of royalty far more effectively than any speeches by members of Parliament or by pseudo-radicals like me. (At my one and only exposure to royalty, a public appearance by Prince Charles around 1989, I yelled, “Free the Irish!” Nobody paid any attention.)

All of these breakthroughs proved two edged, however. Diana’s charity work was always overshadowed by the personal renown of the woman accomplishing it; she couldn’t expose the unfairness of her exalted station without taking advantage of that station.

Despite her frank discussion of her eating disorder, the princess was still prized above all for her beauty—and clearly reveled in her looks, as a spread in Vanity Fair shortly before her death showed. I have trouble believing that she had conquered her obsession with slenderness when I study recent photographs of an almost painfully thin Diana. At best, then, her message about beauty was mixed.

Finally, even after her divorce from Prince Charles and despite her protests against the stultifying living situation of the British royal family, her royalty remained her base of power. Hailed in obituaries as “the most famous woman in the world,” she was famous mostly for being famous. That skewed fame was, apparently, what killed her.

If Diana’s life and death teach us anything, it is that it is time for all girls and women—from 19-year-old English aristocrats to 30-something New England journalists—to find more healthy ambitions for ourselves than marrying princes and presidents. We must all move beyond the scenarios of fairy tales in planning our lives.

Of course, I’d still love to have my face on a biscuit tin—but I’ll see whether I can do it by being me rather than by marrying someone.

Not regal but happy.

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Mother’s Day Revisited

With Jan/Taffy during her last Christmas season.

A friend recently noted on Facebook that many of us who no longer have our mothers feel as though we are unmoored.

I occasionally have that feeling—but then I remember that my mother is still with me in many ways.

On Friday, I visited my friends at Mass Appeal, the lifestyle program on which I cook from time to time. The young hosts were celebrating Mother’s Day; their mothers were also guests that day and were deservedly feted. (They have raised pretty terrific children.)

For a moment or two I felt a little sorry for myself. I had no mother, I thought, and I was no one’s mother.

Co-host Seth Stutman snapped me right out of that little bout of self-pity. As a tribute to my mother I prepared a salad that featured one of her favorite foods, rhubarb. While Seth and Lauren Zenzie tossed the salad for me I shared the words on my mother’s gravestone.

Her epitaph was inspired by an incident that took place shortly after I graduated from Mount Holyoke. I returned to campus and as an adult (finally!) was invited to the college’s weekly faculty cocktail hour. There I met a retired philosophy professor named Roger Holmes.

“I believe my mother took a course from you many years ago,” I told him. “I don’t know whether you’d remember her: Jan Hallett, Class of 1939.”

My Mother in 1939

The elderly but spry man immediately replied, “Short and full of life!”

Obviously, my mother made an impression. When she died my brother and I decided to inscribe Professor Holmes’s description of our petite, lively mother on her grave.

When Seth heard the epitaph during our cooking segment, he stated, “Well, Tinky, I’d say the same thing about you,” and gave me a big Mother’s Day hug.

He went on to note that he thought of me as one of his “show moms.”

Since I’m officially only 39 and Seth is 31, I replied that I and his other show moms (studio manager Denise and director Deb) thought of ourselves as older sisters rather than mothers.

Nevertheless, I was touched and reassured.

My mother may no longer be walking around the house, but she is present to me—not only in my own small stature, but also in every dish I cook and every song I sing. She will always be with me.

And I may not be a mother, but I am an older woman friend to lots of children (and even a few grownups like Seth!) whom I can nurture and love.

I seldom quote the Bible, but in this case I have to agree with the “Song of Solomon”: “For love is strong as death.” I also concur with lyricist Leo Robin: “Hooray for love!”

Happy Mother’s Day to all.

If you’d like to see the segment (the salad was DELICIOUS!), here it is:

One Step at at Time

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Leigh with her friend Tara at the March

My sister-in-law Leigh took off early yesterday morning for the Women’s March on Washington. I stayed home.

One reason for my not marching was the state of my knees. I get tired after a few hours of standing at my holiday retail job. I have a feeling walking around Washington for a day would do me in for a week or more.

I also have a fear of crowds!

More importantly, however, group protest is not my mode of self expression, particularly in this case. I got my first invitation to the march the morning after Donald Trump’s election. It seemed—and seems—to me too soon to be protesting. I would have preferred to wait and protest some specific presidential action or policy rather than the president himself.

Nevertheless, I support the right to free speech of my friends and relatives who chose to march. In fact, I happily lent my BEAUTIFUL new pink hat to Leigh to wear on her march. (See photo above.)

We all speak and protest in our own ways. I deal with things that upset me—and I have to admit that I’m not a fan of our new president—by writing and singing and talking. And staying positive.

Here’s what I want to do in the months ahead: I want to emulate the folks from Broadway’s Concert for America. They will inspire me to do creative things and to support organizations and people who can keep our country strong and wonderful and charitable and generous and (yes!) great.

I want to write passionately about things that matter. In my case, this is usually food and books—but food and books sustain life and give it meaning.

I want to sing whenever I can. In my opinion, there is very little in this world that a show tune or a spiritual can’t make just a little bit better. Music connects us as human beings. It helps us mourn, comfort each other, and then move forward and celebrate.

Above all, I want to be a good neighbor on my road, in my community, and in my world. I want to stay in contact and sympathy with all the people I know, whether they voted for Trump or Clinton or Mickey Mouse. And I want to continue to meet and converse with new people. The one thing I think Donald Trump got right in his inaugural address is the idea that our nation is about all of its citizens.

So I’ll be marching with my fingers and my voice and my smile. Not all at once but one step at a time. I hope to encounter lots of you along the way.

Lessons from Uncle Walter

NASA/Bill Ingalls

NASA/Bill Ingalls

I don’t usually pay a lot of attention to Google’s “Doodle” of the day. Today, however, I was touched to notice that the internet search engine was honoring longtime CBS news anchor Walter Cronkite. Cronkite (1916 to 2009) would have turned 100 today.

I haven’t covered a lot of “straight” journalism in my years as a writer. I write reviews, craft recipes to honor specific foods and occasions, and from time to time venture into opinion. Nevertheless, I think of myself as a journalist. And my hero has always been the reporter known to millions as Uncle Walter.

Cronkite came to prominence as the leader in a generation of broadcast news reporters and anchors who hewed to old-fashioned standards of impartiality. They occasionally ventured into opinion—as his mentor Edward R. Murrow did when addressing issues like poverty and Senator Joseph McCarthy, and as Cronkite did himself when he called for an end to the U.S. involvement in Vietnam in 1968.

By and large, however, they strove for objective truth in reporting, even though I’m sure most of them knew then, as most of us know now, that objectivity is a Platonic ideal rather than anything any of us will ever achieve.

I last saw Cronkite in the early 2000s when he was interviewed onstage at the Museum of Television & Radio (now the Paley Center for Media) in New York, where I worked for a few years. Hearing his voice then warmed my heart; it was like hearing the voice of my dead father. Both were warm, smart men who performed work they loved with integrity and lightened life with humor. And both possessed voices that charmed and informed.

If the national election in which we are currently enmired has taught us anything, it is that the ways in which we receive and deal with the news have changed. As a nation and a world we no longer share a few, elite sources of news—and, as the Pew research center has recently pointed out, Americans no longer share many of the “facts” of our political and social life. We have come a long way from aiming for that Platonic ideal of objectivity.

I know that we can’t go back to having one trusted source for news—or even a few. In many ways, that’s a good thing. I don’t necessarily buy the impression of many in this country that Cronkite had a liberal bias—perhaps because I have one myself (and what does liberal mean, really, other than “generous,” an attribute to which we should all aspire?). I do believe that as a human being he was inherently biased in some directions.

We don’t necessarily need an elite to tell us what to do and how to interpret the news. Without that elite, however, we do need to cultivate standards Uncle Walter embodied, as journalists and as human beings. These include committing ourselves to coming as close to objective truth as we can, to growing and learning, and above all to taking our time.

One of Walter Cronkite’s most famous, and most replayed, moments on the air is the one in which he announced the death of John F. Kennedy. He stops several times during his short report, to compose himself but also (it seems to me) to get his reporting right, to give himself and the people watching and listening time to process the information he is reporting.

I’m not good at pausing. In casual conversation I tend to rush in and fill the dead air space between my own sentences and everyone else’s. Remembering Walter Cronkite today and in the days to come, I’m going to try to give myself and everyone else a little more time—time to process, time to deliberate, time to be kind and truthful.

As this crazy election season at last draws to a close I hope other journalists and citizens will do the same.

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Looking Up

Looking Upweb

You do NOT have to wear a hat and gloves in order to look up at the sky. Feel free to wax theatrical, however.

A few weeks ago my friend Cheryl told me that most people forget to look up and view the sky on a regular basis.

I find this hard to believe. I spend a lot of time looking up—not just because I’m short but because I was educated to do so.

One of the joys of my liberal-arts degree from Mount Holyoke was and remains my minor in astronomy. I never wanted to be an astronomer. I loved studying astronomy, however. It grounded me in our world and our universe. It still does.

On clear nights (and we’re having a lot of those lately!) I keep track of the movement of the seasons by charting the progress of the constellations through the sky. The moon’s phases remind me that the month is flying by.

As for the sun … well, the sun’s migration along the horizon is particularly striking here in western Massachusetts.

At the winter solstice, when the sun reaches its southernmost point, the morning light appears outside my bedroom window over a high mountain. That mountain makes the winter sunrise even later than it would ordinarily be at this latitude, around 9:30 in the morning. I have often told our minister that if the church would celebrate a sunrise service at Christmas instead of Easter I might actually manage to get out of bed in time to attend.

Today is the summer solstice—and the sun has moved dramatically to the north. (Yes, I know that technically the earth has moved, not the sun, but life is all about perception.) From my point of view the sun now rises above the barn across the street at Red Top, the home of my neighbors the Gillans. I don’t actually see the sunrise from my window unless I get up to take my dog out around 5:30 and peer northward.

I’m not generally a sunrise kind of girl because I’m not a morning kind of girl. At this time of year, however, I enjoy contemplating the sun as it appears over that barn. (I can, and do, always go back to sleep!)

The sun will start moving to the south again tomorrow. But today it briefly seems to stand still.

Its bright northern light represents all the ripeness that summer offers—daylilies and corn and tomatoes; hours spent chatting with neighbors on the shore or gliding through the clear, cool water; shared stories and songs and sandwiches on the porch.

To top off the thrill of today, tonight we’ll be treated to the Strawberry Moon. That full moon of June celebrates the flavor and significance of my favorite berry. I plan to observe the occasion by consuming at least a pint of strawberries.

I hope you eat them too—and above all I hope you look up! I find that when I’m looking up the world is, too.

Happy Solstice.

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To read more about my astronomy minor, click here.

To read more about the Strawberry Moon, click here.

Over the Hill?

I'm over the hill--but I'm not quite ready to move into the cemetery.

I’m over the hill–but I’m not quite ready to move into the cemetery.

The day before yesterday was National Old Maids’ Day. (Who on earth thinks up these “holidays”?) Learning that it was my special day reminded me of an odd recent experience. A man I didn’t know wanted to friend me on Facebook. I sent him a message asking how we knew each other. He replied that he didn’t know me personally but that he had found me on Facebook and was interested in making friends.

He added that he was actually looking for someone to marry, explaining that he was a widower in the army with two small children.

I am always a little suspicious of men who “find” me on Facebook. I have heard stories about individuals who who say online that they are in search of romance but whose real motives are to worm their way into the confidence and finances of the women they befriend.

This man looked more genuine than most. His timeline featured photos of him with the children, and he sounded nice. (Of course, he would, if he were in the confidence game.)

On the other hand, despite saying that he “liked” me, he obviously hadn’t done a lot of research about me. He asked what I did for a living and whether I had any children; that information isn’t hard to find on my Facebook profile and/or website.

So I compromised. I told him that I wasn’t really interested in getting married, particularly not within the next few months. I agreed to be his Facebook friend, however. Perhaps, I suggested, as I got to know him a little I could find a him a suitable girlfriend.

I didn’t hear back from him, which didn’t bother me—until an odd question occurred to me.

What if this guy was on the level and represented my last chance to get married and have children (albeit stepchildren)?

When I was younger assumed that I would marry and have children someday. It’s fairly certain now—although of course nothing in the world is absolutely certain—that I won’t.

In general, I’m happy with my old-maid existence. I have friends and family whom I love and who love me. I work hard but love my work. I don’t have any romance per se in my life, but, frankly. it has been so long since I was in a romantic relationship that I don’t miss it all that much.

Every once in a while I think it would be nice to have someone to grow old with—or even someone a little taller than I (that category includes most of the adults in the world) to reach things on high shelves in the house.

I’m hardly ever lonely, however. And since I wasn’t really fabulous at the give and take of romance when I was young it’s hard to believe that I would be much better now. I certainly can’t imagine getting involved with a total stranger. My best relationships always started out as friendships.

Still … it’s odd to realize that I will always be an old maid without ever having chosen to be one.

I recognize that I am over the hill. I just don’t remember climbing up.

Saying Goodbye

Truffle on Her Final Afternoon

Truffle’s Final Afternoon

This morning I said goodbye to a loyal companion. My dog Truffle was only 13-1/2 years old, and because she was small I hoped to have her for 20 years or so. Fate doesn’t always fulfill our hopes, however.

I wrote here early in 2014 that Truffle had been diagnosed with Doggy Alzheimer’s Disease. I dealt with this challenge using a combination of medication, observation (some techniques worked better than others!), and patience.

Despite her dementia—and despite her eventual total blindness—Truffle had a lot of fun over the past year and a half. Together we walked, cuddled, shared meals, and entertained guests.

The fun had just about come to an end, however. Truffle’s unhappy moments each day increased, and her happy ones dwindled. In the past few weeks her nighttime fear and aggression worsened. And she started having trouble sleeping. She panted and paced on the bed, not certain where she was or what was going on.

Believing that her life was no longer a good one, I made an appointment to take her to the vet today. The prospect was daunting, particularly since I had never had to go through this process alone before. I reminded myself that my mother had managed alone several times with previous pets—in large part to spare the rest of us the pain of having to witness the death of an important family member. I tried to view her courage as a challenge.

I was with Truffle when she died. It wasn’t easy. The blindness and the dementia made her nervous although the vet, his dear assistant Robin, and I did our best to reassure her. It’s a good thing my current nutritional cleanse requires me to drink a gallon of water a day. My tear ducts need replenishing.

My friend Michael Collins accompanied me to my biweekly television appearance on Wednesday; he is a chef and made a dish on the air with me. Michael and his partner Tony recently had to say goodbye to their dog Spotty (a friend of Truffle).

I told Michael that Truffle’s time was coming, and he observed wisely that taking care of our elderly pets—and then saying goodbye to them—is the price we pay for the short but full lifetime of love they share with us. Truffle certainly fulfilled her part of that bargain. I tried to repay her with comfort and love as she left me.

We enjoyed a last outing together yesterday afternoon at the Dam, where Truffle spent many glorious summer afternoons sitting and swimming with my late mother.

With My Mother in Happier Days

With My Mother in Happier Days

Truffle no longer swam, but she waded into the water yesterday afternoon and lifted her nose to smell the grass and feel the breeze. For a minute or two, her blindness and dementia didn’t matter. She found herself in a familiar environment, in what my neighbor Ruth calls a person’s (or a dog’s) “happy place.”

The Dam is my happy place as well. I did swim, and the experience was refreshing. Gliding through the water, I saw birds swoop down to take a drink. Wading to shore, I noted that the tadpoles were getting bigger. And so I was reminded that life goes on.

I have taken final swims at the Dam with beloved dogs in the past, and with luck I will swim there again someday with another dog. Yesterday the experience helped both Truffle and me reconnect with nature and with each other.

I think it helped me get through today’s ordeal, to say goodbye to my old friend as gracefully and generously as I could. Predictably, Truffle was as sweet in dying as she was in living.

Truffle with heartweb