Naked Pictures of Nixon

           Okay, so the title of this piece does not conjure up a pretty picture. Believe me, I know. I’ve thought about naked pictures of our 37th President for several months now, ever since my husband brought them to my attention. But all I can really see are those black and white pencil sketch cartoons, like in the New Yorker and even in those, Nixon is at least covered with a towel. I can’t imagine real naked pictures of Richard Millhouse Nixon. You try it. See, it’s not easy. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him without a suit and tie on. He’s just not that guy for me. Now Robert Redford, no problem.  Those naked pictures I’ve seen in my dreams many times. But not Richard Nixon.  

           Little know fact here:  Before she became Mrs. Nixon, Pat Ryan once worked as an x-ray technician.  Personally, I think the ability to see through a man’s body probably helped her in the most intimate moments of her marriage. Either that or just shutting off the lights.  If I ever see naked pictures of Nixon, I fear I’ll never be able to un-see them.

            Here’s how this Nixon scandal came into my life:
   

            My husband is a restless sleeper. He worries about everything and he takes those worries to bed. He’s sought help for this problem from his doctors. And when I say doctors, I mean all of them: the general practitioner, the gastroenterologist, the urologist, his dentist, anyone with a diploma on their wall who can provide him with an “educated” answer. He’s even sought help from friends and neighbors with the same problem, which is, “just as good as going to a doctor and it’s free.” God forbid he should trust his wife who just tells him to go to bed at a reasonable hour and get up with the sun.
   

When the “doctors” advise him to take supplements like melatonin, he’s a great patient, always ready to pop another pill. He also believes in the “all natural” cures, which is why he’s such an easy mark for all those t.v. doctors. I point out to him that dirt is "all natural," but he doesn’t make the connection.
   

When we had our bathroom remodeled, I had the contractor cut a huge medicine cabinet in the wall behind a full-length mirror. It’s 16 inches wide and 5 feet tall. I thought we could share it. But no, it houses all of his supplements from those t.v. experts:  Dr. Oz, Dr. Phil, Dr. Suess.  One pill, two pill, red pill, blue pill.
   

            The real doctors who tell him to change his lifestyle to cure his sleep problems, are talking to a brick wall. He stays up watching old movies on television or surfing sports sites on the internet until 2 or 3 a.m. So he sleeps until noon. We have a DVR. He can watch television on any schedule. As far as I know, the internet is pretty much a 24-hour service too.  Sometimes I think he just doesn’t want to change because he likes breaking the story.  I watch plenty of news.  I’m also a speed reader, so it takes a lot to get the story before me and I think he derives a great deal of pleasure from finding something out before I do. During baseball season this year, many of those stories happened at 2 a.m., usually after a west coast Yankees game and they involved a Yankee player named Alex playing, or not playing, because he was, or was not, suspended for taking, or not taking, supplements which are, or are not, illegal or all natural under major league baseball rules. None of this is need-to-know stuff for me. But he likes it and he wants to share, regardless of my REM cycle or my early morning schedule of dog walking and pickleball.  (That supplement thing between him and Alex is mere coincidence.) It’s not always Yankees news I get at 2 a.m.  Sometimes it’s the death of a celebrity or the birth of a 2-headed animal. A lot of news seems to happen at 2 a.m. eastern standard time.
         

           When my husband finally comes to bed, he usually has nightmares that are loosely related to the last thing he saw on t.v. or on some web site. Many of them are violent and cause him to toss, turn and yell in a clear voice.  No mumbling. I get every word.

                                          

            When he yells, “Adrian, Adrian,” I know he’s not calling out for an old girlfriend. He just watched Rocky.

                                  

            After an old John Wayne movie, I hear, “Giddyup, bang, bang, pilgrim.”  And yes, he really says “bang, bang” and holds his finger like a gun.  The first time that happened, I was hysterical.  I couldn’t believe he was actually doing that in his sleep.
                            

            Since then, there’s been the Clint Eastwood movie outbursts:  “Ask yourself, do I feel lucky? Do you Punk? Bang, bang!”
      

There’s almost always a “bang, bang!”  This from a man who’s never even shot a gun. 
      

Many nights, he automatically goes into the guest room to spare me from these outbursts. And I appreciate that.
      

He was not in the guest room on Nixon Night.  That’s what we call it now, Nixon Night.  He came to bed late again. He tossed and turned a little. I had nowhere to send him. My brother’s family of 5 was visiting and the 2 guest rooms were full. So was the couch.  When I could tell he was about to start yelling, I shook him to wake him up so I could get to sleep again.  That usually works.  Not this time. He looked right me, as if he were fully awake and yelled, “Naked pictures of Nixon, naked pictures of Nixon.”  He woke up the whole house and we all wanted to know:  What about the naked pictures of Nixon?  What about the naked pictures of Nixon?  The late night movie that brought on his outburst was All the President’s Men.  I’ve seen it a thousand times.  There are no naked pictures of Nixon in the Watergate scandal. There are some seedy lines in the movie involving Deep Throat and Katherine Graham’s ta-tas, but Nixon remains fully clothed in all pictures.  So what was he thinking and why?  He dreamed up naked pictures of Nixon just like I dreamed up my naked pictures of Robert Redford.
     

            Melatonin? Sleep?  He says he’s not getting enough.  And I’m not exactly sure what he means by that.

The Cradle to Grave Bell Curve

     Ah, The Bell Curve.  I think I remember studying it in school.    I don't remember what I thought about it or why.  Looking it up today, I see that the first few Google pages of online sites devoted to it reference a study in the mid 1990s. Well, I was out of school by then.  So now I really don't know where I remember it from.   Maybe I'm confusing it with playing the bells in music class, or drawing bells in art class.  Whatever.

     Why am I even thinking about this?  It's all I'm thinking about these days because I've discovered a new application for that Bell Curve and I'm going to call it The Cradle to Grave Bell Curve.  It takes into account a person's age and the amount of time expected to address the needs of that person at a certain age.  Simply put, if you draw the bell and assign ages to the up and down slopes, my observation has been that the same things that happen on the up-slope will happen on the down-slope.  Stay with me here.  I'll clear it up.

     Babies want it NOW, or they cry.  Toddlers want it NOW, or they scream.  Young children want it NOW or they throw tantrums.  Teenagers want it NOW or they rebel, regardless of the consequences that often result in the parental-infliction of pain.

     
     Then it all tapers off.  Young adults have the idea that it's all just beginning.  There's plenty of time for them to get a good job, find a partner, raise a family.  We discover the blissful feeling of procrastination.  Tomorrow is when things will happen.  There's no good reason to do everything today.  Then, it all changes again when old age hits.  And it hits hard.

     Currently, I'm in a household with an 86-year-old and a 90-year-old and it's fascinating (and exhausting) to observe the down-slope of my Cradle to Grave Bell Curve.

     No matter what he needs, 86-year-old Dad wants it NOW!  Ice cream, cookies, coffee, a pen, a napkin, whatever.  If it doesn't come now, he quickly asks what's wrong with me.  (And that's the only thing he does quickly these days.)

     Each time I explain that nothing's wrong.  I'm just busy.  But he keeps asking.  He doesn't get it.  Neither would a baby on the up-slope.

     My experience with children is limited to my nephews and the  children of friends.  But I can still draw the parallel on the Bell. 

     When I tell 90-year-old Aunt Sophie we're going out to lunch, she gets her jacket on and stands at the door, even if I just said, "We're going out to lunch in 20 minutes."  She doesn't want to be late.  And she'll stand at the door waiting.  Of course, seeing that, I  rush around to leave NOW!  (Is she using psychology on me? Nah.  Hmm?)

     I'm trying to be more understanding.  After all, I'll be there some day (if someone doesn't shoot me in frustration first).  I'm sure Dad and Auntie somehow soothed my demands when I was very young.  So I feel the need to reciprocate now.  And the fact that they act like children really makes me believe it's payback.  But here's the scary part:  Aunt Sophie and her brother (my father) are 4 years apart.  So are my brother and I.  Someday, I expect my nephew Kyle to come to the realization that there's a Cradle to Grave Bell Curve.  And when he does, I'll probably have my jacket on, ready for him to take me to lunch at the same time his father is demanding a cup of coffee NOW!

     Good luck Kyle and thank you NOW.

The Impossible Dream

     My husband Wally and I are compatible in many ways.  In the areas where we don't mesh, I guess you could say we're complementary. Yin and Yang, so to speak. This give and take, and always living in a big house with plenty of  “time out” space, has served to keep our marriage intact. 

     Visiting New York City is something about which we don't agree.  And when we used to live across the border in Connecticut, we “discussed” it many times.  To me, it's exciting Manhattan, full of wonderful Broadway shows, fine restaurants, and fascinating museums.  To him, the only borough is the Bronx and it's only open during baseball season. 

     Wally hates Manhattan.  He says it's crowded and dirty and expensive. That's the way I feel about the Bronx.  But for him, it was nothing to drive an hour to Yankee Stadium after a full day of work for a full night of baseball regardless of the hundred dollar seats, $20 parking, $7 hot dogs and $9 dollar beer, along with the cleanliness of the restrooms and the roominess of a sold out major league ballpark.

     The first time I got him to go into the city with me, I did it by promising  him lunch with a former major league catcher.  I knew that was enough to get him on the train.  Once we got to Grand Central Station, I 'fessed up that my ballplayer friend was a Met, not a Yankee.  Good sport that he is, Wally stayed, but he didn't pick up  the check.

     After that first time, I only asked for an annual New York City trip when we could take a small luxury bus to a Broadway show with a group of teachers from my school.  The bus would drop us off at a restaurant for lunch and then take us to the theatre for the show and pick us up right after.  In reality, we only spent a total of about 10 minutes on an actual New York City sidewalk.  It's the perfect way to experience Broadway for a man who hates New York. 

     Over the years we saw A Chorus Line,  Phantom of the Opera, Beatlemania, The Full Monty and maybe one or two others.  He resigned himself to the annual trip and I appreciated it.  He admitted that the shows were great.  So of course that was my opening to push for more shows, if only in Connecticut.  I got him to go to some regional theatre and even a few shows at the local high schools.  We saw student productions of Guys and Dolls, South Pacific and Man of La Mancha.  Wally especially likes the shows where he knows the music as well as the story.  For weeks afterward he'd be singing Some Enchanted Evening, Luck Be a Lady Tonight or To Dream the Impossible Dream. He was becoming cultured, despite being a jock to the core.

     So now we're in Florida and he's safely a long distance away from Broadway. I'm starting to discover the local arts scene and he's on his guard.  A few weeks ago, a friend gave me tickets for a show at the Bob Carr Performing Arts Center in Orlando.  We've never been there and I wanted to go no matter what the show was.  It was A Midsummer Night's Dream.  Shakespeare.  Not only Shakespeare but the Shakespeare play with all the fairies and that little impish forest-dwelling guy named Puck.  After studying Shakespeare in college and earning a masters degree in English, I can confidently say it's really not one of his better plays. 

     The production included a full orchestra, the Orlando Philharmonic, and the Orlando Shakespeare Company of actors along with the Orlando Children's Chorus.  The children would be the fairies.  All in all, I thought it would be a nice evening, but not necessarily a man's night out.

     I asked Wally if he wanted to go with me, emphasizing the Bob Carr Theatre more than the show.

     “You know honey,” I said sweetly, “The place next door to where the Orlando Magic plays.”

     I also mentioned the symphony orchestra so he'd realize that this was a big production that I would like to see.  And I know I said the show was A Midsummer Night's Dream.  I know that because I already had a list of girlfriends I'd ask because I assumed he'd say no.  He went to college.  He knew Shakespeare.  But he said yes and I knew enough to shut my mouth and thank God for the selective hearing of husbands.  He probably heard theatre, Orlando Magic and maybe orchestra and that was okay with me.

     In the week leading up to the show, all I did was remind him of “our date at the Bob Carr Theatre, next door to where the Magic plays.”  On Saturday night, we got all dressed up for what I called “a night at the symphony.”  I never said the name of the play after that first time when I asked him to go.

     Walking in from the parking lot, with the car keys safely in my purse, I said, "I really can't believe you agreed to come to this show.” 

     By this time, I kind of figured out he didn't know the show because he had a week to make Shakespeare and fairy jokes and he didn't. 

     He said, "I've seen it before, in New York, long before we met.”

     “New York!”  I was shocked. “You always gave me such a hard time about going to New York.  I thought you never went to any shows there until I started dragging you on the bus.”

     “Well, New York wasn't the draw,” he admitted.  “It was a long time before we met.  I was about 20 and an older, 22-year-old woman asked me to go to the show with her.  We were staying overnight with friends of hers, so I went.”

     “Aha,” I said, “The show wasn't the draw either, it was the overnight.”

      He laughed and said, “Well the show was pretty good too."

      Now I knew he had the wrong show in mind, but uncharacteristically, I didn't say another word about it.

     We had plenty of time to stroll around the lobby and gift shop before going to our seats.  Thankfully, all the posters on the walls were for upcoming shows, not this one.  And the program highlighted the entire season, with just the middle insert giving information for A Midsummer Night's Dream.  Considering we're both at the stage that we need reading glasses, we just flipped thru it to see the pictures and the big print.  After all, I knew the show and he said he knew the show and “it was pretty good too.”

     I didn't even look at him during the first act.  I was enjoying the music, reacquainting myself with all that Shakespeare dialogue and wondering whether Wally was sleeping or just silent.  Or was he staring at me?  I couldn't look. 

     At intermission, I turned to him and said, "Well, what do you think?"

     He said, "It's not what I expected.  Do we have to stay for the second act?"

     I said, "Yes, of course.  I love it.  What did you expect?  You said you saw this show before and liked it."

     He said, "Where's the Spanish guy with the dream and the windmills?  Isn't that A Midsummer Night's Dream?" 

     “No dear,” I said, “That's Man of La Mancha and the song is The Impossible Dream.”

     Wally was a good sport and we stayed for the second act.  I knew it was much shorter than the first act, so I knew he'd survive.

     The conversation on the way home was lively and Wally sang The Impossible Dream once or twice and then reminisced about seeing Man of La Mancha at my high school.  The boy who had the lead studied opera and went on to Julliard. 

     Wally remembered.  He said, “Hey, I wonder how that kid is doing, the one who played Cyrano de Bergerac?”

     You can take a guy out of the ballpark but you can't take the ballpark out of the guy. 

Newtown Teachers

       Since I taught in 5 school districts in my career, I know how lucky I was to have spent 9 years teaching video production at Newtown High School.  I believe the parents, teachers and town leaders have made the difference in turning out respectful, intelligent and adventurous children.  Nowhere else have I seen the caring and cooperation of making every production a success.  Whether it was an art show, a football game or an in-class debate, win or lose, the students were encouraged in their achievements at any level.

         In other towns I've taught in, I've spent the entire two hours of Parents' Night doing paperwork because no parents came around.  It's not that way in Newtown.  Every year, twice a year on Parents' Night, every parking lot at every school was overflowing.  If you didn't remember to park at the end of the driveway, you were stuck in traffic for an extra hour after the event ended.  That's how many parents cared to visit their children's teachers and find out how their child was getting along.

        District faculty meetings were typically businesslike until the teachers took control and we got to experience each others expertise.  I learned how to teach math with M&Ms, how to find what was hidden in a lump of clay, how to prompt kids to read and write.  And I got to show other teachers how to get the best video on camera.  Really, the creativity of the teachers in Newtown knows no bounds and everyone shares.  I'm grateful that these caring individuals will be leading all those children away from the madness that descended upon them last week.  They will pull magic out of their hats.

       As young teenagers, many of my students referred to their hometown as a "one-horse town" or a "farm town."  They looked forward to the day they could leave for college and maybe move to a big city. Some of them did.  Just scanning the list I keep in touch with on Facebook, there are several enjoying New York City and Los Angeles.  They're the very same 20-somethings who are posting about how wonderful their lives are now, thanks to growing up in Newtown.

     Those of my students who returned to Newtown after college obviously feel the same way.  They're raising their own families in that beautiful New England town and now they are the ones who will take over the leadership roles, many of them as teachers. 

     Despite the recent tragedy, I'm confident every child growing up in Newtown will be made to feel lucky to be surrounded by such caring people.  I just know it in my heart. 

     Newtown is a finely tuned machine on the best days and now the world knows just how fine it can be under the burden of tragedy.  More families will continue to move into town to take advantage of the wonderful schools and the wonderful people.

     And I must also compliment the weekly Newtown Bee newspaper for their contribution to how well the town works on a day to day basis.  It's truly good old-fashioned, hometown journalism in a time when other newspapers are giving up.  The staff keeps everyone informed and entertained in addition to providing a hard copy of the accolades that scrapbooks are made of.  It must be very hard for them to be turning out their current issues.  I wish them luck.

     To my teacher friends who may have heard I happened to be in Connecticut last week:  I actually planned to go to the Newtown Library on Friday morning.  A phone call from my friend Lisa stopped me.  And my visit to the high school to see the new addition was set for Monday.  And even with all that I've seen as a former reporter, I couldn't bring myself to drive down route 34.  I was glued to the t.v. and I saw many of you, but I've been away for so long that I didn't want to intrude.  Be sure NHS will be my first stop on my next visit.  Be well. 

      
    

      

Radio Interview on Dresser After Dark

I recently did a radio interview about my book on Dresser After Dark with Michael Dresser.  Go to the home page of my website and click on the MP3 file to listen.  http://www.kerrykendall.com/

Senator George McGovern

     I was saddened to read Senator George McGovern's obituary today.  I'd like to think he had such a full life, he was just done at age 90 and needed a rest.

     I met Sen. McGovern back in the early '80s, just after he bought the Stratford Inn, on the hill across the street from Sikorsky on the Shelton-Stratford line.  That's the same hotel the Jets used to stay in before the annual Jets-Giants pre-season game at Yale Bowl.  I know this because I used to make my dad circle the parking lot the night before in case Joe Namath was wandering around waiting for me, his biggest fan, to show up and say "hi."  Unfortunately, Joe never came outside.  So the only place I got close to him was at the tunnel when the team ran out on the field.  Joe didn't run on those knees, so I was able to get a nice clear picture of him coming onto the field.  One time I caught the eye of Coach Weeb Ewbanks.  I was wearing my number 12 jersey, my hair in pigtails and green ribbons.  He came over to ask me just why Namath was my favorite.  I was probably eleven years old.  I can't remember what I said, but I'm sure it had nothing to do with his ability to call audibles or his quick release pass.

     I had better luck getting close to McGovern at the hotel in 1988.  I was there for a breakfast meeting of the Society of Professional Journalists and I was intimidated enough by all the writers in the group, never mind a real Presidential candidate.  Heck, I was only on local t.v.  I was happy the writers let me have a cup of coffee with them.  Anyway, McGovern was the guest speaker, but he was not going to arrive until the regular monthly business meeting was over.  I didn't care about that, so I thought I'd sneak out and use my Namath-stalking technique inside the hotel.

     It was too easy.  McGovern was just walking up and down the hallways around the lobby, checking out the decor and making sure the pictures were straight.  That was the decor, pictures of his family and a lifetime of accomplishments on his travels from South Dakota to Washington, D.C.

     Up until this time, I had only known about the senator from my history books and whatever big story hit the newspapers.  I was not a McGovern scholar.  But I did understand how lucky I was to be standing alone with a man who ran for President and I wanted to take the opportunity to drink in whatever he had to offer.  So I introduced myself and said something about how wonderful it must be to have served so many people as a representative in our government.  He was gracious and fatherly in his tone and read my genuine interest correctly.  Then I got a tour of each and every one of those pictures.  He ended with the one taken on election night when he lost to Richard Nixon.  The picture was of him and his wife and other family members sitting on a couch, watching the results on t.v.  He let out a sigh as he said, "And that was when we knew on election night."  The next moments were silent and he was probably thinking of what might have been.

     I thanked him for the tour, wished him much success with the hotel and reminded him of the meeting in the conference room.

     The McGoverns thought it would be fun to own an inn.  That's why they bought the Stratford Motel.  However, it wasn't profitable and they turned it over very quicky and never bought another.  I guess some things only look like fun.

     Although I never ran into McGovern again, I did buy and read the book, "Terry," which he wrote about his alcoholic daughter, after I married a man with an alcoholic daughter.  It gave me some great insight into fathers who try to fix things.  No matter how powerful they are, someone else's alcoholism cannot be fixed.  McGovern's daughter died in 1994 on a cold winter street, alone and homeless by choice.  He wrote the book just two years later.  It was a best seller and I always meant to write him a note to tell him how much I appreciated the story he shared.  Now I wish I had.

I was a Child Communist

     By definition, communism is a social organization in which all property is held in common by the entire community and all activity is controlled by a totalitarian state dominated by a single party.  

     I get it.  I always have.  Growing up with a little brother and plenty of cousins and neighborhood kids to play with, I had to share.  That was okay.  So did they.  It was kind of cool.  I mean we had more toys to play with when we shared.  Back in the 1960s, parents didn't indulge their children with every new gadget that came out.  Some of the kids in the neighborhood had sports equipment.  Some had geeky science stuff.  Some had board games.  We got to play with everything.

     Specifically, Becky had a Snoopy snow cone machine.  Dave and Tommy had army men.  Lynn had girlie-crafty stuff.  John had Boy Scout stuff.  My brother had Wiffle balls and bats and Matchbox cars, and I had Battle Ship and Barrel o' Monkeys. 

     Our totalitarian state was mom and dad.  They told us when to put things away, what we could take outside and what we could lend or borrow with another parent's permission. 

     I was a child communist and it worked. 

     As I grew up, I remember studying about the Cold War.  Considering my family is of Russian descent, these lessons held my attention.  But I wondered how a whole big country full of people who wanted to share everything, somehow looked very poor on the t.v. news.  Shouldn't they have looked like they had more than they needed if they were sharing their toys?

     And the Russian parents always seemed to be standing in line for food.  I felt sorry for them and I wondered why someone wasn't sharing with them.  Communism didn't seem to be making Russia a better country.

     As a teenager in the early 70s, communism took on a hippie connotation.  Young adults were living in communes, growing their own food and sharing.  Or at least that's what they said they were doing.  It wasn't until much later that I realized some were also growing pot, dropping acid and enjoying "free love."  Oh well, they looked happy.  Communism at work.

     Then I grew up.  I always worked hard, but I noticed that some other people did not.  In fact, some people took pride in what they could get away with while appearing to work.  I didn't want to share with them.  I didn't want them on my team.  I developed the attitude that if I wanted something done right, I had to do it myself.

     However, I still bought into the ideas of the Democratic Party.  In fact, I remain a registered Democrat.  But I no longer want to share because I have first-hand knowledge of too many people who are cheating the system.  There are more cheaters than workers and the system cannot survive, not that it ever was so great anyway.  It became overloaded too quickly to find a solution to the chaos.

     I'm a capitalist now, neither Republican nor Democrat, but definitely leaning toward the right.  I appreciate workers, especially workers who could turn a profit.

     I keep thinking about that Kevin Kline movie "Dave."  He played the President's look-a-like and actually ran the show for a bit.  He used the common sense of a small business owner (which is what his character was) and got his friend the accountant to fix the budget.  I want to see that in the White House and I hope I will, soon.

     But no matter who wins, my patriotism trumps my capitalistic and communistic tendencies and I hope for the best and will always respect the office of the President.