Where do I begin?

I’m sorry to have been away but we have been dealing with private personal matter that I have wished would go away for years, and it finally has.

I would have preferred a beagle, or better yet a collie.

My ex-husband Ardmore R. Stearns has died.

You are now saying to yourself “But this cannot be!” and “Martha Smith-Standish has a skeleton in the family closet?” and of course, “The same Martha Smith-Standish who is a pillar of society, the Same Mrs. Smith-Standish who has been married to Edwin Smith-Standish and has one the most successful marriages in all of Shaker Heights was previously married?”

Shockingly, tis true. 

And what is the point of hiding it.   When the statement appears in the Cleveland Plain Dealer obituary for Ardmore “…Also survived by former wife and caregiver Mrs. Martha (Edwin) Smith Standish of Shaker Heights and his beloved Rottweiler, Gunther Van Blassenburg of Marlboro…” people are bound to talk. I would prefer that they murmur, of course, but tongues will wag, I’m sure.  

It isn’t every day that a doyenne of society gets top billing over a Rottweiler. 

Ardmore and I met when I was at Miss Porters.  He was a prep from Groton and a handsome devil, while I was the popular but level headed president of my class.   After my third year at Mount Holyoke, and his at Yale, he drove up to Wellesley to see me.  My father, a Harvard man, and my step mother were not amused or as entertained by him as I was.  Ardy asked if he could take me to a movie, and they approved, but my father admonished him and told him that “you had better have my daughter home before the late night news.” 

We could have seen Peyton Place at the movies, but we decided to create it on our own.

When we returned, the following day, I was Mrs. Ardmore R. Stearns, and Ardy’s parents were having coffee with my father and step mother.  Needless to say, the tension was so thick in the air that it was dreadfully civilized. 

Without going into details, my father asked me if we removed the love and passion from the moment, “do you respect your husband? And do you think that your husband respects you?”

I couldn’t say that I knew that answer.  So I did what anyone level headed young woman who has regained her sense of self would do: I asked for an annulment.

One can easily fall out of love in a marriage, but as long as there is respect, there one will find a successful marriage.  Anyway, after verifying that I was not with child, the annulment came through.  I moved to Cleveland, started my career in art restoration and soon after was introduced to Mr. Edwin Smith-Standish.  Once mutual respect was established, we warmed to each other and became engaged, and then married, and well you have an idea of what happened from there.

As for Ardmore, he too drifted to Cleveland and went to live with his grandfather – an heir to the B.F. Stearns fortune.  He also started going by his middle name of Richard, so I had no idea that "Richard Stearns" was my ex-husband Ardmore, and since he had never known that Edwin and I were married, then he had no idea that “Mrs. Edwin Smith-Standish” who was so often involved with meaninful and importnat social charities was at one time his bride of a day and a night.

About twenty years ago, the whole house of cards came crashing down when we bumped into one and other at the wedding of his cousin's daughter Felecia to Edwin’s second cousin, Edwin Smith Standish IV (they of the non-hyphenating branch of the family).   To say I was shocked was an understatement.  My Edwin knew I had been married, of course, but evidently everyone in the Stearns family had only known of me by the nickname of “That Ball Busting Bitch, my first wife”.

Our reunion at that moment went something like this:

"Ardmore? What a surprise," I said.

"Martha? What are you doing here?" said he.

Of course everyone around us sensed the drama playing out before them.  So before things became to uncontrollable, Ardy and I agreed to meet later and we talk out our differences.  I told him about my life, and he told me about his.  His wife had left him saying that she had fallen out of love with him.  His grandfather’s fortune was almost depleted, and his sugar was up.  And he was angry at me for being correct all those years ago. 

Now, Reader, I am going to paraphrase what he said and went something like this: “You were right Martha, the type of love we had dims with age, but I never respected my wife and look where it got me. I should have followed your advice Martha.  I should have listened to you.”

"Well, you had your chance," I replied.  But let's look forward, not backward, I advised.  

"We can't let this get out because people will talk,"said Ardy.  "Not that I have anything to hide from anyone but the IRS.  But you know how people like Bonita Dixon love to gossip."

I was stunned.  "Bonita? Not South Woodland Bonita Dixon? How do you know Bonita Dixon of all people?"

"She was my my third wife," said Ardy, "After you it was Arlene Davenport, then Bonita and finally Phyllis Fleischman."

Thank God in heaven that I came before Bonita Dixon, once again.

I can’t say that Ardy and I became friends, because we never really were friends. That rush of hormones we felt that led us on a path to the bedroom, did not a friendship forge.  Still we greeted one and other as acquaintances when our paths crossed at social functions.  Is there anything to be gained by avoidance?  

Ardy really started to annoy me with his affable nature. 

One thing I did discover about Ardy was his annoying habit of being "sunny" all of the time.  Or he would drop over, unannounced, with a box of Entemanns and want to have coffee.  He also started sending me emails with online cards. This was all happening when Bruce and Chip were still at home summers during college recess and Bruce in particularly needled me about Ardy's attentions. Edwin took it all in stride on the facade but went out of his way to avoid golfing with Ardy, which we both agreed was inappropriate. It was this "sunniness" that would have driven me crazy had we been married, and then divorced, I'm sure.

Comparatively,  what was different with Edwin was that he and I became friends, and that led to respect and that to love for each other.  And one of the things that I love about my husband is that he has always given it the old college try with me – be it helping with a project, or picking up the dry cleaners, or knowing when sexual congress is in order.  That is the type of respect that brings true love, and earth shattering orgasms on occasion.

Anyway, over the years as Ardmore’s health failed, Edwin and I have “helped” with his care.  Even his family began to call me by my first name, which was the proper thing to do as I quickly tired of being referred to as Mrs. Edwin Smith-Standish, Ball Baster" and the like.  Changing the diaper of one's ex-husband can earn one many "brownie" points with the patients children as they don't have to change the diaper themselves.

I was there when Ardy died on Sunday last and I will give the eulogy at his funeral, looking Bonita Dixon square in the eyes the entire time.

Still I find myself tinged with a bit a feeling for Ardy.  They say that one never forgets their first love, and I think that it’s true.  But moreover, it is at times like this makes one certain that they did the right thing and made a correct decision in life; that is one place that seldom few know that they have arrived at in their own lives as I have in mine.

Well if you will excuse me, I have to interview new owners for Gunther Van Blassenburg of Marlboro as he will not be staying with us for very long.

Very truly yours,

Mrs. Edwin Smith Standish

Of FDS and Aqua Net

I had lunch yesterday with Mrs. Walter Krupmann, whose Christian name is Murial.  Walter Krupman is in diapers and baby attire (as lines of business - not because he is incontinent) ; Murial’s profession is having lunch with her friends.

Also at the table was Alice Tompkins, widow of Adelbert Thompkins.  Adelbert died years ago in an elevator fall, so Alice likes to tag along every now and then, but she seldom makes a peep. But she does have very expressive eyes.

We've been meeting for lunch every few weeks since we met while working on Hubert Humphrey's presidential campaign.

As we were dining, Murial and I were talking about the usual things – nothing out of the ordinary - and Alice was watching us banter back and forth as if she were at the French Open.  You know “…how is Walter…I’m so sorry that your pool man didn’t work out this year…that certainly is a gorgeous color of blue...and did I mention that my Night Blooming Cerius flowered...” and the like, when Murial said that she had she had something terribly sad to tell us.

Alice sat down her unsweetened iced tea.  Sad news?  Her lip trembled and she looked as if she just might have to let out a sound.

“What is it dear,” I asked, patting her hand and dreading the answer.  Murial is often given to the dramatic; the last terribly sad news that she imparted was that her husband was having a split toenail removed.  Painful? For him. Sad for us? Not so much.

“I need bifocal glasses," said Murial with all the stoicism in the world as if she were holding back a wave of self doubt and tears and had just found out that she had an incurable soap operahish sounding disease. 

This, I thought, is terribly sad news?   Alice cocked her head as if agreement with my unspoken thought.

“Good gracious I have relied on cheaters for years,” I said.  “And when we have bridge parties, everyone except you, Murial, has a pair dangling from a chain around their neck.  You lean forward to make a play and they 'clang' against the metal frame on the card table.  Thats why it sounds like an out of tune band at dupicate bridge with all of us rattling about.”

Alice as if to back me up, displayed her Walgreens cheaters in her hand.  The magnifiers were suspended around her neck from a lovely gold chain.  Alice is one of those women who never places her cheaters on her face, but instead holds them from afar while she looks through them like a surveyor eyeballing a triangulation.

But to Murial, this was her sad news.  This was sign that her arms had lost their length and that she was getting.  Before she could look about at her contemporaries and see that she was the final hold out, but no longer.  "I suppose it happens to all of us sooner or later," she said with resignation. 

Fact of the matter is that she no longer felt young, and for any woman, that is a sad moment.  (For me it was menopause until I relaized that Edwin and I could have sexual congress when it was all said and done without a pill, a condom or a cervical cap.  After that, my day brightened up!) 

I asked “what about contacts,” and she said that the idea of sticking something onto her eyes was distasteful -  so glasses it is.

And how did she come to this realization?

Murial: “It's been coming on for years, but it came to a head when I was scheduled to go to the ‘lady’ doctor and I had a mishap.” 

Me: “I don’t understand.”

Murial: “The mishap?”

Me: “No.  What is a lady doctor?”

Murial: “Dr. Gorman.  She’s a lady doctor.” 

Me: "And because she is a she, you mean she is a lady and a doctor?  Am I understanding you?"

Murial: “No.  She’s a lady, and she’s a LADY doctor.” 

Me: “Oh, I’m sorry – is Dr. Gorman your gynecologist? “

Alice: “Martha, shhhhhhh!  People will hear!”

This annoyed me.  I wasn't announcing it to the room, but in a low conversation tone of voice.  And God knows that I think the world of Alice, but sometimes she just doesn't comprehend that by our form of dress, our hair, our voices and our bodies in general, that people know we are women and thus have the matching genitalia under our clothing.

But back to Murial. EVIDENTLY, Murial was so upset about getting her PAP smear that she got her "FDS and Aqua Net confused.  When I got to the doctor everything was crispy and crunchy ‘down there’.  I simply could have died.”  By this point Alice's eyeballs were the size of saucers.

Poor Murial: she is a captive of the Women’s Hygiene Industry.  I could have told her that products like feminine sprays are an utter waste of money.  A good douching with vinegar and water and regular bathing is all she needs to keep her vagina healthy and clean at our age. 

If nothing else, I told her that she should be thankful that she still has her pubic hair. “Constance Warrington’s fell out when her mother died," I pointed out.  "The doctor said it was stress.” 

Alice, who volunteered with Constance at First Congregational Church, nodded in agreement.  "She's as bald down there as the day she was born."  Now it was us with the saucer sized eyes.  Alice is not prone to such descriptive outbursts.  In her high school yearbook she was the girl that was "least likely to speak above a soft whisper."

But she went on:

“The disturbing thing is that Mr. Warrington finds it quite the object of excitement.  He won’t leave her alone,” Alice added.

There was quite a pregnant pause as we groped for a way to get out of the topic, and our server filled our cups with fresh hot coffee.  As soon as she had left our table, I thought I would bring up the idea of the three of us driving out to Gabriel Brothers and looking for inexpensive shoes.  Nothing diverts a woman's attention than good shoes at a value price. But it wasn't to be.

“That filthy little man!" exclaimed Alice from nowhere, her face scrunching up. "I would have divorced him had that happened to me!”

"Or," said Murial with one eyebrow cocked higher than the other, "pushed him down an elevator shaft?"

"Check please!"

*****

I returned home to find Edwin tying fishing lures in his den.  As I looked around I thought to myself “Thank goodness my husband isn’t in diapers like Murial’s husband, and thank goodness I have the good sense to get my eyes examined, and thank God that I can say 'vagina' aloud!”

Remember dear reader: prize knowledge!  Lower forms exist without.

Very truly yours,

Mrs. Edwin Smith Standish

Those Awkward Teenage Years

Now that the fall wardrobe is down, I have been spending my time shopping for a birthday present for our granddaughter Margery who is turning thirteen.

You know in my day - before the world went to pieces - my mother took me into Boston and we went shopping for my first grown up outfit.  While I was attached to a pink silk party dress with Juliette sleeves, my mother, being the sensible woman that she was sat me down and said "Now Martha, this is a lovely dress - it's a bit expensive, but we can afford it.  Tell me, where will you wear it."

Truth be told, I didn't have an answer for her.  So Mother said to me, "I will tell you where you will wear it; your father and I are taking to you to dinner at the Club.  You are a maturing young woman, and it is now time for you to take your place at a grown up table.  It is our way."

I was elated.  But I burst my own bubble when it dawned on me that my best friend Evadele Miles-Ratner had told me about her introduction to the adults table not a month before.  "Oh, Martha, it's terribly boring. Not only must you be on your best behavior, but there is no one for you to kibbitz with because you are the youngest one there!"

Mother sensed my disappointment and said that "there will be no long faces. This is your place in the world and there are many children in South Boston who would kill, quite literally, for this type of opportunity.  Now smile little lamb and let's select a new pair of white gloves for your outfit."

That's a young me on the left and Evedele Miles-Ratner on the right. 

Later, when Sylvia and I worked as models for Filine's (I know what you are thinking -Martha Smith-Standish worked? Yes I did.  One is only young once.  But I didn't make a career of it, and that is what matters most.) we loved to get dressed up in the latest good-girl fashions. The silk dresses.  The velvets, the muslin, the linen suits!  And the bows! (We must not forget the glorious bows!)  I enjoyed being a girl!

But those days are past, and now I am not a girl.  I am a wife and mother.

Well, fast forward to today and as I was shopping for that present for Margery I felt quite sad that she will not be treated to her first grown up dinner when she turns thirteen.  No, instead her parents, Melissa and Jonathan will be taking her to Disney World with Margery's best friend, a Miss Toemiko Jones, for a weekend of childhood indulgence.


Anyway, what does one buy a thirteen year old going on seven?  Not a grown up dress, but an iPad, which is used for surfing the web, chatting with "peeps", and on rare instances, I am sure, playing something called Angry Birds.

Oh well, it would be lovely to have Margery here so I could buy her a dress, but according to her mother she is beginning to drift towards Goth fashions - all black, accents with chains and dark hair.

Well, such is life - the order changeth with the passing of years.

My husband Edwin Smith-Standish and I attending an international stamp show and the excitement in house is building to a crescendo of anticipation of what we might find and who we might see.  If only Margery could join us!

In any event, I hope that your weekend will be relaxing.

Well now, are we refreshed and rested?

Now that we have labor day under our belts, and we have returned to our home in Shaker Heights,  I am happy to announce that it is officially the fall wardrobe season!

Throughout Shaker Heights today, hundreds of housewives are watching their maids pack away the summer outfits and lug heavy – oh so heavy trunks down from the third floor storage rooms.  Each trunk, I can assure you, is carefully packed with favorite timeless pieces of attire, and a healthy sampling of items bought at finer stores last January when the end of the season sales were in full blast.  

We women of Shaker Heights maybe comfortably well off, but we are not foolish with our husband’s salaries – that is the way of Beachwood, not Shaker households.

Of course there are those who may be surprised by what they find in their closets. 

If you at the type of woman who is like Bonita Dixon, or Phyllis Stein, well then, you’ll insist on wearing white after Labor Day.  And that is quite alright, as it gives the Tuesday Women’s Bridge Club that meets at Madeline Smythe-Carothers’ home something to gossip about.

Edwin has returned to his office for the fall season of litigation and divorces.  After the horrible incident at Melissa and Jonathan’s home, work will do him some good.  I’ve tried to make Edwin see the brights side of the incident by treating it as a very deep chemical peel. 

Enough about suffering.  How can one be pained with the possibility that one’s husband may develop all manner of skin ailments when we are the threshold of the coming Cleveland Symphony season?

Yes, all good this come in fall.  

WASP Labor Day Plans Ruined: Thank God for the Club

During WWII the British - a nation of people that I have nothing but the utmost respect for - with the exception of Benny Hill - helped to boost moral during the war by posting standards that read "Keep Calm - Carry On".  These are words of strength to me, as I have adopted them as my personal inspiration, and as my personal guide for charting the course of my life.

Yesterday, the motto once again came to the rescue.  Poor Edwin was bumbling about in our daughter's carriage house looking for charcoal lighter fluid and accidentally found an old can of liquid DDT which he mistakenly thought was lighter fluid.  Needlessly to say that the contents, which our son in law later said could be as old as sixty-years, created an explosive moment and singed all of Edwin's eyebrows off as he attempt to light the charcoal after saturating it in the toxic fluid.

Worse still, my daughter's lovely back yard was soon infested with Wellesley Firemen in haz-mat suits trying to assess the toxicity levels from the banned chemical.

The Country Club as I remember it.

But after seeing that Edwin was OK, I remembered my motto - I kept calm and carried on.  I found a telephone and called the Wellesley Country Club, where our daughter and son in law are members, and made reservations for a holiday dinner.Normally this is one of their busiest weekends, but I attended Dana Hall School for girls with the grandmother of the facilities manager so they were able to squeeze us in.

There are those who feel that we Smith-Standish's rely too much upon the country club for such occasions.  And this may be true.  But we pay good money for our memberships.  The food is nutritious and palatable, on occasion quite good.

Really, while others may wax poetic about back yard barbeque's and the fun had by all, when one has a potential toxic clean up to deal with brought about by poor eye sight and chemicals enough that could kill a large mammal, why not call upon your country club in your hour of need?

And truth be told, it really is much easier - and it is our way.


As for me, I have wrapped my hair in tissue paper as not to disturb it's styling, and will be turning in for the night.  They expect poor Edwin to be released from Newton Wellesley's burn unit by Wednesday. Will keep you abreast of his condition. 

May your week ahead be productive! 

Mrs. Edwin Smith Standish

WASP Labor Day Observed, in the Smith-Standish Household

Today marks the beginning of the WASP Labor Day weekend in the Smith-Standish household.  Normally we would spend the day in our home in Shaker Heights, however,  I am delighted to tell you that I am writing from my daughter Melissa Smith-Standish Dalrymple's home outside of Boston in the city of Wellesley, Massachusetts.  As I am a native of Wellesley myself, it is a true home coming for yours truly.

Edwin and I seldom enjoy hosting family holidays at our home any more because of the commotion that it brings about.  If we were holding this gathering it would be organized around a traditional Labor Day cook-out it would be held at Shaker Heights Country Club.  After all we pay our money for membership, and they have a pool for the grandchildren and the bar tender knows exactly how Edwin enjoys his Johnny Walker Blue on the rocks.

Really, it's much easier that way.

So this sojourn to my home town is a grand treat for us.

Melissa's cottage in Wellesley, within a stones throw of the Hunnewell Estate

Melissa and her delightful husband Jonathan live in a charming Tudor manor - one that rambles picturesquely, and has every creature comfort that one could imagine.  Both Edwin and I thought that when they first considered this house that it would be a bit too much for such a young couple and our three rambunctious grandsons, however Melissa has really stepped up to the plate, learned to speak Spanish and now has total command of that romance language and the household help.

Our other children - Paige, Bill, and our twins, Charles and Bruce, will join us on Sunday for a cook out and

I should mention that Bill's wife Bridgette will be joining us, as will Paige's husband Dr. Gerald Creighton and their children.  And Chip (that's what we call our Charles) is bringing his fiance, Bunny, and Bunny's son Ozzie.  And then there is our special treat: Bruce and his husband "Master John" have flown in as well.  I have asked Bruce to make "John" leave his chaps in the guest house.

And for a special treat, guess who is operating the grille for this festive event?  None other than Edwin!

I hope he doesn't do us all in with his rare steaks.


After our meal, we'll watch the children play, and then we'll set up two tables for duplicate bridge.  Last year "Master John" won the family trophy at the last labor day event and I am bound and determined to win it back at any cost.

At nine o'clock the children will go off to bed and the adults will gather in the den to plan out our holiday travel schedules to make sure that no one's feelings are hurt if someone can not be with the rest of us at the Country Club on Thanksgiving and Christmas.

And at 10:30, I will retire - and hopefully without Mr. Smith-Standish's cooking reminding me what I had for dinner.

Onto Fall; full steam ahead!

With deep gratitude,

Mrs. Edwin Smith-Standish

What child is this?

My husband, Edwin Smith-Standish and I have returned from putting our vacation lodge in upstate New York to bed for the for the year and we had such a lovely time on the drive up and back.

S&S Lodge, as we call it. is nestled above Lake Owasco, and is a sprawling compound of cabins, each one with a view of something - be it the brilliant blue sky, or the deep green of the forest. S&S Lodge has been in the family for many years.  It belonged to Edwin's grandfather and then his father.  Our children and their children have use of the compound for a mere $50 per night.  You are thinking "they charge their own family members?" and to that I say yes, we do.  Not because we need the money, but because it teaches responsibility and reminds them all good things in life cost money.

"Nothing in life is free", is the Smith-Standish Family Motto.  None of our children has an entitled bone in their body and I defy anyone to say that they do.

Since it is so close to Cornell, where our grand daughter Brittany Smith-Standish attends school, we had let her use S&S Lodge as a getaway during the scorching hot days during summer term (for $50 a night).  Brittany was an A+ student at Hathaway Brown, so we figured that she had shown sufficient growth to handle the responsibility of being at the camp.

So imagine our disappointment when we found a nearly empty box of canned beer in the Sub Zero.

And it just wasn't any beer, but something called "Natural Lite". We were shocked!

When a Smith-Standish enjoys a fine beer it is a stout, or an ale.  But this yellow water? Piffle!

Can you imagine being able to spend time in of the most beautiful private camps in all of upstate New York, breathing the fine air, reveling in the filtered sunlight of an August afternoon and then, when the cocktail hour rings, knocking back a can of "Natural Lite"? 

Worse yet it appears that she (and her company) didn't even pour their beer into a frosty mug, but drank from the cans(!) that they just tossed in the trash.

We also found scattered about other items, which must have belonged to her girlfriends.  Yet, we cannot explain the mens underwear under the bed in the Hut Sut Cabin that Brittany so enjoys stayingwhen she comes to visit here.

What child is this? Who are his people?

And we found this picture (see above) of a sleepy young man (his face is blocked is blocked by something) with his first raised in a protestive gesture.  I am quite sure that his parents didn't raise him to make such crude gestures.  So I told Edwin that when we see Brittany this weekend we will just have to get to the bottom of this, or no more use of the lodge if these antics continue!

Well, Edwin and I are off to Cleveland Hopkins to catch our flight back east for the Labor Day Weekend.  If anything should come about, I will be sure to share it with you.

I hope you holiday weekend is a festive one!

I remain,

Mrs. Edwin Smith-Standish

Phyllis Stein - Secret Lumber Jack

On the last Thursday of each month for the past twenty years I have enjoyed card club at the home of Ann Tewksbury Davidson down in Hunting Valley. Twelve of us girls get together, draw lots and are assigned tables.  Then, one of the girls (there are twelve women, and twelve months - thus affording each of us the chance to select for a given month) selects a game and it is announced.  That is what we play for the afternoon. 

This is our tradition, and it has worked perfectly well for twenty years.

Well, yesterday, all was going to plan until who should arrive unannounced at Ann's door but none other than Phyllis Stein. For those of you who do not know Mrs. Stein, she is the former wife of Maurice Stein, the parking lot magnet of Cleveland, and she is such crashing bore; she talks non stop.  Did I mention she also has terrible taste?  And wreaked of My Sin!

Mrs. Phyllis Stein; After bathing in a vat of bronzer

Well, what was Ann to do?  With a house full of friends, she couldn't turn her away, so she did the noble thing and invited her in and gave Phyllis her seat at the card table.  Phyllis put up a small and unconvincing front of not wanting to interrupt.  In turn we all put up a small and pithy front that we were glad to see her and how much fun this would be.

Bully.

The game chosen was Canasta, and the variant was a game called Hand & Foot.  Poor Ann, she spent the afternoon walking among the girls and attended to their needs, emptying ash trays, refreshing drinks and serving coffee, because this what one does when one has unexpected guests who are too dim witted to call ahead to see if a visit would be nice.  

I had the unfortunate pleasure of being seated at the same table as Phyllis Stein and her outfit gave me a headache.  Of course we were dressed appropriately - skirt suits and pant suit sets.  But not Phyllis Stein. She looked as if she had left her trailer in a hurry because there was a sale at WalMart.

Worse yet, Ms. Stein, in my son Bruce's words, "Never got the fashion memo that a little leopard goes a long way." But yesterday, festooned with slave bracelets, metal beads, bangles and charms every time she moved she created a terribly distracting racket.  Poor Barbara Sims Miller misplayed a seven of diamonds and lost out on an easy meld of 300!

As we finished the second game on the way to the rubber match, Phyllis excused herself to use the powder room and I caught a whiff of stale urine.  Barbara looked down onto the seat of the card table chair and saw it was was wet.

"Great!" said Barbara, "Now she leaks!"

What was I to do?  Thankfully Ann's card table chairs are covered in durable Naugahyde so we did nothing.  Why embarrass Phyllis Stein any more than she had embarrassed herself?

I did reach into my Coach bag and pull out a bottle of  hand sanitizer and share it with the girls.

As the afternoon drew to a close, I had to take Phyllis aside as she emerged from the powder room, and walk her to her car.  Otherwise, she never would have left the house.  Said she "This was fun, let's do it again."

"See you when Canasta Season begins anew" I replied, and off she went.

I, of course went back in the house to see if there was anything I could do to help Ann and she thanked me and we chatted.  As I readied to leave her grandson Thornton, who is 14, walked in from school and he asked "Who was the lumberjack at the party?"  Both Ann and I looked quizzically at each other.  When she pressed for answer he acted as if we knew what he meant.  Ann asked him what was he was getting at.

"Someone left a log in the water."  We shook our heads.

"Someone dropped a friend off at the pool," he said.

"There is a lumberjack in the pool? Ann looked out to the pool behind her house.

"Gram, one of those ladies didn't flush!" he exclaimed.  "Gross."

Indeed. As she and I approached the powder room that Phyllis had used just before she left we found - there in the water -a filthy damning piece of evidence -her BM.  Yes, you heard me correctly - Phyllis Stein left her fecal matter in the toilet!


Next month, cards will be held at an undisclosed location in an attempt to thwart another unscheduled visit by Phyllis Stein, and filthy gifts. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

I remain,

Mrs. Edwin Smith-Standish

Crazy Quilt of Thoughts

As it is Wednesday I volunteered at the Cleveland Museum of art this morning.  My job was to sit at the security desk by the loading dock and keep an eye on things.  The only problem was that there very little to keep ones eye on as it was very quiet.  I checked in three people and then I check the same three people out.  A good volunteer must remind themselves that it isn't how busy you are, it is that one shows up and gladness in heart for the job that is assigned to you.  Remember that.

I met with the director who handles school tours and we discussed a very full Wednesday coming up.  Next week I shall be awash in fresh students from public schools who are making their first trip here.  So we will have to review basic rules about using our "museum voices" and how not to touch the Monet's, Cezanne's and the Rembrandt's.

Do any of you give of yourselves to local orgainzations?   I hope so.  There is nothing sadder than those who wallow in the self-masturbatory practice of buying things to make one happy in life.

Service to mankind is important in a lifetime.  Like spending a year in Europe after high school, public service helps to smooth the rough edges of your personality.  You will never be fondly remembered for the money that you have  in the bank, but your service to your fellow man (in the global sense) will always pay forward to someone else.

In other news, the cicadas have been terribly loud today. The area around our house is filled with their song, and it is giving me a splitting headache.  While I loathe the idea that we are a mere six weeks from a killing freeze, where these bugs are concerned, I'll be very happy when they are dead and gone.

And, oh, before I forget, I spoke with my sister, Katherine Hobbs Reynolds, in Washington DC and she said that yesterday was all very overblown. 

"There was shaking and then there was no shaking; that was our day, " said she.

I didn't feel a thing, while Edwin did.  I feel as if I missed out on one of nature's moments, but what can you do? 


I think a nice cat nap is in order,

I remain,

Mrs. Edwin Smith Standish

Wedding Bells

On Saturday we attended a lovely Jewish wedding between the children of two my husband Edwin's law partner's children who are are now Mr. & Mrs. Sheldon Tway.  Of course the death of Phoebe took my mind off reporting.

The body language tells me there is an under current

Just look at these youngsters.  So happy and so much to look forward to once Sheldon graduates from medical school someplace in the Caribbean.  I forget the exact location but for some reason it sounds like "The Republic of Vera Hrueba Ralston" or something close to that.

And for there honeymoon they are going to spend a fortnight in an Israeli Kibbutz where they can learn the practice of sharing manual labor.  I asked Suzette's (the bride) mother if they wouldn't prefer to go someplace with a nice beach, but she insisted that "Suzette and Shelly are going to do their own thing, and that breaks our heart because we thought they would have liked a week at Sandals or some such. Kids!"

It caused me to pause and remember  the honeymoon that Edwin and I so enjoyed.  We spent a week at the Greenbriar. It was so wonderful that I completely forgot that I was married!

In any event  the food was quite tasty.  As I said both families are Jewish Light, so there was surf and turf, asparagus, divine potatoes, salmon mousse, and a mixed vegetable that one can not describe (but I am sure was so good it was just loaded with sodium) and for dessert the most darling little wedding cakes - for each of us.  And we were seated at the same table as the Rabbi and her husband, who is an orthodontist in Solon, Ohio.  A delightful couple - however the husband chews with his mouth open. 

The couple will be returning to Ohio in September and will make their first permanent home in a sweet condominium in Solon before Shelly head back to school for the fall term.  Suzette will follow in November after her new nose heals up.  She'll spend winter on the island with Shelly working on her tan.

For their wedding gift Edwin and I purchased and gave a set of sterling Paul Revere bowls from Shreve, Crump & Low in Boston.  We know that silver is passé but one needs a place to put the display candies when one decorates, no?

There was dancing and gaiety.  Edwin and I danced to "Moon Over Miami" and "I Wish I Could Shimmy Like My Shiksa Kate".  What fun!


Taffy's brother, who is a Hollywood based film producer was there and I found him to be a nonstop talker.  According to Taffy, it's what producer's do - "schmooze and yak."  I couldn't get rid of the man, but then I thought of the first real movie star I could think of and I said  "isn't that Rhonda Fleming over there and off he went."


Towards the end of the night Taffy cornered me and asked me what I thought of the happy couple.  And I told her that they were radiant.  She said she's giving it three years until the final divorce decree, with Suzette getting custody of the one grandchild.


That Taffy; you never know what she'll say!


Yours in the moment, 


Mrs Edwin Smith-Standish

A death in the family

We received news last evening that our grandson King is in mourning over the death of pet goldfish, Phoebe.

I can't tell you what kind of tragedy this is because it's really more kabuki theater than it is true mourning. 

While Edwin and I are simply mad for our grandson, Phoebe's passing was not the shocking news that it was portrayed as. 

According to our daughter Paige, who is King's mother, there were great dramatics when King went to his room and found the limp, lifeless body, floating in the fetid water that was her home for the last year.  Frankly we are amazed that dear Phoebe lasted as long as she in the murky, mirthless bowl that was her home.

"I'm amazed he even looked at the bowl," Paige quipped.

You see, our grandson isn't one who is preoccupied with details - he is a broad thinker - a big picture junior executive type. An accountant to be? We think not.  A future CEO of a multinational conglomerate? Yes, as long as he has a good right hand who is steering the ship, so to speak.

So naturally, when King said he wanted a dog last year, I my heart sank.  The poor animal, whatever it would be, would starve for affection and a meal under King's tenure as his master, and the whole idea was for the boy to get a pet is so he could learn to take care of it.  So Paige - who is a clever girl in her own right - said that if King could keep a gold fish alive for a year, they would revisit the dog.  (I for one thought it would have been a better idea if they would have given King a cactus - you know something with some staying power.)


The fish, named Phoebe, managed to keep King's attention for all of ten minutes.  Paige knew the poor fish was in danger, but she stood her ground, and I am happy for that.  It would have been easy to step in and act as a buffer between the fish and it's ten year old owner, but Paige really held firm.

Of course, now she is hysterical with grief because she is an accomplice to a "coyicide", but this is a lesson in strength that both needed to learn.  Being a parent isn't all it is cracked up to be.  That is why God invented nannies.  I suppose if my mother were still alive I could afford to go into a tizzy as well.  Oh, well - since I am the senior adult, it falls to me to keep my head.


Funeral Services for Phoebe were held immediately upon discovery, so thankfully we didn't have to fly back east for it. That would be utter nonsense.  I'm sure if it had been a hamster or something like that our attendance would have been requested, and there would be the wringing of hands just shy of the end from Imitation of Life.  The corpse received the goldfish equivalent of cremation; Paige did used the Sure-Flush in the guest room for Phoebe's final swim.

When I go to church on next Sunday I am going ask my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, that my grandson learn from this - that life is sacred in every form, even if you can't throw a stick and have said "pet" bring it back to you.  If a pet cannot do more than waive a fin at you, well, then embrace that finny friend.

Bon voyage, Phoebe.  May your life, and death, be not in vain.

I remain,

Mrs. Edwin Smith Standish 

My plans for the weekend...

...include reading, catching up on my hand written correspondence, getting my hair done at Joey and Tanno's and attending the wedding of Suzette Rosenthal, who is the daughter of Abraham and "Taffy" Rosenthal.  Abraham is Edwin's partner in the law firm of Smith-Standish, Rosenthal, Burger and Tway.  They have known one and other since their days at Stanford.

Abraham's wife Taffy - a vivacious woman who has a rapier sharp wit, has really gone all out on the wedding on Saturday.  The Rosenthal's are Jewish-lite, so there is no worry about sundown issues.  Then we'll travel to Abraham and Taffy's home in Pepper Pike where they have erected an air conditioned marquis.  The grounds of their home are really quite extraordinary considering that neither Abraham or Taffy has anything to do with outdoors. Of course, Executive Catering will be doing all of the food, and I am very sure that it will be tasty and as well as laced with all sorts of wonderful Jewish foods. 

Suzette is marrying Sheldon Tway, who is the son of Akido and Miriam (Kopowitz) Tway.  Akido is in the firm along with Edwin and Abraham, so it's really much more like family affair.   Edwin and I so enjoy these interfaith affairs because we can dance to a foxtrot, or to the Chicken Dance Polka; we do not "Electric Slide" as it is unflattering at our age.  I hope that Taffy took my advice though and dropped the klezmer music.  It is an acquired taste.

Me, my Contour Chair and a good book.

It was Taffy who recommended that our book club take on Victoria Lincoln's "A Private Disgrace: Lizzie Borden by Daylight" and I must say that I am reveling in all of its WASPishness.  And so many of the people who involved in the case, as Lincoln describes them, they remind me of the staid New Englander's  back home in the Bay State.  Although none of them murdered their parents, at least to my knowledge.

So for the remainder of the weekend I shall be preoccupied.  But do come back on Monday - this has been great fun.

Fondly yours,

Mrs. Edwin Smith-Standish

You ask, I answer: Who is Bonita Dixon, and What is New With Tonya

When I spoke with my son, Bruce Smith-Standish, this morning using something call "Face Time" on my husband's "iPad" and Bruce asked how the "blog" was going and I informed him that it was going swimmingly.

We chit chatted for a couple moments as he brought me up to speed with his home, the business, Master John's latest win the legal arena, and the exciting news that Tonya, our "grandiguana", is going to star in a local San Francisco commercial.  Being cold blooded, Bruce seems to think that Tonya will enjoy all the lights on the sound stage.  I reminded him not to spoil her as she may come to expect a few extra crickets all of the time.

Tonya seems nonplussed as usual.

Bruce tells me that part of being a good blogger is to interact with with you blogience (blog+audience) and to show interest in them.

In reading through your comments - and I do so value them - I have noticed that there are those of you who wonder who is Bonita Dixon.  Coincidentally, I myself have been asking myself  who Bonita Dixon thinks she is for eons.   However due to liable laws I cannot tell you a thing about Bonita Dixon.   Instead I shall tell you about an imaginary neighbor named "Juanita Hickson."

The Smith-Standish home is on South Woodland Road, west of Shaker Heights Country Club.   The main house, in the English Manor style, is nestled slightly lower than the road, making it feel especially welcoming.  From our south windows we have a magnificent view of the fifth tee of the course - truly breath taking. 

When Col. Marcus Griffin died - he of Griffin Manor, the stunning house three doors from ours - was sold to a Mr. and Mrs. "Hickson".  Since they are not in the Cleveland Blue Book, or members of the golf club, we assumed that they were new to area.  Neighbors along this stretch of road know one and other because we all belong to the club, but we tend to enjoy our privacy at home. 

One day, who should come to our front door like a waif in distress was Mrs. Juanita ("just call me "Nita") Hickson and she was in dire need of a phillips head screw driver. People stranded in the dessert are in dire need of water; but a screw driver?  Unless one is Dean Martin, I think not.  Nevertheless, I rang for Charmane, our housekeeper, and asked if she could check in the tool room in the carriage house for a phillips head screw driver.  While we waited, "Nita" regaled me with everything that they were doing to the house, how she studied classical harp, and how she was "a planning" to have the neighbors over for cocktails. 

"That," I said, "sounds very nice."  What else was I to say?

And while she spoke I noticed a certain love of verbal contractions and a couple "he got" and "ain't's" thrown in for my auditory pleasure. I also learned that "Nita" was Mr. Hickson's third wife, and just know that the third one is always a charmer.  I also learned that she was a native of Youngstown; so you can see the situation was disintegrating by the moment.

Charmane thankfully returned with two screw drivers, one large and one small and "Nita" snapped them up and off she went like an untied balloon cast into the air.  Not so much as "Thank you" or "I appreciate this favor."  No. Off she flew. Charmane said "Mrs. S, that is the last of your tools you'll ever see."

I made a mental note and went about my day - I had done Mrs. Hickson a favor and I was bound by proper rules of behavior to trust that she would return the screw drivers, both of them, in a reasonable amount of time. 

Within the month, the screw drivers had not been returned.  Edwin thought nothing of it, but I am believer in "Neither a lender or a borrower be" and if he wasn't going deal with it I certainly would.

It was early October.  I was wearing my favorite brown Peck & Peck knit skirt suite that I am so found of, and the smell of leafs and the rustle of them under my sensible heals made me remember those New England days of my childhood when the temperature was mild and the sun crisp and bright but waning.  Absolutely invigorating!  It lifted my spirits and I felt a smile almost come over my face.

I began to walk up the "Hixson's" circular driveway - it really is a charming house - very Sister Parrish in style - when there before me the living room bay window as "Nita" playing her Concert Grand Harp for all to see - and she was naked!

For a moment, suspend disbelief and imagine this is what I saw.

At that moment I was especially glad that I had not sent Edwin down to recover the screw drivers.

She couldn't see me because her naked back was facing me, so I had a moment to compose myself. I steeled myself, straightened my suit jacket, and marched myself to the front door and rang the bell with purpose.  The delightful Westminster chime, that Col. Griffin was so fond of when he a resident of the house, rang with authority.  The plinking stopped.  I heard a slap, slap, slap of unshod feet upon the marble foyer floor of the house, while "Naked Nita" sing-songed out, with all the manufactured talent that a summer stock stand in could muster, "Who is it?"

"It is I, Martha Smith-Standish.  And I have come to call, " I announced.

A few moments later Naked Nita answered the door, wearing a dressing gown. "Does this woman not know the meaning of the word propriety?" I though to myself.  "Evidently not or she wouldn't have been fingering that harp of hers in the window for all to see," I reasoned back.

I explained my reason for dropping in, uninvited, and asked if she had the screw drivers, to which she said that she though she did.  I asked for their return and that I was fine standing in the hallway.  Heaven forbid I should sit on any of her upholstered furniture - especially since I could not be sure if if Naked Nita hadn't also seated herself upon any of the seats.  It would have been unhygienic!

When she returned the screw drivers she made the mistake of saying she was just in the middle of her harp practice to which I answered, enigmatically "I see," because I had.  Now if I would have said "I saw" then she would have known for certain - better to keep them guessing.  I thanked her, mentioned that we should "see more of each other" - a little hint to make her wonder what I knew - and left.

My property in my hands, the cool warmth of the October sky and the rustling of fallen leaves under my feet again reassured me that life, when properly attired, is indeed delightful.

Dear Reader, remember, although I was offended by her nakedness, manners indicated that I shan't leave her as coldly as she left with my hand tools. No and to the contrary. One should always leave a door open in case one needs volunteers or cash donors for future causes.And besides, the Smith-Standish axion that "the world is simply not as large as we would like think" really does come into play.  Try as I might, I knew that until "Nita" moved on to a "snappy" retirement villa in Naples, Florida, I really wouldn't be outside her sphere of probability.  Prepare for the worst and when it happens you are not surprised is my motto, and that applies to "Nita" just as much as it does for a hurricane, loud people who often, and ignorantly claim, unique personal rights under the United States Constitution, or as my nine year old grandson Armand would interject, Zombies.

That was the first of numerous encounters with Juanita that have ended poorly.

We have been to her home for a musicale (I was disappointed when it was not harp selections from O' Calcutta) and we did attend Mr. Hickson's funeral.  He died in bed. What a Surprise!  I now see Juanita here and there, and she has joined committees and tried to make herself relative to society, however reports continue from her immediate neighbors that she still insists on practicing in the nude, to which I reply "why practice, she is most certainly a pro by this point."

Now remember, you shouldn't think that any of this has anything to do with Bonita Dixon. Parrish the thought!  Besides, Bonita Dixon plays a cherub encrusted guided harp between the hours of 4PM and 6PM, not a true concert grand. 

Well, I should go - Thursday is my duplicate bridge night.  Tonight, Murial Cardwell is hosting at her gracious home on North Park Road.  Wish me luck!

I remain,

Mrs. Edwin Smith-Standish

On Wednesday's...

...I lead tours through the Cleveland Art Museum.

There is nothing like art to raise one's appreciation of life.  Or so I thought this morning as I approached our museum - one of the crown jewels in Cleveland's fine arts community.

Unfortunately, my tour group today was comprised of six mothers, all of which are misguided in their thinking that "home schooling" will equip their children for life beyond their mother's apron string.  Still, I embraced this opportunity, rather than a problem, I welcomed the challenge.  Why? Because that is what makes a good and loyal volunteer.

My first indication that something was amiss was when I asked the mothers what era in art their children were studying, and Alpha Mother in the group said, and I quote, "The State of Ohio says we have to take our children on at least two field trips per year, and this counts as one."

And the other trip?

"To our church in Kinsman (Ohio) to study how God created the earth."

Talk about building instant rapport!

So I again asked - this time offering some suggestions as to the era in art that could interest them - would they like a tour of  modernists, American masters, the impressionist, as so forth in hopes that Alpha Mother or any of the less direct members, had a specific school of art that they would like to see.  Sometimes making a suggestion like this can be so much less intimidating.

Again, the Alpha Mother said that she liked looking at "pictures that tell you whats happening," and then she added "but no cooters or boobies."

My initial thought was "Honestly - are we twelve?"  Had she just said no nudity, that would have sufficed.


Needless to say I did get the group to the American Masters gallery, without the "youngins" being exposed to "boobies" and "cooters" by using the freight elevators and back corridors.

First I led them to James McNeil's  Liberty Rising, and as I was interacting with the children, asking them for their opinion of the work, because children do have opinions, Alpha Mother jumped in and said "It's a lady holding up a flag.  Let's see the next picture."

My job is not to judge, but to open doors, even when one is slammed in face. 

Believe me, Dora Wheeler looked like she was studying the group in bemusement.

By the time we reached the fourth "picture" as the mothers called them, I was about to describe William Merrit Chase's Dora Wheeler,  one of the mousy women asked where the lavatory was and I directed her to the hall, second door on the left, and then I returned to Chase's work.  Several minutes later, Mrs. Mousey returned and announced to the group that "the bathroom was the highlight of (her) day."

Oh, what a cathartic release that must have been.

Two hours later, our time together had come to an end.  I thanked the women and children in the group and suggested that they schedule their next visit on a Tuesday or Thursday and ask for Bonita Dixon to lead their tour.

Now if you will excuse me, I am going to take a Vanquish and have a cup of hot beef bouillon and try to unwind.

Yours in Volunteerism,

Mrs Edwin Smith-Standish

My doctor visit and what I caught someone who is not Bonita Dixon doing at Heinens

Yesterday before I left for the grocery store and the gynecologist, I wrote in my blog that I was going to have my Vagina examined.

Well, this evidently upset my son Bruce who told me that in no uncertain terms that the blog needn't include such graphic detail.  I told him that he was being silly. It is a perfectly natural task to go to ones doctor and have preventive medical care, and that includes having ones vagina examined semi annually, does it not?

And it is a silly woman who can not say the word Vagina, let alone take herself and get it examined.  Indeed, why should be ashamed of our reproductive system?  Well, what say you?

This admission almost made Bruce insane at the shear mention of the examination.  Bruce sometimes forgets that he and his older twin brother were both vaginally delivered when they were born, so why should it be an issue now?

So I said  the word.  "Vagina, vagina, vagina, vagina, Bruce," I said.  "It has a name and it is by it's name that we call it what it should be called."  To which he replied "Oh, Mother!"

Bruce has always had issues with the Vagina. Thankfully his twin brother Chip has no such issues.  They are the ying and the yang, so to speak.

As a young child my mother insisted that I call it my "kitten".  And as I grew older there were other names for it, many which I am sure that you all know.  But the word "Vagina" is the medically acceptable name and that is what it should be called, no?  After all, we are all adults, presumably, so using the word V-A-G-I-N-A, or its Latin root of Cunnis shouldn't shock anyone, and if it does than shame on you.  Yes, you.  The person reading this.  I say shame on you for not saying Vagina!

Anyway Dr. Rosenblatt,  my gynecologist, proclaimed me healthy and suggested that I do Kegel exercises to tone myself.  In fact, I am doing them now because it is practical to do so.  So that is that.

Bonita Dixon when she isn't tasting grapes

More shocking though than a pelvic exam was what I witnessed at Heinen's.  I shall not say her name only to say that it was not Bonita Dixon that I witnessed, sampling one too many grapes.  Yes, one should taste their grapes before buying a bunch, but one need not try two or even twenty as the person who is not Bonita Dixon was doing.  No wonder food prices continue to escalate when you have people like Bonita Dixon (not that I saw her, but I'm just using her as an example) munching their way through the produce section.

Today I am going to the attend the charade that passes for the Episcopalian Ladies Guild Meeting and we are discussing ways that children should dress for winter.  A member will stand up and say "Wouldn't it be grand if we could pool our resources and buy coats for the underprivileged for the coming winter?"  Fortunately, we've all been to this meeting long enough that this will be our cue to get our our check books and make a donation.  And I shall turn toward one of the members who is not Bonita Dixon and suggest that she add a couple dollars to clear her karma for the grapes that she feels are placed at the store for her to munch on while shopping.

Such is life, no?

Until next time, this Mrs. Edwin Smith-Standish signing off and urging to to have your Vagina's examined as part of your preventative care regimen.