Stories from the Moons
Stories from the Moons Recollections for my family by Susan Hanes
Written during the Coronavirus Pandemic Chicago 2020
You will teach them to fly, but they will not fly your flight. You will teach them to dream, but they will not dream your dream. You will teach them to live, but they will not live your life. Nevertheless, in every flight, in every life, in every dream, The print of the way you taught will always remain. Mother Teresa
Are you more like your father or your mother? Ideally, I would like to think that I have embraced qualities from both my mother and my father. My mother and I had similar childhoods, although they were mirror images of each other. We were both only children. My mother was an Army brat, living with her mother and father at various posts in Washington, Oklahoma, North Carolina, Louisiana, Texas, and Utah, as well as the Philippines. Since my father was a Foreign Service Officer, I moved with my parents to Greece, Turkey, Iran, Pakistan, Sudan, and South Africa when we were not in Washington, D.C. Later, when Houston became an officer in the Navy Civil Engineer Corps, I experienced life as a military spouse just as my mother exchanged her early military life for the Foreign Service. My mother takes great pride in being adaptable. With all the moves that she faced, particularly as an only child, she learned to adjust to new situations and different surroundings. After her marriage, when my father was appointed to his first Ambassadorial post in Karachi, she learned to adapt from being a housewife to managing an Embassy Residence with its cadre of servants. When my father returned to Washington, she would just as quickly adjust from her role as Ambassador’s wife to a life that involved grocery shopping and cleaning the oven. These changes would not be easy for anyone, but my mother tackled them with resolve. One of her most difficult adjustments came after my father retired as Ambassador to Brazil, and my parents made the decision to build a retirement home in
Gainesville, Florida. While their house was under construction, they rented a modest apartment nearby. After years effectively managing an embassy residence, there she was, gamely heating up Stouffer’s frozen dinners in a student housing complex. I have a recurring memory of my mother attempting to make dinner each evening, and the sliding door of the apartment crashing open to let out the billowing smoke as she yelled, “Billlll!!” My mother has always been able to deal with the difficult circumstances that are a part of life. I learned how she managed on her own after losing her mother when she was only 19, and while her father was away, serving in Newfoundland. I witnessed how she could turn any place we lived into a home. I saw how she handled the death of my father, and later of her second husband, Al Phillips, and how she created a new life for herself at Fleet Landing. And I am seeing now how she handles the infirmities that inevitably come with a long life with determination, acceptance, and humor. I have watched her, and I have learned. I, too, have developed an ability to make a house (or an apartment, or hotel room, or military quarters) a home, if only for a few months. I have learned that even if things are not perfect, you can try to make them as close to acceptable as possible. Her example of adaptability helped me to survive Houston’s sudden death and the difficult decisions that accompanied my shock and sadness. I was able to sell our house and move into an apartment in Chicago. I married George Leonard and have
My parents, William and Suzanne Rountree, in Brasilia 1973
happily adapted to a new life with him. As events unfold in my life, I remain confident that the ability to be flexible that I have learned from my mother will help me to negotiate the uncertainties that will inevitably come. I remain grateful for her example and her guidance. The particular characteristic that my father had that I hope to emulate is his wise judgement. He had an innate sense of how to interpret a situation and the appropriate response to it. Maybe that is why he was such a successful diplomat. He never sugar-coated a situation or said it would all be just fine if that was unlikely. I found this to be true whether he was explaining the 1962 Cuban Missile Crisis to me as a frightened 15-year-old, far away at boarding school, or giving me advice on the bizarre behavior of an erstwhile friend who had treated me badly. In the first instance, he comforted me by assuring me that, although it was a threatening time, the finest minds in the Department of State were working on a solution to keep the world safe. And in the second, rather than
telling me it would all work out, he thought a minute and then said, “That friendship is over. You will have to figure out a way to be pleasant when your paths cross, but there is nothing else you can do.” At the time I remember being surprised at his stark assessment but soon realized that he was absolutley right. I often sought his thoughtful counsel. I learned from him how to communicate my expectations without accusing others and how to gain perspective. Even after his death, I still consider how he would handle the difficulties I encountered at work or in my volunteer and social endeavors. Reflecting on his perceptive appraisal of circumstances has become a part of my own thinking. When I am asked for advice, I stop and think how he might have handled a particular situation before I suggest a response to someone else. I have seen how de-escalation is possible and that positive outcomes can usually be achieved. I have witnessed how wise judgement, as he so ably demonstrated, can make life easier to navigate.
One of my father’s cartoons, illustrating our family life
What were your favorite bedtime rituals as a child? My father normally worked late hours, so bedtime was my mother’s responsibility. After careful— nearly obsessive— toothbrushing, she would read me a story, usually from one of my fairy tale books. My mother had a beautiful reading voice, which I found wonderfully soothing. I remember the cooling touch of her hand as she brushed the hair from my forehead on a hot summer’s evening. When she tucked me in and said goodnight, I felt safe and happy. On the rare times when my father was home early enough to put me to bed, it was a special
treat. There were several demands of him that I never tired of making. Although I loved for my mother to read to me, there was one story that was definitely within my father’s purview. “The Bremen Town Musicians” was included in Watty Piper’s Stories That Never Grow Old. It contained a memorable line that he slightly adjusted, “Hobgoblins or no hobgoblins, I’m going to get my gold!” I would insist, “Read it again, Daddy! Read it again!” During the Depression, my father’s older brother, Clyde, lost his job with Western Electric and opened a hotdog stand in Atlanta. My father, who was around 12 years old at the time, used to help out. Something that brought me endless delight was his ability to reel off the entire menu as fast as any auctioneer, starting with “ham and cheese on rye” and ending with “hot dog!” Another of my frequent bedtime requests was a song my father would sing about a train engineer who died in the wreck of Old Number 9. As tragic as the story was, I never saw it that way. I loved to imagine the little white house that he’d left for his bride. I think it somehow represented the security of home that I have always sought. One cold winter's night, not a star was in sight The North wind came howling down the line With his sweetheart so dear stood a brave engineer With his orders to pull old Number Nine. She kissed him goodbye with a tear in her eye And the joy in his heart he could not hide For the whole world was bright as she told him that night That tomorrow she'd be his blushing bride.
He sped 'round the hill and his brave heart stood still A headlight was shining in his face And he whispered a prayer as he threw on the air For he knew this would be his final race. In the wreck he was found lying there on the ground He asked them to raise his weary head As his breath slowly went, this message he sent To the maiden he thought that he would wed.
by the Everly Brothers, “Diana” by Paul Anka, “My Boyfriend’s Back” by the Angels, “To Know Him is to Love Him” by the Teddy Bears, “Will You Love Me Tomorrow” by the Shirelles, and <sigh> “Take Good Care of My Baby” by Bobby Vee.
"There's a little white home that I bought for our own Where I dreamed we'd be happy, bye and bye But I'll leave it to you for I know you'll be true ‘Til we meet at that Golden Gate, goodbye."
When I advanced to a record player and started collecting 45 rpms of my favorites, I could listen whenever I wanted, attaching an old lipstick tube to the arm with a rubber band so that the needle would dig deep in the grooves for the finest sound quality. Eventually, my childhood nighttime rituals faded, replaced with routines involving personal responsibility for dental hygiene, curlers, diaries, and Ricky Nelson.
A few years later, when I was about eight, my parents bought me a small Phillips transistor radio. It had a big dial in the front and its own leather case. It was totally cool. I went to sleep listening to the top rock n’ roll hits. Having those songs marinate in my brain each night ensured that even now, I can still sing along to my favorites: “Dream”
What fads did you embrace while growing up? I first thought that this question would not apply to me since I had lived overseas for so much of my childhood where fads would have been hard to even know about, much less embrace. However, upon reflection, I realized that I had spent enough time in the U.S. in intervening years to have been exposed to my share of trends. The first fad that I remember following involved the Saturday morning show, Winky Dink. It aired from 1953-1957, so I would have been around eight to ten years old. We were living in Chevy Chase at the time, as my father was an Assistant Secretary at the Department of State. On Saturdays, I would walk over to my friend Diana’s house where we watched cartoons. Winky Dink was our favorite. The central gimmick of the show was the use of a magic drawing screen, which was nothing more than a piece of clear plastic that you rubbed to create static electricity and stuck to the TV screen. We had each sent off for our own Winky Dink kits, consisting of the magic screen and a set of special crayons, all for 50 cents. When our hero reached a climatic scene, he could only make it safely through with the help of his viewers. There might be a connect-the-dots bridge so that he could cross a river, or a cage to draw to trap a fierce lion, or, best of all, a secret message to decode by tracing parts of the letters in the text. I suppose one could have used the newly-invented Saran Wrap and regular crayons, but they would not have had the same magic. A couple of years later, as I entered sixth grade, I became hooked on American Bandstand, that iconic
program hosted by Dick Clark, featuring teenagers dancing to the Top-40 hits of the week. In preparation for the show, Diana and I would make pizza from a Chef Boyardee Pizza Kit. The kit came in a box, which contained a package of dough mix, a tall can of tomato pizza sauce, and a small can of a Parmesan-type substance. After blending the dough with water, we carefully pressed it into a 11” x 14” pan and drizzled on the sauce, followed by a sprinkle of cheese. After baking it for twenty minutes in the oven, we had the best tasting pizza I can remember. We spent many a happy evening together, enjoying our pizza and rocking to such hits as “Wake Up Little Susie,” “Short Shorts,” and “Lollipop” (to which I created a baton routine for the sixth-grade talent show). In 1959, we moved to Karachi where my father served as Ambassador to Pakistan. Those years were outside the realm of fads, although music and friends remained an important part of my life. But when my father was appointed Ambassador to Sudan, I found myself back in the U.S., as a boarding student at National Cathedral School for Girls. This time, the fad was forced on me. We were all required to wear “saddle shoes,” Oxford shoes that have a saddle-shaped panel in the middle. I imagined that the decree was made to ensure that we looked as unattractive as possible. Not only were they hideous, but they were heavy and cumbersome and somehow made us feel heavy and cumbersome too. I endured them for nearly four years, and even then, they almost cost me my graduation. After our last class, my roommate,
The Beatles at Washington Coliseum February 11, 1964
Betty and I gleefully tossed those horrible shoes out of the third-floor window of our room. To our dismay, they were swiftly returned to us by Miss Noland, Head of Residence, who hotly admonished us that this was beneath the dignity of Cathedral Girls and threatened to prevent us from attending commencement, which was to have President Lyndon Johnson as the speaker. During my years at Cathedral, I embraced several other fads in a futile attempt to counter the effects of those dreaded shoes. I teased my short hair into something of a bubble. I clipped little bows to the sides of my head. And until I advanced to contacts, I sported cat’s eye glasses. But in my mind, nothing helped, and I endured that indignity at a time when we were all feeling awkward and selfconscious. But there was one thing that Cathedral School did that forever changed my feelings about the school. The Beatles. Unlike any fad that any of us had ever experienced, Beatle Mania hit Cathedral
hard. I was in 11th grade when I first heard “I Want to Hold your Hand” coming from someone’s radio down the hall. It almost made me cry, it was so wonderful. Every year, the boarding girls were required to sign up for ten cultural events. Being in Washington, the school had the opportunity to expose us to world class performers such as Rudolf Nureyev, Luciano Pavarotti, and the Boston Symphony. And being such an influential institution, it was able to obtain the best seats. We thought it was all a bore. It would be hard to fully appreciate our astonishment when we were presented the list of acceptable events for 1964 and saw that one of our choices was February 11. To see the Beatles. At their first live concert in the U.S. On the second and third rows. It was one of the most thrilling nights of our lives. More than 8,000 screaming fans made it virtually impossible to understand a single word. But little did it matter. It was 35 minutes of complete pandemonium, and we’d been part of it.
Have you ever done something appalling that ended up well? It started innocently enough when I was on my way home from a day at the beach in a friend’s “woody” station wagon. The year was 1958 and we were living in Karachi, Pakistan where my father was serving as the American Ambassador. My friend Janie had invited me to come with her to the beach along with her large family. We were both 11. The two of us were seated in the “way-back” section of the car, facing the road behind us. Those seats provided a great view of where we had been, in spite of their questionable safety merits. Janie’s mother was driving while her father sat in the passenger seat with the baby. The other kids lounged in the forward seats. The rear window was open and the wind was blowing around us. It was a long, hot, and boring ride back into town. Eventually, Janie and I both got the idea to toss a handful of leftover macaroni salad out of the rear window. To our delight, it made an agreeable little explosion as it hit the asphalt. By the time we neared town, the large pot of leftover macaroni was practically empty, and we had discovered a new pastime. A few days later, Janie and I went to the movies. As we sat in the balcony, watching Doris Day and Rock Hudson in Pillow Talk, we tossed our peanut shells over the railing. We found it somewhat entertaining, but not nearly as much fun as that macaroni salad had been. After a period of trial and error, we discovered something even more satisfying than macaroni salad. Eggs. I am not sure whose idea it was to take eggs with us in my father’s official car and chuck
them out of the window, but that is what we did. It was really neat. We’d slip down the window of the black limousine, and splat! We weren’t actually aiming at anyone, but it was a point of hilarity to see the look of surprise on someone’s face as an egg whizzed by and cracked on the nearby pavement. Although the fun continued each time I managed to have the car’s driver take me out with Janie, I never considered the fact that I was riding in my father’s official vehicle, the one that had the iconic seal of the United States of America emblazoned on both front doors. Neither did I think much about my father’s dutiful chauffer who was driving us—Rasool, who proudly drove my father to the Embassy and to all official functions, and who was always impeccably dressed in a sharp uniform, his turban sporting a freshly starched pugree that fanned above his left ear. I did not fully appreciate the fact that he was the same man who would patiently ferry me to school activities and from the Embassy residence to the compound across town where most of my friends lived. Although he knew full well what Janie and I were up to, he would quietly drive as we would throw and giggle and throw some more. One afternoon, I called for Rasool to take Janie and me back to her house. However, I was somewhat incensed to learn that he was needed to drive my father someplace and was not available. Of course, my father did have priority on the use of his official car. So with particular sixth grade resourcefulness, I called the Embassy and asked
that a car and driver be sent around from the motor pool. When the substitute driver pulled up in a black Ford, Janie and I were waiting for him, armed with a dozen eggs. As we drove toward Janie’s house, we happily continued our hilarious new pursuit. This time, however, I had not considered that there was a major difference. This driver did not know me. This driver had no feelings of loyalty toward me. This driver told my father. Later that afternoon when I returned from Janie’s house, I was horrified to find my father standing outside waiting for me by the entrance as we drove up to the residence. Without a word, he motioned me to follow him into his study at the end of the long marble hallway. He directed me to a chair in front of his large and intimidating desk. After a painful pause, he looked sternly at me and said simply, “Would you like to see me vending pencils?” In his typical style, he was a man of few words. He said nothing else. Indeed, nothing more needed to be said. The egg-throwing affair was over. But not the Rasool part of the story. +++++ More than forty years later, after I had married and raised two bright and lively sons, we moved to the Chicago area. Totally out of the blue, I received a letter from Andy, a boy who had been my sixthgrade classmate in Karachi. He was writing to tell me that on a recent business trip to Washington, D.C., he had hailed a taxi at Dulles Airport. During the slow trip into the city, Andy had started a
conversation with the driver. He did as many of us do: he asked the driver where he was from. When the driver answered that he was from Pakistan, Andy commented that he had lived in Karachi as a young boy. “When was that?” asked the driver. “In the late ‘50s,” replied Andy. “At that time, I was the American Ambassador’s chauffeur,” the taxi driver proudly declared. And indeed, Andy soon determined that this was Rasool, the man who had driven my father’s official car and who had remained silent when I was getting into such mischief. Andy exchanged addresses with Rasool and later looked me up in our school directory and wrote to tell me about his chance meeting. Of course, I was astonished to learn of this remarkable coincidence—that Andy had encountered the American Ambassador’s driver in 1950s Karachi who, forty years later, was a taxi driver in Washington, D.C. Several months later, when I found that I would be going to a business conference in Washington, I thought that it might be fun to see Rasool again. I contacted him with my arrival information and arranged for his taxi to pick me up at Dulles. After I landed, I came out to the taxi stand at the airport and looked around, wondering if I would recognize Rasool after all this time. To my surprise, he walked right up to me, accompanied by his wife. After we reintroduced ourselves and exchanged warm greetings and hearty handshakes, I looked around for his taxi. It was then that Rasool admitted that he had recently retired, but had
hesitated to mention it because he was afraid that I would make other arrangements for my trip into town. As they dropped me at my hotel, Rasool and his wife invited me back to their home for dinner after my conference obligations were over. The following night, we spent the evening together, catching up with each other’s lives and sharing our memories amid laughter and good cheer. Rasool explained that several years after we left Karachi, he had accompanied an American to the United States and had eventually become a U.S. citizen, a fact which he told me with evident pride. He had married and raised a family just outside our nation’s capital. Ultimately, Rasool became a self-employed taxi driver.
During the sumptuous meal that Rasool’s wife prepared for us, I found myself inwardly cringing as I considered my behavior of so long ago when I had violated the responsibility that my parents had so clearly vested in me as a representative of my country. As we sat, sipping our tea after dinner, I finally asked Rasool how he could ever forgive me for my disrespectful behavior to his countrymen. “Ah, you were young, so young … There is nothing to forgive,” said my old friend, taking my hand in his. As I left their home that night, I carried with me Rasool’s humble lesson of compassion, acceptance, and understanding. It is a lesson that I hold even closer to my heart today, as ignorance and intolerance would tear our world apart.
Rasool and my father, Karachi 1960
Where were you when JFK was assassinated? November 22, 1963. Every generation has a defining date that is permanently etched in its collective memory—December 7, 1941 was that date for my parents’ generation; September 11, 2001 was the one for my children’s. For Boomers, it was the date of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy in Dallas, Texas while he was riding in a motorcade with First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy, Texas Governor John Connally, and Connally’s wife Nellie. On that day, I was in study hall at National Cathedral School in Washington. Lunchtime was over and everyone was just settling into their afternoon classes. I remember being excited that my mother was on her way to Washington from Khartoum and would arrive the following afternoon. Then, over the loudspeaker, there came an announcement; something unusual for that time of day. An unsteady female voice announced that “The President has been shot.” Not yet comprehending the magnitude of what was happening, we were instructed to assemble in the gym. Silently, we got up and marched single file and sat cross-legged on the floor. Luci Johnson, my fellow classmate and the youngest daughter of the Vice President, sat nearby. She was noticeably agitated; the rest of us sat mute in disbelief. The headmistress, Katherine Lee, strode purposefully to the front and told us that President Kennedy had been shot and was rushed to the hospital in Dallas. We sat in silence. The bells of the National Cathedral started to toll. It was then that
we learned that he was dead. John Fitzgerald Kennedy, 35th President of the United States, had been assassinated. Shock turned to confusion. Suddenly, the Secret Service appeared and quickly led Luci away. At that moment, no one really knew what had happened or who was responsible. As we gathered in the school quadrangle, crying and holding on to one another, Lyndon Baines Johnson was taking the oath of office aboard Air Force One.
Lyndon Baines Johnson is sworn in as President
Who is someone you particularly admire? My father was a person for whom I have particular admiration. From a modest upbringing, he achieved a remarkable amount during his abbreviated life. In spite of his significant accomplishments, he remained humble at heart and was a wise and loving father. Born in Swainsboro, Georgia on March 28, 1917, he was the youngest in a family of seven children. His father owned land which was farmed, but the family lived in a small town. When my father was just eighteen months old, his own father died. His mother, ill-advised by greedy relations, lost their land and most of her inheritance. In those days there were few money-earning opportunities open to women. Nonetheless, she was able to become a teacher. She took my father to school with her, and he quickly learned to hate it. Discipline was harsh at that time, and unruly students were beaten by the principal. His dislike of school continued until his early years of high school. By that time his mother had moved the family to Atlanta, to an area called West End, a quiet neighborhood of large wooden houses, tree-lined streets and middle-class families. Money was scarce, and at one point she was forced to sell corsets from door to door. His oldest brothers contributed to the household, while my father had a paper route and his middle brother Bob sold vegetables from the plot he farmed at the rear of the house. My mother remembers my father talking of having only two shirts which he washed and ironed himself.
In his second year of high school, while attending Tech High (there were only two high schools for boys in Atlanta at that time—the other was Boy’s High) my father saw the value of an education and of getting good grades, and realized that if he were going to get anywhere in life, he would have to depend on his own efforts. From then on, he worked hard, did extremely well, and graduated at the top of his class. Two of his sisters, Mary and Elizabeth, had moved to Washington and gotten jobs in the government, and in 1935 he decided to join them and look for work himself. He was fortunate to find a position in the Treasury Department with the Bureau of Accounts and Deposits. He was eighteen. His supervisor was a long-time employee who took an interest in him and became his teacher and mentor. My father worked at the Treasury until 1941, steadily advancing up the Civil Service scale to increasingly important jobs. During this period, he attended night school at Columbus College where he studied law. (Columbus was later folded into Catholic University and he received an LLB from the latter institution.) His mother came to Washington to live with him, and he had sole responsibility for providing for her as well as himself. His hard work paid off when, with the looming prospect of war, the Lend Lease Administration was formed, and a number of “dollar a year” men came into government. Although these were
William Manning Rountree 1972
successful businessmen, they had little experience in the internal operation of our financial system. He was asked to take temporary leave of the Treasury Department and oversee the financial section of the operation. He would be in charge of channeling money through the proper stages of appropriation to the final disposition of funds. This new job doubled his salary overnight. Eventually, he asked to be relieved of that job so that he could join the Army, but he was persuaded instead to go to Cairo for a period of six months to
assist in the reorganization of a joint British and American effort, the Middle East Supply Center. Those six months stretched into four years. He returned to Washington and was given a permanent position with the Department of State. His first assignment there was as the Administrative Officer of the Anglo-American Committee of Inquiry on Palestine, where he met my mother, who had been assigned there as a secretary. During 1948 and 1949 he was appointed to the U.S. Embassy in Athens, Greece, where he helped administer U.S. aid programs to the Greek army in their fight against Communist insurgents. In 1949, he returned to the Department of State as the Director of Greek, Turkish, and Iranian Affairs. In 1952, he was sent to Ankara as Deputy Chief of Mission, and then to Teheran in 1953, also as Deputy Chief of Mission. In 1955, he returned to the Department of State where he became Assistant Secretary of State for Near Eastern, South Asian, and African Affairs. In that position, he helped to develop U.S. policy involving the Suez Crisis in November 1956 and the U.S. intervention in Lebanon in 1958. He served under four Administrations as the U.S. Ambassador to Pakistan (1959–62), Sudan (1962– 65), South Africa (1965–70), and Brazil (1970–73). He retired in May 1973 and he and my mother settled in Gainesville, Florida. He died in 1995. (Further details of his career can be found on the State Department website, in citations in numerous books, as well as the Truman and Eisenhower Presidential Libraries.)
What was a moment when you felt particularly loved by your parents? My transition from boarding school to college was a difficult one for me. My parents had been in Sudan during my high school years, and just as I left for Emory University in Atlanta, my father was sent as the U.S. envoy to South Africa. I was on my own as I started my new life as a college co-ed. It was all pretty overwhelming, from my classes, to getting settled, to negotiating sorority rush, to entering the dating scene after my sheltered existence in Washington. Although it was difficult, I soldiered on and made it through to summer break when I could join my parents at home in Cape Town. There, life was carefree and relaxed, and I enjoyed playing tennis and making new friends under the clear South African sky. But when it was time to go back to Atlanta, I found college even more stressful than it had been the year before. Everything weighed on me, from my studies to my personal relationships. As the first quarter eventually crawled to an end, I was exhausted, mentally and physically. Feeling ill, I retreated to the home of my aunt and uncle who lived in Decatur, a suburb of Atlanta. I remember lying on the bed in the guest room, crying, but no one came to look in on me. Eventually, I cried myself to sleep. The next morning, I awoke to an empty house. I felt so alone and so helpless. I decided to call my parents, which in those days was a complicated process involving lots of steps and significant cost. When I eventually reached my mother, I remember
saying, “Mama, I’m…” before the tears started again. She said simply, “Come home.” “But what about school? My credits… and it’s so expensive,” I began, but she said again, “Come home.” So I did. They knew what I needed and they did not hesitate to bring me back.
My Kappa Kappa Gamma photo 1966
What are your most vivid memories of a grandparent? My maternal grandfather, John McDowall, is without question the grandparent I remember most vividly. In addition to being an important part of my life, he was a truly unforgettable character. After my grandmother’s untimely death, he married Anne Hensley, an attractive widow whom he pursued at my mother’s suggestion. From my earliest memory, they were my Popouse and Yaya, names that I gave them when I was just learning to talk in Greece. Born and bred in the South, Popouse had an infectious Southern accent. He had an outgoing personality and enjoyed being the center of attention. I am told that he had a head of auburn hair and was known as Red, but that was long before I knew him. He was a military man, reaching the rank of Colonel in the U.S. Army. Or as he specified, “Colonel, Regular United States Army (Retired)” (with the word “Colonel” predictably spelled out). Popouse and Yaya were avid travelers, and took the opportunity to visit “The Little Suzanna,” Popouse’s beloved only child, at every post my father was appointed, from Greece to Brazil. He was proud that his daughter was The Ambassador’s Wife, and loved being a part of the diplomatic scene. I became particularly close to Popouse and Yaya once I started boarding school in Washington while my parents were in Sudan. Since Khartoum was too far to fly for every school vacation, I would spend spring break and shorter holidays with them
at their home in Keystone Heights, a small town in north central Florida. On most occasions, I would bring along my roommate, Betty. We giggled at the fact that he made such a fuss over our TV choices and rolled our eyes at his admonition to “slobber up good” with Sea n’ Ski before we went out to sunbathe. When I transferred to the University of Florida from Emory University, my grandparents assumed an even greater role in my life. By then, my parents were in South Africa, so Popouse took on the task of getting me settled. He picked me up at the Jacksonville Airport and drove me to Gainesville. Our first stop: Gator National Bank, to set up my account. The line of students waiting to open their own accounts stretched for several blocks. I started to walk towards the end of the line, but my grandfather would have none of that. Instead, he strode towards the front door of the bank, passing the long, hot line as I trotted along after him, mortified, avoiding eye contact as I overheard comments such as, “Who is that?” or, “Is she somebody?” Convinced that we would be asked to go back and take our rightful place down the block somewhere, I was shocked that as soon as Popouse announced that he was Colonel John McDowall, Regular United States Army (Retired) and that I was his granddaughter, we were ushered into the president’s office where the president himself graciously assisted me in opening an account with $20.
Popouse expected such attention, and generally he was afforded it, and usually, cordially. I observed that he made it a practice to never accept the first table offered at a restaurant, nor take the first room he was shown at a hotel. This would invariably cause me great embarrassment, but he generally got away with it, while at the same time, somehow charming everyone in the establishment, from manager to busboy. I think that a lot of it had to do with the fact that he got such obvious pleasure from these associations and carried everyone along with him. Riding with Popouse was its own unique experience. As long as I can remember, he owned a Cadillac Sedan De Ville which he loved to drive. Once we were on our way, he would invariably turn around and squeeze everyone’s hand, telling us how much he loved all his “Little Chil’en” as his passengers would anxiously urge him to watch where he was going. He would explain to me that the safest way to ensure that you stayed on the road was to straddle the yellow line. It was times like those that I was glad that he kept the string of good luck Donkey Beads that he’d bought in Egypt hooked over the radio knob. Eventually, he and Anne sold their house and moved to Suncoast Manor, a retirement community in St. Petersburg. I often drove down from Gainesville to visit them in their little bungalow. The first time I made the trip, however, I was not sure how to get out of town to head back to campus. Popouse had me follow him over the Frankland Bridge that connects St. Pete to Tampa. We were breezing along, as I tried to keep up with
him without taking up two lanes like he was, when he suddenly slammed on his breaks. Of course, I did too, as did (fortunately) everyone behind me. He jumped out of the car, and ran to my window. “Susie, are you sure you have enough money?” he asked. When Houston and I started getting serious, it was Popouse to whom I first introduced my future husband. He took a great liking to Houston, much to my relief and that of my parents, who had to depend on his positive appraisal from afar. To Popouse, Houston became more than his granddaughter’s husband. He was his grandson. Soon after our marriage, he presented Houston with a collection of Rudyard Kipling’s poetry, in which he wrote the following inscription: To Sam Houston Hanes from his Grandfather. Kipling wrote of sturdy men. I would have you born to love what he said, as I have, and to let his salt add a savor to your life. —John McDowall, Colonel, Regular U.S. Army (Retired)
John McDowall in Newfoundland 1943
What was special about the man you married? As I’ve answered questions for this book, I have written about various aspects of my life with Houston Hanes. But now, I’d like to write about Houston as a friend, a father, a husband. Samuel Houston Hanes, Jr. was born on February 19, 1948 in Charlottesville, Virginia to Edith Cleo Johnson and Samuel Houston Hanes. Edith and Houston Sr. lived in the village of Dillwyn in Buckingham County, 45 miles from the nearest hospital in Charlottesville. He was their only child. The Hanes family had a long history in Buckingham County, Virginia, dating back to the early settlers. Houston’s father was the youngest surviving of five sons born to John Blackwell Hanes and Ada Arlington Carter. However, after living in that small town during the early years of their marriage, Edith and Houston decided to strike out on their own, and in the mid-1950s, they moved to New Port Richey, Florida.
Houston and his dad in the Gulf of Mexico 1958
Thus, it was Florida that Houston Jr. called home. He was a good student at Gulf High School and a
fine athlete, lettering in football and track and earning the “Best Athlete” superlative in his senior year. His Uncle Carter, a civil engineer, had hoped that Houston would follow him to the Virginia Military Institute in Lexington, but his parents did not want him to go to a college so far from home. Although he settled on the University of Florida, he did take his uncle’s advice and study civil engineering, earning a BSCE in 1971. (In 1976, he added two master’s degrees to that at the University of Pittsburgh.) It was during my junior year at Florida that I met Houston. I had transferred from Emory and was swept up by the excitement of Gator football. I admit that I didn't really follow the game, but I loved all the pre-game excitement and the dressing up and the parties afterwards. On the particular weekend I am recalling, I had a date with a fellow who was in Houston’s fraternity. However, he told me a few days earlier that he needed leave town to attend to a family emergency and had arranged for Houston Hanes to take me to the game since he did not want me to miss it. (What a nice guy he was— he later became an Episcopal priest.) I clearly remember thinking that I would actually prefer to go with Houston anyway, as I had noticed him at the Lambda Chi house and thought he was cute. When Game Day arrived, I waited with anticipation. But when my date showed up at the door, I was surprised—and miffed—to see that it was not Houston Hanes but another fraternity
brother. He was embarrassed to admit that Houston had gone to the library and had sent him in his place. I was incensed that I was to be handed off until some pushover agreed to take me. I almost sent him away, but in the end, agreed to go to the game with him but no after parties. I figured that was the end of it. The next day, my doorbell rang again. This time, I found a bashful Houston standing there, head down, holding a single rose. He admitted that he had chickened out. He was intimidated. He asked me to forgive him and shyly invited me to dinner. How could I refuse that bashful smile and those blue eyes?
Although we were very young—we were married at 23 and were just 24 when Mike was born—he took his responsibilities as a husband and father very seriously. My own father commented that he had not seen anyone more conscientious at such a young age. It was quite a compliment, coming from my father, who had himself taken on so much as a young man. Besides accepting the burden of his little family, Houston worked hard to be an exemplary Naval officer. He had an innate sense of right and wrong and yet was a team player who tried not to be judgmental of others. One of our long-time Navy friends wrote a piece about Houston, whom he called a “rock steady pragmatist” and saw as a mentor as well as a friend: I found him extremely easy to talk to, and to trust with my secrets and feelings. I valued this characteristic in him. I don’t share easily with most people, so to me it’s doubly important that I could tell him an inner thought or plan – or in some cases, pain. In life, we don’t get many chances at true friendship. Houston Hanes was one of the best.
My portrait of Houston at UF 1970
That is how it began. Our relationship developed slowly and sweetly as we got to know each other and realized that we had a similar sense of humor, an enjoyment of sports, and a positive outlook on life, in spite of our different backgrounds.
Here is a little story that gives a clearer picture of our relationship. For years, I made Houston a brown bag lunch for him to take to work. It always consisted of two sandwiches: a smooth peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich on white bread, and a ham and American cheese sandwich on wheat bread with French’s mustard. After we had been married for ten years or so, we went to a dinner party at the home of friends. After dinner, when the group was sitting around in the living
room, someone got the idea for each couple to share something that they each disliked about the other. This was not a great idea. However, the group took up the challenge and started sharing annoyances about their spouses. I sat there, wondering what I would say, and more, wondering what Houston would say. Great was my surprise when Houston’s pet peeve with me was…that he hated mustard. The thought that every workday, five days a week, for ten years, this man would eagerly open his brown bag and take out his sandwiches and look to see what they were: smooth peanut butter and strawberry jam on white, and ham and American cheese on wheat, with MUSTARD. Never a word to me about it. Each day, I guess that he just cringed and forced down that mustardy sandwich. After his confession at the party, our life together underwent a drastic change. I continued making his lunch: one smooth peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich on white, and one ham and American cheese sandwich on wheat…with mayo. And that is, I suppose, one of the reasons that we stayed together. I don’t recall what I said about him at that party. Another peculiarity of his was his affinity for sugar. Especially on cereal. I can still hear him, admonishing Mike and Chris that enough sugar should be poured onto cereal for it to peak high enough to keep the milk from reaching the tip of the mound through capillary action. For twenty years, Houston served honorably in the Navy Civil Engineer Corps. His career took us to Europe and the Pacific and to both U.S. coasts.
Although ours was a nomadic life, it was a time of new experiences and opportunities for our family. But a life of moving gets exhausting after a while, and we decided at the end of Houston’s twenty years that he would retire from the military and enter civilian life. After much deliberation, he accepted a position as Senior Engineer with a firm based in Atlanta. After a year or so, the company asked him to head a new branch in Chicago. Another move to a part of the country unfamiliar to us and far away from our families was a big decision and we considered it carefully. But we decided that it was a promising opportunity and that we should not be afraid to step out in faith.
The boys put on their dad’s LCDR insignia, Guam 1982
We moved to the Chicago area where we lived in a temporary high-rise apartment near the airport until we could find something permanent. After a painstaking search, we bought a house in River Forest that had a lot of potential. We set about
renovating it and settling into the neighborhood, joining a church, and beginning the familiar task of fitting ourselves into a new life. But less than a year later, we learned that the firm was reorganizing and that there would no longer be a place for Houston at the Chicago branch. He was asked to return to Atlanta. Committed to our life in River Forest, Houston decided to leave the company and look for a new position in the Chicago area. I had just completed my Master of Library and Information Science program and was ready to go to work myself, and we were confident that he would find something quickly. Eventually, he was hired by a chemical company as Director of Environment, Health, and Safety. Our relief was short-lived, however, as not more than two months after he started that job, we learned that there was to be a buy-out by a larger firm. After less than a year, he was job-hunting again. It was a difficult time for us, but I was impressed by Houston’s faith and resilience. He was willing to wait on God’s timing. He continued to reach out to friends and neighbors, offering to help with yard work or leaf blowing or snow removal with his beloved John Deere. He began training at our church as an elder and used his Professional Engineer credentials to head up the buildings and grounds committee. He started a men’s Bible study. The members were a rather motley group, several of whom lacked the confidence that Houston seemed to exude. He worked hard to make them feel manly and good about themselves, and was distraught when one of them decided to drop out, mulling over and over what he might have done wrong and
how he could correct it. After ten months of uncertainty, he was hired as Facilities Manager for PACE, the suburban Chicago transportation company. To Houston, being a father was a sacred duty. He adored our sons and did his best to be the father they needed. He encouraged them to live honorably and be all they could be. He was frustrated when things went amiss, as they invariably do in families. It was hard for him to be a strict parent, but he refused to negotiate if he thought that doing so would not be in his sons’ best interests. He was really adamant about that. His guidance to the boys was especially evident in sports. After a particular incident that took place during a baseball game that involved a strong reprimand by father to younger son, Chris wrote this note that I found among Houston’s papers: To Dad! About yesterday night I am very sorry! I didn’t mean to make it sound like a joke. I know that you have a lot of experience with sports. It was late and I was confused and next time I’ll think before I talk. I’m very very sorry! Love, Chris
But before we conclude that this man was a saint, I will add that, on occasion, he did have a penchant for being a martyr. This was particularly evident when it came to doing yard work. For some reason, Houston always chose to do the heavy lifting in the heat of the afternoon. He would zoom around with the lawn mower until his face was beet red, getting increasingly worked up when no one came out to help him. I think he must have realized that no one would offer to do what he was doing at the time of day that he was doing it, but that did not matter. He just seemed to get some kind of perverse pleasure being as miserable as possible. Mercifully, those times were seldom. In a letter from Mike, written in 1990 and saved among Houston’s papers, he wrote to his dad: Throughout my childhood, you have been an everpresent (if not always accepted) role model and source of compassion and support to me. My memories of childhood are rich with the knowledge that my home was —and will continue to be—a place where I am loved. It is upon this knowledge that I venture out into a sea of uncertainty, nervous but unafraid…and it is for this knowledge that I thank you sincerely. Then, on January 16, 1999, Houston was suddenly taken from us in an accident at home. There were tributes given at his funeral from some of the men who knew him best. Houston’s compass was True North. I always cared what he thought as he mentored me in my own fathering. He
shared with me his reason for becoming an umpire and a referee. Fathers always want to protect their children and they always want to guide them. The hard part is giving them room to grow up and be their own persons. By being a referee, he could be close to his boys and teach them the rules—but he let them decide what to do between the lines, whether in a game or in life itself. Houston Hanes was a great father to Mike and Chris. As a retired Naval officer, he was strict. But his sons will tell you that he was their best friend, their counselor, their confident. Houston never sat on the sidelines. He played with the team and was someone who experienced life fully. Perhaps the most poignant tribute that day was given by Mike: No matter what else happened, I always loved the feeling of his big, comforting hand on my shoulder. His hands seemed so solid and capable. I never understood how I was ever going to be big enough to have hands that strong. Mike told the Chicago Tribune that his dad “measured success differently. He measured it by how many people’s lives you can affect.” It seems to me that Houston’s goodness grew more defined as he unknowingly approached the end of his life. Perhaps he had a sense of his limited time with us, and knew that he wanted to leave a legacy of love and kindness. I think he did.
Dear Houston, This is a little note to say You are my love this Valentine’s Day. A better man I'd never find, Or one more dear and sweet and kind. A real neat dad to both our boys; A special friend in trials and joys. Biker, cameraman, stereo buff; Handball, golf and carpentry stuff. A jock to beat in tennis maybe If I can get you out to play me! A fighting Seabee tall and proud Who stands above the average crowd. A dufus maybe in some ways But the man I’ll stay with all my days. You’re all these things to me, dear Huse, And I’ll love you always. From your Sus. February 14, 1975
How did you feel when your first child was born? Hmmm. This is the first question of our family story project, managed by Mike, that first child. Perhaps this is not a coincidence. But nonetheless, it is a good question, and leads me to think back a long time—forty-eight years ago in fact, to the last day of January 1972. Houston and I were living on the Naval Air Station in Lemoore, California, where he was assigned to the Public Works Center, his first job in the Civil Engineer Corps. NAS Lemoore, the Navy’s largest master jet base, is set in the rich farmlands of the San Joaquin Valley in central California, affording plenty of wiggle room for the squadrons based there to safely practice maneuvers. Fresno, the largest city in the area, is 35 miles away and had a population of under 200,000 at the time. Thus, most of our activities and associations were with Houston’s fellow CEC officers on the base and other young families who lived in the neighborhood. It seemed that everyone was having babies, so we fit right in. As a matter of fact, when my maternal grandfather, John McDowall, first visited us there, he observed that although Lemoore was purported to be a master jet station, he reckoned that was just a cover and that it was really a breeding ground for a master race. But it felt good to be part of that environment, as I had been nervous about the prospect of becoming a mother. It seemed like it had all happened so fast. Following our marriage on December 12, 1970, we had undergone a succession of life changes and moves. After Houston and I had completed our
studies at the University of Florida, we moved to Pensacola where Houston attended Navy flight school. However, when he learned that he was NPQ (not physically qualified) to become a Navy pilot, we were relieved when he was accepted to the Civil Engineer Corps. That change necessitated our moving across country to Port Hueneme, California for CEC Officer School and was followed by Houston’s orders to Lemoore for his first assignment. In all of that confusion, I learned that I was pregnant.
With my Mercury Cougar in Lemoore 1971
Four Generations together in Lemoore, California 1972 Michael with me, Suzanne Rountree, and John McDowall
I remember coming out of the doctor’s office feeling as if I were walking on eggshells. I could not believe that I was actually going to have a baby. After all, we had only been married a little over a year, a year that was a blur of changes and adjustments. And to top it off, I felt awful. “Morning sickness” lasted all day, and I stayed in bed reading the entire Forsyte Saga when I wasn’t running to the bathroom. Finally, the nausea abruptly ended when I woke up one morning craving a hot dog. I got out of bed and made my way across the street to Ben’s Franks where I ordered a foot-long chili dog with the works. I ate every bite. From then on, my pregnancy was easy. My due date was mid-January, and when that time rolled around, I looked every bit ready to go.
My parents had come out to Lemoore to be there for the big event. But no baby. Days passed and I became more and more uncomfortable. We would all sit around in the evening, staring at my belly. As the end of the month neared, I swore that there was no way that this baby was going to wait until February. On January 31, Michael was born, after 66 hours of labor. Dr. Tomai, my obstetrician, left me in the labor room on Friday, assuring me that I would be a mother by the time he returned to work after the weekend. The next couple of days were wretched as I was tended by a stream of doctors of various disciplines pulling the weekend OB duty. I am sure that each was relieved that his shift was over and he could pass me off to the next guy. My mother and Houston spelled each other since it was exhausting for them to sit for hours and watch me. At last, Monday morning rolled around and Dr. Tomai returned. “Oh my God, are you still here?” he exclaimed as he called for the Pitocin. That was all that I needed. Michael Houston Hanes finally made his appearance—all 8 pounds and 9 ounces of him. How did I feel? Amazed. Amazed that I had actually done it. I had given birth to this person. A person who was unbelievably beautiful. And a person who was … a boy. I had no idea what to do with a boy. Of course, Houston and I were only children with limited exposure to babies; I’m not sure I had ever even held a baby. And now, we were in charge of this little human being. We were overcome with awe. At age 24, we were parents. And our lives would never be the same.
Happy Sandwiches
Made for Mike and Chris 1980
At what times in your life have you been the happiest? There have been times in my life when I have experienced specific moments of pure joy. But other times, happiness is just there, warming my soul. Knowing Houston Hanes was more like that. I was just happy around him. We met during our junior year at the University of Florida and our dating moved rapidly from getting â&#x20AC;&#x153;pinnedâ&#x20AC;? to being engaged a year later. The day of our engagement was one of those specifically happy moments, when we shared our news with friends at a party at Daytona Beach after ring shopping earlier that morning. And from then on, as plans for our wedding developed and our graduations neared, we were just enfolded in happiness. Some of the cards and notes that we exchanged document it, and the faded photos in my album illustrate it too. I was so in love with him, and he obviously felt the same way about me.
Houston and me on our engagement night at Daytona 1969
On the Wilkie Trail in England 1998
Those days were among the happiest of my life, as we had few cares and only the anticipation of our life together to fill our hearts. The births of our two sons added to the joy and fulfillment that we felt, as our life was enhanced by the experience of being parents and the excitement of the many moves and adjustments that we would encounter together. My thoughts move to much later, when Houston had retired from the Navy. After living in Pensacola, followed by his brief time in Atlanta with Law Engineering, we settled in River Forest, Illinois when he was sent to Chicago to set up a branch of the firm. After years living in Guam and Germany and our associated travel opportunities, we had become homebodies. Our only trips had been to see our parents and check up on our boys. But finally, in the fall of 1998, we embarked on a three-week trip to England, Germany, and France. In England, we followed the trail of Wilkie Collins, the Victorian author who had become something of
an avocation for me. Good-natured Houston Hanes agreed to drive me around the countryside while I read snippets from Wilkie’s writings and we tried to find and recreate the scenes he described in his novels. One particular event that I am reminded of occurred when we were in the Lake District, searching for Carrock Fell, the hill where Wilkie sprained his ankle while hiking with Dickens in a thick mist in 1857. With a lot of effort, we finally determined which hill it was, and decided to document our discovery with a picture of ourselves by a little brook nearby. We were both stiff after our long drive and were having trouble getting down to ground level and settling into place. We set up the camera for a delayed exposure, but it went off before we were ready, capturing a moment that I remember as especially happy. That remarkable trip had many such moments for which I am deeply grateful, for it was to be our last. Little did we know that only three months later, Houston would be gone. In considering my happiest times, one would think that they would have ended at that point. But the human will is strong. It can be injured, but it endures, even after unspeakable tragedy. For months, I thought that I would never emerge from my overwhelming grief. But slowly, I did. I relied on my sons, my mother, and my friends. I looked to my faith. I began to live again and to look ahead. In September 2000, two years after Houston and I went in search of Wilkie Collins, Chris and I took a hiking trip to Cornwall, following the itinerary of
Wilkie’s journey there 150 years earlier. The words in my journal describe how I felt: We set out on our final hike along the boggy stream and through the woods, finally coming out along the narrow path that just brushed the cliff’s edge. Waves crashed against the granite cliffs below, and we savored this moment: this panorama of creation, the fresh air in our lungs, the joy of hiking together and enjoying each other’s company.
Once again, I was happy.
At Land’s End, Cornwall 2000
What do you consider the greatest challenge of your life?
Houston and me in Madurodam, Holland 1985
Creating a new life for myself after Houston’s untimely death has been my greatest challenge. Married for 28 years, we shared a peaceful home, two sons on the cusp of adulthood, and a busy and fulfilling life. After an intense day of officer training at our church, we had decided to relax at our favorite Mexican restaurant. Instead, our life together ended in a shattering moment when Houston suffered a fatal fall. I determinedly
documented that final day and the numbing days that followed in Journal of a Journey, a painful exercise that I willed myself to complete. I wrote about the cold that filled my heart at his sudden death and the horror of those early days when I felt as if my soul had frozen. I remember a feeling of emptiness that was nearly unbearable. But somehow, I got through it. It took nearly two years, but I did it: I survived. And more than that, I created a new life for myself. There is never a day that I don’t think of Houston Hanes, and I celebrate his life by trying to make the most of my own. As the months passed after the accident, I learned about joy, that deeper and richer form of happiness. I realized that Houston and I shared a joy that was strong enough to sustain me after his death. And I remain at peace, although I will always feel sadness that he is not here to share those things that he would have so loved: seeing our boys’ families, delighting in his grandchildren, and feeling the satisfaction of the passing years, knowing that we loved each other and were living honorably. In my journal, I listed all the things that I had accomplished after his death, from printing labels, reading the gas meter, and pumping gas, to selling the house, making a move, and publishing a book. And ultimately, marrying George Leonard and beginning a new life. I hope he would have been proud of me. I’d like to think so.
Do you have an irrational fear?
In the family of man, I am part of a community which is probably larger than most might think. It is most certainly a diverse group, although we do share one thing in common. We are all scared as hell to fly in an airplane. We are afraid to give up control and entrust our lives to an unknown person of whom we might only have been able to catch a glimpse before the cockpit door was slammed shut. It is my habit to check for those comforting graying temples, but the last time I tried to do that, I saw a stockinged leg in a high heeled pump. My fear of flying goes back to my earliest memories. My experiences have probably justified my membership in that family of white-knuckled, fidgety, closet wine topers who force themselves to climb inside a claustrophobic tube because they really need to get somewhere, and the train (which they actually seriously considered) takes three and a half days. We force ourselves to think, hey, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s only one hour and forty minutes; I can hang on that long, especially if I have just a little nip from my purse flask. In my early flight days as a diplomatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s daughter, I flew in all types of planes on all manner of airlines to all sorts of destinations. I have been bounced around in a DC-3 from Khartoum to Juba. I have been strapped down in the back of a Super Connie while we flew through a storm over Ethiopia on Central African Airways. I have been in thunderstorms when the lightening made
everything resemble a photographic negative, and my father, sitting across from me, looked like one of those cartoon characters who has put his finger in a socket. In those days, the idea of getting up over the weather was not possible. You just sat there and took it, often for hours and hours. I remember making an emergency landing in Cairo when I was a young teenager. We did get to see the pyramids, but before that, we got to see those little yellow oxygen cups drop from the overhead compartments. My mother and I envied each other. She was too sick to be scared, while I was too scared to be sick. Super Constellation c1966
When my father was posted to South Africa, I flew back and forth to school in the States. On South African Airways, the plane was not permitted to fly over any African nation, so our route would carry us far out around the west coast of the continent. We would stop on Sal, part of the Cape Verde Islands off the coast of Senegal. There were only two things on the island: an airport and a prison, separated by a chain-link fence. While we
refueled, the passengers would deplane and wander over to the fence to look at the prison. At the same time, the prisoners were allowed to come outside and watch the passengers. We would stand and stare at each other through the fence for a half hour or so, and then be on our way, as the line of prisoners marched back to their cells. I begged to go another way, so that I could avoid the added airtime and the necessity of another take-off and landing. For my next trip, my father’s secretary arranged for me to fly on a British airline. Waiting at Heathrow for my flight to Johannesburg, I froze when I heard, “BOAC announces flight 496 to Algiers, Lagos, Kinshasa, Lusaka, Harare and Johannesburg, leaving at Gate B24.” At last I found myself somewhat permanently on U.S. soil at the University of Florida and was determined to find myself a nice southern boy and settle down in one place forever. I found one alright, but after it was too late to avoid the inevitable, he joined the Navy, as the posters say, “to see the world.” And that we did. In twenty-five years, Houston and I made over a dozen moves that involved flying. And of course, when you move to a new part of the world, what do you do but fly some more, so you can see things in that new part of the world. Once again, I was duped into boarding all manner of “equipment.” When Houston was assigned to Guam, we were lucky to be on a 747 for the final leg of our Virginia Beach—New York—Los Angeles—Honolulu— Guam trip. The flight was full, but Houston wanted to be sure that the four of us sat together.
We discovered that we had been assigned the last four seats in the plane; the ones in the very last row that didn’t recline. A newly crowned Miss Guam and her court happened to be on our flight, complete with their roses and sashes and smiles. As we approached the island, a terrific storm kicked up. The plane bucked and rocked and dropped, leaving our stomachs on the ceiling. Sitting there in the back, I could see the plane bounce ahead of us before it worked its way to the back of the plane. I was frozen in place. When we finally landed, we saw the Queen and her entourage again, sashes crumpled, roses bent, crowns askew. I remember thinking, “I hope I really love this place, because I am never leaving.” But of course, we did leave, many times. On one of those occasions, we took advantage of a military “good deal” and signed up to go to Korea. Before getting on a military flight, all passengers must attend a briefing. We assembled in a little room just off the runway. In came an officer in a flight suit, his hair soaked with sweat. Wondering where he had come from, we sat expectantly in our seats. He began with these words: “My God, it’s rocky up there.” Great. We walked out to the waiting plane and climbed up the stairs, where we were each handed a parachute and told to take a “seat.” As we perched on our web slings like so many birds, we were told that we were on a KC-135 tanker, and would be refueling a B-52 in midair. We learned that we were lucky, as this was going to be very exciting. However, we must remain in our slings when the exercise was complete because the wake caused by the B-52 breaking away would cause
“EXTREME TURBULENCE” During my years as a diplomat’s daughter and a Navy wife and my extensive travels with George that followed, I still measure my trips by flights
rather than days. I really want—not so much to go, but to have been. Flying is something I endure, for there is nowhere that I have flown that I wished I hadn’t gone. So, I just fill my flask, steel myself, and know that I am not alone.
Our KC-135 refuels a B-52—my photo!
Why did you choose your particular career? Was it a good choice?
Although I considered various career possibilities once I got to college (flight attendant, antiques specialist, physical therapist), the profession that I eventually settled on was one that I had aspired to from the time I was in third grade: Librarian. My admiration for librarians began when I was introduced to the library at Rosemary Elementary School in Chevy Chase, Maryland. On our first library day, my teacher told us that we were going to do something very special. We lined up and followed her downstairs where a lady with a smiling face was waiting for us at the library door. We filed in and found our seats around her bigger chair. After introducing herself as Mrs. Kelly, she told us that she was going to show us how to find the treasures that were hidden there. I remember how she described the library as a magical place. All those shelves of books held more stories than I could ever imagine. She guided us through the process of getting our own cards and showed us how to use them to check books out that we were allowed to take home. On my visits, Mrs. Kelly asked me about the things I liked to do and what I liked to dream about. I told her that I loved magic. The first books I remember her leading me to were Andrew Lang’s Fairy Books. I loved those stories, often with a theme about a poor lad who bravely set out on a mission with three tasks, which, after he miraculously completed them, led him to a beautiful princess and the discovery that he was
himself a prince. Those stories were always accompanied by fantastic, detailed illustrations. She showed me other enchanted books: At the Back of the North Wind by George MacDonald, Sara Crewe by Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Birds’ Christmas Carol by Kate Douglas Wiggin, Half Magic by Edward Eager. I was proud to use my own library card and excited to take my books home and enter my magic world, courtesy of Mrs. Kelly. Of course, I had plenty of books of my own, which were gifts from my family: Charlotte’s Web and Stuart Little by E.B. White as well as folk stories and Grimm’s Fairy Tales. I decided that I would create my own library, just like Mrs. Kelly. I glued little date due slips into my books and made check-out cards. I lined them on my shelves in some kind of order which made sense to me. I loved playing Librarian.
The light that Mrs. Kelly sparked in me kept burning all through high school and I looked forward to the summer reading assignments that were a part of my years at National Cathedral. It was during a summer at home in Khartoum that I first discovered Wilkie Collins. My mother had a collection of Penguin green and white Mystery & Crime paperbacks in the den and The Moonstone caught my eye, mainly because it had a cool title. Little did I realize how this book would lead me closer to my life’s work as well as to a passionate avocation.
Once I headed to college, it was an easy decision to choose a major in English Literature. However, I did not find reading to be as much fun, since I didn’t have the luxury of choosing my own books or having time to ponder the words and the thoughts in the ones I was assigned, as I liked to do. (I am a slow reader for that reason.) Plowing
through six or seven Victorian novels a semester resulted in some “Cliff’s vs. Sparks” reading, which I really disliked. But it did not interfere with my love for books or my belief in their magic. And the time I spent studying in the library still felt cozy and comfortable—the hushed sounds, the particular smell, the sanctuary of being tucked away in a remote corner. Houston was in a five-year engineering program when we met at the University of Florida. Since we planned to marry in 1970, I decided to attend graduate school and keep him company until he completed his BSCE. I had hoped to earn a Masters in Library Science, the terminal degree in the field, but the closest school offering that degree was
With Staff at Glen Springs Elementary, Gainesville 1971
Florida State. When Houston and I considered a 150-mile commute as newlyweds, we decided that I would look for something in Gainesville. For that reason, I pursued a Master’s of Education in Library Media from the School of Education at UF. It wasn’t exactly what I wanted, but it ended up being a good decision. I did my internship at Glen Springs Elementary School, an experience that reconnected me to those formative years. It was my turn to share my love of books with children who were the same age as I when I first discovered libraries. The next ten years passed quickly with Houston’s evolving military career, numerous moves, and the birth of our sons. It was not until we moved to Guam that I began my library work in earnest, when I was hired as the librarian at Agat-Santa Rita High School. I loved that job, and it was good to me. I got to know the students personally as I helped them with research projects and showed them how to evaluate the materials available from our modest collection. When I was asked to be a senior class sponsor, I was delighted. I even got to accompany the seniors on their class trip to Japan, the first time many of them had been off the island. In Germany, I worked at the U.S. Army Library at Patch Barracks, outside Stuttgart. Although I handled reference requests, my main duties seemed to entail informing our patrons when the newest selection of VHS tapes had been delivered. Still, I loved the opportunity to meet people and to assist them in finding the information they needed. When we returned to the U.S., I took a break from
full-time employment to take classes, volunteer, and be involved in the boys’ lives. I had various part-time jobs, including working as a travel consultant and as a job developer as we moved from the Tidewater, Virginia area to Pensacola. It was when the wife of Houston’s Commanding Officer in Pensacola approached me about joining her at the new library that was opening as part of the National Museum of Naval Aviation that my career in libraries moved to a new level. As the Catalog Librarian, I was responsible for both original and copy cataloging and developed formats for preserving and classifying historically significant materials—including those of the Navy’s Blue Angels precision flying team. It was an exciting job and offered the opportunity for me to meet President George H.W. Bush as well as the Navy’s astronauts Alan Shepard, Jim Lovell, Gene Cernan, and Neil Armstrong. Houston retired from the Navy and we moved to Chicago where he headed the Chicago branch of Law Engineering. We bought a house in River Forest, which happened to be a block from Rosary College, home to one of the State’s two library science programs. At last, after nearly 20 years, I had the opportunity to earn the “real” library degree I had coveted. In 1994, I received my Masters of Library and Information Science and was hired as a technical services librarian at Northbrook Public Library. Although I enjoyed the work, I could not tolerate the commute and was pleased when an opportunity opened at Wheaton College Library’s Tech Services Department.
It was only a short train ride from home and I spent three happy years there, moving up to head of the department. After all those years working in an assortment of libraries, I finally assumed my dream job when I was hired as the Director of River Forest Public Library. With responsibility for the administration of all aspects of the library and its 27 employees and a nearly $1 million budget, I was proud and pleased to serve my own community of 12,000 residents. And “serve” was the optimum word. At last, I was able to do what I had dreamed of all my life: share the gifts of the library. I planned programs for children and for their caregivers. I arranged Fireside Chat evenings that brought in professors from throughout the Chicago area to discuss literary topics around the old stone fireplace in the reading room. We offered afterschool activities for latchkey kids from the junior high next door and I refereed squabbles and soothed hurt feelings. We helped jobless folks fill out employment applications. We even discreetly enabled a proud homeless lady to occasionally sponge bathe in the restroom. Our mailman, Ron, worked a second job as our janitor. As the mailman, he would come in each morning, carrying the mountains of catalogs that arrived every day. Then later that evening, he would return and stagger out to the recycling bins, bearing much the same stack that he’d delivered earlier. I once commented that perhaps he could save a step and just take them out to the back to begin with but he frowned and reminded me of his
postman’s oath. Ron’s notes on old catalog cards that he’d leave for me at night spoke volumes. There were plenty of unique incidents to manage. Leaky windows and HVAC problems called forth my observations watching Houston deal with such issues. Patron complaints, which were few and usually entailed a fine for overdue materials, still called for tactful triage. And there was always the unexpected that called on ones’ MacGyver skills, such as the afternoon when a little boy got his head stuck between two spindles of the front railing. The Fire Department was called in and after some complex choreography and a bottle of cooking oil, we were able to work Rolf’s head out.
A few days later, I received this note:
Of all the duties I had as Director, my favorite was bringing materials to patrons who could not get to the library on their own. Since we were not a huge operation, I was able to schedule those deliveries myself, usually over my lunch break. One patron I remember with great sweetness was Mary Mills, an elderly woman who lived alone in a small clapboard house on the edge of town. Mary was not well, and spent most of her time lying on her day bed and watching soap operas (those afternoon serial melodramas with storylines that often went on for yearsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;or even decades). I liked them too, and we would discuss All My Children when I paid a her a visit every few weeks to bring her books. She was so grateful. I still have some of the notes that she sent to me and they remind me of why I chose the path I did. When Houston died in 1999, it was the River Forest Library that led me out of the abyss. My staff surrounded me with love and support and my
job gave me purpose. The letters I received from my patrons and staff provided the encouragement that I needed to keep going.
But all things must eventually come to an end, and with the dawn of a new library board came new ideas about how the library should run. The directors adopted the mantra that River Forest Library would render neighboring Oak Park Library â&#x20AC;&#x153;obsolete.â&#x20AC;? It did not matter that our facilities were only a mile apart and that we had
reciprocal borrowing privileges, or that Oak Park was a good five times larger than the Village of River Forest with a budget to match. The board wanted Big Things; things that were far grander than Fireside Chats or personally delivered books. I left. Fortunately, I was hired immediately by “arch rival” Oak Park, much to the chagrin of the River Forest board. The letters to the editor in the local papers were gratifying and served to diminish the pain of that final chapter of my library career. I stayed at Oak Park a year, long enough to retire with benefits from the State of Illinois. I was asked to remain but I decided that I had accomplished what I had set out to do. I had become a librarian, just as I’d always dreamed, serving my patrons in school, college, military, special, and public libraries.
Have you ever had a recurring dream? I am alone on the heath, walking at night. The wind is still, but there is a chill in the air. I can feel the dry grass cracking slightly beneath my feet. Far off in the distance I see the shadow of a tower, lighted only by faint moonlight in a starless, empty sky. There is a single frame of light, glowing golden against the tower’s darkness. As I near, a dim opening appears below, leading to winding stone steps that curve up into the darkness. I slowly make my way, hearing my footsteps
softly echoing. I reach the top and enter a small stone room, its walls curving into obscurity. At the single window, there is an armchair; its padded arms and arched back are covered in a faded chintz. It is deep and worn and there is a footstool next to it covered with the same worn fabric. By the chair is a lamp, obscured by a dark shade; its golden rays shine down against the arm. The room remains in shadow, but there I find my place of warmth and silent peace.
Have you ever experienced a true coincidence? In 1983, Houston was assigned to the United States European Command in Stuttgart, Germany. Although a Naval officer, he served with the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. Since there were few American Navy wives on the post, we would often get together with a small group of German ladies whose husbands were retired from the Marine Messe or German Navy. On one occasion when Houston’s mother was visiting us in Stuttgart, I took her to a meeting at the home of one of the Marine Messe wives. Edith was looking forward to the event with interest, as she had been a nurse in the U.S. Army during WII. Frau Mueller welcomed us to her home and seated us in the living room. A few minutes later, her husband, Heinz, joined us. During the introductions, he asked Edith where she was from and, upon hearing that she was from Florida, commented that he had also been there—in 1943.
Edith Johnson Hanes 1943
“You couldn’t have been a tourist at that time,” she responded.
Mueller explained how he had been captured off the coast of Florida after his U-boat sank and was picked up by a passing commercial vessel and taken to Miami. Badly injured, he was transferred to the Army hospital Fort Meade, Maryland. I noticed that my mother-in-law suddenly grew quiet and thoughtful. After a few minutes, she looked at Heinz and said, “I remember you!” He seemed startled, but asked to what she was referring. “You were in the first room to the left of the C ward, just beyond the nurses’ office. I took care of you.” At that point, Heinz nearly dropped the bottle of wine he was pouring. Edith went on to explain how she had started her tour of duty with the Army Nurse Corps at Fort Meade hospital only days before he was brought in. Since he was a German POW, and an attractive one at that, she clearly remembered caring for him. She shared her memories of the nurses fluttering around the handsome prisoner as guards sat outside. Eventually, Heinz retrieved a box of old letters and his POW cap. Frau Mueller said that when she’d heard that her husband had been captured by the Americans, she wished that he’d died. She could not believe that he had been cared for with such kindness. For the rest of the afternoon, we sat, rapt, listening to their reminiscences of the war, witnesses to a story of compassion that bridged two enemies.
What is a selfless thing you have done in life? Several months after Houston’s death, when I was still living in our home in River Forest, I continued to feel afraid and vulnerable, especially at home at night. For that reason, I had arranged for our security company to install a unit in the bedroom so that I could block myself off from the rest of the house and feel safely tucked away. Late one night, long after I had locked up and gone to bed, the phone rang. There is never a good reason to get a phone call in the middle of the night, and I answered somewhat hesitantly. It was Nancy, a friend from my Bible study. She sounded terrified. Her husband, Sandy, had been battling a malicious form of melanoma. That night, he had woken up agitated and delirious. He insisted that a huge black bird was hovering over the bed and he was calling out and crying. Nancy had vainly tried to calm him, and did not know what to do. “Please, please, can you come over?” she begged. Consumed with my own fears, alone in my darkened house, I nonetheless said, “Of course. I’ll be right there.” I got out of bed and threw on some clothes. With some trepidation, I disarmed the alarm and crept downstairs. Our home was of an
era before garages were needed, and like most homes in our neighborhood, it had a detached garage on the other side of the driveway. It had never looked more menacing. But I was on a mission that was not of my choosing. I stepped out into the darkness, raised the garage door and got in the car, hastily locking myself in. As I turned down the empty street, I could feel my heart beating against my ribs. What was I doing out here in the darkness, alone. Why wasn’t Houston here? I got to Nancy’s house and parked in front. She met me at the door, gave me a hug, and led me up the darkened stairs to Sandy’s room. He lay there, moaning softly. “I’m here, Sandy,” I said quietly. “I am so scared,” he answered. “Let’s pray together,” I suggested. We stayed there for a long time, holding hands, as God’s spirit filled the room and dark thoughts dissipated. I knew that just as God had been in that room with Sandy, Nancy, and me, He had been with me when I was called to step out in the darkness to help a friend.
What is the most thoughtful gift you ever received? When my father was appointed Ambassador to the Sudan following his first ambassadorial post to Pakistan, I went from the close-knit American school I attended in Karachi to National Cathedral, a girls’ boarding school in Washington, D.C. With my parents more than 6,500 miles away and my friendships reduced to flimsy blue airletters, I was devastated. But then I met Betty. She had the single room next to mine in Whitby Hall, since 1917 the austere brick home of the first-year boarding students. From Charleston, West Virginia, Betty was the youngest child of William J. Maier, a successful businessman and philanthropist. Betty had always been something of an outlier. She was determinedly unpretentious, choosing to keep herself as far from her father’s wealth and influence as possible. What she did have was a kind heart and a penchant for fun. We took to each other immediately. One day after school, Betty showed me the little shop on the other side of the Cathedral Close where we were allowed to go to buy the occasional treat. That day I bought a package of Chuckles, those jelly gumdrops that come five to a pack: cherry, lemon, lime, orange, and licorice. The only flavor I really liked was cherry, but it was worth getting the whole pack to have that one cherry gumdrop. I decided to save my candy as an after school treat the next day. I remember looking forward to my red Chuckle as I endured my new classes and my strange surroundings, and by the
time the final bell rang, my mouth was watering in anticipation. Alas! When I walked into my room, I saw that someone had been there before me. My package of Chuckles had been opened, and … the red one was missing. In the world of disappointments, then and now, it was pretty insignificant. And yet, it wasn’t. That red Chuckle was the final blow. I wept and wept: for my red Chuckle … and for my friends, my boyfriend, my parents, my childhood. But Betty understood, and she tried her best to console me. From that time on, the two of us were inseparable. We walked to class together, we studied together, we talked until lights out when we had to be back in our own rooms.
With Betty Maier in Keystone Heights, Florida 1963
As the end of the school year neared, we were instructed to choose our roommates for our sophomore year, since the rooms in the upper school were all doubles. We gleefully put each other’s names down. That summer, Betty went home to Charleston and I flew to Khartoum. By September, we couldn’t wait to see each other again. Tenth grade rolled into eleventh, and finally we were seniors. Although we were not allowed to be roommates more than two years in a row, we remained as close as ever, and chose each other again for our final year of high school. By this time, I had become quite independent, flying wherever my parents were posted during the Christmas holidays and in the summer. But Betty and I spent our other breaks at her home in West Virginia or with my grandparents in Florida. We never seemed to tire of each other’s company. When graduation came, we were not sure that we would ever get over leaving each other. We exchanged charms for our bracelets, with “YOAFR” engraved on each one. That was our secret code that meant “Your Once and Future Roommate,” created after we read T. H. White’s The Once and Future King for senior English. The following year, we both went off to college and adjusted to our new lives. We stayed in touch, but not as often. Somehow, it did not seem to matter. Each time we got together, we picked up where we left off. Houston and I became engaged at the end of my senior year in college and Betty was the first friend I asked to be a bridesmaid. When she arrived in Washington for the wedding festivities, it was as if
no time had passed. She was as thoughtful and caring on my wedding day as she had always been as my roommate in boarding school. As the years went by, I continued my nomadic life around the world as a Navy wife, which prevented me from seeing Betty very often. In fact, for the next thirty years, I don’t think we saw each other more than a couple of times. But our letters kept us connected and our marathon phone calls brushed the years away. Somehow, we could pass hours on the phone, reminiscing about boarding school shenanigans and marveling at how we managed to avoid being suspended. When times were hard, our calls reminded us how close we had always remained. After Houston’s sudden death, Betty insisted that I call her in Denver at any time of the day or night, for she knew how much I was struggling. Our friendship became a great comfort to me; it mattered little that she was in a different time zone. I eventually decided to marry again and start a new life. I called to tell Betty. A few days later, I received a package from her, nearly forty years after that bleak day when I discovered that my cherry Chuckles was gone. Inside the box was a red crystal gumdrop.
What do you like most about being with your family? What I like most about being with this family begins with the chemistry between Mike and Chris. To watch them play off each other makes me laugh as nothing else ever has. I like the way that Chris giggles in a particular way when Mike comes out with some outrageous comment. I like the way that the sound of that giggle motivates Mike to make ever more outrageous comments.
I like seeing the closeness that Maggie and Jen have with each other.
I like the way that Carter, Wesley, Ryan and Rowen happily participate in our family times together, and am happy knowing that soon, Tucker will be part of things too.
I like the way my mother reacts to the same comment, pretending that she doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t get it/hear it/understand it when she most assuredly does. Shared family humor, with its preposterous memories, its latent cultural references, its inside jokes, is simply the best.
I enjoy the banter of our Hanes Clan texts.
I like to watch Mike making margaritas and Chris making fudge and either of them barbequing with Billâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s special recipe.
I like knowing that we are as close as we would be from any distance. And in spite of being an only child, I am learning that disagreeing about something is normal, and that heated discussions are not only okay, but the stuff of intellectual growth and self-discovery.
What simple pleasures of life do you truly enjoy? Answering this question in the midst of a global pandemic feels somewhat paradoxical. Thoughts of simple pleasures seem far away when the world feels out of control and anxiety drones in the background like the distant hum of an engine. But as I ponder this question, I am surprised to find that answers flood my mind, even with today’s uncertainty. Yes, life is still full of simple pleasures if one stops to think about it. I enjoy being in our cozy apartment, surrounded by books and the souvenirs of our travels. I have always felt this way after a particularly challenging trip, but I realize that this feeling is even more evident as we remain more or less confined to quarters.
As we sit together in the evenings, I knit while George talks. It is comforting to watch the fire while the rhythmic clicking of the needles encourages conversation. Calling Em every afternoon with never a loss for words. Every day at precisely two, I call Em at 3. She’s in Florida, quarantined, Waiting to talk to me. How are you doing, we ask each time. Ok I guess, we say. We try to think of interesting things To share about our day. How was bingo— did you win? Did you talk to Chris or Mike? George went out to the grocery store. I am on my bike. What did you think of the speech last night? Is it very hot today? I finally went to the beauty shop And covered up my gray. Ugh, the computer is all messed up. The TV’s on the blink. Why don’t people wear a mask? I could use a drink. How much longer will this go on? Will it ever end? Do you think a vaccine is on the way? Will I ever see you again?
Sharing Georgeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dinners at home with no thought of cooking.
But then there are those simple pleasures that I cannot presently enjoy in my world of 2020:
Working on a photo journal. Snacking on crunchy things while I edit photos. Feeling pleased about a piece I have written.
Taking a walk in the fresh air with no thought as to where I am going â&#x20AC;&#x201C;and not worrying about wearing a mask.
Corresponding with Dagmar.
Being with my family and watching them being with each other.
Making a list and checking it off. Getting on my exercise bike with a view through the front window.
And I wonder, when will I be able to enjoy those simple pleasures again?
Our World in 2020 at 1320 N. State Parkway, Chicago
What is the most heartbreaking episode in your life? Ever since he was a little boy, Houston had wanted a train set. His parents couldn’t afford one, so he put the dream away for another time. But the dream stayed. Every so often he would see a shop or read about a show and he would go and pull out the dream again. He would examine the trains with his engineer’s eye, and carefully dissect the layouts. He took a subscription to Model Railroader and poured over it each month, carefully saving each issue, still dreaming.
But trains are expensive, especially the kind he dreamed of having, and they need space to set up. It wouldn’t be practical to have trains when you moved around so much. But the right time would come. Someday. Then that time did come. The magic trip; the trip of a lifetime. We went to Germany and planned a special day to visit the little village where the train museum was located. It was exciting to trace the heritage of those fine trains. He and Klaus spent
hours in the museum shop, deciding how to get started: what size, era, digital or not… At last, his first purchase was made—an engine, complete in every tiny detail. He and Klaus visited another shop the next day, that had a wider selection. There he ordered and ordered—tracks and cars and controls and tiny accessories… each one chosen with joy and meticulous care. They would be shipped back for him, to save the tax and make the rest of our trip easier. When we returned, he waited for the trains to arrive. They didn’t come. Day after day, he waited like an impatient little boy; still no trains. We checked at last with the shopkeeper in Germany. The trains had been sent incorrectly, and had been returned. Again, he waited and waited, and each afternoon he would call and ask, “Did the trains come?” and I would answer, “No, not yet.” Weeks went by and his anticipation grew. He set up the engine on his dresser and would move it back and forth each night before bed. Christmas came, and he got a new subscription and a membership in the model train club, and lots of books on building layouts. Still he’d ask each afternoon, and still I gave the same reply, “No, not yet.” But then that Saturday came, in a cold and icy January, that took him away from me for the rest of my life. And just when I thought that my heart could break no more, the trains came.
What things do you think you cannot live without? There are several ways to approach this question, from the practical (food and water) to the hyperbolic (chocolate and booze). But here, I will not consider the universal but consider only those things that are indispensable to me, personally. 1. Paper Cutter: Yes, that’s right. Houston gave me many thoughtful gifts over the years, but this was one of the best. He presented me with an Ingento 10” solid wood paper cutter, a product of the Ideal School Supply Company of Oak Lawn, Illinois, for my first Mother’s Day on May 14, 1972. This man knew me. He knew that I loved to make scrap books and to do other crafty things, and after watching me working on Michael’s baby book, he decided that this was what I needed. Some might scoff, but I cannot think of a more romantic gift and can state with some degree of certainty that there has not been a month that has gone by that I have not had need of it. For many years, I used it at least once a week and often, every day. Shortly after Houston gave me this gift, my mother tried to finagle me out of it by trying to get me to trade it to her for her clumsy, 18” particle board green paper cutter that she bought after she’d seen mine. She thought the bigger size would be more useful until she realized that it was cumbersome and unnecessary. I would have none of it. I loved my sexy little Ingento and I was not letting it go anywhere. In the 48 years that I have owned it, I have never had to oil it or sharpen it. It sits
conveniently on the top of the filing cabinet in my hobby closet, where it has remained over the course of 10 permanent moves. 2. Curlers: Anyone who knows me well, knows that my curlers come right after bread, water, and my paper cutter. I have the kind of baby-fine hair that cannot be styled any other way than with curlers. My life was further improved when Houston’s mother introduced me to Velcro rollers. I still remember opening the package she sent me on my birthday in Oxnard, California in 1971. Houston had just been selected to attend Civil Engineer Corps Officers School in Port Hueneme and we were living in a temporary apartment while he went through training. Again, the scoffers might think curlers to be an odd gift for your daughter-in-law’s first birthday after marrying your son. But she hit a homer. No more did I have to deal with brush rollers with those pink picks sticking into my scalp to hold them in place. Velcro rollers were game changers. They have never been improved (they didn’t need to be) and I have never been without them. Even during our most challenging trips, when less baggage is the objective, my rollers are among the first things I pack, along with my toothbrush. They have sometimes caused a stir among the uninitiated, as the time when our bags were searched at the airport during a trip that George and I made to India a few weeks after the 2008 Mumbai terror
attacks. The women going through my things could not figure out what they were, but laughed heartily when I pantomimed how I used them. 3. Eyeliner: To many women, lipstick is the one thing they’d grab on the way to the fire escape. In this time of COVID-19 and masks, eyes have become the new lips, and mascara the new lipstick. For me, eyeliner has always been the one item of make-up I would choose above anything else. I have always thought that it defined my eyes a lot more than mascara, particularly from a distance, and especially behind glasses. From the time I was in college in the ‘60s when I brushed inky black over typewriter-correction white, I have loved the look of eyeliner. And as I critique myself during those interminable Zoom meetings of today, I have decided that eyeliner is essential to looking my best.
4. Moleskine Diary: Not only essential, but irreplaceable. Mine is purse-sized, with a little pocket in the back, a silk bookmark, and an elastic band to keep it closed. It features a calendar week on the left side and a lined page on the right. I fill in engagements and birthdays on the calendar side and keep lists and notes on the lined page, as well
as details related to my activities. Although the rest of the world seems to have adapted to digital calendars that sync from their phones to their work or family members’ calendars, I still prefer my analog version, the pleasing feel of its quality paper an invitation to write. I use pencil for appointments in order to avoid ugly cross-outs, and note birthdays in red ink and death days in blue. The big problem is that this little book has taken over my memory. If I were to lose it, I would have to withdraw from society and wait for others to call and ask me where I have been or why I was a no-show. Although I have tried to push myself to go digital, I can’t bring myself to give up the pleasure of keeping my little Moleskine book. 5. Cell phone: The cell phone is the miracle of my generation. I read recently that the little phone that I hold in the palm of my hand in 2020 has 100,000 times the processing power of the computer that landed man on the moon 51 years ago. It is inconceivable that during my adult life I have witnessed that kind of change. The applications that I carry around in my phone would have once filled a large room. Besides being a telephone, it is a computer, navigation device, address book, calendar, calculator, camera, scanner, clock, voice recorder, camcorder, flashlight, record player, radio, TV, and movie theater. And I can carry along my books, maps, newspapers, credit cards, photo albums, videos, music, notebooks, and nurse. And new applications are added every day. How could you not say that it is indispensable?
Has anyone ever rescued you? Have you ever rescued anyone? Although it would be thirty years before I met Trish on that fall day in London, the seeds of our friendship were planted back in 1968 in Cape Town, South Africa. My father was serving as U.S. Ambassador, and my mother, taking the traditional role of supporting wife, made every effort to meet the local South Africans. Among her long list of friends were the McGregors, a family with three sons. The youngest, Charles, was precociously charming for his years and my mother was particularly fond of him. Thirty years later, my mother was staying at the Pulitzer Hotel in Amsterdam with Chris, following a trip they had made to Russia. The plan was that Chris would stay on in Europe and “bum around” England. As they sat in the hotel’s garden, enjoying drinks and talking about their favorite sites in Russia, Chris admitted to his grandmother that now that his trip to England was imminent, he realized that he had not the first idea of how to start the “bumming around” process. As they were discussing his concerns, my mother happened to look up and see a group of men talking at the other end of the garden. “You know, Chris, I believe that is Charles McGregor over there.” Chris was beyond skeptical when he realized that thirty years and 8,000 miles separated her from the last time she had seen Charles. How could she possibly recognize this middle-aged man as the young son of her friends? But that was my mother. She got up, crossing the
garden to the group of men. “Charles? Charles McGregor?” she inquired. Yes, yes, it was indeed.
My mother with Charles in Cape Town 1968
The years had only burnished his charm, and before long, Em, Chris, and Charles were happily reminiscing about life in South Africa and catching up with each other’s lives. Eventually, the conversation turned to the subject of Chris’s approaching travels in England. Chris shared his concerns about where and how he was to go. Charles eagerly told them that he and his wife now resided in London. Although he would not be home from his business trip for another week or so, he told Chris that his wife, Trish, would be happy to point him in the right direction and give him some ideas for his travels. As it turned out, Chris found Trish both charming and indispensable. In her breezy English manner, she not only gave him great advice, but provided a
second home for him whenever he needed a place to stay. In large part because of Trish, Chrisâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s travels in England were an unqualified success. In the fall of that same year, Houston and I made our own trip around England, traveling to sites that were important to Victorian writer Wilkie Collins, in whom I had a great interest. We concluded our trip in London, where we stayed for three nights in the Langham Hotel that Collins had often frequented with his literary friends. As Houston needed to return for work, he flew home. However, on something of a whim, I decided to stay on in London for a few more days. It turned out that my impulsive decision was to have a significant impact on my life. After Houston left, I spent three pleasant days wandering around London on my own, window shopping at Burlington Arcade, antiquing in Islington, stopping for tea at the fusty Great Russell Hotel. I also contacted Charlesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wife, Trish. I wanted to thank her for taking such good care of my son. We made plans to see an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical that was playing at the Aldwych Theatre. The production was not great, and Trish and I made fun of the implausible American accents that made me groan and gave her no end of pleasure at imitating. By the time that we'd finished dinner and shared a bottle of wine after the show, we felt like old friends. I was flying home the next day but promised that I would keep in touch. Then, on a freezing January afternoon, the unthinkable happened, when my beloved Houston
fell to his death when the ladder he was standing on slipped on our icy deck. The following weeks were a haze of nausea, sleeplessness, and the blurry presence of friends and family. Eventually, these were replaced by endless decisions and numbing grief. In April, I read about a Victorian conference in London, part of which would include a section featuring Wilkie Collins. My mother encouraged me to attend, and after some deliberation, I agreed that it would be a good idea. I contacted Trish, telling her of my plans, and she insisted that I come and stay with her and Charles.
Charles and Trish McGregor at home in London 1999
I made my reservations and was soon flying back to London. As I ruminated in my seat, I realized that only a few months earlier, I had been on the same flight with Houston as we headed to our long-overdue vacation together.
Just as she had been a support for Chris, Trish guided me to be on my own, sending me out with strict instructions to be back for dinner. After a full day, it was comforting to return to the McGregor’s cozy home, where we had dinner together in the kitchen overlooking their little garden. Each day, I would venture out, wandering in a London that was becoming my own. Then in the late afternoon, I would take the tube back to Putney and savor my solitary walk along the river to Trish’s house. One evening, I returned in time to hear Trish testing Mozart on her new piano that had been delivered that afternoon. She loved music, particularly classical music, and most particularly Mozart. She played the violin as well as the piano. I loved to watch the way she become completely carried away by the music. She was the kind of person who embraced everything—and everyone — she loved with unabashed passion. Once I had been visiting a friend in the city who put me on the tube at an hour that Trish deemed unacceptable. I arrived to find her at the Putney tube station in her nightdress, waiting to take me home so that I would not have to walk back in the dark. How I loved our times sitting at Trish’s kitchen table! We would talk and talk and talk, and before long, I figured that we had more than made up for the years before we had known each other. I poured out my heart to her, sharing my grief at the loss of my husband. As the months passed following Houston’s death,
I realized that London had become my comfort and that Trish was a big part of my recovery. We grew more connected, and each time that I signed her guest book I felt a notch closer to healing. Eventually, the pain began to fade, and my heart, still warm with love for my husband, began to sing again with the joy of life. My visits continued as did those long talks with Trish. On one of those occasions, I remember telling Trish that I was sorry that she had never met Houston. Her answer struck me then, as it does, even today: “I wasn’t meant to.”
Trish and Charles at home 2004
A short time after she said those words, I met George, whom I was to eventually marry. While my family and friends were concerned about whether I was ready to start a new life, and, being so different from Houston, if he were right for me, Trish was George’s staunchest supporter. She encouraged me to take my time, but not to waste any. When he eventually came to London with me, she embraced him, and welcomed him into her heart as she had me. Trish was the one who had given me an anchor; her guidance had gone far beyond suggesting where I should go in London.
And then, the tables turned. No longer was Trish rescuing me. Now, it was my turn to be there for her. Cancer. Cruel, evil cancer. Stage four, incurable, untreatable. And she, only in her forties, with two young children and a husband who adored her. The treatments were brutal; the prognosis, dire. But she kept going, encouraged by my constant emails and my visits to London, as often as I could manage. Signing her guest book each time I came became a solemn ritual, marking another three months of courage, another three months of life. She told me my messages kept her going, and I kept them coming. I sent silly gifts. I held a wooden cross in my hands and prayed over it, and then sent it to her to hold when things got tough. She sent messages as often as she could muster, but they became shorter and belabored, as did her breath. I had promised her that I would sign her guest book ten times, and when I came and added that tenth entry, she glowed with pleasure.
Eventually, I got the dreaded call from Charles. In June 2006, Trish passed away and out of my life. But not my heart. As I wrote to Charles, There is no way I could ever adequately tell you how much her friendship has meant to me. More than anyone, Trish carried me through the grief of losing Houston by caring for me and showing me how important life is; that it is to be cherished and lived to its fullest. My trips to London to visit Trish were the benchmarks of my healing. Her love, her understanding, her wisdom, and her wonderful sense of humor took me from a grieving widow to someone who once again embraced life and looked forward to the future. Knowing Trish has shown me that friendship is not always measured in years. It happens when it is supposed to, and it ends when it is meant to. Although Trish and I knew each other for less than six years, our friendship blessed us both beyond the measure of time.
Between twins Trish (l) and Penny (r) at Boodles Club 2000
What is your favorite joke? I am afraid that I can’t choose just one, so here are some favorites:
The dispatcher says, “Calm down, sir. First, let’s make sure he’s dead.”
The football coach walked into the locker room before a game, looked over to his star player and said: "I'm not supposed to let you play since you failed math, but we really need you out there. So, what I have to do is ask you a math question, and if you get it right, you can play."
There’s a silence, then a shot. Back on the phone, the guy says, “OK, now what?” +++++ It’s the Super Bowl: Steelers vs. Ravens. A man makes his way to his prized seat on Row 10 at the 50-yard line. He sits down, noticing that the seat next to him is empty. He leans over and asks his neighbor if someone will be sitting there. “No,” says the neighbor. “The seat is empty.”
The player agreed, and the coach looked at him intently and asked: "Okay, now concentrate hard. Tell me the answer to this. What is two plus two?" The player thought for a moment and then he answered, "I think... no... yes... I’m not sure... what about 4?" "Did you say 4?" the coach gave a relieved smile. At that, all the other players on the team groaned, "Come on coach, give him another chance!" +++++ Two hunters are out in the woods when one of them collapses. He’s not breathing and his eyes are glazed. The other guy whips out his cell phone and calls 911. “I think my friend is dead!” he yells. “What can I do?”
“That is incredible,” says the man. “Who in their right mind would have a seat like this and not use it?” The neighbor says, “Well actually, the seat belongs to me. I was supposed to come with my wife, but she passed away. This is the first Steelers game we haven’t attended together as long as we’ve known each other.” “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. That’s terrible! But couldn’t you find someone else, a friend, relative or even a neighbor to take her seat?” The man shakes his head. “No,” he says. “They’re all at the funeral.”
Remember, it’s just a joke: A bar installs an AI bartender with the ability to converse with anyone based on their IQ. AI Bartender goes up to the first patron and asks "What would you like to drink?" "Glenlivet," states Patron 1. AI Bartender calculates that the patron’s IQ is close to 175. AI Bartender proceeds to converse with the patron about theoretical physics, rocket science, and brain surgery. After a long and involved discussion, Patron 1 pays his bill and gratefully thanks the AI bartender for the challenging and interesting discussion. AI Bartender goes up to Patron 2. "What would you like to drink?" "Bell’s IPA," states Patron 2. AI Bartender computes the patron’s IQ at 145. AI Bartender proceeds to converse with the patron about recursion theory, automotive design, and architecture. After a long and involved discussion, Patron 2 pays his bill and gratefully thanks the AI bartender for the challenging and interesting discussion. AI Bartender goes up to Patron 3. "What would you like to drink?" "Bud Light" states Patron 3. AI Bartender says, "How 'bout them ‘Dawgs!"
Chicago’s affinity for nicknames runs so deep it nicknamed its own highways, which makes traffic reports impossible to decipher if you’re not from the area. It’s never I-90 or -290 or -55, it’s an odd collection of bishops and presidents fighting each other. It sounds less like a traffic report and more like an explanation of how the Vietnam War started.
What was your most memorable Christmas? Although memories of Christmas seem to grow sweeter—or more painful— with the passing years, I remember Christmas 1983 as particularly special. It is not surprising that I would choose that one, as it was our first in Germany. Christmas as we have come to celebrate it had its origins in Germany. In fact, the German word Gemütlichkeit refers to the warm feelings of togetherness that one associates with that special holiday. We arrived at our new duty station at Patch Barracks, near Stuttgart, just before the holidays and determined that we would spend Christmas in a traditional German way. On December 22, we headed to Garmisch where Houston had made reservations at the General Abrams, an armed forces hotel. We quickly discovered that the musty old barn was typical of the “military good deals” we generally seemed to find. At one time, it had been a hospital for the German army, and it still looked the part. Ah, to spend Christmas in a sick-green hospital room with old iron bedsteads. The other guests looked anything but festive; sullen teenagers were sulking around the halls. Mike, who had been fighting a bug, was feeling quite ill by the time we got there, so he went straight to bed. I stayed with him while Houston and Chris went for a walk. Sitting there in that depressing little room, I decided that this was not going to be satisfactory and went down to see the man at the front desk. He was most sympathetic to our position as being
new to the country and anxious to experience a real German Christmas. He suggested a place owned by a friend of his in the adjacent town of Partenkirchen. That sounded fine to me. He called on our behalf and arranged for rooms for us. When Houston and Chris returned, we discovered that great minds had been running on the same track, for they had made reservations at an inn they passed while walking. We decided that to be fair to everyone, we would stay with the General that first night, go to Chris and Houston’s choice the second, and end up at mine. The next morning, we had planned to ski but spent the morning at the dispensary with Mike. It was in a part of the hotel—the only positive aspect of the place—where Mike saw a doctor. In the afternoon we moved to hotel #2, the Alpina, resort with the traditional Bavarian atmosphere. It was, however, uncomfortably sedate for a family with kids. After checking in, we explored the town, admiring the painted houses and peering into the decorated shop windows. There was snow on the ground and colored lights were strung among green boughs and bright Christmas ornaments. We found a tiny tree and bought wooden ornaments in a shop called the Nutcracker Factory. Later, we shared a QUIET meal at the hotel. Though we managed to surmount the menu, I remember that we had an impossible task trying to get a glass of plain water for Chris. (Later we learned to ask for leitungwasser.)
On Christmas Eve, we awoke to more snow and a greatly improved Mike. We enjoyed a bountiful German breakfast of fresh brötchen, soft boiled eggs, meats, cheeses and muesli before setting out for ski school. Houston and the boys signed up for lessons and I happily tagged along, delighted to be with them knowing that I didn’t have to ski myself. We rode the gondola to the top of the Hausberg overlooking the storybook town of Garmisch. I found a bench and watched with wonder as the boys took no more than 20 minutes before they were speeding down the hill. Sharing the bench with me was a glamorous woman in a fur coat who was also watching her family learn to ski. I discovered that she spoke only Spanish, but was surprised at how well we managed to
Mike, Chris, and Houston at the Hausberg 1983
communicate. Through signs and a few words on both sides, I learned that her husband was an architect and that they were on a holiday trip with their children from their home in Monterey, Mexico. We discovered that we were both staying at the Fraundorfer Hotel—the one I’d picked. The two of us had a grand time keeping an eye on our skiers while we talked and gestured and enjoyed steaming cups of Glühwein. At 3:30 we all headed back down to town and found our way to the hotel. The Fraundorfer was located on a quiet side street in Partenkirchen, very near a church and surrounded by tempting little shops. It was Bavarian in style, with paintings of festive merrymakers adorning the exterior walls. The front door
opened into a dining hall and the proprietress was there to greet us in traditional attire. The room was warm and inviting as we entered, with walls covered with photos and mementos and shelves filled with beer steins. Everyone was scurrying around, preparing for Christmas Eve dinner. We were shown to our rooms—which were small— with ornate woodwork that added to the cozy feeling of the place. Fruit and Christmas cookies had been set out for us. The hotel had only ten rooms and we realized how fortunate we were to have been able to stay there. At 6:30, we came downstairs to a scene from a story book. Long wooden tables were covered with candles, greens, sweets, and sparking crystal. Everyone squeezed together in the crowded room.
We were seated across from each other, two on each side, with the Mexican family on one side and an American teacher from England and his girlfriend on the other. Dinner was a traditional feast of roast goose
and as the wine flowed and the candles flickered, spirits rose and eyes sparkled. The owner and his young daughter sang Christmas songs, the highlight of which was “Silent Night.” Everyone joined in, each singing in their own language. It brought tears to my eyes to have all of us together, from all over the world, joining voices in that most beloved of Christmas carols. It was magical. When we returned to our room, we decorated our little tree and performed what family Christmas rituals we could. After the boys went off to bed, Houston and I decided to go for a walk down the street toward the church. The night was crisp and cold and the everything was still. Then we heard beautiful music. A choir and orchestra were performing to a packed crowd in the church. We squeezed in to listen. Afterwards, we continued our Christmas Eve walk together, agreeing that this was indeed a special Christmas, full of Yuletide magic, when strangers become friends by sharing in its joy.
Christmas morning came early, as it always does with children around, and we opened the presents that Santa had arranged around our little tree. When we went down to breakfast, we were rather surprised to find a group already drinking beer and playing skat at the Stammtisch (reserved table). The same women who had bustled around our tables until late the night before were back again, hustling around the breakfast dishes. Innkeeping is not an easy job (rather like housekeeping).
Mike and Chris, Christmas Morning 1983
What better way to spend Christmas Day than skiing (at least, for ž of us). This time, we took a cogwheel train to the Zugspitze, the tallest mountain in Germany. The trip took about an hour and carried us through magnificent scenery before we entered a steep tunnel in the mountain, which must have been a challenge to engineer. Twenty minutes later we reached a plateau of snow in the midst of the jagged peaks of the German Alps. It was a perfect place to ski. Chris was hard to hold back; he wanted to head immediately for the highest lift around. Mike, meanwhile, was making a career out of every facet of gearing up and getting started. In the end, they both had a great afternoon on the slopes. I enjoyed watching them, totally happy to be a spectator.
Dinner that night was back at the Fraundorfer. We joined the Santos family again. This time, the place was filled with men wearing those green felt hats with the brushes of various sizes. (Mr. Santos theorized that the size of brush was determined by the amount of beer one could consume.) The entertainment was provided by two men who played the accordion and yodeled with gusto. Â The following morning, we packed up and headed back home, full of anticipation for the remainder of our German tour.
What was one of the most haunting moments you’ve experienced?
I recall a particularly evocative experience during my return to India with George in 2010. We drove along the picturesque Vaigi River to the ancient city of Madurai, perhaps the most famous temple city in Tamil Nadu. Structured in a lotus design, the streets of Madurai are layered within each other with the massive Minakshi Sundareshvara Temple in the center. We came in from the east, arriving in town just before the afternoon opening of the temple, an architectural wonder dedicated to Shiva in his incarnation as Sundareshvara (The Handsome One) and his consort, Parvati, in the form of Minakshi (the Fish-eyed Goddess). Winding our way around the perimeter of the temple, we looked for the paved north entrance that Shiju, our driver, assured us would be easier on the feet. After depositing our shoes and socks at a stall about 150 feet from the entrance, we crept up to the gate, carefully trying not to step on any wayward pebbles. We yielded to an extensive security search and our cameras and cell phones were thoroughly examined. The guard was somewhat suspicious of George’s rice-filled camera pad but finally let us through. As soon as the doors opened, the faithful rushed to enter the sanctuaries: women wearing bright saris, men in sparkling dhotis, children who had undergone mundan, their heads smeared in protective sandalwood paste. As many as 20,000 visitors come to this lively place of worship each day. The temple ritual is robust,
reflecting the sexual energy of the two gods. According to the temple’s sthalapurana, or founding story, Minakshi, the three-breasted goddess, was the daughter of the king of Madurai. After her father’s death, Minakshi took his place on the battlefield where she met the god Shiva. She fell in love with him, at which time her third breast fell away, fulfilling a prophesy at her birth. She took Shiva home and they married. Their union, which brought the great god to Madurai, is celebrated by the priests every evening in the temple, and is reenacted at the annual twelve-day festival of Chittirai. Although, as non-Hindus, we were not allowed to enter the temple’s sacred inner chambers, we were visiting on a Friday when the temple is particularly crowded, and we found rituals and ceremonies all around us. The colors and the spectacles were overwhelming. I was relieved that I never sensed that our presence was resented in the adjacent areas where non-Hindus are permitted; the people either ignored us or encouraged us to take their pictures, sometimes even forming spontaneous family poses. The entrance to the temple passes through the Pudhu Mandapam, a colorful pavilion packed with bustling stalls and shops selling ghee lamps, flowers, vermillion, and holy images. We watched as a gentle temple elephant blessed anyone giving a coin, softly touching its trunk to the top of the head.
When I stopped to shyly photograph a wedding party seated in the courtyard by a large tank, the family motioned for me to move in close, although I feared I was being intrusive. Nonetheless, they insisted that I stand next to their official photographer, and I was delighted to join the family to witness the exchange of the jayamala and the tying of the sacred knot. Inside the temple, we watched as the faithful conducted puja, following 5,000-year-old rituals. Tiny cups of burning ghee twinkled like a thousand stars, sticks of fragrant incense sweetened the air, beloved gods were bathed in milk, anointed with sandalwood paste, and draped with bright cloths. Arms and knees were rubbed with ash, heads were bowed, eyes were raised, and bodies were prostrated. Womenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sweet singing voices merged with the chant of holy men over the soft rumble of Sanskrit mantras. I immersed myself in the moment and imagined this chorus of humanity rising to a listening God: worshipping, thanking, praising, pleading. Tracing our way through dusty alleys back to our car, we found a small calf nestled comfortably in the shade behind the right front wheel. That evening, as we sat on the veranda of our hotel high above the city, the sounds of Madurai floated up to us: a call to prayer, the passing of a train, a dog barking. Memories of long ago came flooding back to me as I recalled standing on my Karachi rooftop and hearing those same haunting sounds carried through the evening breeze.
What was a question that you have grappled with? On a winter night when my daughter-in-law, Maggie, and I were up late having one of our deep conversations, we got on the subject of family roots. Maggie was sharing her feelings of longing for her home state of Georgia. “I can’t quite explain it,” she said, “but that red clay is part of me. My roots are there.” That got me thinking about my own roots. Did I have any? Born in Washington, D.C., I moved as a toddler to Greece where my principal memory was having a tantrum on the steps of the Parthenon. After that, there was Turkey, where I remember the apricot tree outside our picture window. By the time we moved to Iran, I was in school, but my favorite place was the garden of the embassy residence, a magical land where I wandered with my nanny among the pomegranates and weeping
With President Ayub at opening of new U.S. Embassy in Karachi 1959
willow trees. My awkward junior high years were spent in Karachi, Pakistan, where I attended an international school, rode camels on the beach, went to rooftop parties, met U. S. President Dwight Eisenhower and Pakistan President Ayub Khan, and got into mischief with my band of girlfriends. When my father was sent to the Sudan, I was shuttled back and forth between boarding school in Washington, D.C. and Khartoum, trading ugly gym uniforms and Friday chapel for the baking Sahara sun and dances on the terrace.
South Africa followed, and as Ambassador, my father moved between Pretoria and Cape Town,
following the schedule of the Parliament. After carefree summers filled with tennis, jaunts to Johannesburg, and disco nights, I flew back to Atlanta, my suitcase bulging with South African brandy and Cameo cigarettes as I shared what I deemed as sophistication with my southern classmates.
Traveling to Japan from Guam 1983
Those years, exciting as they were, were not easy ones for me. At times, I felt rudderless. I hated leaving friends when my father was called to his next post. Departing Karachi in the middle of ninth
grade, I wept uncontrollably all the way across the ocean as I left family and friends and headed for boarding school. So when I fell in love with Samuel Houston Hanes, a shy, smiling southern boy at the end of my junior year of college, I dreamed of a settled future in one place. But that was not to be. My future husband decided on a career in the U.S. Navy. My dreams of a stable life evaporated as we moved eight times in as many years. Our Navy years carried us across the United States and to Germany and Guam. Although there were great opportunities for international exchange, military life was not easy on our family. Separations and school disruptions made normal family life a challenge. After Houston’s retirement from the Navy, he joined an engineering firm that eventually brought us to Chicago and to what I thought was going to be that stable life I sought. But his death in a tragic accident on a snowy January afternoon brought a sudden end to that dream. A widow, I found myself alone, contemplating my future in a way I could not have imagined. Eventually, I moved into the city and made a fresh start. I met and married George Leonard, a man whose heart is truly international, and who has shown me a world I thought I knew though new eyes. So as I considered Maggie’s reflections about her roots during our late-night conversation, I thought about myself, and realized that indeed, I, too, have roots, but mine are of the world as a whole. The need and the love that she expressed for the home of her heart is one I feel as well.
What are your lessons for successful travel?
You know the old adage about not seeing the forest for the trees. Well, I would like to share with you how I learned to make the most of seeing the world with my husband, George. George is a forest kind of guy, and I am more of a trees gal. Before I met George, I considered myself a savvy traveler. The daughter of an ambassador to four countries and the wife of a career Naval officer, I had my share of living abroad, in Greece, Turkey, Iran, Pakistan, Sudan, South Africa, Guam, and Germany, and making frequent trips from those places. I was a travel sophisticate; from an early age, I was accustomed to making my way in unfamiliar surroundings. But when I met and
eventually married George, I realized that I had met my match. George was first introduced to me as someone who â&#x20AC;&#x153;enjoyed travel.â&#x20AC;? I soon discovered that this was a gross understatement. George is a travel master. He has thousands of books, hundreds of files and bookmarked web pages, and an impressive knowledge of the political world and of the history of art. He also has an insatiable appetite for finding and independently exploring the more obscure corners of our own country and of the world. George avoids tours. I believe the last one he went on was in 1969 when he visited the Longmen Grottoes in central China with a group of Chinese-speaking art historians. No, George prefers to have full control of the itinerary and the schedule. With his storehouse of information, he knows exactly where to go and what to see, and he works tirelessly to find interesting and unusual
places to stay. I will add that he does not waste a moment, and considers it a point of personal pride that he does not miss an important sight nor waste a moment getting there.
I will give you an example. This is an excerpt from my journal when we were traveling in Northern Spain in 2002. We took the long way towards Tremp, passing though the most dramatic scenery of our trip: deep gorges and spectacular passes that created some real white-knuckled driving. George kept saying, “Tell me what you see; I’ve got to keep my eyes on the road.” Yes, you do, I thought, and kept the descriptions coming. Eventually we reached the cutoff for Vall de Boi, renowned for its cluster of
early Romanesque churches, the finest in the Pyrenees. After savoring the churches in their mountain settings, we walked over to the nearby café where we ordered cool drinks as we sat in the shade of a drooping arbor. I enjoyed watching the proprietors’ little boy happily digging in the garden. I could have stayed there all afternoon, but suddenly my tour guide hopped to his feet, reminding me that we had places to visit before the day was over. After dragging me away from this idyllic setting, he drove for three hours along a series of narrow mountain roads until we came to the turnoff for the Monastery of San Juan de la Pena, arriving twenty minutes before closing. We parked quickly and clambered up to the cloisters, cornered between the precipice and the cliff face, which provided a kind of roof. The capitals were extraordinary; they had influenced sculpture throughout the region for centuries. Later that night, as we collapsed in our room, George posed the question, “Which site would you have chosen not to have seen?” And to be honest, I had no answer. They were remarkable, and we had seen them both.
As I said, George has the forest viewpoint. Every trip that he plans has a theme, usually based on a time in history with an emphasis on art or architecture. In Northern Spain and France, we concentrated on Romanesque art; in the Balkans, our focus was the Byzantine. We drove the length of the Mississippi River with the area’s wealth of music as our theme. We witnessed mountaintop removal mining in Appalachia and followed the Bourbon Trail in Kentucky. We explored the western United States through the eyes of Lewis and Clark, got our kicks along Route 66, and probed the issues of immigration along the Mexican border. The early Mayans were our focus in Mexico, Honduras, and Guatemala. We traced the Arab influence from Morocco through Andalusian Spain. We visited monasteries in the Caucus and explored mosques in Central Asia. We followed the Silk Road in Western China, and in Russia, we drove the Golden Ring. I have learned that there is little I can suggest during the planning stage that George has not already considered. He has read the best books and articles on a location, he has visited it before, or he just seems to innately know what not to miss. I eventually decided to give up and concentrate on making our trips worthy of the time that he puts into creating our imaginative itineraries. I determined that my job was to look—really look— for the trees in George’s forest. In the 20 years we have been together, I have developed ways to contribute to our unique way of travel. Granted, I am still running to catch up with him, but I have
learned to make the most of each moment. Although I wasn’t able to dawdle at that café at the Vall de Boi, George would have to agree that I have figured out ways to enrich our experiences that enable us to savor our travels long after we are safely home. The following are six lessons I have learned as I wander in George’s forests. Lesson 1: Use a magnifying glass. Well, maybe not literally, but then again, that might not be a bad idea. Sometimes, the macro setting on my camera serves just as well. Wherever we go, I try to remain acutely aware of my surroundings. I am always checking out the small stuff, hunting for details.
For example, when we were stumbling over the rocks at the Pinara Tombs in Turkey, I photographed a delicate thistle pushing up between the stones. Seeing it later takes me back to that spot more clearly than the wide angle shot.
When we were visiting the House of the Virgin Mary in Turkey, we were overwhelmed by clouds of prayers and petitions pinned to the surrounding walls. But the impression was far more evocative when I moved in close and picked out one particular message from the mass.
Similarly, I never pass up a bulletin board. Often, a simple café or diner will have a notice board hung up on a back wall. Bulletin boards have given me a wealth of insider information. I found this gem posted at a café on Vancouver Island, British
This is a pipe opening that I noticed in the sidewalk in the Old Market District of Omaha. In it I found a perfect little still life: a purple flower, bits of stone, metal, and glass, and especially evocative, a singed scrap of paper that said only “When.”
Columbia: “There has been a white cat after my chickens for two days. We have only shot at it to scare it away. Don’t push your cat’s luck.” Under that, someone had thought to add an orange post-it that said, “If it has grey spots, it is a stray cat.” What a great little snapshot of local life!
Road signs are wonderful too. In Alaska, a “No Target Shooting” sign was riddled with bullet holes. In Jodhpur, India, we were puzzled by signs advertising “Child Beer” until we realized they were actually advertising … “Chilled Beer.” In Mumbai, we were instructed to “Speed Safely.”
Whenever we go to a restaurant, I make a point to visit the washroom, not only for its intended use, but also to see what I can find there. Even the wording on the doors tells you something about the place. “Roosters” and “Hens” or “Gents” and
“Dames” or “Pointers” and “Setters” can leave an impression. I like to check out the graffiti on the walls. “Your boyfriend is a bad kisser” or a scrawled “New Orleans Rocks” gives a little added atmosphere.
Noticing the fliers and posters taped in storefront windows has offered us a wealth of information that has enhanced many a visit. By taking advantage of such postings, we were able, for $15, to join a social evening sponsored by the Seward, Alaska Arts Council for beer, salmon burgers, entertainment, and a souvenir mug. I even won a pair of silver earrings made in Moose Pass in the silent auction. We found out about the Stoopid Tourist Party from a banner strung over an Alaskan bar. That night, we listened to funny but goodnatured stories, and watched a tourist costume contest put on by college students who had worked the summer for Alaska’s tourism industry.
We got to meet Alaska’s Own Balladeer, “Hobo Jim” Varsos and hear him sing “I Am Alaska”—one of the highlights of our trip. He played “Country Roads” for a group from the Czech Republic; they knew all the words in Czech.
I also look for yard sales. As we were exploring the coal counties of West Virginia and Eastern Kentucky, I spotted a hand-drawn sign for a yard sale in Whitesburg, West Virginia. Persuading
George to stop, I walked up and asked if I could take a peek. As I examined the glass jars and bric-abrac, I struck up a conversation with a tanned guy with long grey hair, wearing a food co-op tee shirt. “What do you think of all this mountaintop removal business?” I asked. “Mountains of greed lead to rivers of sorrow,” he answered. A line certainly worth the cost of a jelly jar. Lesson 2: Don’t forget your other senses. First, Listen. Whether the clamor and clatter of a street market in Palermo, the strain of a call to prayer in Istanbul, the chanting of women at a Jain Temple in Mumbai, or the creaks and groans of calving glacial ice at Kenai Fjords, I savor the sounds of our surroundings as well as the sights. I eavesdrop as I pass others on a London street or sit next to someone on a cell phone on the bus.
Next, Smell. I take time to smell the roses too, even though our travels may not always take us to a rose garden. We stopped to appreciate the aroma of street food cooking in vats of hot oil in Guatemala; the scent of incense burning in a Hindu temple; the pungency of a Turkish spice bazaar; and even the odor of animals on display at an open market in Mexico.
Try a Taste. I am not as good at this as perhaps I might be. George thinks I am much too fussy about trying street food and local delicacies like ant larvae, but then he has a stronger constitution than I do. I will admit that I liked the crunchy chapulines in Mexico until I found out that they were grasshoppers. George shares the view of celebrity chef and author Anthony Bourdain, who asks, “Do we really want to travel in hermetically sealed Pope-mobiles … eating only in Hard Rock Cafes
and McDonalds? Or do we want to eat without fear, tearing into the local stew, the humble taqueria’s mystery meat, the sincerely offered gift of a lightly grilled fish head? I know what I want. I want it all.”
Finally, Feel. When we visit a place, I try to open myself up to it and allow the atmosphere to engulf me. This is a piece I wrote from Ketchikan, Alaska, as we sat in a café and watched the last cruise ships depart for the season. As the silent behemoth creeps slowly from the harbor, I can almost hear the sound of the collective deep breath of fresh Alaskan air. Silently, silently, the presence that has filled the skyline departs, its only sign of life, the intermittent flashes from numberless point-and-shoot cameras aimed from staterooms that will capture only a reflection of their occupants. Shops that have opened early to accommodate the crowds of couples wearing parkas and Last Frontier ball caps close their doors; the owners return to their lives, their families. The bright orange Alaska Shirt Company bags are stashed on board, along with the shoppers who have learned all they have time to know about Sitka or Juneau or Ketchikan. As I sit in the coffee shop window, the town seems to contract and regain its own character, its self-reliance. It seems to be acknowledging that the departure of those floating towers of commerce means that the long, cold winter lies ahead, before the stores are restocked with Hannah Moosetana tee shirts and ivory whales made in China, and spring returns, bringing again those invading masses of humanity. Lesson 3: Get around like a local. In order to really get a sense of a place, we try to get around the way the locals do, be it the shiny Metro in Tashkent, the Underground in London, or the Star Ferry in Hong Kong. A “tuc-tuc,” or motorized
rickshaw, is an efficient way to see the sights, from Ahmedabad in Gujarat to Copan in Honduras.
On Malta, we were charmed by the vintage British busses that wheezed and grumbled around the island. George suggested we should try the unreserved class on the train in India, but I have not worked myself up to that just yet. The platform is daunting enough.
Here is another journal entry that I wrote in Delhi: Thoughts from a bicycle rickshaw—The slim young man in front of us stands on the pedals to heft our weight across the muddy, rutted road. Struggling to keep our balance on the narrow, slanted seat, we have a surprisingly intimate view of the crowd of humanity
lining the street and contesting space within it, in all methods of transport. There seems to be some sort of order in the chaos spread before us. The slower handcarts yield to almost everyone else; one of them gets a burst of strength and gently butts the wheel of our rickshaw; we hardly notice but our driver does. He looks behind and says something; it doesn’t sound sharp or rude; he is just communicating something about the situation in front of us. We pass a jam up in the other direction. Impossible to tell what the problem is, other than the fact that it involves an oxcart, a truck, and a car that sits at a 90-degree angle between them. We edge past, noting that few others take any notice. Along the road, we see great piles of canvas sacks, some scattered, others carefully stacked. Men, mostly in unraveling turbans, lounge over them. Other men sit cross-legged on nearby wooden handcarts. Presumably the bags have been delivered and unloaded; now it’s time for tea and conversation. Vendors crouch along the broken sidewalk; sliced pineapple, luscious pomegranates, betel leaves tantalizingly arranged in soft green stacks, sacks of the accompanying areca nuts conveniently displayed nearby. I ask a man preparing a display of vegetables if I can take his picture—actually I just motion towards the camera; he shakes his head, “No.” But an old paanwalla, fanning his betel leaves, readily agrees and is pleased when I show him the results. The scene is full of motion, but of rest too. It all seems to flow in a single benign current of humanity; a humanity that accepts its lot and expects no more from life than doing a job, delivering the goods, exchanging a word, and going home, only to do it again tomorrow, as fathers and grandfathers have done for generations.
Lesson 4. Don’t necessarily avoid all touristy things. Although George balked at the idea at first, we really got the feel of historic Deadwood, South Dakota by donning Wild West gear and posing for a sepia portrait. Even tacky souvenirs can add a fun dimension to your memory collection and will ensure that you have at least one picture with everyone in it. And riding on the London Eye or drifting down the Seine on a bateau mouche are so popular with tourists simply because they are special.
George and me in Deadwood, SD 2006
Lesson 5. Decide whether to photo or not to photo. George and I both love to take pictures. Some of our happiest travel moments have been when we discovered a temple ruin in Turkey or a festival in Guatemala and took off in different directions, taking pictures in our own ways. As I’ve said, George likes to concentrate on the big things —the towering Chola temple in Thanjavur, Tamil Nadu, India for example, while I noticed the tiny figure of a woman applying kohl to her eyes, tucked in amongst the astonishing sculptures at Khajuraho.
This close up of a woman’s hand in Ohrid, North Macedonia captures our wordless exchange concerning the cost of a hand-embroidered blouse.
Pictures don’t have to be prizewinners to be effective. These photos of the rainy potholed road to Berat, Albania and crossing the Armenia boarder remind me of those difficult drives.
On the other hand, I recall that when I was with a small group in China in the 1980s, one man took absolutely no pictures. He left me wondering if perhaps he went home with far brighter memories than those of us who saw everything through a lens. In today’s world of smartphones, iPads, and Instagram, we are in danger of becoming obsessed with “documenting rather than experiencing.” But for me, the joy of taking pictures still outweighs an unencumbered view. I just try to remember not to substitute the picture for the subject. Lesson 6. Step out of your comfort zone. In spite of a lifetime of traveling, I am still somewhat apprehensive. I conjure up all sorts of perils, from engine trouble to Delhi Belly to being hopelessly lost. But I have learned that it is when you push yourself that you discover the true richness of travel. Anthony Bourdain describes the ideal traveler as “relentlessly curious and without fear or prejudice.” I am working on being that traveler. In Jaisalmer, India, a shopkeepers’ wife cooked dinner for us after his son led us in pitch darkness down a narrow back street to their home.
In Kosovo, we drove past K-FORCE barricades to visit the extraordinary UNESCO-designated Decani Monastery.
At Denali, I swallowed my fear of flying to swoop over the glaciers in a Cessna 172.
In Cappadocia, Turkey, we sailed over the Fairy Chimneys in a hot-air balloon. At Turkmenistanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ancient city of Merv, I managed the steep and slippery climb up to an ancient fort to survey the desert world spread below me. In Palenque, I tried not to look down as I climbed to the top of the Templo de la Cruz, the siteâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s tallest structure, for incredible views of the Templo del Sol, the Templo
de las Inscriptiones, and El Palacio. And we negotiated Class IV rapids, rafting through the Santa Elena Canyon in Big Bend National Park.
The following journal entry, written in a bar in Homer, Alaska as we awaited the arrival of the ferry that would carry us out to Kodiak and along the Aleutians, pretty much sums up my pre-trip jitters: We are sitting at the end of Homer Spit at the bar at Land’s End, waiting to board the ferry for Kodiak in a few hours. George sits across from me, patiently looking out of the large window by our table. It is a wet and dreary day; I find it hard to differentiate the grey skies from the waters of the bay. I am looking out for any indication of waves. After all, we are heading out into “big waters,” a term that got my attention when we were discussing our decision to take the ferry to Unalaska Island, the end of the Aleutian Chain run. When I am startled that a fishing boat out to the left is rocking wildly, George points out that a speeding motorboat has just passed it. Oh, OK. I am feeling pretty exasperated with myself. There is nothing that I like more than experiencing new things and meeting new people. And yet, here I am, as I always am, facing my usual “anticipatory anxiety.” Looking out at those
dark clouds, it doesn’t matter that the weather report (that I have checked every hour or so—for the past three weeks) says that the winds are at 5 MPH. I am still imagining hanging on for dear life in a wild sea—that same sea that stars on TV’s Deadliest Catch. My worries are twofold: my hair being a mess, and sinking —in that order. But once we board the MV Tustumena, fondly known around these parts as the “Trusty Tusty”, I hope that what usually happens, will kick in: I will be in the moment and surrender the thoughts that fill my too-vivid imagination. There is so much I want to learn and experience aboard that 50-year old veteran of “the cradle of storms”: What is the crew like? Who are the other passengers aboard this legendary vessel that has been responsible for saving numerous lives during the half century of its’ own? Who are the people who depend on her for their links with the rest of the world? What is life like for the people who live in the tiny communities on those vulnerable islands that dare to reach into the most demanding seas in the world? I hope that this is a week full—but not too—of excitement. Now, if I could just calm down, I will be ready to attack those 5 MPH winds, and the experiences that come with them.
At the end of the road near Newfoundland's northernmost point, I wrote the following in my journal: Cape Onion, Sunday Evening—I am sitting in an Adirondack chair within the white-picket fenced lawn of the Tickle Inn, proclaimed by David, the innkeeper, to be the northernmost residence in Newfoundland. The setting sun illuminates my view of the rocky shore of the Atlantic before me, and these short minutes of Alpenglow bring the ruggedness around me to golden life. I delight in this time in this most solitary of places in this most solitary of locations in this most solitary part of the world. It astonishes me that dramatic scenery like this can be experienced amid the gentlest of breezes, the most temperate of evenings, the most soothing of
sounds, as waves grumble against the black stones that line the beach. The sand, too, is black, and its darkness combines with distant storm clouds to offer a stark contrast to breaking waves made brighter by touches of fading sunlight. George and I arrived here early enough to take the coastal path that led us along the shore, through a small pine scented forest, and up a ferncovered hill for views of “the Onion” and breaking waves below. In our busy travels, there are perhaps too few of these quiet times but that makes them all the more treasured. Following the path behind him, watching him stop to take photos of the vista before us (while I concentrate on the details—miniature flowers, a peculiar rock, a piece of driftwood) makes me feel close to him. Yes, in this remote place, I have this Moment that I will add to the necklace of such Moments we have shared.
I acknowledge that travel is personal and is experienced by each of us in our own way, but in whatever way we choose, travel should broaden the mind and enrich the soul. By bringing people together towards greater understanding and mutual respect, travel is one of life’s great treasures. On the last day of our six-week, 8,000mile trip through the Balkans, I ended my journal by writing: George’s emphasis is the art and the culture of these places; mine is to learn from the people themselves. But perhaps what we glean from both these emphases brings us the greatest understanding in the limited time we have. On occasion I have found myself gazing longingly at those small private tours with their guide and driver: how much easier it would be to not struggle with bags up a staircase with no railing in a hotel with no elevator. There is something unique in being on our own to find our way on impossible roads, carry our own bags, be our own tour guides; solve our own problems without the programmed assistance of others. I have had my share of annoyances with George over these weeks as he certainly has had with me, but our adventures together form the tightest of bonds. So although we don’t always walk arm in arm along shady boulevards, we have gotten ourselves through flooded and potholed roads in Albania, found our way along dark, broken streets in Veliko Tarnovo, Bulgaria, and moved road construction barricades on the outskirts of Munich. It is through George’s prodigious interest in the world and his urgency to have me experience it with him that I have been able to sit and contemplate bloody history on the
Bridge on the Drina in Visegard, Bosnia; examine the Dance of the Dead with flashlights in an old church in Beram, Croatia; and be moved to tears by the Montenegrin guitarist who turned his tiny restaurant in Kotor into a private recital hall for us. Perhaps just as romantic as holding George’s hand along the street is trotting behind him to keep up with his determined stride to the next place on his list. It is a challenge to keep him in sight while still looking for the details, but it is those small things among the big ones that allow us to enjoy the forest and the trees.
What are some of your Rules for Life? Life isn’t fair; what counts in how you deal with what comes your way.
It is not necessary to do it all right now; there is indeed, a time for every season.
Resiliency is the best lesson you can teach your children.
Listen to the voice in your heart—God gave it to you.
Relationships take nurturing but the results are worth the effort.
The greatest compliment to your home is that it is cozy.
Making a dream come true starts with starting.
Sometimes the one you think is cherry turns out to be watermelon.
Sometimes friends are the best family. Being flexible is an undervalued quality. Listening is the greatest gift you can give someone. Beware of the Abilene Paradox.
The best cure for shyness is to believe that others need you. Don’t carry more luggage than you can manage yourself. Deal with your kids as if they are someone else’s kids. It will save you a lot of angst. Assume the person you are listening to knows something you don’t. Don’t compare your life to that of others. You have no idea what they are dealing with. True family consists of those you love, regardless of bloodlines or written agreements.
Lightening Round What is the dumbest thing you’ve ever said? I am sure there have been many, but the one that comes to mind is the time I was discussing team names with Mike and got carried away with a grand idea that had just formed in my head. With great passion, I bawled out, “There are so MANY teams called the Rebels, but have you EVER heard of a team called the Yankees?” What is the longest project you've ever worked on? That would be a tie. I worked on Wilkie Collins’s American Tour for nearly ten years, concentrating on it for four of those years when my research took me to 85 different institutions. The book was published in London by Pickering and Chatto in 2008. The other project was my Hearts book, which I self-published in 2013 and again in 2020 when I produced an expanded, hand bound special edition. Called Hearts: Timeless, Universal, Transcendent, it is a collection of photos I have taken from 1983-2020. What is the strangest thing you’ve ever eaten? I have had to at least try numerous oddities, both as an ambassador’s daughter and the travel companion of George Leonard. Among delicacies
that include ant larvae and chapulines (see the chapter on travels) I think the strangest thing I have put to my lips was Tej, a fermented honey wine flavored with burnt cow dung that was served to us by the Governor in Adi-ugri, Eritrea, where I accompanied my father. Have you ever been in a severe storm? Indeed I have. When I was in Khartoum for my summer break from boarding school, I went to a movie with a friend. The theater was a kind of indoor/outdoor hybrid, with walls and no roof. A few minutes after the show started, we noticed that the wind was picking up. Suddenly my driver burst into the theater and hustled us out to the car.
It was none too soon. A haboob had descended on the city, a violent dust storm that blew in from the Sahara like a giant sandblasting machine. As soon as we got into the car, we were hit with high, gusty winds that covered everything with a curtain of sand and debris. Although it did not last more than 30 minutes or so, it was pretty scary.
What is your favorite sound?
How many U.S. Presidents have you met?
Rain on the roof, especially when I am in bed.
Three. Dwight David Eisenhower (1953-1961); Lyndon Baines Johnson (1963-1969); George Henry Walker Bush (1989-1993)
What smells do you find most evocative? “Off” insect repellant takes me back to camp at Skyline Ranch in Mentone, Alabama where I attended one summer. The smell of Sea & Ski reminds me of visiting my grandparents in Keystone Heights, Florida when my grandfather would intone, “Slobber up good.” Claire Burke potpourri: I used to buy it in tiny packets at Woodward and Lothrop, the first store I was allowed to visit on my own when I lived in Chevy Chase. The fragrance of Moment Supreme perfume by Jean Patou will always remind me of my mother as she dressed for a formal evening with my father. I thought she was so beautiful and her perfume was perfect for her.
How did you celebrate your 21st birthday?
What is a place you would visit again and again? London. I have been visiting London since I was a child. After Houston’s death, it was my escape and contributed to my recovery. It has the advantage of being both familiar and fresh. Over the years, I have developed many important friendships in London. Because of the language, I can attend lectures, shows, and classes in addition to visiting sites and museums that are available in other countries. And it is the home of Wilkie Collins and where I visit his great-granddaughter, Faith Clarke.
I turned 21 when my father was Ambassador to South Africa. In September, we were in Pretoria (we spent the other half of the year in Cape Town) and I gave a formal party at the embassy residence. It was pretty wild for what was supposed to have been a staid event for the Ambassador’s daughter. An impressive amount of alcohol was consumed; I am not sure of the actual amount other than a case of Kentucky bourbon was exhausted just providing samples to those who had never tried it.
What is your favorite travel photo of yourself? This one, taken at the Gur Emir, the great Tamerlane’s mausoleum in Samarkand, Uzbekistan. I was admiring the Gur Emir’s soaring blue-tiled portal when a group of Uzbek women gathered under it for a group portrait arranged by a photographer. When the women saw me watching, they gestured for me to come and join them. Of course, I was happy to do so, and they motioned for me to squat down in the front. There is no way I could get my knees to do what theirs were doing, and I tried awkwardly to kneel. Someone found a little stool for me to sit on, and that solved the problem: picture successfully taken among lots of nods and smiles. A great moment.
What is your favorite photo that you have taken of George? This one, which I took as I was coming back from visiting the old cemetery in the ghost town of Terlingua, Texas. George looks so badass, settled in with those tough hombres.
What is your guilty pleasure?
What is your pet peeve? Lack of enthusiasm.
Eating and reading. It started when I was in elementary school in Chevy Chase with fairy tales and potato chips with cream cheese. In Pakistan, I made Kool-Aid popsicles in the ice trays (cherry, of course) and would eat them while reading in bed. When I wanted a refill, I rang the bell and Feroz would come up to the door of my room, inevitably asking, “Miss Sahib want more popsico?” Over the years, I have been known to keep a secret stash of something crunchy hidden away for emergencies.
What is a weakness do you struggle with?
How do you want to be remembered?
I am what you could call a “precrastenator.” That is, I am a person who has the urge to get things done in advance. You would think that is a good thing. People can rely on me to get things done and I don’t stress over looming deadlines. But it is not always helpful. Sometimes things change at the last minute or I get additional information, causing me to need to redo some of what I already did. And actually, stressing out about getting work done ahead of time can sometimes cause me just as much anxiety as getting it done on time. I tend to feel that my work is never done, as there is always more to do. And occasionally, I can get aggravated with procrastinators. But it sure feels good to make a list and carefully check things off. (And do I add things I have already accomplished to the list, just so that I can check them off? Maybe sometimes!)
I would like to be remembered as kind, fun and understanding—and maybe a little wise. I would like to think that someone will read some of what I have written. I hope that I have contributed to the love that is needed in this world.
As I come to the end of this book of stories, I have written a letter to each member of my family.
What advice would you give your greatgrandchildren? I would hope they are grateful for family and thankful for what they have. I would remind them of their responsibility to honor the name that they have inherited. Although I cannot conceive of the problems they will face, I am confident that they will have the wisdom and heart to solve them. I hope they will always feel the love that has come down through their ancestors and pass it on.
For Mike Mike, I will start with you, my firstborn. From the time that you were a little boy, you had a compulsion to learn all that you could about anything that interested you. Like many little boys, it began with dinosaurs, whose names you could pronounce and spell, prompting your grandmother to make the museum defined tyrannosaurus, stegosaurus and pterodactyl for you. (She still shudders at what it took to stuff each of those teeth individually.) Then came your passion for frogs. You loved them, you learned about them, you drew them, and you protected them. The Old Apra Froggie Club was your creation, when you and your friends on Guam sold people’s unripe mangos back to them to raise money for a newspaper ad, enjoining the public to protect them. You were a leader even then, as evidenced by your elevation to Judge at the mock court that Mrs. Andes arranged. Moving was not easy for you, particularly when we returned to Virginia Beach during those dreaded junior high years when you ate lunch in the boy’s bathroom. But high school rescued you and you developed a fine group of friends who obviously enjoyed being around you. Your sense of humor was developing, as well as your quick mind and ability to read people and situations. People were drawn to you and sought your approval. I can remember watching you interact with others and see the way they would look to be sure you were listening before they would speak, for they knew that if you laughed, everyone would laugh. You have a way of connecting with people, regardless of age, making little kids feel important and older people feel young and amusing. Your outrageous sense of humor would not work in most people, but somehow you can get away with it, even with your grandmother (who secretly loves it). Dad’s death was a blow to us all, but I think it may have hit you the hardest. You endured some rough years, as did we all. But as I write these lines, I am seeing a man who has come through those hard times all the stronger. I have always been in awe of your ability to analyze any
situation and, for that reason, I always feel safe with you. I remember our time at Lollapalooza when you explained how to deal with an unruly crowd, showing me how to make friends with the people around us so that when the inevitable jostling occurred, it was met with good spirits. You are incredibly resourceful and a creative problem solver, from packing a car to creating imaginative storage to solving home maintenance issues. And most importantly, you chose the perfect life partner in Jennifer. You are amazing parents. I love to see how proud you are of her. You are blessed to be the father of three boys, and to have the opportunity to be a dad at different stages of your life. I am warmed knowing how much you love and care for your family and your commitment to raising your sons to be fine men.
For Jen Jen, I think I loved you the same moment that Houston did, when you and Mike first came to Chicago so long ago and we met you at the airport. I know that we have laughed at the way Houston babbled away to you about the grid arrangement of Chicago as we drove in from the airport and you encouraged him by saying something about being really interested in grids. Or maybe it was when Mike had said something outrageous and you laughed and then said, “I can’t believe that I am laughing at this.” How you manage to appear so proper while at the same time obviously enjoying Mike’s unique sense of humor has always made me smile. You are so much fun and always have made me feel a special part of your life. You are careful not to judge and seldom complain, but you are real, and easy to be with and to talk to. I can see why you have so many friends who love and admire you. I know that life with an energetic husband—and now, three boys—is not an easy going one and far from relaxing. The way you manage them along with your jobs and your home is remarkable. And still, you still make sure that we all feel special.
For Carter Carter, you just managed to squeak by as my oldest grandchild—by 56 days. What an exciting time that was for us all! Aunt Maggie and Uncle Chris were about as excited at your arrival as they were when Wesley was born two months later. What a joy you have always been to your family. You treat Em in much the same way that your dad does, making her feel that she is one of your friends and not only your great-grandmother. I know how she feels. You make me feel that way too. You really are fun to be with. I have special memories of the times that we have traveled together when I’ve gone to meet you and your mom on one of her business trips. Vienna was special. I remember the candy place we went to, and how we went around the city on the upper part of that hot tour bus, eating our treats. I remember our visit to the museum where we looked for anything that had hands, like armor and gloves. I loved sharing meals together and visiting Dagmar and Klaus in Stuttgart. Our visit in Nice was special too, especially our day trip to the countryside where we had that exceptional lunch at Au Vieux Four in Gourdon, the little town perched up in the hills. I love the way that you seemed to enjoy it all as much as I did. I also remember how many times we stopped for gelato! It is exciting that you have taken up football and are playing at your new school this year. How I wish I could be there for your games to cheer you on. But you know that I am doing just that, even though you can’t hear me. It is wonderful to see how you interact with your family. You are so loved, Carter, and now you have two
little brothers who will idolize you. It is a big responsibility to be a model for them. I will always remember how you were when you heard that Tucker was born. That kind of brotherly love is very precious. You and your mom and dad and your brothers have a unique bond and I know that you will continue to be a big support for each other, as you always have been.
For Rowen Rowen, you are now in the unique position of being both a little brother and a big brother. Since we are in the middle of the COVID-19 pandemic, I have not been able to see you in action with Tucker, but I have seen the pictures that your mom has sent, showing you holding him and feeding him. You two are going to have such a great life together! I still remember the time I came to take care of you while your mom and Carter and G were on a trip. We had so much fun, doing simple things like going to the Town Run and to the park and playing with imaginary swords and arranging rocks in the water. I remember your picking out a huge watermelon and how I took every seed out. I would not do that for just anybody. We also played baseball inside with two socks that we named Rowen and Dooney and rolled into a ball. We played a lot with your fighting guys too. I had such a good time with you that I was sad when your mom came home and it was time for me to go back home to Chicago. Your dad has been sharing videos of your games, which I enjoy seeing. You really can grab that football and run! I think that you will be a fine athlete, just like your dad and Carter. It is not easy for me to live so far away and not see you as much as I would like. But I hope you know that I love you very much, just the same.
For Tucker Tucker, what a world you have been born into—right in the middle of the COVID-19 pandemic. You know, I think that you are the best thing that has happened this year. Your mama was really brave when she had you, and your dad was very proud of her. They were surprised when they discovered that you were on your way to join the family, but they were super happy when you were born, on July 10, 2020. I think that is a cool date for a birthday. I am proud that your first name is the same as my father, William. As a matter of fact, you were named after him. He was a fine man who worked hard to make this a better world, and I hope that one day, you will be able to do that too. The world needs special boys like you and your brothers, and I look forward to watching you grow up. But meanwhile, I hope that this virus goes away so that I can finally meet you in person. While I wait, I have been knitting you a blanket. It is made of soft wool from Germany, where your dad used to live. I thought of you every stitch that I made. I hope that you can wrap yourself up in it and feel warm and secure, and that it will remind you how much you are loved.
For Chris Chris, you are next. If Mike was the one that took 66 hours to get here, you were the son who slipped into the world with ease. You were a contented baby; part of that was probably due to Houston’s and my familiarity with our roles as parents, but you were patient and happy from the start. You loved animals and one of the hardest parts of our nomadic Navy life was our not being able to have pets. When we finally settled in Virginia Beach, you finally got your wish, a rabbit named Skittles. You exhibited such a sweetness in caring for your rabbit that carried over to the day when we got a dog. I remember when you and I went to the Sheltie show at the Virginia Beach Convention Center and soon after we got Brodie. You had so much love to give him. As a little boy, you were incredibly competitive with yourself. How often we have laughed, remembering how you refused to leave the putt-putt golf course until you’d made a hole in one on every hole. As the evening wore on and it became hard to even see the cup, we were afraid we would have to spend the night there. And I remember throwing the whiffle ball in the front yard for you to hit with your red bat. The whole thing became a battle of wills when you insisted on hitting an infinite number without ever missing, putting on your terrible Chris frowny face if you missed one and anyone suggested just continuing from there. No, we had to start from one again. After a defining incident when you were playing golf with your grandfather who refused to accept your throwing down your club in frustration, you learned your lesson in sportsmanship and developed into a natural athlete, managing your moods within yourself and enjoying the pleasure of physical activity. How I love your sense of humor. Unlike your brother’s, yours is understated and is a perfect foil to his outrageousness. And there is no sound sweeter to my ears than the sound of your laugh when he says something funny. You have always loved creative endeavors, beginning with your earliest cartoons. You know that your drawing of the little wizard you named Milo still brightens my kitchen has it has for more than 30 years. You delighted your grandparents
with your drawing of them “Ready for the Tour” in their golf cart, and me with your drawings of you and Mike, Wesley and me, and of course, your dad. I have them all as well as your latest, Moonie Beams (with a few tell-tale lines around the eyes), framed above my dressing table. And now your imaginative cartoons and poems delight your own family. I love the times we’ve shared when I am with you, talking over cups of coffee before others are awake, or when I go with you to take Dooley for a walk. I love listening to your earnest concerns about doing what is best for your family, and your dreams and plans for the future. When we are not together, I savor the special gifts, letters and poems that you have made for me over the years, including the monogrammed handmade box and the personalized wooden clock case. You were blessed when you found Maggie. You are perfect for each other. Your home is filled with love and exemplifies the care and creativity you put into everything, from your imaginative furniture to your landscaping to your whimsical birdhouses. I love how you and Maggie are devoted to each other and to raising kind, compassionate, and responsible children who will make a difference in the world.
For Maggie Maggie, how lucky Chris is that he joined that law firm and met Cindy, and for her wisdom in knowing that the two of you should meet. I feel that somehow, all of his life he has been preparing to meet you and create the kind of family he dreamed of with you. You are so full of love and Chris thrives in your exuberance. You have created a home that is a respite from the world and your determination to raise thoughtful and responsible children is heartening to me, as their grandmother. I marvel at your passion for what is right and good, and your concern for those who are treated inequitably in our world. I love the devotion you show to every member of your family. And you stand strong for what you believe in with a clarity and eloquence that I admire. You are a caring listener and a good friend to so many. I could see from as early as your wedding day how much you are adored by your many friends—and how loving you are to them. You are as dear to me as a daughter and yet as fun to be with as an old friend.
For Wesley Wesley, you have always been a special person. Some have said that you are a crystal child, meaning that you have a particular ability to understand other people. What I do know is that I love to be with you. You have a singular confidence that makes you want to make others feel good about themselves. That is a gift that you share with your Grandfather Houston. I like to remember the visit you made to Chicago in 2016. We had a wonderful time exploring the city together. We walked miles and miles—some of it by accident, if you recall, when we walked too far north along the lake and missed our apartment. We also had to hunt to find the treats you could eat, but we were relieved to find that Garrett’s Chicago-style popcorn was totally gluten-free. I was impressed by the way you started a knife sharpening business and were able to earn enough money to buy your own car. Do you realize what an accomplishment that is? I do not know many people who can say that they did that. I also see what a fine athlete you are becoming. You have a natural ability at running and jumping that has served you well (no pun intended) at tennis. And in spite of the COVID-19 pandemic and its effect on school, you are keeping up your grades, which is no easy task right now. I enjoy talking to you on the phone and hearing about what you are doing. You are fun to be with, even when we are not actually together. I love you very much.
For Ryan Ryan, my beloved only granddaughter, what a joy you are to all who know you. You are strong and you are kind and you are willing to stand for those who cannot stand for themselves. Besides, you are super fun to be with. I know that from seeing the way you are with your friends, appreciating the things they say and laughing with them. I also know it from being with you myself. You are a fine athlete too, and I enjoy seeing the way you can surf with your dad and golf with your mom and play tennis with your brother and flip on the trampoline alone. I am very sorry that the special trip we planned for your 13th birthday had to be postponed because of the pandemic. We had lots of fun things planned for you, including seeing Freaky Friday and jamming with a bass at the Old Town School of Folk Music. I also had a special project planned that involved a piece of family jewelry. But one of these days—I hope soon—we will have our time together in Chicago and I look forward to that very much. Meanwhile, I will continue to send my love to you from afar: after all, I’m not called Moonbeams for nothing. And I am happy that we share the same initials, SRH.
Cover photograph: Susan Hanes on her 70th birthday in Altantic Beach, Florida 2017 From left: Chris, Maggie, Ryan, Wesley, Dooley, Susan (Moonie), Carter, Jen, Rowan, and Mike Hanes