LifeStories

ISSUE 1.1 | MAY 2012

from the publishers of Princeton Magazine

Elizabeth Taylor: American Beauty Bob Dylan: Together through Life // Messages from Pearl Harbor // An Enduring Virtual Legacy Paul Newman’s Other Love

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ISSUE 1.1

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ELIZABETH TAYLOR: AMERICAN BEAUTY

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PAUL NEWMAN’S OTHER LOVE

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BOB DYLAN: TOGETHER THROUGH LIFE

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AN ENDURING VIRTUAL LEGACY

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MESSAGES FROM PEARL HARBOR

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THE ART OF GRIEF: MONET

By Kevin Nance

How Car Racing Put the Spark in Paul Newman’s Eyes.

By David Caldwell

His late lyrics plumb the frontier that’s ahead of us all.

by Robert Roper

Existing on Facebook after the end.

by David Caldwell

Oil from the sunken Arizona binds us to those who are gone.

By David Caldwell

At his wife’s deathbed, Claude Monet captured a terrible truth.

By Phyllis Tuchman

beauty

44

HEMINGWAY: HAS HIS DEATH ECLIPSED HIS WORK?

Now, 50 years since the death of Ernest Hemingway, the pummeling of his corpse is becoming less popular.

By Robert Roper

ALSO FEATURING:

American 34) Creative Destruction, Dead Brands We Miss.

50) Athlete Says Goodbye to His Aging Body, To the Sunday Softballers and Weekend Warriors, a note: the body ages but the joy of sport persists.

By Robert Roper

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ISSUE 1.1

54) Pet Owner’s Peace of Mind, New legal trusts ensure care after a death. By Suzanne Strempek Shea

On The Cover: Elizabeth Taylor, in the 1973 film, Ash Wednesday, by Paramount Studios.

Right: Elizabeth Taylor, in the 1963 film, Cleopatra, by 20th Century Fox. Photos with compliments of Jerry Murbach, www.doctormacro.com.

CONTRIBUTORS

kevin nance is a former art and architecture Critic-at-Large at the Chicago Sun-Times. suzanne strempek shea is the author of five novels and three memoirs. She won the 2000 New England Book Award. dave caldwell is a correspondent for the New York Times and formerly a staffer at the Dallas Morning News. He is the author of the book, Speed Show, about NASCAR’s rise in popularity.

robert roper is the awardwinning author of Now the Drum of War: Walt Whitman and His Brothers in the Civil War (2008) as well as Fatal Mountaineer (2002), a biography of the Himalayan climber Willi Unsoeld. In addition to Obit-Mag.com he writes also for the New York Times, the L.A. Times, National Geographic, Outside, The American Scholar, and other web and print-based publications. In 2002 he was awarded the Boardman Tasker Prize, given by the British Alpine Club and the Royal Geographical Society of London. He teaches at Johns Hopkins. phyllis tuchman publishes regularly in the Smithsonian, Town & Country and other journals.

PUBLISHERS J. RoBERT HILLIER, FAIA BARBARA A. HILLIER EdItoR-In-CHIEf oBIt-Mag.CoM AvERy RomE ManagIng EdItoR oBIt-Mag.CoM KRISHNA ANdAvoLU CREatIVE dIRECtoR JoRGE NARANJo aRt dIRECtoR JEFFREy E. TRyoN gRaPHIC dESIgnER mATTHEW dIFALCo ManagIng dIRECtoR MaRkEtIng/PR/ oBIt-Mag.CoM GREG mILLER

PHyLLIS tUCHMan

RoBERt RoPER

daVE CaLdwELL

SUzannE StREMPEk SHEa

kEVIn nanCE

ISSUE 1.1

adVERtISIng dIRECtoR RoBIN BRoomER aCCoUnt ManagERS LINdSEy mELENICK SARA E. K. CooPER adVERtISIng aSSIStant JENNIFER CovILL oPERatIonS ManagER mELISSA BILyEU LifeStories Magazine 190 Witherspoon St. Princeton, NJ 08542 609.688.9999 lifestoriesmag.com SUBSCRIPtIon InfoRMatIon: lifestoriesmag.com/talkback EdItoRIaL SUggEStIonS: krishna@obit-mag.com All rights reserved. Nothing herein may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission of the publisher.

LifeStories ©2012 obit-mag.com.

All visual media ©obit-mag.com and/or its providers. All Rights Reserved.

6 ISSUE 1.1

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ISSUE 1.1

D

ear LifeStories reader,

This is the inaugural issue of LifeStories magazine which, with your input and support, could become a fascinating and meaningful publication about lives well lived.

What is the secret of a life well lived? That’s the question I asked myself on an airplane a few years back. The woman seated next to me was reading a newspaper, and I noticed that she was emotionally shaken. She was in her 50s and well to-do, clearly someone who had success in life.

I asked her what she was reading and why it had her tearing up. Turns out it was a story about the life of the actor Bob Keeshan — Captain Kangaroo. He had died, and the story of his life had transported this woman back to her own childhood. Instantly she connected to a long-ago version of herself.

We knew then that we wanted to make a magazine about life stories. Thus was born our award-winning on-line magazine Obit-Mag.com with over a million readers annually. That success has now led us to a hard-copy magazine, LifeStories.

In these pages you’ll find explorations into the lives and legacies of the icons of our culture, like Elizabeth Taylor and Paul Newman. You’ll also see subtler issues tackled, such as the changes in the over-arching career of Bob Dylan. What are the qualities that make these lives so very special? How do we remember people who are gone? What is it about the end of life that puts things so clearly into perspective? And what fears linger about certain chapters of our lives.

The oldest Baby Boomers are now collecting Social Security.

What will be the story of that generation? We’re living longer than ever, and with the internet, our technologies of remembrance have never been more advanced. What will last and what will we lose? We hope you will explore these questions with us through LifeStories.

Barbara and I, along with our Managing Editor Krishna Andavolu and business partner Lynn Adams Smith, hope you’ll enjoy the editorial mix that we’ve assembled in this,

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Photography by Jim Morgan

It was then that I realized that the life stories of the famous and the infamous are forever intertwined with our own histories. When I got back home, I spoke with my wife Barbara about the potential power of this idea. She noted that there is something cinematic about looking back at the lives of the famous. At life’s end, the camera can be pulled back to see arcs of accomplishment, challenges overcome and the full spectrum of experience.

our first printed issue. Please do tell us what you think by signing on to www.lifestoriesmag.com/talkback or sending in the enclosed subscription card. Your opinion as a sophisticated reader will help us guide future ideas and issues.

The tapestry of our own lives is interwoven with the life stories of luminaries, living and lost. We try to capture that with LifeStories and hope you will enjoy it.

Respectfully yours,

J.Robert Hillier, FAIA Publisher

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t didn’t matter how well she acted. Though Elizabeth Taylor won two Academy Awards and starred in what was for decades the most expensive film ever made, her movies are largely beside the point.

Taylor, who died last year of congestive heart failure at 79, achieved her iconic status not for the way she behaved onscreen or even off — though her misadventures in serial matrimony are a significant part of her legend — but for the way she looked. She was an eerily beautiful child who grew into a supernaturally beautiful woman, a woman who — before Marilyn, before Jackie, and long after them — embodied the idea of feminine beauty in America. She defined Hollywood glamour and then transcended it, seeming beautiful even when, in her illness-plagued later years, she wasn’t.

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w

ith that raven hair, that porcelain skin and, above all, those deep violet eyes (the eyeliner usually applied with a heavy hand, even when she wasn’t playing Cleopatra), Taylor could have been genetically engineered for the screen. The perfect symmetry of her face was emphasized, not marred, by the beauty mark on her right cheek. Her lips were plump, her nose delicately tapered, her penciled eyebrows arched with an aggression that gave her a faintly imperious air (which served her well in roles like the aristocratic love object in 1951’s A Place in the Sun); she was the opposite of the girl next door. (That was Debbie Reynolds, whose husband, Eddie Fisher, Taylor famously stole.) Even as the pubescent equestrienne in National Velvet (1944), the film that made her a star, Taylor was never quite relatable in the manner of most of today’s screen sirens. Fanboys may lust after Megan Fox, but girls and young woman can imagine themselves in her ballpark, aesthetically speaking. You didn’t aspire to Elizabeth Taylor’s level; she was the queen of an alternate universe of beauty, inviolate, untouchable—this despite the fact that she was

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short-waisted and bosomy. (When they were married, Richard Burton loudly praised her “matchless paps”; later he talked of her “overdeveloped chest.”) Even in her occasional chubby periods, Taylor was the most exquisite fat lady who ever walked the face of the earth.

No screen actress ever benefited more from her looks, which distracted critics from her often lackluster performances. Reviewing National Velvet in The Nation, James Agee was dumbstruck by her appearance, singing her praises even though “I hardly know or care whether she can act or not.” Her allure was put to its best cinematic use in 1958’s Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, in which she created a memorably erotic Maggie the Cat simply by lounging on a bed in relatively modest lingerie; she was smart enough to recognize that when you look like Elizabeth Taylor, there’s no need to vamp. Later, as the louche Gloria Wandrous in Butterfield 8 (1960), Taylor never came close to capturing her character’s pathos, but the Academy gave her an Oscar anyway, in part because she was still heartstoppingly lovely. By the time she took on the title role in Cleopatra (1963), history’s most famous temptress, Taylor’s looks were on the wane—the most studied camera angles

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couldn’t hide her incipient double chin—but no one else would have made any sense in the role.

Her second and far more deserved Oscar, as the boozy Martha in Mike Nichols’ film adaptation of Edward Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1966), marked the high point of her acting career and, ironically, the low point of her glamour. She gained weight for the role and allowed herself to look 20 years older than she was—a brave move that allowed her to play against type and produced her only really fine performance. (Her thin, unattractive speaking voice also worked beautifully for the guttural, braying Martha, and contrasted perfectly with Burton’s relatively dulcet tones as George.)

In later years, once her film career had largely dried up and she became better known as an AIDS activist and unlikely friend to Michael Jackson, Taylor was still known for her looks, although of course they had evolved. Her hair got bigger and higher as the decades rolled on, the changes tracked in her long-running series of television ads for her fragrance line and on countless covers of grocery-store tabloids, which seemed to delight

in every new bulge or gray hair or wrinkle. (There was in this more than a hint of the misogynistic schadenfreude with which we now greet the weight gain and aging of formerly pert starlets like Kirstie Alley.) But even into her 70s—no doubt with substantial help from heavy airbrushing and Photoshopping—Taylor could still look legitimately glamorous, or at least some geriatric variant thereof, even though she appeared not to have had much, if any, plastic surgery. Her heavy makeup and heavier jewelry, her double chins and drooping cheeks—none of it rendered her anything less than one of the most glamorous women on the planet.

It was Taylor’s job, in short, to be beautiful, and she did it as well as anyone in the history of Hollywood. Greta Garbo, Ava Gardner and Grace Kelly may have been more icily perfect; Marilyn Monroe was more poignant; today, Halle Berry is far more effortlessly erotic. But no one ever expressed the ideal of feminine perfection as well as Taylor did from the first. Although she seems never to have taken herself seriously as an actress, Taylor understood what she meant to the world as a thing to be beheld and marveled at. And so she stood there, letting us look.

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Howcar carracing racingput putthe thespark spark How PaulNewman’s Newman’seyes eyes ininPaul

19 19 ISSUE ISSUE 1.1 1.1

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o other movie changed Paul Newman’s personal life quite like Winning, a well-received 1969 film in which he played the role of Frank Capua, a race-car driver who was so obsessed with winning the Indianapolis 500 that he neglected his adulterous wife, Elora, played in the film by Newman’s real-life wife, Joanne Woodward.

Newman and Robert Wagner, who played Erding, the teammate who betrays Capua, were sent to the Bob Bondurant Racing School to learn more about the sport.

Newman insisted he did not want a stunt double. When scenes were filmed at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, Newman was behind the wheel.

During three weeks of filming immediately after the 1968 Indianapolis 500, Newman befriended Rodger Ward, a former driver who had won the race twice. Ward, the technical director for the movie, drove the camera car, which traveled around the track in front of Newman and captured footage of him in the cockpit.

When filming ended, Newman and Wagner received honorary driver’s licenses at a trackside ceremony from

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Henry Banks, the director of competition for the U.S. Auto Club, which sanctioned the Indy 500. After the ceremony ended, Banks would say later, Newman whispered to him, “What do I have to do to get a real one of these?”

Banks said, “Run a lot and get back to us.”

Newman said he knew virtually nothing about racing before Winning, but he was smitten, and only partly because the sport was “the first thing I ever found I had any grace in.” He loved the mechanical and technical aspects, the challenge of finding ways to shave fractions of seconds off lap times.

Unlike other celebrities who dabble at the sport, Newman won. Often competing under the name P.L. Newman, he mostly raced sports cars—sleek, low-slung autos that hugged the curves of twisty road courses. He drove in endurance races on famous tracks in Le Mans, France; Daytona Beach, FL, and Watkins Glen, N.Y. Newman won races, then championships, and also made new friends. He and Carl Haas, a fellow competitor, formed a team in the Can-Am Series in 1980. By 1983, they decided to join what was then known as Championship Auto Racing Teams, the major leagues of Indy-car racing. Mario Andretti was their first driver.

Newman often showed up at the speedway to watch his drivers (who never, much to Newman’s disappointment, won the 500). A baseball cap tugged over his gray hair, he tried to blend in with the crowds in the pits and the garages, but fans would spot him, exclaiming, “Hey, that’s Paul Newman!” as if he were royalty.

Newman-Haas won eight series championships, but Newman would continue to race. He was not just turning laps. At 70, he won the 24 Hours of Daytona. In 2004, he raced in the Baja 1000, on a rugged, off-road course, and in 2005, a month past his 80th birthday, he raced again in the 24 Hours of Daytona.

Then he took what would be his last role, providing the voice of Doc in the Pixar animated movie, Cars. Doc is a 1951 Hudson Hornet, a former stock-car champion stuck in the backwater of Radiator Springs when a new champion, Lightning McQueen, happens upon the town.

Doc gruffly imparts his wisdom to Lightning.

As a way to promote the movie, which came out in 2006, an old Hudson Hornet body was placed on a stock-car frame and taken to Lowe’s Motor Speedway, near Charlotte, N.C., for publicity shots. Several NASCAR drivers took laps in the car. Newman waited his turn.

“The only man on pit road with a stopwatch was Paul Newman,” Jimmie Johnson, the two-time NASCAR champion, said. “He was timing the laps, what I was running, other guys were running. Then he got in that car that had no business, with that body especially, going around that track at [high] speed, and he was trying to break the lap times that we were running out there. You could see that spark in his eye.”

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Bob Dylan turned 70 last May. To make it sound more portentous: He has now entered his 71st year.

Bob was always chronologically a little ahead of the generation that embraced him, and now, as Baby Boomers are rounding into their ’60s and taking, some of them, their first look at the end of the road, Dylan is out there on the frontier, spying what’s to come, what’s already here.

The news is not good. Exhaustion, confusion, and death await us. As one of Bob’s most notable songs from the ’90s has it, “It’s not dark yet, but it’s getting there.” Things are terrible, and not only that, they’re going to end. In “It’s All Good,” a tune from Together Through Life (2009), Dylan shows the modern world in the throes of unremitting sin, anguish, and decay:

…WIDOW’S CRY,THE ORPHAN’S PLEA EVERYWHERE YOU LOOK, MORE MISERY COME ALONG WITH ME BABE, I WISH YOU WOULD YOU KNOW WHAT I’M SAYIN’, IT’S ALL GOOD ALL GOOD I SAID IT’S ALL GOOD ALL GOOD

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COLD-BLOODED KILLER STOMP INTO TOWN COP CARS BLINKING, SOMETHING BAD GOIN’ DOWN BUILDINGS ARE CRUMBLING IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD BUT THERE’S NOTHIN’ TO WORRY ABOUT ’CAUSE IT’S ALL GOOD IT’S ALL GOOD

MARSHALL MATLOCK

THEY SAY IT’S ALL GOOD

“It’s all good” — he doesn’t mean that, does he? No, of course not, he means the opposite. That silly catch-phrase, “It’s all good,” has caught his attention, and he’s turned it on its head, an old trick of his. But even the irony is kind of tired, played out; it’s nothing like the snarling, withering irony of Highway 61 Revisited or Blonde on Blonde, albums written when Bob was a towering font of youthful attitude, in the 1960s.

While the Baby Boomers were busy building their ordinary lives, buying vacation homes and packing their IRA’s with ready dough, then getting foreclosed on a lot of those houses and seeing a third of the value of their pensions disappear overnight, Dylan was off somewhere shaking his head, sucking an eye-tooth, pulling at that mean little moustache he wears these days. He’s not surprised. Bad news is to be expected. Life is about harm, the collapse of hope; and then, at the very end, that unavoidable date with the Reaper. Whoopee! Thanks a lot, Bob! We needed to hear that.

Actually, many of us did, and do. When Dylan says it, it stays said. The credibility he enjoys is enormous among a certain demographic; he is the most honored American songwriter of our time, and by virtue of the prominence of American cultural product in the world, the most honored and influential songwriter on earth. Among Americans and Europeans and South Americans and Russians and South Africans and Israelis and Norwegians he enjoys the status that two centuries ago was accorded the preeminent poets – he is the Keats, Shelley, and Wordsworth of our time, our Emerson, Dickinson, and Whitman, and our Auden and Neruda and Mandelstam to boot. He has fulfilled for nearly 50 years the classic functions of the seminal poet, that is, to register his times in vivid and memorable words, and to prophesy.

Consider a signature line, from “Ballad of a Thin Man,” 1965. “Something is happening here, but you don’t know what it is, do you, Mr. Jones?” There’s a lot of smirking in that lyric, a rich enjoyment at the expense of a square, but, basically, that was the question, wasn’t it, at the time?

Something was happening and he could feel it, and his young audience could also feel it, or anyway could believe that they felt it when they heard Bob Dylan singing about it.

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According to R. W. Emerson, “too feeble fall the impressions of nature” upon the ordinary man or woman – being “ordinary” meaning that what we feel doesn’t quite move us to poetic speech, to words adequate to what we feel. But the poet feels his times and his life in this real and surreal world, and he or she can describe those feelings so that the rest of us also, memorably, feel them.

About that other task of the poet, prophesying, wearing the mantle of the prophet. That was always a comfortable fit for Bob. Prophesying not in the sense of reading tea leaves, saying who’ll win in the third race at Hialeah, but in the biblical sense of exposing sin, identifying the failings of the people at large, lashing them with fiery words. “Ballad of a Thin Man” is one of his earliest prophesy-songs, showing how lame and self-deluding and shameful a whole class of people is. Other songs in the same mode – the list is long – are “Like a Rolling Stone,” “Positively 4th Street,” “All Along the Watchtower,” “Disease of Conceit,” “Only a Pawn in Their Game,” “You Gotta Serve Somebody,” “Idiot Wind.” “You got a lotta nerve,” as Bob sings in “Positively 4th Street,” expressing thereby his basic attitude toward human corruption. The nerve of us all, being so flawed, so inherently imperfect. Damn the whole lot of us, anyway.

Now that Bob has entered his seventh decade, what can we expect of him? To try to predict the turnings of mind and spirit of an original poet is beyond anybody except, possibly, another such poet, but to judge from his last few albums of new material, going back to 1997’s Time Out of Mind, there will be more of two kinds of song. The first kind is the “Not Dark Yet, But It’s Getting There” type, songs of exhaustion, of seeing that it’s all about to end, and end badly. One of the great songs of this kind is “Highlands,” from Time Out of Mind, a 16-1/2 minute, slow-rocking ramble through the first, surprised recognition that the final chapter in life has already begun. It starts with an echo of the Scottish poet Robert Burns, author of such lyrics as “To a Mouse” and “John Anderson, My Jo.” In one of his famous poems Burns wrote, My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer…

Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

Dylan takes this nostalgic sentiment and rings a few changes on it; he retains the sweetness, the yearning, but he improves on Burns’ nature descriptions, adding appropriate detail: Well, my heart’s in the Highlands gentle and fair Honeysuckle bloomin’ in the wildwood air Bluebells blazin‘ where the Aberdeen waters flow Well, my heart’s in the Highlands, I’m gonna go there when I feel good enough to go…

My heart’s in the Highlands at the break of dawn By the beautiful lake of the black swan Big white clouds like chariots that swing down low Well, my heart’s in the Highlands Only place left to go

I said, “You’re way wrong.”

She says, “Which ones have you read then?”

I say, “I read Erica Jong.” She goes away for a minute And I slide up out of my chair. I step outside back to the busy street but nobody’s going anywhere.

It’s funny, but there’s something wrong with the “I” character: he’s run out of gas, he feels discouraged, futile. He’s disoriented in some way, and look what he has to deal with in this frame of mind: mortality, of all things. Here it is, the end of life, a foretaste of it, presaged by an end of all desire (he can’t figure out if he wants to eat anything, and the good-looking waitress doesn’t fire him up any). “You can say I was on anything but a roll,” he informs us, and furthermore, “Woke up this morning and I looked at the same old page. Same ol’ rat race. Life in the same ol’ cage.”

The only place left to go: for Dylan, the highlands sound like a place of comfortable retreat, a wilderness vacation spot, maybe, in Utah, with powder skiing and nature walks nearby (“Build me a cabin in Utah/Marry me a wife, catch rainbow trout/Have a bunch of kids who call me ‘Pa’/That must be what it’s all about,” from “Sign in the Window,” 1970). But the highlands are also a place of final retreat, a last resting place – he’s getting there one step at a time, he tells us, and so are the rest of us, whether we want to go or not. Meanwhile, stuck strangely in the middle of this Burnsian reverie is a passage out of another kind of Dylan vision, a puzzling, on-the-edge encounter like the one described in “Visions of Johanna,” for example, or “Desolation Row.” He’s in an empty diner, having a discussion with a lone waitress, trying to figure out what to order for lunch. “She got a pretty face and long white shiny legs,” he tells us, but they aren’t on the same wavelength, he and the waitress – she doesn’t really want to serve him, and he can’t adequately answer the weird questions she throws at him.

It boils down to a testy exchange in which she accuses him of not reading any women authors:

JIM MARSHALL

Least that’s what I think I hear her say “Well,” I say, “how would you know and what would it matter anyway?”

“Well,” she says, “you just don’t seem like you do.”

27 I SSUE 1.1

28

ISSUE 1.1

BARRY FEINSTEIN

I don’t want nothin’ from anyone, ain’t that much to take Wouldn’t know the difference between a real blonde and a fake Feel like a prisoner in a world of mystery I wish someone would come And push back the clock for me We know what you mean, Bob. Push back that clock maybe 40, 50 years, way back to when you woke up every day knowing exactly what you wanted for lunch. But nobody’s going to do that for you, reset the clock of life, and in our increasingly feeble state, you and we now have to deal with the most troubling aspect of existence – that it ends.

The other kind of song that we can expect more of from Dylan, should we be fortunate enough to have more original music coming from his direction, is the heartbroken love-song.

The iconic heartbroken love-song of late-stage Dylan is “Love Sick,” from Time out of Mind, a very grim ditty indeed. “I’m sick of love,” he sings, “I’m in the thick of it. This kind of love, I’m so sick of it:” I’m walking through streets that are dead Walkin,’ with you in my head My feet are so tired, My brain is so wired And the clouds are weepin’ Whoopee again, Bob! Love at an advanced age becomes, like everything else in the later years, a sort of illness, he tells us, a catastrophe. In last year’s ironically entitled Together Through Life album, Dylan gave us another catchy love song, the entirely unironically named “Beyond Here Lies Nothing” – its message was that beyond love there is, literally, nothing, and yet love itself is nothing, just an unstable, impermanent state of mutual illusion. Or as he put it in “Forgetful Heart,” another love song from the same album, Why can’t we love like we did before?...

Forgetful heart, we loved with all the love that life can give What can I say, without you it’s so hard to live Can’t take much more The door has closed forevermore, if indeed there ever was a door

The gloom is thick – laughably thick, you might almost say. Except that, in Dylan’s visions of hopelessness and helplessness, of the air going out of the balloon of life, and the little shred of colored rubber fizzling down to the pavement, there’s a lot of entertainment value. The late songs are agreeably musical, and the words are sly, bleakly funny, touching, honest – as with much of Dylan’s output over these last 50 years, completely pedestrian lines such as “we loved with all the love that life can give” alternate with casual, shiv-in-the-ribs messages such as “The door has closed forevermore, if indeed there ever was a door.”

And Dylan, as the iconic poet of an age, is himself immensely inspiring. There he is, going on 71, writing original material and touring a whole lot, not exhausted in any real sense, still out there a little ahead, feeling, coming to know, and bringing back the strange existential news. He has written so prolifically, close to 500 published songs, that his creativity has come to seem effortless, but in fact his career has been marked by dry periods, by the struggles of a real man in the grip of mortal life (not a mega-star in bed more and more only with his own narcissism), courting a difficult muse. In the early ’90s he told an interviewer, “There was a time when the songs would come three or four at the same time, but those days are long gone…. You get caught up in wondering if anyone needs to hear it. Maybe a person gets to the point where they have written enough songs.” A few years later he told another interviewer, “The recording process is very difficult for me. I lose my inspiration in the studio real easy, and it’s very difficult for me to think that I’m going to eclipse anything I’ve ever done before….

My mission, which starts out wide, becomes very dim after a few failed takes and this and that.”

So, it’s not so easy being Bob Dylan. He’s got a struggle on his hands, and it’s not getting any easier, not at this point. But it remains doable, if you take it day by day, one small obstacle at a time. As he tells us in “Highlands,” The wind, it whispers to the buckeyed trees in rhyme Well my heart’s in the Highlands, I can only get there one step at a time…

Well, my heart’s in the Highlands with the horses and hounds Way up in the border country far from the towns With the twang of the arrow and a snap of the bow My heart’s in the Highlands, I can’t see any other way to go.

29

I SSUE 1.1

An Enduring

by David Caldwell

Virtual Legacy Existing on Facebook after the end.

L

arry O’Rourke was a reporter who covered the Philadelphia Eagles for the Morning Call, a newspaper in Allentown, Pa. Just 46 years old, he died in June after a three-year battle with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, which is more commonly known as ALS, or Lou Gehrig’s disease. Larry was highly regarded as a journalist, and, more important, as a good man who had lots of friends.

You would never know Larry is dead by looking at his Facebook page. There he has 357 friends, the Morning Call is listed as his employer, he still lives in Albrightsville, Pa. More than 100 photos of Larry are posted on his wall, including a snapshot of Larry as a boy and several photos of him before he became ill—and after. He smiles in every photo.

“Larry soldiered on, his body deteriorating, his mind as sharp as ever,” Nick Fierro, a friend who replaced O’Rourke on the Eagles beat, wrote after his death. “He humorously pointed out how he reluctantly accepted Facebook into his life as a way to communicate because he had so much trouble speaking and could no longer hold a phone to his ear anyway.”

30 ISSUE 1.1

It is impossible to tell how many people still visit his Facebook page, perhaps to read some of his upbeat posts or muse over the lyrics, under his favorite quotations, from a country song by Toby Keith titled Nights I Can’t Remember, Friends I’ll Never Forget. Part of the song goes like this: “We did it our way lookin’ back on the good days/There’s still not a lot I regret.”

Larry left a cyber-epitaph, rich in detail, but not quite complete. Thousands of people have done so on Facebook, and probably millions more will. In the early days of the social networking service Facebook employees said they deleted accounts if they learned of the death of a person with an account, but the site has become so popular, closing in fast on one billion users, that they cannot keep up. I think it is better this way.

Facebook offers a form, Report a Deceased Person’s Profile, in which friends and family can convert an account, like Larry O’Rourke’s, into a memorial. Proof of the person’s death, in the form of a newspaper obituary or article, is required. Facebook publicly announced this feature two years ago, but it had been around virtually since Facebook was founded.

Much more often than not, however, the dead person’s Facebook page lingers as it was when he or she was alive.

What to do about it, if anything, is a touchy subject that has generated a lot of discussion—even on Facebook itself.

Two years ago, a forum topic was started, “What happens to someone’s Facebook page when they die?” which has generated nearly 200 responses. There is, it seems, no pat answer to the question.

Instead, those who responded talked more about what should be done when a Facebook user dies, and what the users themselves have done when a Facebook friend has died. Facebook has been around only since 2004, a wondrous work of technology still in progress, and it has few hard and fast rules.

Some guidelines seem to have been established. Users agree that a dead person’s page should be closed, like any other page, if it is hacked, especially if tasteless messages about the dead person start appearing. “Unfriending” a dead person seems almost unthinkable; users would rather see a friend or relative delete the dead person’s account first.

Most users have said they would rather not see the account of a dead person deleted by Facebook. As a user named Vivian wrote, “My cousin David passed away four years ago and people still post on his wall. It’s been an amazing outlet for people who mourn the losses. It’s a way to say one last goodbye. We all wish him happy birthday every year, too. Another friend of mine died 3 days ago and everyone is telling him that they miss him and that they hope he keeps skiing up in the clouds. It’s an original way to grieve for people who need it.”

It is as if Facebook keeps the person alive. A person I know told me about a Facebook friend of his from high school who died two years ago. Her birthday came around in August, and her Facebook wall contained several happy birthday wishes from friends who apparently had known nothing about her death.

“Some include an R.I.P., or ‘miss you,’” my friend said of the posts on the page, “but others, clearly, are unaware.”

Eric Loehr, whose wife, Leah Siegel, a mother of three who died at 43 in July 2010, wrote me in a recent e-mail that he has done nothing with Leah’s page, even though

other pages exist in which family and friends can post remembrances of Leah, an award-winning producer for ESPN who blogged, sparing few details, about her battle with breast cancer.

She still has 343 Facebook friends on a page that includes photos of her, her husband and her children. Like the photos on Larry O’Rourke’s page, some of the photos depict her decline in health. In one photo, she and Eric sit on a couch with their young children, smiling. Leah wears a hat that covers her head, since rounds of chemotherapy made her bald.

The photos are heartbreaking, even for those who did not know Leah personally but heard she had died. (She received an on-air tribute after her death from ESPN, and her obituary was printed in her hometown newspaper, the Washington Post). But they also convey a sense of what she was like.

There are other online methods of remembering Leah: Loehr occasionally posts updates on himself and their children on www.caringbridge.org/visit/leahsiegeldallas, which Leah started after she was diagnosed. She wrote: “I truly believe I will be someone who is ‘treated’ for this disease until a cure is found. If not for me, then for my three kids and my husband.”

The words carry deeper significance because her prophecy did not come to pass. Neither did the dream of Larry O’Rourke, who gave a speech at an ALS function in Harrisburg, Pa., in 2008 in which he talked about how optimistic he was, two weeks into a 40-week experimental drug program. The text of his speech resides still on his Facebook page.

“I do know that until I got ALS, I had never fallen down sober, and I've done that on many occasions in the last year,” he said that day. “And you know that old commercial with the elderly lady saying: ‘I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.’ That’s me sometimes.”

He paused, then said, “It‘s something that, with your help, maybe we can beat.”

I wish I could tell Larry I got out my credit card and made a $50 donation to the ALS Association in his name after I read that. If his Facebook page had disappeared, I can’t say I would have.

31 I S S U E 1 .1

Oil frOm the sunken ArizOnA binds us tO thOse whO Are gOne

By David Caldwell At dawn in Honolulu, on a recent Sunday that was probably not that different weatherwise from that infamous December morning 70 years ago, we climbed on a tour bus and headed for Pearl Harbor.

We killed time at the gift shop and saw a few displays before we were summoned to a film summarizing the events that culminated in the Japanese attack on Dec. 7, 1941. The passengers on the 10-minute boat ride to the sunken USS Arizona were generally somber.

2 ISSUE 1.1

illustrAtiOn by Jeffrey e. tryOn

Messages from

T

he unmistakably pungent smell of fuel oil emanates from the memorial — as if the USS Arizona rests next to a refinery.

I'd read that the Arizona had been sunk by Japanese divebombers. A half-million gallons of thick, bunker C fuel oil went down with the ship, and it was not removed because the ship had become a tomb for about 1,000 sailors and no one wanted to disrupt its peace.

The Arizona sits in only about 35 feet of water, so its outline is visible through the water from the pristine white concrete memorial, opened in 1962, that spans the front part of the ship. The rusty round foundation of a gun turret pokes through the water near the bow, almost like a tombstone.

I wanted to see it, sense it. The Arizona sank in such a way that a tiny amount of the oil in its reserves — estimated to be one drop every 15 seconds — rises to the surface, coating the water with a rainbow-colored circle that bobs on the waves for a moment before dissipating.

Sometimes three or four drops arise at once, appearing on both sides of the memorial, in different shapes and sizes.

The oil has been likened to the blood shed by the sailors that fateful morning, or the tears cried for them after the attack. The smell of fuel oil is surprisingly pervasive. The memorial looks like a modern cathedral, and its visitors act with reverence, which makes the musky smell somewhat incongruous.

But it belongs here. The smell delivers a point: This was an industrial, working harbor filled with muscular warships that were in danger's way. The drops bubbling to the surface are tangible and symbolic, as if those below are still communicating with us.

It has been reported that about two quarts of oil leak from the Arizona to the surface on any given day. Over a 50-year span, that oil amounts to less than 10,000 gallons, a tiny amount compared to the volume of seawater in the vast harbor. If leaks continue at that rate, the stream of oily tears will last 250 more years.

Legend has it that the oil will leak until

the day the last survivor of the attack on the Arizona dies -- and that day may be coming soon. The oil poses a potential environmental problem. According to National Park Service studies, the ship, settled in mud, is slowly corroding in the seawater.

A single leak site had been detected through the 1980s, and a geological study spotted at least two other sites in 2003. One new spot leaked as much oil as the first.

Yet studies have also determined that the ship was not in imminent danger of disintegrating, dispelling fears that what is left of 500,000 gallons of fuel oil would gush out and coat the grassy, palm-tree-lined shores of Pearl Harbor with black ooze.

The oil leaks, for now, will stay.

A new visitors' center is being constructed to accommodate about 1.5 million visitors annually. The Arizona is, first and foremost, a sacred war grave. To tinker with the wreckage, let alone to extract oil from it, is to defile the memories of those who died.

Several survivors who have died in the years since the attack have requested that their remains be cremated and their ashes placed in the hull, near their shipmates who died 68 years ago.

Inscribed on the far wall of the memorial are the names of those lost that day, plus those sailors who lived full lives and wanted to be entombed here later. The volume of names is stunning, yet most visitors scan the wall only a minute or two. Then they return to the main portion of the memorial, looking silently across the water, pointing

cameras at the mainmast’s flagpole, then at the oil spots blossoming on the water's surface. Each looks like a multicolored chrysanthemum.

The oil is like the Eternal Flame at John F. Kennedy's grave at Arlington Cemetery — a symbol reminding us that the men who died onboard, at the outset of the attack that plunged the United States into World War II, once comprised a vibrant community that was violently ripped apart in a matter of minutes by an armor-piercing bomb that ignited the ship's ammunition.

Imagine the havoc for those terrifying moments on what had been a serene Sunday morning in paradise: the bomb abruptly shaking the ship, fire and smoke tearing through its bowels, the screams of the injured, the able-bodied men hollering as they scrambled to save their shipmates and their ship, a stout-bodied home away from home.

Unlike the World Trade Center 60 years later, the Arizona was armed and, with advance notice, could perhaps have responded to the Japanese attack. But instead its men were slaughtered, and America was found to be vulnerable. At Pearl Harbor we lost our innocence.

People still visit in a steady stream, quickly claiming the daily allotment of tickets. The generation who first knew terror here is leaving us, and Americans are now fighting and dying in other places.

Perhaps the sunken ship, and its oily blooms, honor not just those who died here on Dec. 7, 1941, but speak to us of the heavy toll all wars take. Young lives were cut short, and the Arizona lies just below the surface, a reminder that death sits close to our fingertips.

Top: The leader USS Arizona passing 96th St. Pier in great naval review at N.Y. City.

Ca. 1918. Paul Thompson. Left: USS Arizona sinking after being hit by Japanese air attack on Dec. 7,1941.

33 I SS U E 1 .1

Creative Destruction BRANDS WE MISS

Ko da k

W No hat K cre t rid illed ph atio ing The wa otog n, d their m: y t rap igit ow o t hy al n he , a ba ll t nk he .

Kodak The greatest irony for the nowbankrupt film and imaging titan is that the company’s research and development team invented the means of its own demise. In 1975, Rochester, New York-based scientists invented the first digital camera.

Too bad the company that made photography an everyday reality failed to capitalize on the future of photography.

What Killed Them: Not riding their own creation, digital photography, all the way to the bank.

Saab: Saturn: Pontiac: Hummer: Each car make has its own painful history of demise, but they are all united by the faltering fortunes of

Blockb ust What K er Vid eo ille d Them

: Netfl ix

ISSUE 1.1

® ry m: er ed The eens. kB Kill h scr ac hat touc Bl WBad

s intergnet Th n ‘n e I . enillesd Thema:nThd Beyond n i L K th a at Wh Bed B and

34

Linens ‘n Things You might not remember this former mini-mall staple. The chain homegoods store closed its doors in 2008, and frankly we miss it. Where else could you get rotating potato peelers, hot-chocolate machines and quesadilla makers? Oh, right at Bed Bath and Beyond.

What Killed Them: The Internet and Bed Bath and Beyond.

ILLUSTRATION BY JEFFREY E. TRYON; IMAGES COURTESY OF SHUTTERSTOCK.COM

Here’s a look at a few noteworthy brands that are either no longer, or will be soon.

Blockbuster Video Wow, what a difference a decade makes. Before Netflix made trips to the video store a thing of the past, Blockbuster was king. After Netflix streaming video service was launched, it was curtains for the brick and mortar DVD renting multinational corporation. It’s not for lack of effort, Blockbuster attempted to ape Netflix and even backed DVD renting kiosks, but that didn’t save the once dominant company from declaring bankruptcy.

What Killed Them: Netflix

BlackBerry® Once the clear leader of business-ready smartphones, the Canadian Research-in-Motion is grasping at straws to compete with iPhones and Android mobile phones. They’re doing even worse with their tablets. The co-CEOs of the company resigned in January and barring new product developments, BlackBerry® will be lucky to hold on to number 3 in the smartphone game.

What Killed Them: Bad touch screens.

m: tiac mig h A wor t have b ztec st ca e e n ever r t prod Detroit he uced .

This is capitalism. “Creative destruction,” as everyone from Mitt Romney to John Maynard Keynes calls dead businesses, is a facet of American commerce as old as the Dutch West India Company. But iconic companies are dying more often than they used to. The crash of 2008 has pushed more than a few legacy brands off the cliff into bankruptcy or erasure.

General Motors. For Saturn, the “different kind of car company,” it was Detroit’s broken corporate culture, for Saab it was being bounced around from Swedish ownership to G.M. Pontiac, despite its muscular American glory, got axed when G.M. got bailed out. And Hummer, as the symbol was a symbol of bygone excess.

What Killed Them: The Pontiac Aztec might have been the worst car Detroit ever produced.

Saa Satub: Pon rn: Hu tiac: Wha mm t er The Killed The : Pon

I

t’s doubtful that any one reading this has ever used the Sears Roebuck Catalog.

Ordering household wares and leather goods from the comfort of a covered-wagon homestead hasn’t been the kind of consumer experience any one has had for almost a century. But chances are that you think the tallest building in the United States is called the Sears Tower. Well, it isn’t anymore, replaced because Sears was so broke that it needed to sell the naming rights. That once-mighty juggernaut of American retail is closing its department stores in malls around the country. Sears, like so many iconic brands, is headed for the dustbin of history.

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At his wife’s deathbed, Claude Monet captured a terrible truth.

Impressionist Claude Monet was distraught. Despite a few adulatory press notices and the sale of some paintings and works on paper, the 38-year-old artist could not support his small family. Constantly broke, Monet approached collectors, as well as friends and colleagues, such as, Frédéric Bazille, Gustave Courbet, and Edouard Manet for loans and handouts. He could hardly afford art supplies. And now his wife, Camille Doncieux, the mother of his two young sons, was on her deathbed.

She was 32.

After a long illness, probably uterine cancer, Camille succumbed on Sept. 5, 1879, and at her side Monet painted his grief.

He wrote Georges Clemenceau, later the eminent French statesman and a dear friend, that “finding myself at the deathbed of a loved one, I was surprised…by the colors that death brought to her immobile face.”

The changing tones of blue, yellow, and gray mesmerized him. Reacting instinctively, he “found himself desiring to reproduce the last image of she who would leave us forever.”

He used long, rapid brushstrokes and subdued colors.

Though he would live for 47 more years, enjoying love and fame, Monet carried Camille always in his heart. His tender depiction of her was hanging in his bedroom when he died at the age of 86 in 1926. After the oil entered the collection of Michel Monet, the executor of his father’s estate, the work remained unknown for 38 years.

Today, it belongs to the Musee d’Orsay in Paris and is often on view.

For Monet authority Charles Stuckey, the poignant painting is “truly a labor of love.” Art Institute of Chicago curator Gloria Groom points out, “This was one of the most tragic moments of Monet’s life. And he chose to remember this moment that would never repeat itself, exactly what the Impressionists did.” With one twist: These artists painted light, not death.

Monet always wanted to see his art hanging in the Louvre. But it wasn’t his landscapes he pictured in its palatial galleries.

Monet had his figure paintings in mind.

And the woman who posed for many of these over the course of 13 years was Camille Doncieux. The artist met his attractive model, who was born in Lyon and raised in Paris, when she was 18; he married her in 1870, almost three years after the birth of their first son, Jean. Their life together resembled scenes from Giacomo Puccini’s La bohéme crossed with chapters from Emile Zola’s L’œuvre.

But unlike the Italian composer or the French novelist, Monet did not transform extreme poverty, incurable illness, and artistic indecision into art. When Camille appears in the Impressionist’s paintings, she wears fashionable dresses to a picnic in a forest clearing; sits on the beach elegantly holding a parasol; lunches with her young child at a food-laden table; and fans herself while wrapped in a dramatic Japanese kimono. Then, too, the friends who visited the Monets at the houses they rented in Argenteuil during the early 1870s were artists facing real struggles. When the 30-something artist wrote to Camille Pissarro that “Renoir’s not here — you can have the bed,” he was extending a concrete invitation.

With Camille Doncieux as his model, Monet executed a number of large, ambitious paintings. In 1865, he began the Luncheon on the Grass in which 11 friends, stylishly attired, attend a picnic beneath a canopy of light-dappled green leaves. The artist’s future wife posed for

several of the seated and standing women.

Had the fledgling artist finished this multi-figure composition set in the Forest of Fontainebleau, it would have been a spectacular 15-by-20 feet, the dimensions academic artists favored. As it is, the sketch measures 4-by-6 feet.

For Camille (The Woman in the Green Dress), which Monet sent to the Salon of 1866, he borrowed a stunning garment that Frederic Bazille had rented to execute one of his own oil pictures. The stark, imposing panel — it’s 89-3/4-by-58-5/8 inches — isn’t the sort of work generally associated with the Monet we know. Nevertheless, it drew comment. Emile Zola, who’d just begun writing art criticism, observed, “I confess that the canvas which made me pause the longest is M. Monet’s Camille. Now here is an energetic and living work…Look at the dress. It is supple and solid. It drags gently, it lives, it clearly states what this woman is about.”

Shortly afterwards, Monet planned the fetching Women in the Garden, another outdoor scene with life-size figures. To work on the top of his canvas, he dug a trench in the ground so that he could manipulate the 104-3/8-by-81-7/8-inch painting with pulleys. Camille posed for the four chic figures. Stuckey has pointed out that “the painting is a monumental version of the sort of illustration used in fashion magazines.”

Unfortunately, Monet could no longer afford to execute huge, costly works. He wrote a friend, “I have made an important

Top: Claude Monet’s color sketch for his unfinished Déjeuner sur l’herbe, 1865, Pushkin Museum.

Opposite: Camille Monet on her deathbed, 1879, Musée d’Orsay, Paris.

39 I SS U E 1 .1

T H E

A R T

O F

G R I E F decision, that is, to leave aside for the moment all the big things I was doing since they just eat up money and put me in debt.”

Over the course of the next several years, along the Normandy Coast, at SainteAdresse and Honfleur, on a bank of the Seine in Bennecourt, at Étretat and Bougival, Monet painted small, portable landscapes.

Camille on the Beach at Trouville, the largest one with his wife — she is sketchily rendered - is only 18-1/2 inches wide.

Beginning in December 1871, the Monets rented the first of two houses in Argenteuil, gathering places for friends like Manet, Auguste Renoir, and Alfred Sisley. Now, they, too, painted their hostess: Camille sitting in her garden, reading on a couch, standing in doorways, aboard the boat her husband used as an atelier. And with her son Jean, she appeared in a number of domestic scenes.

In 1876, for the second Impressionist show, Monet painted La Japonaise. For what turned out to be his last large-scale portrait of her, a blond-wigged Camille vamped in a spectacular red kimono borrowed from a friend. Though the 91-1/4 inch-high picture of an exotically dressed woman in front of a wall covered with Japanese fans got the attention the artist sought, he remained broke.

Though Camille appeared in a few more easel-sized paintings, her husband was involved with a new kind of serial imagery.

From a studio Monet briefly let in Paris in 1877, for example, he developed views of the Saint-Lazare train station. Returning home, he found Camille sick. “New misfortunes await me,” the artist wrote his doctor. “It’s not enough that I have no money, but my wife is seriously ill…I am very frightened.”

Complicating matters, Camille became pregnant. The couple briefly moved to Paris, where Michel was born in March 1878.

Later that year, the Monets took a small house in Vetheuil with the family of a former, now bankrupt, patron. (The patron’s spouse, Alice Hoschede, later became Monet’s second wife.) Alice cared for Camille and arranged for her to receive last rites. That August, Monet wrote his doctor, “For a long time I have hoped for better Left: Claude Monet’s Camille (The Woman in the Green Dress), 1866. Top-left: Camille on the Beach at Trouville, 1870, oil on canvas. Yale University Art Gallery. Top-right: Madame Monet in a Japanese Costume, 1875, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. Right: Women in the Garden, 1866–1867, Musée d’Orsay, Paris.

days, but, alas, today it is necessary for me to lose all hope‌she can no longer stand up, [and] she can not even take the smallest amount of food, though she is hungry. We must be continually at her bedside to watch and wait for her smallest desire in hope of helping her in her suffering and sadder still, is the fact that we cannot always satisfy her desires because there is no money. For the past month I have not been able to paint for lack of paints, but that is nothing; for the moment what frightens me most is to see my wife’s life in jeopardy.�

After Camille died, Monet began to paint her one last time. With slashes of chilly blues and mauves, whites and grays, he depicted her face covered by a veil, flowers resting on her inert torso.

Working quickly, he portrayed her in his new Impressionist style. Over the course of the next 4-1/2 decades, he occasionally executed canvases with figures in an outdoor setting. For the most part, though, Monet put figure painting aside. From that time on, landscapes offered all the inspiration he needed.

41 I SS U E 1 .1

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Princeton and the Gothic Revival

Oil Sketches from the Victoria and Albert Museum

1870–1930

on view through June 10

on view through June 24

4/9/12 3:58 PM

4/9/12 3:58 PM

Exhibition organized by the Victoria and Albert Museum, London.

John Constable, British, 1776–1837: Salisbury Cathedral from the South West, ca. 1820, detail. Oil on canvas, later lined. The Victoria and Albert Museum (319-1888). © Victoria and Albert Museum / V&A images.

Free and open to the public artmuseum.princeton.edu 609.258.3788

Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday, 10 a.m.–5 p.m.

Thursday, 10 a.m.–10 p.m.

Sunday, 1–5 p.m.

Cram and Ferguson, architects, Boston, fl. 1915–1941: proposed interior of University Chapel, undated, detail. Watercolor on wove paper. University Archives, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library.

SAVE THE DATE May 18, 2012 Community Options, Inc. is a national non-profit organization that provides housing and employment supports to individuals with disabilities. Headquartered in Princeton, NJ, Community Options supports thousands of people across the United States.

As Community Options continues its efforts to empower people with disabilities to make their own choices and experience the highest degree of independence, we turn to you, our friends, to help support this much-needed cause.

We will again be hosting our annual Spring Event on May 18th 2012 at the stunning Jasna Polana in Princeton, New Jersey and we would love for you to join us as our guest.

This year’s event is particularly important because it marks the 20-year anniversary of the first group of people to leave the North Princeton Developmental Center and move into Community Options homes in Mercer County. Our featured speaker, Dr. James Conroy, wrote the first longitudinal study that provided federal and state officials with information to make better policy decisions regarding the processes related to the depopulation of state

institutions that continues to this day. His ground breaking work paved the way for many like those being recognized at this event to begin to lead richer, fuller lives in the community.

The success of this event is of vital importance to many individuals who still await our services. We sincerely hope we can count on your support to make this years event a success. By making a tax-deductible donation, buying a ticket, or placing a sponsorship ad in our ad journal, you will be directly supporting our goal of promoting inclusion and assisting people with disabilities in leading their own lives in their communities.

Your generosity will be recognized publicly, in our newsletter, website, and at the event itself.

You can find all of the information about this year’s event at www.comop.org/springevent or by calling (609) 419-4407 x 226 We hope to see you on May 18th.

Community Options, Inc.

Photo: REEtA hARt

Mr. Stack founded Community Options in 1989. From humble beginnings in Bordentown, NJ, Community Options has grown into the 6th largest non-profit organization in the State of New Jersey.

In addition to the over 170 homes that Community Options owns in NJ alone, Mr. Stack has pushed the boundaries of employment and entrepreneurship as well. His affiliate corporation, Community Options Enterprises, Inc., develops entrepreneurial businesses that employ and train people with disabilities to prepare them for competitive employment. Mr. Stack’s work has been featured in the Wall Street Journal, The New York Times, and Good Morning America, to name a few. He is an adjunct professor at Kean University, and has worked internationally as a disability policy expert in Egypt, Russia, and the United Kingdom.

16 Farber Road, Princeton, NJ 08540

Robert Stack, President and CEO

| 609.951.9900

|

www.comop.org

44 ISSUE 1.1

Now, 50 years since the death of Ernest Hemingway, the pummeling of his corpse is becoming less popular.

His books remain in print. Readers continue to find him, outside the classroom as well as within. His former preeminence no longer threatens; his pumpedup maleness seems mainly sad. The 50 years since his death, by shotgun, in July 1961 have seen so much cultural outburst and evolution that the issues raised by his life now seem antique. His death, though: That escapes change. It remains one of the iconic American deaths. He has come close to being remembered as much for his death as for his work, a terrible fate for a writer.

[

Hemingway left us right at the cusp, with John F. Kennedy, a Hemingway fan, fresh in the White House and symbolizing something new. February 1961, supporters of the electric new president asked the eminent novelist to contribute a handwritten tribute, and Hemingway struggled for a desperate week to write three or four sentences, weeping tears of anguish and frustration. He had just returned from the Mayo Clinic, where he had been treated for paranoid depression with many sessions of electroconvulsive therapy. Afterward his memory was gone.

He was finished as a writer; for him, that meant he was finished.

]

Hemingway:

Has his death eclipsed his work?

by Robert Roper

45 I SS U E 1 .1

H E M I N G W AY : H A S H I S E C L I P S E D H I S W O R K ?

D E A T H

H

emingway was a nasty piece of work, cruel to his wives and many of his fellow writers, not an especially good father, needy of sycophants and of pliable women to sit at his knee. He was also great company and an unforgettable presence in a room, deeply loyal to many friends, the very model of an engaged writer, fighting the biggest, hardest battles of his era. He was a premature and mature anti-Fascist. A lover of the Spanish people, beloved of them in return, he involved himself deeply in the Spanish Civil War. Generalissimo Franco’s victory, with the support of Hitler and Mussolini, disgusted him but did not put him off political struggle.

His novel of that war, For Whom the Bell Tolls, tells the truth about Nazi involvement in Spain, but it’s also honest about the murderousness of the Soviet agents who rushed to fight on the good side, alongside Hemingway and other right-thinking Westerners. As Hemingway pointed out, a bullet in the neck from a Soviet commissar left you just as dead as from a Fascist.

About that death, though, that memorable death. Here is how it came for him: Hemingway’s decline began at 18, with a wound suffered on the Italian front in World War I. He took over 200 pieces of shrapnel in his body and endured a massive concussion that rearranged his brain. The concussive wounds continued at an alarming rate.

There were car-crashes, falling skylights, fistfights, bad falls on slippery boatdecks. His biographers count six major brain traumas, with others suspected. In 1954, returning from an African safari, he was in a small plane that crashed. The next day, being rushed to a hospital for treatment, he was trapped when that plane also went down, in flames. To PRECEEDING ILLUSTRATION BY JEFFREY E. TRYON; IMAGES COURTESY OF WIKIMEDIA COMMONS.

46 I SSUE 1.1

save his wife and himself, Hemingway headbutted them out of a cabin window.

The drinking. The drinking was massive, as with Faulkner and Fitzgerald.

By the time of his first serious wound in Italy, he knew his way around a bottle, and in his Paris years he drank with Bohemian abandon, becoming a pubgoing buddy of James Joyce, a majorleague drinker. Probably the most iconic bottles of wine in American literature appear in a Hemingway novel, The Sun Also Rises: in between bullfights and other diversions, the hero and his best friend fish for trout in the Irati River, and they stick their bottles of wine in the river to cool them down.

We need not tally every sip and guzzle. Suffice it to say that Hemingway drank seriously for 40 years, almost never missing a day. When he turned 60, he had a diseased liver, high blood pressure, bad blood cholesterol levels, type II diabetes, kidney infections, eye trouble, chronic headaches, and insomnia. Finding he lacked the old

pep sometimes, he asked the doctors of his acquaintances to help him out, and they prescribed many medicines just then coming on market, such as Oreton-M, a synthetic testosterone that “stimulates the development of male sexual characteristics,” according to the Physicians’ Desk Reference of 1947.

and The Garden of Eden. In 1954 he won the Nobel Prize. As long as he could work he could live – wanted to live.

In 1928 his father had killed himself. Hemingway’s mother sent him the revolver that his father had

The doctors also put him on Serpasil, a sedative; Doriden, a tranquilizer; Ritalin; Seconal and Eucanyl for insomnia; plus heavy daily doses of vitamins A and B for his liver.

Profoundly polluted, the writer managed to awaken at dawn every day and go to work. In his last decade, drinking for the finish line and taking all those drugs in insane combination, he wrote Across the River and Into the Trees, The Dangerous Summer, The Old Man and the Sea (Pulitzer Prize), A Moveable Feast, and three long late novels, published posthumously as Islands in the Stream, Clear at First Light,

used – it was a Smith & Wesson his grandfather had carried in the Civil War. Hemingway was said to cherish the gun but to have been deeply disturbed by his mother’s gesture.

He often talked about suicide. The times just after finishing a book were some of the worst for him. Even in his robust roaring 20s, world-famous as an author already, he talked often about having night terrors, about feeling “contemptible,” about being afraid he was losing control – “you lie all night half funny in the head and pray and pray and pray you won’t go crazy.” In a love letter to the woman who would become his second wife, he wrote, “I think all the time I want to die.” A love letter! The inner Hemingway was agonized, was ever on the cross.

The relation of the greatness of some of his writing to his terrors and his self-loathing is no simple subject. Of his five brothers and sisters, three died by their own hand, a fourth probably also. One of his sons, Gregory, was drug-addicted and deeply troubled and died in jail. One of his granddaughters, Margaux Hemingway, the actress, also was an addict and an early suicide.

Enough already! an inveterate Hemingway reader wants to say, enough of this inescapable, writtenin-the-genes doom. We do not have to admire him or forgive his excesses to think that his life was, indeed, an exercise in courage, as he often told us – just not the courage of facing down a lion, or going into combat armed with only a pencil and a reporter’s pad. Courage was “grace under pressure,” he said, and the head that he kept putting in the way of car windshields, bullets, and plane fuselages was terribly full of self-generated destructive forces. Why it was that way none of his biographers has ever adequately expressed. That so large and memorable a personage was so entirely without hope so much of the time awakens compassion.

With his memory mostly gone, after all that electro-shock, his despair was immense. But it lifted when he convinced a staff psychiatrist at the Mayo Clinic that he was feeling better now, that it was safe to send him home. Then he was all smiles, as he hadn’t been in years. At home his shotguns awaited. Not with unseemly haste, but briskly, he made his way downstairs to the gun cabinet in his home in Ketchum, Idaho. There he put his hands on his deliverance.

47 I SS U E 1 .1

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At Cherry Valley CC You Are Never Out Of Touch.

Every New Full Privilege Member Receives a Complimentary* iPad. Whether you are a busy businessperson or a stay at home parent, you need to be accessible at all times. That’s why CVCC’s “high touch” philosophy marries exceptional member service with technology and policies that allow you to be connected, even at the pool!

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The Athlete Says

Goodbye to His Body g

ood athletes are like gods—transcendent, powerful, fascinating— only not forever. The process of breakdown begins early in some cases.

Mark Fidrych, the Detroit Tigers pitching star and beloved strange dude, who died in 2009, began falling apart almost at once. His stellar first pitching season was his only good one. The next year, his arm suddenly went dead in the middle of a game—went dead and stayed dead. He was 22.

Tiger Woods, back on the tour after serious knee surgery, is 36. He may have more years of extraordinary excellence in him, for which we devoted fans can be deeply thankful. But his days

by Robert Roper

of swinging as hard as he can as often as he can are surely over.

Some god-like athletes, blessed with unbreakable bodies, go on for so long that they themselves yearn for the end. How else to explain Michael Jordan’s many “retirements”? Yes, he wanted the attention, the marginal boost to acclaim, that followed upon each retirement; the money, the records, the perks of celebrity piled up even faster with all the comebacks. But his first retirement came when he was still in his undamaged prime, in the same year when he lost his beloved father. (James Jordan was murdered in 1993, when Michael was 30.) Tiger Woods’ first experience of retirement also came in the year of his own beloved father’s death, 2006; the loss, long expected but, for all that, bitter and shocking, deadened him, took away his urge to perform, to make golf magic.

What about the so-so athlete, the ordinary one? The 10-handicap golfer? The junior-college fullback now battling a gut by playing in a Sunday softball league?

The tie-in between performance and breakdown is there from the start, usually. These days, as young athletes are pushed harder, coached more ardently, and rehabbed as they go, it becomes common to hear of child soccer players enduring ACL surgeries (especially girls, whose normal hip-knee alignment makes them more vulnerable to ligament tears). High school baseball pitchers routinely have their arms swaddled in ice after throwing a few hard innings, which is smart, but it encourages boys to think of themselves as men, with big, hardened arm-bones that can fling curveballs all day.

The former fullback worried about his gut has endured vertebral shocks, rude hits at the knee, and helmet-spearings in the back and the hips; the fun of sport for him has often been tied up with getting and giving punishment, and if he’s been lucky, he’s emerged from his glory days feeling less mortal than most men, tougher. But by his mid-30s, the cervical vertebrae are slightly arthritic; he gets headaches if he reads too much or watches a movie in the wrong sort of theater (one without those nice neck-supporting seats). Before he gets out of bed in the morning, he has to do a series of stretches for his lower back, and this whole problem about getting fat and

having a belly comes from not being able to run anymore—in his 20s, he could eat whatever he wanted and run it off, but now his hips and his knees hurt, and sometimes his back goes out after a run, no matter how much he stretches.

Sport, which all his life he has adored, now wears a different aspect. It used to be about breaking free, going beyond, achieving transcendence. Doing something marvelously well. Now it’s all tied up with fear, with Grim-Reaperhood. If I don’t get rid of this gut I’ll die like my father, of a coronary at 54. Don’t want that, thank you very much—I’d miss my kids. Therefore, a program of long walks—nature walks, like an old lady! A duffer’s softball league on Sunday afternoons. They put him in center field, because he can still crush the ball and because he looks, with his massive Mickey Mantle-ish forearms and big shoulders, like a real player.

But when a long fly ball suddenly arcs out his way, almost a homer but not quite, catchable, all you have to do is gallop after it, let go like a youngster, catch it over the shoulder like the Mick would, like Willie Mays, a new voice says No—don’t be crazy. Play it off the wall, be safe.

You could do it, you could probably make the move, and they’d love you for it, you’d be a hero again, but you’d be hurting for the next week and a half. You’d pull something if you didn’t break something. Hell, you’d miss next Sunday’s game.

Play it off the wall, there, that’s fine, that’s better. So the guy gets a double—so what. Didn’t go for third, for a triple, because he’s afraid of your arm, little does he know.

But no—look at him there on second base, dusting himself off, his chest heaving. Didn’t go for third because he couldn’t, because he’s an old guy, just like you. Wave at him, go on. Look, he’s waving back. “Nice hit,” you say.

We are on the downside here, no doubt about it, But it’s still fun. The sun’s still shining, and you’re still in play.

Probably get to bat next inning. Don’t swing for the fences, play it smart, come on, play within yourself. So that’s what that expression always meant—“play within yourself,” play with what you’ve got, what the body can do. Who knows, you might even get a hit next time. Come on, we might still win this game.

51 ISSUE 1.1

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Pet Owner’s Peace of Mind

NEW LEGAL TRUSTS ENSURE CARE AFTER A DEATH

J

ust before my husband and I leave on any sort of trip, whether overnight or a month, we drop our two pooches at our friend Susan’s small farm. Somewhere in the relaying of any special feeding instructions for our English setter’s delicate stomach or reminders about the arthritis medication for our senior beagle mix, I’ll say, “Remember, you get the dogs.”

And when Susan is headed off somewhere, she in turn gives me directions for the care of her English Setter, plus her Chihuahua, Newfoundland/St. Bernard cross, her tuxedopatterned barn cat, and the Percheron and Shire whose stalls are next to the cat’s lair. Then she bids me farewell with, “Remember, you get the fuzz-faces.”

There might be occasional very rushed departures that don’t allow for much chatting, but even then, all of us know that if anything happens while on the road, the other would look after the four-legged survivors.

We had never thought to put it in writing – it never crossed my mind that Susan wouldn’t instantly give our dogs the best care ever in a pastoral and pastured place that, for its everpresent treats and cushy beds and frequent games of fetch, we refer to as Camp Barks-a-lot.

Nor had my husband and I ever set aside a sum to give Susan, designated for the pups’ care through ripe old age. But now, because we live in Massachusetts, we can join other pet owners across the state in doing just that, formally and legally.

Last year, Gov. Deval Patrick put his signature to An Act Relative to Trusts for the Care of Animals, presented in 2009 and put into effect April 7 of 2011, allowing Bay Staters to create legally enforceable trusts that, in the case of incapacitation or death, ensure the care and wellbeing of their pets.

Now, anyone who has put such instructions in writing can also enjoy legal enforcement.

Formerly, I could have left a pile of cash to Susan in my will, designating it for the care and feeding of Bisquick and Tiny, and she could have done the same for Archie, Bette, Eggemoggin, Kitte, Blondie and Kip. But no legal enforcement would have stopped either of us from using the bucks instead to blast off to the Bahamas. The new law means a simple pet trust can be established and a caretaker named – a caretaker who is legally

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obligated to do the right thing in seeing to the wellbeing of her charges According to Consumer Reports – which tucks into its pet trust roundup the fact that singer Dusty Springfield’s will left her cat, Nicholas, to a friend who was obliged to play her music to him at bedtime, as he reclined on a nightgown of Dusty’s after a meal of imported baby food – a traditional trust, not unlike one set up for a child, costs at least $1,000 to create. Less expensive – at $50 to $100 – is the common simple pet trust that can be included in a will.

To date, 43 states have established such simple pet trusts. (Late hotel magnate Leona Helmsley upon her 2007 death left $12 million for the care of her white Maltese, Trouble. Helmsley lived in New York, which has had a simple pet trust law since 1996.) The Massachusetts Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals-Angell estimates at between 12 and 27 percent the number of pet owners who plan their estate with furry best friends in mind. Nearly 68 million people nationwide — one in three households in my state — have at least one cat or dog.

Such trusts are especially reassuring to the elderly, whose illness or death often mean pets are abandoned, or delivered to already overburdened shelters.

At the Springfield-based nonprofit Dakin Pioneer Valley Humane Society, Executive Director Leslie Harris welcomes the new law.

“We hear regularly from people who want to provide for their pets in their will,” she says, “not because they want their pets to live an outlandish lifestyle, but because they care enough about their animal companions to be sure they have adequate food, shelter, and veterinary care for the rest of their days. This new pet trust law makes it easier for people to arrange for this very thing, while protecting both their personal assets and their pet’s well-being.”

My next trip will be to Maine, which has had a pet trust since 2005. My husband and I will be headed up there in July, which leaves us plenty of time to not only plan and pack, but visit our lawyer and add the trust to our existing wills. This time, when I drop the pups at Susan’s, I’ll probably give her the same reminder – “Remember, you get the dogs” – but I’ll be able to toss in, “and it’s in writing.”

PHOTOGRAPHS COURTESY OF SHUTTERSTOCK.COM

by Suzanne Strempek Shea

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