I've been trying to write my biography for the past year and a half. So far I've gotten up to 1959 and the fact that I missed being stuck in Havana for Castro's revolution because we had a New Year's Eve party in Miami. Those were the days when I went regularly, once a month, to review the new shows at all the major Havana hotels and nightclubs for a man named Paul Bruun who was the Walter Winchell of Miami Beach. I'd write the reviews for his newspaper, the Miami Beach Sun, and he'd put his name on them. My Mother never understood that. Since we were dirt poor at the time, my husband and I understood it very well, especially when the checks arrived.
But back to my biography. Although I am sure nobody will ever read it except, I guess, my daughter, and maybe my grandson under duress, I seem to have this need to put my life down on paper. Maybe because, as my sister Fran always says, she and I are the only ones left who were actually there, at least in the early years.
Years ago, when Alex Haley's "Roots" was brought to television, my Mother decided to write down her family's history. She typed it on her manual typewriter and made carbon copies for Fran and me. It is a fascinating account of a Jewish family's trek from a small Hungarian village named Gyngos, to New York City, at the turn of the century. Mother was actually born in NYC and her description of growing up in what was literally an immigrant society is truly a treasure. All the grandchildren have read it and we are so glad she did write it all down.
Mother was a whiz at typing. She would have loved the computer with it's ability to make instant changes and print out gorgeously clean, multiple copies. Believe me, I remember when one mistake on a finished press release meant you had to go back and do the whole damned thing over again, regardless of erasers and white-out. Incidentally, Mother made both my sister and me take typing in high school because, as she told us, "you can always make a living if you know how to type." Gee, Mom, looks like I'm still doing it.
What's interesting about trying to write your biography is the fact that you are forced to review different times in your life where decisions you made, rightly or wrongly, ended up making a huge difference. At times, it's an exercise in humility. You find yourself wondering, why in hell did I decide to do that. What was I thinking? At other times, I find myself saying, gee, I did that pretty good, didn't I?
I've decided I'm a very lucky person. Don't want to give myself a "kina hura". . the spelling is probably wrong but hopefully you get my meaning. . if not, ask someone who understands Yiddish, it has to do with putting a curse on yourself. . . I've had a really interesting life, and in fact I still enjoy every day. My kids are wonderful. My health is good. I can still do two crossword puzzles a day (sometimes with a little help from the significant other), can't jog any more but still walk miles several mornings a week, and clients still hire me to write for them. I'm the one they hire when they need someone to write "rich". . .that's a joke, they should see my bank balance these days.
I promised myself I was going to do some work on my biography this morning, at least get through a few more decades, but now I'm all written out. Besides, I have to go to Publix and buy cat litter. . .the kind we didn't win in that ill-fated Pet of The Month Contest. Ginger and I are still pissed off about that fiasco, but that's an old story. I'm also thinking I need to finish up on my latest attempt at being a painter.
No wonder I'm still on 1959.
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Photo caption: The first page of my bio on my computer's desk top. . .at least I've done that much.
