Hi folks–FYI, Beth’s recovered nicely from her little ordeal, though Whitney’s testing her a little bit. Thanks for all the good wishes, I’ve passed them along to Beth, who seems to

Beth and Whitney outside our hotel — Lhotel — in Montreal.

be taking full advantage of the solitude and unplugging herself.

Now, let’s see. Before Roger Ebert died last week and before Beth was diagnosed with that staph infection we were in…Montreal!

Our three nights/two days in Montreal were magnificent — starting with our cab ride from the airport. You know Beth’s not shy about talking to everyone, especially cab drivers, and we got a cabbie who was articulate, extremely well-educated, well-informed, and talkative. Ethiopian by descent, he and his family immigrated to Montreal from Israel more than 20 years ago. During our half-hour or so drive, we got a taste of Canadian history and the politics surrounding the Quebecois separatist movement, of the state of Montreal’s economy…and pointers on where to walk, what to see, where to eat — and why fast food doesn’t fly in Montreal, only good food does.

He dropped us in Old Montreal — the oldest part of the city — at our hotel, called Lhotel, housed in a hundreds-year-old former bank building. It was formerly known as Hotel Xixe Siecle (Hotel 19th Century) — and some friends who had stayed there years ago recommended it to us. About three years ago, though, it was bought by Georges Marciano — a cofounder of Guess Jeans and art collector. He moved into the hotel — with his collection — which hangs in the lobby, hallways and rooms. We were in the Chagall room (and yes, there were Chagall prints). From an article about him in Macleans:

Guests wandering the halls of the five-floor hotel are treated to approximately 250 original works by A-list artists like Roy Lichtenstein, Robert Rauschenberg, James Rosenquist, Jasper Johns, Frank Stella, Jim Dine, Ed Ruscha, Christo, Claes Oldenburg, Willem de Kooning, and Robert Motherwell. Most are prints with their Sotheby’s or Christie’s stickers still on the bottom right corner, but some are paintings, like After by Jasper Johns and Night Clouds by Michael Gallagher. A portrait of Marciano created by Andy Warhol hangs over the sortie sign at reception.

Out front is one of the LOVE sculptures that Robert Indiana originally created for the Museum of Modern art in 1964. If you go back far enough, you know that sculpture — and variations on it — became ubiquitous during the late 60s and into the 70s.

In all, it was like living in a museum — one night after Beth went to sleep I just wandered the halls to take my time taking in the work. But the artwork was equalled by the staff — in particular a young woman with the absolutely appropriate name of Summer. The evening we arrived we were zonked and only wanted to eat and retire. Summer gave us what proved to be a perfect recommendation for a Bistro-ish place called Holder, only a few blocks away.

It was packed and bustling but not so noisy that we couldn’t have a nice conversation and Beth, as is her wont, got some good eavesdropping in, testing what was left of her French at times. (And there was no TV to be found, even behind the copper-clad bar!) Every person we encountered — in stores, restaurants, wherever — spoke French and English, and many so well that I swear I wasn’t sure what their first language was. I think because in some cases, there was no “first.” If there is tension about the language, we didn’t see it. There had been no succession, but French — language and culture — lives, and in my view, that’s for the better. The people we encountered were very attentive, but not in that corporate “I had to take human being lessons and introduce myself as your server” way. They were playful and charming.

By day we walked. And walked and walked. Whitney did quite well on Old Montreal’s streets, where she masterfully threaded Beth through crowded and very narrow sidewalks. I just lagged behind an marveled. We headed up St. Laurent, which years ago marked a separation between French and English-speaking Montreal. We walked miles passing through distinctive neighborhoods — Chinatown, through a Portuguese section, then a more gentrified section filled with high end kitchen and furniture shops.

Whitney did a good job.

And we landed at a little bakery recommended by Summer  — croissant, coffee, and Rioppelle cheese, a Quebec specialty. (Get some if you can–imagine a soft cheese, like Brie, but with a full, nutty flavor). Beth and I ate slowly — comparing the offering to our morning’s croissants at the hotel breakfast. Ahhh. I felt like Joni Mitchell’s Free Man in Paris. Unfettered and alive. But in Montreal, not Paris.

There were two places recommended to us that we did not make it to — Schwartz’s deli, for its signature smoked meat (that’s what they call it–just smoked meat) that is apparently like pastrami on steroids. We walked by but the line was more than we wanted — the weather was beautiful and we were enjoying our walk too much. Plus, we had to burn off the morning croissant to make room for the afternoon’s.

We also intended to go to Au Pied du Cohcn for what sounds like a pork fest, but we failed to land a reservation. Summer came to the rescue. She put it this way: “We have lots and lots of places that will make you feel like you’ve been transported to Paris, but if you were thinking Au Pied Du Cohon, I’d recommend L’Original. It’s very Quebeccoisehttp://restaurantholder.com/en.”

L’Original it was. I had boar shoulder that had been braised and then coated in some sort of divine demi glace. Think pork with more flavor and succulence. Beth had Halibut. Beyond that, we had too much good food to catalog, but I will say that the mussels and frites, yes, they transported me.

On our last night, a Brazilian jazz trio played in our hotel lobby bar. And they were good! Think Gilberto, but they also did some regional styles that we’d never heard before but fully enjoyed.

I can’t really do it justice — I will say that if you get a chance, go! It has much of the kinds of appeal that New Orleans has — it has the energy and texture and variety that only a cultural and historical crossroads can create. In fact, I’d say it’s earned a repeat visit for us.

P.S. — Summer and some friends made a short documentary about their trip across Canada. Which is really big. So check it out: www.vimeo.com/smyc or email showmeyourcanada@gmail.com

The show will go on at this year’s 15th Annual Ebertfest. Tilda Swinton, Shailene Woodley and Jack Black are among those expected to attend this year’s festival.

Hey, it’s Mike again–I promise I’ll fill you in on Montreal eventually, but the sad event  of yesterday — the death of Roger Ebert — changed my plans. My longtime and dear friend, Brand Fortner, was without question Roger Ebert’s biggest fan. FYI: I met Brand  back in 1990. He was a co-founder of Spyglass, a then tiny startup software company in Champaign, Ill., that was spun off from the National Center for Supercomputing Applications at the University of Illinois. And he hired me. It remains the best and most fulfilling job I’ve ever had — it led to an unforgettable ride during the dot.com days, and the success of Spyglass changed my, Beth’s and our son Gus’s life for the better. Best of all,  Brand and I have remained friends.

I’m like a lot of people — I fully enjoyed Roger Ebert, even when I didn’t agree with him. But no one loved or respected Ebert more than Brand, who has also always attended and supported Ebertfest, a terrific film festival held in Champaign’s historic Virginia Theater each year.

After yesterday’s news, Brand was good enough to share a little essay his daughter Paula had written in college about what it was like to grow up with someone who worshipped at the altar of Roger. Paula—-now an accomplished adult (yikes) in her own right — was good enough to let me share it here on Beth’s blog. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. 

Hi folks, here’s the first of my substitute blog appearances. Hope you’ll bear with me while Beth’s in her residency at the Vermont Studio Center.–Mike

Beth and Whitney outside our hotel–Lhotel–in Montreal. The place is packed with the owner’s art collection.

On Sunday we woke up in Lhotel, went downstairs for one more sublime breakfast of sublime croissant and sublime coffee–not to mention meats and cheeses. Then it was off to…Hertz. Somehow, nothing kills a croissant buzz like a rental car. But hey, we got a nice Jetta, and we headed to Johnson, Vermont.

Beth and I had already talked about dropoff day — it was a source of quiet dread for both of us. Now, Beth getting an NEA fellowship to work on her writing was a terrific thing. The Vermont Studio Center — by multiple accounts of friends who’d spent time there — is a terrific place. Still, the dread — well beyond the natural trepidation about a month-long separation.

We figured out that it traces back almost 28 years. That’s when I dropped off Beth at what was then called the Illinois Visually Handicapped Institute — destined to be renamed Braille Jail by Beth after an up-and-down stay of nearly three months. The application process to get into IVHI had been a classic paper chase — with doctor’s reports, waivers, and endless mortgage-financing-style requests for more and more documentation.

We’d been married a year and already had spent a good portion of it apart from one another. Beth’s surgeries and hospitalizations and followup visits were in Chicago — but we lived in Urbana. So I’d see her on weekends and head back to Urbana and back to work, always hoping for the best. After the doctor said Beth would not see again, she came home. It was difficult and awkward, but at least we were together. And I wasn’t trusting her care to strangers.

So, by the fall of 1985, even though we both knew Beth needed to spend time at IVHI, the last thing we wanted was for her to go away for several months.

Still, we thought, it was worth it: Beth would learn Braille. And orientation and mobility skills (using a white cane to navigate). And the romantically labeled Activities of Daily living (cooking, cleaning, daily grind stuff). And, importantly, she’d learn to measure out and give insulin injections for herself using some adaptive tools and techniques. I’d been preparing her shots since she came home.

We moved Beth into her dorm room, we took a guided tour, we met the director. I felt like I was dropping her off at college. Except it wasn’t anything like college. It was something she had to do because she was blind. It didn’t help that though that neighborhood has changed radically for the better since 1985, back then, it was treacherous. And the place felt a little prison-like.

It was not a happy time. We said teary goodbyes, and I drove south to our apartment in Champaign. Telling myself that it was silly to worry and that this was important, all the way down the straight, flat and lonely I-57.

Well.

Not long after I got home, the phone rang. It was Beth. She had a shaky voice. I asked her what was wrong. “I’m at Cook County hospital,” she said. “WHAT!?” I boomed over the phone. I collected myself. Until Beth learned how to do her own injections, a nurse would have to do it. Except IVHI had forgotten that. And no nurse was on duty. She asked staff who were there to simply measure an injection, but they said the rules said they couldn’t do that.

So, of course, the reasonable next step was going to the Cook County Hospital emergency room, where Beth waited in a hallway for hours to receive her insulin injection. It was an awful start to an awful stay that was rife with bureaucratic snafus and delays. For example, we’d obtained a doctor’s statement that Beth was fit enough for the occupation and mobility training — which could be strenuous. But that paperwork got lost. We got replacements, but it set off a dominoes-from-hell chain reaction that prevented Beth from getting mobility training for more than a month. She really was something of a prisoner.

All of this came from an entity that was supposed to be helping. It was the last thing Beth needed at that point. I didn’t much care for it, either.

And so, whether it’s been going away to get her dogs or — going to Vermont — we are both haunted by those dark times whenever she’s headed off for an extended period of time.

Whitney likes the view outside Beth’s studio.

At the Vermont Studio Center, I helped her get situated in her room — and her cute little studio space, which happens to be right beside a lovely little stream, which runs down from lovely mountains. Nothing fancy, but, well, lovely. Still, Vermont is not know for right angles or a grid road system — which present challenges to Beth and Whitney. And we both knew it would take her days before she was confident getting from her dorm to her studio to the dining hall and back.

But, we both know she would. In a very short time on Sunday afternoon, we met terrific people — staff and fellow students–who had already been extremely helpful. And so, though it was sad to part, I felt good by the time I got home Sunday night.

And then, Monday, I got a call. “I’ve had an eventful day,” Beth said. And she had. She slept fitfully her first night. Her elbow hurt. She had a fever. One of the Vermont staff looked at her arm and said it looked bad, and wisely took her to the nearest emergency room. There, they suspected a staph infection. They did an incision — and an MRI — to determine that the infection had not gone deep into her joint and muscle tissue. Still, because of the threat of superbugs, they started her on a cocktail of antibiotics, including some pretty strong stuff.

Luckily, cultures came back that indicated it wasn’t as serious as it might have been. And the antibiotics did their job. And today, she called to say that after two nights in the hospital, she was back in her studio. Writing. With Whitney at her feet. Next to that beautiful little stream. In that beautiful little town. She’ll get visits from a nurse for 10 days, but she’s in great spirits. She says the food is terrific — the Studio has a staff chef!

Whew. She’s back. She’s fine.

And just maybe, the ghost of Braille Jail is gone. For good.

Here’s one last post I prepared before taking off for my residency at the Vermont Studio Center. Baseball season is finally here, and when I asked my friend Bob Ringwald to write a guest post about his love for the game, he willingly agreed.My brother Doug introduced me to Bob Ringwald years ago — they’re both jazz musicians, and they play together from time to time. Bob is blind, and it sounds like he’s looking forward to baseball season as much as – maybe even more than? – I am!

Take me out to the ballgame

by Bob Ringwald

The New York Giants moved to San Francisco In 1958, and that’s when I became a Giants fan. I was at a game at Candlestick park on a day when Willie Mays hit four home runs! But in the 60s and 70s, after Willie Mays left the Giants, I was working 6 and 7-nights a week as a musician. I had no time to follow baseball.

We moved to Los Angeles in 1979. One night I happened to decide to listen to a Giants – Dodgers game on the radio, and that was it: Vince Scully, the amazing Dodger play-by-play announcer, won me over. He is the best I have ever heard, and believe me, I’ve heard a lot of baseball announcers. I became a dyed-in-the wool Dodger fan.

We moved back to Northern California some 18 years ago, but I’m still a Dodger fan. I bleed Dodger Blue. Dodgers games are not heard this far north in Sacramento, but I can listen to the games using my computer on MLB dot com.

That’s Bob–Molly’s dad–announcing the lineups (reading from a Braille lineup card) at Dodger Stadium.

When we were still living in Tinsel Town, the Dodgers had a promotion once where you wrote in which baseball job you’d like to do: hang with the grounds crew, drag the base path during the 7th inning, sit with the sports writers and write your own story, hang out with the umpires, that sort of thing. I wrote a letter saying that I wanted to be the Public Address announcer. I knew someone in the P.R. department, so I handed the letter to him. That way it wouldn’t get lost in the thousands of letters I knew might come in.

On July 27, 1991 I used my Braille skills to announce the lineup for a Los Angeles Dodgers – Montreal Expos game. Guess I passed the audition: they invited me to announce the players as they came up to bat in the bottom of the 3rd inning, too, and when I put a little extra English on my announcement of Darrell Strawberry’s name, the 50,000 people in the stands went crazy. What a sense of power!

Later I was invited to go out onto the field at Dodger Stadium to see what the pitcher’s mound, bases, base path and home plate really felt like. I jumped up against the center field wall like a big league outfielder. I picked up the phone they answer in the bullpen when managers call from the dugout. I sat in the Dodger dugout alongside the famous drinking fountain that angry players have been known to destroy with their bats, and, as if that wasn’t enough, I also had the honor to sit in Vince Scully’s chair in the press box. My tour that day ended in the Dodger exercise room. Legendary Dodger manager Tommy Lasorda was on the treadmill, and we had a very interesting chat.

In the early 80s, my daughter, actress and author Molly Ringwald, sang the National Anthem at several Dodger games. Fernando Valenzuela gave her a signed baseball. Another time she was given a baseball signed by all of the 1981 World Series Championship Dodgers. I proudly display those autographed baseballs in my office.

From time to time people ask me, “If you can’t see the action, why would you want to go to the game when you could just as easily be at home listening to it on the radio?” I sometimes answer by saying “Why would you want to go to the game when you can see the action better, close up, at home on TV?” I do take a portable radio to the game to hear the play by play. But there is something more. There is the electricity of the crowd, the sound of the ball hitting the bat and mitt, the P.A. announcer, the venders selling programs, ice-cream, peanuts and other assorted goodies. And of course at Dodger Stadium there are the famous Dodger Dogs. Dodger Dogs are just regular Farmer John hot dogs. But, once you walk through the turn styles of the ball park, they become a gourmet repast.

Care to guess where I’ll be later today? Yes . . . . we’re traveling 400 miles south from Sacramento to Los Angeles to attend the Dodgers vs. Giants opening day game at Dodger Stadium. Care to take a guess which team I’ll be rooting for???

You can check out more photos of Bob’s baseball days on his web site. Play ball!

Sound the trumpets! Here’s something I never dreamed would happen to me: I’ve been awarded a writing fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts! Mike, Whitney and I take off today for a couple days vacation in Canada, and on Sunday morning Mike will rent a car and drive Whitney and me from Montreal to Johnson, Vermont. Thanks to fellow writer Jeff Flodin, who encouraged me to apply for this fellowship, I’ll be spending the entire month of April with 50 other poets, visual artists and writers at the Vermont Studio Center, where I hope to make some progress on a manuscript I’ve been working on.

That manuscript is about all I’ve learned leading memoir-writing classes for senior citizens here in Chicago, and I got the perfect sendoff yesterday afternoon: Chicago Public Radio aired a piece on All Things Considered featuring the writers in my Wednesday class. WBEZ has been doing a special series on what was going on in people’s lives the year they turned 25: scientific studies have shown that the frontal cortex area—which governs judgment, decision-making and impulse control—doesn’t fully mature until around age 25, which can make that year a transitional one for many people. After hearing a few Chicago celebrities interviewed on WBEZ about their 25th year, I assigned “Being 25” as a topic for my own celebrities, the writers in my classes. From the WBEZ web site:

In this installment of the Year25 series, WBEZ Producer/Reporter Lauren Chooljian visits a memoir writing class for senior citizens at the Chicago Cultural Center.

Their assignment? To write 500 words about where they were at 25.

Lauren stopped by to hear their essays and talk to the students about their stories. She came to find out their teacher, writer Beth Finke, also had quite a story to tell about her 25th year. It was not only the year she was married, but it was the last year she could see. Finke has been completely blind since she was 26 years old.

Wedding day, July 28, 1984, photo by Rick Amodt

If you missed hearing the piece on the radio yesterday, never fear: you can still hear it online. Mike will fly home from Burlington this Sunday after dropping Whitney and me off in Vermont, and he has generously offered to keep up the Safe & Sound blog while I’m away. You’re in good hands.

All for now, folks: we gotta plane to catch!