Jane Fonda on aging: The key to happiness is how we reflect on our experiences afterward.

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“My father took forever to die,” Jane Fonda said of Henry Fonda. “I’d sit next to him for hours. I realized I wasn’t afraid of dying. I was afraid of getting to the end of my life with regrets.”

Click the cover to visit the book’s Amazon page.

Henry Fonda died at 87. Turning 87 next December, Jane says, “I recommend thinking about death. We’re lucky to get old. I want to be on my death bed surrounded by people who love me.” Preferably wrapped in a simple shroud, she adds, and buried near (2nd husband) Tom Hayden, “to make it easier for our kids to visit.”

Jane was her outgoing, outspoken self at a luncheon given at Detroit’s Franklin Hills CC earlier this month. She spoke from the heart, without notes, and came off more as a pal than a pampered celebrity. The event benefitted the cardiology department of Royal Oak, MI’s Corewell Health Foundation. The Detroit Free Press ran a comprehensive article on Jane’s talk. So I’ll take a different tack.

As Godsigns readers know, I’ve lately crossed the daunting threshold of 80 years. It’s an achievement I doubted I’d reach 20 years ago with Stage 4 cancer. But here I am, thank God–especially interested in Jane’s take on the A word.

Fonda decided age 60 represented “the beginning of my third act. As an actress, I know third acts are really important. I wanted mine to make sense.” At 59, Jane devoted a year to “researching myself”. She says, “To know where you’re going, you have to know where you’ve been.”

Aside from 29 pages of FBI reports, Jane viewed copious home movies her father had made. Her conclusion? “I was brave and worthy of being loved.”

Jane had spent two years “wondering” if her (third) marriage to Ted Turner would work. “I loved him like mad. He’s the most interesting man.”

She visualized an angel on each of her shoulders. One angel said, “Lighten up. He’s funny. He’s handsome.” The other angel warned, “If you stay with him, you’ll never be who you’re supposed to be.”

On January 1, 2000, Turner dropped her at the airport. “We parted.”

Jane went from living on thousands of acres to living in her daughter’s house. There she had a revelation. “God wants us all to become our true, authentic selves. I realized I don’t need a man. Jesus said, ‘Ye must be whole.’ I knew the search for perfection was toxic.”

Reviewing her life, she gave some advice to her 20-year-old self:

“No is a complete sentence.”

“Problems get better.”

“Don’t drink so much.”

Now, with three grandkids (two in college and a 5-year old), Jane says, “One of the most important things I’ve learned: it’s not the experience, it’s how you reflect on the experience that makes you a wise person.”

I appreciated Jane’s remarks about making “On Golden Pond” with her father, who was dying of heart disease. “I did the movie for him,” she said. “Katharine Hepburn didn’t like me very much. She’d invite me for tea and tell me how to read my lines. She willed me into the scene.” She mimicked Hepburn shaking her fists at her, mouthing, ‘You can do it.’ Jane says she spent many hours practicing her famous flip into the cold water of Squam Lake in New Hampshire.

Of Jane’s relationship with her father, Hepburn said, “He doesn’t know he hurt you. Spence (Spencer Tracy) used to do that to me. You’ve made me respect you, Jane.”

(In my own Golden Pond moment, one of my best trips ever occurred with my son, Andy. In spring of his junior year at Cranbrook, we took a road trip visiting colleges on the East Coast, listening to Van Morrison’s “Into the Mystic.” In New Hampshire, we parked the car and climbed over a ridge to see glistening Squam Lake for ourselves. But no, we didn’t jump in.)

(While I’m off the subject, another divergence. I didn’t expect to write a column about Jane but brought pen and paper just in case. She had me from hello. I filled both sides of the one sheet I’d brought. Writing notes, in cursive, focuses my attention. I’m dismayed that schools no longer teach cursive.)

Back to Jane, who’s produced six movies since 2000. After three marriages, she’s finished with matrimony and love affairs.

“Too hard,” she says. “I’ve closed up shop. I get much more done now. I read a lot. I can watch any TV show I want.” She also devotes time and energy to working for “a healthy planet.”

Thanks, Jane, for your candor. For the insights and joy you’ve given us on screen. And for blazing a happy trail for those of us lucky enough to reach our 80s.

What do Albert Kahn’s masterpieces sound like? Composer Michael Kropf creates new music echoing that creativity.

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Dr Forrest Howell playing ‘Albert Kahn,’ a new piano sonata, while images of Kahn designs were projected on a huge screen above him. In this photo, the image on the big screen shows the 9-foot-high light fixtures at the Fisher Building

Composer Michael Kropf was inspired.  Having earned his doctoral degree at the U of M, he knew of the late Albert Kahn—father of industrial architecture.  Kahn designed several buildings in Ann Arbor, including Angell Hall, Hill Auditorium and the Burton Memorial Tower. (Having lost my Burton, the name means more than it did when I attended the U of M in the ‘60s.  But I digress.)

Learning that Kahn, at 14, had been a piano prodigy, Kropf had an idea.  Kropf composes music that “engages with evocative places, personalities and histories.”  He decided “to find a way to place music in conversation with Kahn’s work as an architect.”

That inspired “conversation” took place on Sept. 6 at the iconic Kahn-designed Fisher Building.  And what a conversation it was.

Kropf composed “Albert Kahn” (2024), a beautiful sonata performed in the lobby near the Fisher Theater.  A large screen above the piano simultaneously featured images of landmark Kahn buildings: The Fisher Building, the Belle Isle Aquarium, the now defunct Packard plant.

Before the program, tours of the Fisher Building brought back personal memories.  Working on the College Board for Saks Fifth Avenue, representing the U of M.  Having my hair done for my 1967 wedding at Antoine’s in the Fisher Building.  Frequent visits to Julie’s.

As a correspondent for Women’s Wear Daily, I was besties with Virginia DeVoy, owner of the Fisher Building’s ultra-chic Julie’s boutique.  When Virginia died, to assuage my grief, I wrote a poem about her.  Her gracious sister, Ruth Ruwe, put my poem into Virginia’s casket, allowing me to accompany my friend to eternity.

I also recalled frequent visits to the Gertrude Kasle Gallery on the mezzanine of the Fisher Building.  There I admired world class art by 20th century legends: Guston, Dine, Lichtenstein.  The Kasle Gallery space became the Feigenson Gallery, then the Feigenson/Preston Gallery. At the latter, I lectured about former Detroiter, now nationally renowned artist Brenda Goodman.  I bought the first piece of art sold by Jackie Feigenson, a Michael Luchs rabbit collage, and continued to buy when I could.  (Shameless plug: See my book Detroit’s Cass Corridor & Beyond, Adventures of an Art Collector.)

On October 19, 1988, my son Andy, then 14, and I visited the Fisher Building for an official announcement: the New Center Building would henceforth be called the Albert Kahn Building.  This was the first time Andy understood our distinguished heritage.

Albert Kahn’s older sister Mollie was my grandmother.  Mollie is my middle name.  As a child I thought the name old-fashioned.  Now I understand the important role Mollie played supporting Albert and his also amazing brother Julius.  Julius’ development of reinforced concrete allowed Albert’s designs to be realized.  Today I brag about my middle name. And I’m happy to recommend author Michael G. Smith’s new book, Concrete Century: Julius Kahn and the Construction Revolution.

For several years pre-Covid, my sister Anne and I hosted “Kahnktails” for Kahn family members at Anne’s apartment in New York.  On one of those occasions, we invited Detroit journalist Michael Hodges.  His book Building the Modern World: Albert Kahn in Detroit tells a remarkable story. “… the story of the German-Jewish immigrant who rose from poverty to become one of the most influential architects of the twentieth century.  Kahn’s buildings not only define downtown Detroit, but his early car factories for Packard Motor and Ford revolutionized the course of industry and architecture alike.”

Albert Kahn factories significantly influenced the outcome of WWII. Military vehicles were built at Detroit’s Willow Run Bomber Plant.  There Ford produced B-24 Liberator bomber planes.  When Russia was industrializing, from 1929 to 1931 Kahn’s firm designed hundreds of tractor factories, converted to produce tanks empowering Russia to hold off the Nazis on the Eastern front.

At our Kahntails gathering, Anne and I asked Hodges to talk to us about his work. His words were so eloquent I wish I had recorded them. This recollection will have to do:

Hodges said, “It’s quite amazing that a young Jewish immigrant came to this country at 14 years old, with no money, speaking no English and having no knowledge of architecture.  That young man grew up to create buildings that produced weapons and transport that helped to stop the worst tyrant in the history of the modern world.  I’m not saying someone else couldn’t have done that, but Albert Kahn is the man who did.  And that man is your relative.  You should all be proud.”

That memory, and the gratitude and pride it invoked, flooded my senses as I sat in the front row for the debut of The Albert Kahn Sonata.  I enjoyed a direct view of pianist Forrest Howell’s nimble hands and overhead mages of the Fisher Building, the Belle Isle Aquarium and the Packard plant.

After the performance, Forrest Howell was joined by composer Michael Kropf and filmmaker John Hanson.  I was happy to see how young they were. To see the respect they showed for Detroit, for our history, and for my great uncle.

Many thanks to the Albert Kahn Legacy Foundation for the splendid Kahnversation. (Sorry.  Couldn’t help myself.)  Thanks for all you’re doing to honor a true Detroit hero, one of the greatest architects of the 20th century.

From left: Composer Michael Kropf, filmmaker John Hanson and pianist Forrest Howell receive plaudits after the concert.

 

to learn more about the event: https://albertkahnlegacy.org/events/the-albert-kahn-sonata/

ans https://www.michaelkropfmusic.com/

The story of Timber Ridge: Sometimes, while creating a special place—we wind up creating our better selves.

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Back around 2017, I snapped this photo of the whole family enjoying a “sing along” at what is now called Lake Burton at our farm in northern Michigan, which we call Timber Ridge.

Where we are influences who we are.

The importance of place struck me this summer as Alexis and I straddled noodles in our swimming pool. Alexis is my eldest grandchild. It’s a privilege and blessing when our grandkids become young adults, and we’re well enough to spend time with them.

Burton and I began buying farmland in northern Michigan in 1985. The price was $250 an acre. Burton said, “If we don’t go out for dinner tonight, we could afford another acre.” (Fact check: in those days, at that price we could have dined out twice.)

With an in-town home in Charlevoix, MI, Burton longed to horseback ride in the country. He sought 25 acres with a barn. But as a professional real estate guy, he had a thing for corners. HIs goal of 25 acres turned out to be 225 acres, including a corner of two well-traveled roads. As adjacent land became available, the farm expanded. Most of our land is today farmed by neighbors who grow corn and oats.

Like most significant purchases we made in our 5+ decades, Burton was the driving force.

Usually, it went—
Me: “Too expensive. Too much maintenance.”
Burton: “We’ll figure it out.”

As a boy, Burton had a friend whose family owned a farm near Detroit. Some of my husband’s happiest childhood memories involved spending time on that farm.

Walking a wooded hill one afternoon in 1985, we realized our new farm needed a name. We decided on Timber Ridge. One of us came up with Timber; the other, Ridge. I’m not sure who coined what.

As unenthused as I once was about our farm, I’ve become a believer. Burton was right in recognizing how good it would be for our family. The best times we spend together mostly take place at the farm. At Timber Ridge, our sons compete ruthlessly at Shuffleboard. At Timber Ridge, our grandkids soar on in-ground trampolines and sneak candy from my pantry when their parents aren’t looking.

At Timber Ridge, Alexis and I noodled and chatted in the pool.

Our farm was the setting for many lively cookouts at small Carpenter Lake. When Burton died last summer, changing that little lake’s name to Lake Burton was a natural. For many years our family enjoyed barbeques by the lake. Then farm manager, Eric Cherry, played guitar and sang. We all sang along, perched on logs around a campfire.

There are many “45th Parallel” road signs all across the U.S. This one is in northern Michigan and the photo was shared via Wikimedia Commons by Kim Scarborough.

Eric wrote a terrific song, “North of the 45th Parallel”. Our family joined in on the chorus:

I don’t know what heaven is like
But if I had a choice I’d sell you a ticket
Just north of the 45th Parallel.

The song provided the rollicking end to every campfire.

Lake Burton is a small kettle lake—one of many in Northern Michigan formed as chunks of ice broke off from the last glacier to travel this land some 10,000 years ago.

I stroll to the lake every day in summer and sit in the sunnier of two wooden swings. Lake Burton is currently home to about three dozen geese. It’s permanently home to thousands of fish. Burton loved paddling the lake in a green canoe handmade by local artist and boat builder Glen McCune.

In that canoe, Burton relished casting a fly rod, catching and releasing fish. (I consider fishing about as entertaining as watching weeds grow. But I’d accompany him with a book in my hands and a camera, later cellphone, to photograph his newest conquest.)

Lake Burton contains bass, pike, perch and bluegill. (David’s my source for this info. I can distinguish a bluegill from a seagull, but that’s as discerning as I can be.)

Burton’s mother, Edith, taught math at Detroit’s Mumford High School. After her husband, Dr. Sy Farbman, died, Edith could afford to send her only son to camp for only one season. At 11, Burton attended Camp Thunderbird in Bemidji, MN. He earned every badge there was to earn. He learned to canoe with a smooth J-stroke, to shoot a bow and arrow and rifle. He became an expert fisherman. It broke my heart when brain surgery and a stroke robbed Burton of his ability to canoe and fish.

Shortly before Burton died, his best friend since childhood, Michael Kramer, drove north to visit. We transported Burton to the lake in a van. He and Michael sat on chairs, relishing the conversation, the companionship and the view.

These days I accompany my sons on a pontoon boat fishing or towing grandkids on tubes. I‘ve come to realize Burton was right about creating the farm. And the pool that provided me two splendid afternoons with Alexis. And about other matters I disputed at the time.

I only wish I could tell him so.

Another view of the cedar pavilion Burton and I commissioned for our 25th anniversary. The pavilion was constructed by talented Northern Michigan builder Rick Bourgeois.

Back in 2017, Burton and our late dear friend Marilyn Silver posed just as appetizers were served inside the pavilion for a gathering with family and friends.

‘Pain and joy are all part of being human,’ says my friend Sofia Edmonds in Part 2 of her inspiring story

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So many friends showed up at the Midland cancer center to support Sofia that we needed a panoramic lens!

(You have reached the second part of Sofia’s story. And here’s a link back to Part 1 of the story.)

Physically fit, a healthy eater and exercise devotee, Sofia had run in several marathons. She’d been three minutes short of qualifying for the Boston Marathon.

But, then, her energy began to wane, she felt sad and began losing weight. Smells made her nauseous. In September, 2020, during the pandemic, she went for a blood test.

Sofia’s doctor read her bloodwork. “Oh, my God,” he said.

He sent her to Dr. Sam Shaheen, whom she knew. Dr. Shaheen reviewed her results with Sofia and Ron and became choked up.

Sofia and Ron were crying, too.

Previously the quintessence of health, Sofia was diagnosed with stage IV cancer.

“It was like being hit in the head with a bat,” she says.

But Sofia was accustomed to analyzing data and finding solutions. “What’s next?” she said.

A biopsy of the liver.

“Can we do it today?”

“I’ve never been asked that,” Dr. Shaheen said. “But Iet me make some calls.”

Returning, he asked what Sofia had eaten.

“Half a banana. At 11.”

A biopsy took place that afternoon.

Like me, Sofia initially was diagnosed with Adenocarcinoma. There were tumors in her liver, abdomen, lungs and intestines. By the end of the week, she’d had a mammogram, colonoscopy, endoscopy and more tests, but the source was unknown. She was deteriorating day by day.

It was October, 2020. The Mayo Clinic and MD Anderson were ready to admit her. Because of COVID, MD Anderson insisted she undergo treatment alone. Mayo allowed one person to accompany her, so the choice was clear. Ron accompanied her to Mayo. Several additional tests provided no clear result.

With Ron by her side, Sofia underwent many different chemotherapies. They included Gemcitabine, Cisplatin, Folinic acid, Flourouracil and Oxaliplatin. One treatment required wearing a pump. Infusions lasted up to two days.

Sofia continued to deteriorate. By the end of November, her liver was 90% destroyed; there were tumors in her lungs, peritoneal area, lymph nodes and uterus. Her swollen stomach caused excruciating pain, but her condition was too poor to risk draining the fluids.

Losing a pound a day, Sofia had stopped checking her weight. “It was too traumatic for my whole family.” By December 24, she was bedridden.

All hands were needed on deck. Her sons, future daughter-in-law, mother and two sisters came to Northern Michigan to look after Sofia. Due to the pandemic, after their flights, they quarantined for 12 days.

“I was so weak I didn’t dare close my eyes,” she recalls. “I was afraid I wouldn’t wake up.” For two nights in a row, to stay awake, she played golf, in her head, at Midland CC.

The smell of food made Sofia nauseous. Her family took turns cooking, in a crockpot, outdoors in winter. Oatmeal was all she could tolerate. Sandra, a friend from Midland, frequently boiled beef bones for 24 hours to create a broth and drove 2 and ½ hours north to deliver it. Ron lost so much weight worrying about Sofia that he, too, looked sickly.

“While Andrew played the piano, Dave rubbed my feet,” she says. “That was one of the few beautiful memories I have from that nightmare.”

Finally, Sofia was diagnosed with Cholangiocarcioma, cancer of the bile ducts—a disease that usually kills within four months. Sofia was still alive—but barely—after two months.

Sofia’s doctors realized “there was little hope.” Her oncologist gave her a choice. Continue with chemo and add a new immunotherapy drug? Abandon chemo and simply try the latter? Or give up and call hospice?

Genetic testing indicated a biomarker that Sofia’s cancer could respond to immunotherapy. Sofia was a candidate for a treatment not yet approved for bile duct cancer. Success was unlikely, however, because by then most of her liver was consumed by a tumor.

Sofia’s choice: abandon chemo and proceed with immunotherapy. The drug, Pembrolizumab, hadn’t been approved for bile duct cancer. But after about a week of infusions, the pain in her stomach, and the swelling, started to decrease.

By the middle of January, 2021, Sofia was feeling better. She was able walk the driveway. “Ron had the brilliant idea to bring me to Florida so I could walk outdoors.” Because of COVID, they didn’t dare risk flying.

On the drive to Florida, the couple stopped in Midland for Sofia’s infusion of Pembrolizumab. Word of Sofia’s visit had spread. The cancer center parking lot was packed. To Sofia’s surprise, about one hundred friends stood in a long line, holding signs of love and support.

In Florida, Sofia felt better each day. She resumed swimming and working out. Her liver regenerated and she could eat normally. She continued with infusions every three weeks and frequent scans.

At the end of 2022, a new tumor appeared in her liver. It was surgically removed. She continued her immunotherapy. In December, 2023, cancer appeared in her lymph nodes and was treated with radiation.

In April and July of this year, Sofia’s scans were clean. Likewise in July. Originally approved for lung cancer, Pembrolizumab has since been officially approved for bile ducts.

Sofia’s philosophical about what she’s been through. “Pain and joy are all part of being human,” she says. “Getting through difficult times makes us appreciate the beauty of life.”

Sofia’s had seven different oncologists. All of them referred to her as “a miracle girl.” She’s graduated from immunotherapy infusions every three weeks to every six weeks.

“I was just lucky there was a treatment,” Sofia says. “At the advanced stage of my illness, if I’d been sick two years earlier, there wouldn’t have been.”

Sofia’s back to exercise and golf. She has a lovely new daughter-in-law, Dani, who’s an “excellent” nurse. Last summer Sofia and Ron hosted 120 people at a joyful dinner on their back lawn the night before Andrew and Dani’s wedding.

To top it off, “on the spur of the moment,” this past June, Sofia ran a 10k.

Thanks, Miracle Girl, for sharing your story. For your determination and candor. And for the hope you inspire in all of us.

Sofia and Ron.

My resilient friend Sofia Edmonds shares her story of love—and endurance—in a global family (Part 1)

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My friend Sofia Edmonds.

Sofia Edmonds has known high highs and low lows, and she’s still here to talk about them. Her story gives hope to all who long for it.

Toward the end of 2021, when COVID restrictions had eased enough to travel again, I was on my way to New York. Waiting in a long line at Detroit’s Metropolitan Airport, I chatted with the woman behind me.

In minutes, I discovered Godsigns galore:

  • Sofia Edmonds was on her way to Sarasota, where she and her husband were building a home. Burton and I have spent winters there for 25+ years.
  • Sofia was diagnosed with stage IV cancer at age 60. I was, too.
  • Sofia had two sons, David and Andrew. David had gone to MSU; Andrew, UM. Ditto.
  • And we both golfed at Charlevoix’s Belvedere GC.

Thanks to COVID, I made a terrific new friend. Talk about a silver lining. And now I am sharing her story with you.

From Bogota, Colombia, Sofia is the oldest of three sisters. She was an early computer systems engineer. (The similarities between us stop there. I’m just this side of hopeless with computers. My tech friend, Rodney, frequently saves me from tearing out what hair I have left.) In the late 80s, Sofia was teaching databases, systems design and the insides of PC computing.

At 27, Sofia had just broken off a five-year relationship. (I broke off a five-year relationship just before meeting Burton.) To cheer her up, her sister, Rocio, invited her to a business dinner in Bogota. Rocio worked for Exxon, had lived overseas and spoke English well.

Sofia, whose English was spotty, declined.

Rocio insisted.

At dinner, Sofia sat next to an exec with Michigan-based Upjohn pharmaceutical company. Though Ron’s Spanish was limited, he and Sofia talked all through dinner. Ron was working on a three-week project in Bogota. He and Sofia saw each other every day.

“My English was bad, but Ron’s Spanish was worse,” she says. When Ron returned to Michigan, the problem was exacerbated in that era before smartphones and instant Internet connections. Even worse—long-distance calls were expensive 37 years ago. Writing frequent letters in English proved easier.

Ron returned to Colombia several times, staying with Sofia at her parents’ home. In Colombia, Sofia says, girls in those days lived with their parents until marriage. Her parents hadn’t liked their daughter’s former beau but approved of Ron.

Despite Ron’s visits, Sofia says, “I didn’t think our relationship was going anywhere.”

But Ron, 29, had other ideas.

“I bought you a ticket,” he said.

Sofia flew to Michigan for the first time in December, 1987. She stayed with Ron and his parents in Battle Creek. The city was blanketed with snow—something Sofia had never seen. “It was magical,” she says. “Ron drove me to see Christmas lights and showed me the Christmas spirit in Michigan.”

A week after meeting Sofia, Ron had called his mother from Bogota. He’d said, “I met the woman I want to marry.”

While traveling in South Africa, Ron had bought a diamond for her. In Battle Creek, Ron got down on one knee, took out a piece of paper, and read what a friend had helped him compose. A proposal—in Spanish!

Ron then flew to Bogota and read the proposal to Sofia’s dad. Sofia and Ron were married on May 28, 1988, in Bogota.

After a honeymoon in South America, Sofia and Ron settled in Kalamazoo, MI. Living so far from home, she concedes, was “hard” on her and her family.

In Kalamazoo, Sofia pursued a masters in computer science at Western Michigan U. She became pregnant. Andrew was born in Kalamazoo in 1990. Ron was transferred to Cincinnati, where David was born. The family then spent five years in Brazil. There, Sofia studied gemology. She loved working with metals and precious stones. She built up a successful business as a jewelry designer and goldsmith.

In 1997, Ron was transferred to Midland, MI, as an exec with Dow Chemical. Looking for a house, Sofia sought white cabinets but only found them in natural oak. Her taste was more modern. Recognizing an opportunity for high end real estate, she became a broker. Before long, she’d captured the market.

In 2015, the Edmonds built a beautiful house in Charlevoix. When COVID hit, they moved there full time.

Then Sofia’s fairy tale life began to fade.

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Please, also enjoy the inspiring Part 2 of this 2-part story!

Sofia with her husband Ron and their two sons enjoying a meal.

 

Where is Suzy now? Celebrating a personal milestone in global style

They’re in Paris and that’s the Eiffel Tower (lit up) in the background.

Turning 80 gets your attention.  There’s a now or never note that motivates.  When my California-based sister presented the chance to join her on a grand European tour, I was in.

I’m just back from our whirlwind adventure.  Three days in Prague.  Five-day cruise from Vienna to Budapest and back with Santa Barbara Symphony supporters.  Three days in Krakow.  (A pilgrimage to Auschwitz/Birkenau—all the more chilling due to the current international rise in antisemitism.)  Three days in Paris at the uber hip Costes Hotel with Anne’s charming publisher/social influencer daughter Jen.  Five days in Sicily at a stunning private villa with my adult sons and their wives.

One helluva birthday celebration.

For five years, when Burton was ill, I didn’t travel often.  When I did, it was with my sister and a heavy heart.  While I miss my man and the fun we had together, while I honor the hard work we both did to save our marriage, I don’t miss the last five years.  Brain cancer and a stroke dimmed Burton’s light.  Though he never, ever complained, his last five years were rough.  On him, for sure.  A dynamo who created a company that fulfilled his wish to outlive him.  An athlete who planned to spend his last years on the golf course.

His last years were hard on our family, as well.  On our grandkids, for whom Grandpa Burt orchestrated so many adventures. On our sons, who adored their dad, listened to his advice, and spoke to him daily. And on me, whose heart broke to see my larger-than-life husband reduced to spending his last years in a wheelchair.

With my wings clipped for the past five years, I leaped at the chance to enjoy a nearly three-week travel adventure.

On my return, I spoke to a friend who, through business, knows and represents many families.  When I raved about the fun I’d had with my sister, sons and daughters-in-law, he observed how lucky I was.  He said, “You can’t imagine how many people I know who can barely speak to family members, no less travel with them.”

I know this, and I’m beyond grateful.

I think a big reason my sons grew into the good men/husbands/fathers they are is genetic.  Burton’s and my strengths were so different.  Another was a default on my part.  When my kids had issues (the current term for problems), I honestly didn’t know how to advise them.  So I’d say, “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

Miracle of miracles: they have and they do.

The blessing of such a joyful trip is tinged with sadness.  I wish Burton had been around to enjoy our adventures with us. Sometimes I believe he is.  On sunny days, I feel him beaming down on us.

I write these words on July 1, exactly one year after we lost our fun-loving, street smart, generous, spirited, unconventional patriarch.

The sun is shining brightly.

Anne and I clowning with a sculpture in Melk, Austria.

An 80th birthday party becomes an opportunity to showcase a true Detroit gem: MMODD

Last week I shared my thoughts on turning 80.  This week I’m sharing my biggest celebration. (Yes, there’ve been more than one.  I’m squeezing every drop out of the occasion.)

While in Florida, I was trying to plan a party in Michigan as well as a birthday summer family trip.  I was stressing out from the details.  And, yes, I realize these are good problems—but, at 80 it’s harder to keep multiple balls in the air. I’m blessed with two capable, connected and helpful daughters-in-law. Nadine suggested I talk to Melissa Vitale Feldman, who took over the Detroit party. Amy put me in touch with New York travel agent Michelle Boyarski, who steered the overseas aspects. Both resources were godsends.

A few months earlier, BFF Brenda Rosenberg had taken me to visit the Metropolitan Museum of Design Detroit (MMODD).  I was delighted to see such creative displays and to meet director Leslie Pilling.  I also met Chuck Duquet, on the first floor.  Chuck’s an obsessive collector who runs what is supposed to be a gallery.  In reality, it’s more of a warehouse for the fine art Chuck obsessively acquires, mostly by Detroit artists.  Having a decent collection of Cass Corridor Art myself, I was delighted to meet a like-minded enthusiast.

Spending so much time away from Detroit, I’m eager, when I return, to see all the city has to offer.  If I’d been unaware of these two venues, I thought, many friends must be as well.  I decided to host my birthday celebration at MMODD.  And to invite not only dear girlfriends, but others with whom I’d like to be dear friends if only I spent more than a nanosecond in my hometown each year.

Problem: MMODD is fairly small, sizewise, and contains displays around which one must tread carefully.

Solution: Melissa’s idea to for a “strolling brunch” in a limited time frame.  That meant mostly high-top tables and less elaborate settings and food.

Quite a few invitees were still in Florida or California or in transit. But a good number were in the D.  I loved seeing them. Rather than bring a gift, I requested friends donate to MMODD.  Happily, most obliged.

Leslie recommended singer Kimmie Horne to provide background music.  The grand-niece of famed singer/actress Lena Horne, Kimmie was perfect.

My adored sister came from California to spend the week with me.  Anne’s a talented singer.  (Sadly I didn’t inherit that gene, but I’m an enthusiastic listener.)  At her wedding several decades ago, Anne sang Carole King’s “You’ve Got a Friend” to her about to be husband, Bob Smith.  That started a tradition; Anne has sung the song on every special occasion since. At my party, I requested it, and Kimmie joined Anne in a delightful impromptu duet.

Both my daughters-in-law attended and spoke beautifully about me. The highest compliment of all: even if we weren’t related, they’d want me for a friend. Ditto!

Currently in the D, I run into others I wish I’d invited.  With Burton’s illness, I’ve been out of social commission for five years.  The bad news is over time  I’ve lost so many fabulous women friends I wish could have been there.  The good news: I still have many wonderful ones, though most tend to be younger than I.  That’s how the ginger snaps crumble when you’re lucky enough to hit 80.

So far, so good, thank God.  I savor the cookies I can.  And am grateful, dear friends and readers, for your birthday wishes and support over several decades.

At MMODD with director Leslie Pilling in front of painting by family friend Jamie Wineman, aka WolfgangGang

From left: Henrietta Fridholm, Beth Singer, Brenda Rosenberg, Suzy, Grace Serra

With my two daughters in law: Amy (left) and Nadine

With my sister Anne Towbes and singer Kimmie Horne