Beth Broderick: Wit and Wisdom for the Ages from the Aged Podcast

Wit and Wisdom

by Beth Broderick

They are everywhere. Lemons, oranges, and grapefruits are the most obvious, but tucked into corners or looming in the back are also figs, and, this being the Southland, avocados. My new neighborhood is ripe with produce which tempts me at every turn. I look up wistfully at the lemons I cannot reach without risking serious bodily harm. The low-hanging ones are picked off by passersby as soon as they look remotely ready, so I have to keep a keen eye out.

Yes, I know I can just go pick up a bunch at the grocery store, but it’s not the same as holding a freshly plucked prize in my paws. I fear that I may have inherited my Grandma Edna’s penchant for lifting. Of course, I am no match for her in that department. She would stash as many as twenty items of contraband in her pockets, purse, or bra, and even sometimes her shoes, and walk out of the drugstore with her head held haughtily high. I could never do that, but I have been known to cadge a lemon or maybe an unwanted free paper left wilting on the sidewalk. I don’t have her penchant for outright thievery, but I do love to encounter a treat on my walks.

“Excuse me, sir?”

I waved as I said it because he had those earpod thingies stuffed into the sides of his head, and I wasn’t sure he could hear me. The fast motion must have startled him because he jumped slightly, and then looked up and pulled the miniature speakers out of his ears.

“Do you think it’s okay if I take some of those?” I asked, pointing to a lemon tree in front of the building he was leaving, which was bursting with fresh gems.

His gaze followed my finger.

“Yes, yes; they’re for the neighborhood. Please take whatever you can reach.”

I grabbed a half-dozen, annoying Fairness in the process. He does not share my fascination with local citrus and would prefer to get on with our walk. This brought my total of gathered lemons to ten. I scrubbed them all and then put them whole into a pot, then covered them with water, and put a weighted pan on top. Simmered for a few hours, they take on a jammy quality. I let them drain and cool, and then removed the seeds and processed them—skins, pith, and insides. This turned into a lemon paste which I have been using to perfect my recipe for lemon blondies. It can also be used to make a sauce, or dressing, and the punchiest lemon curd you have ever tasted.

It is interesting to me to note that my old Beverly Hills ’hood had almost no offerings of this kind. It was full of beautiful gardens, but all of the plantings were ornamental. There was no food growing there—at least none that was visible from the streets and sidewalks. I grew up in Huntington Beach, which was for a long while redolent with the scent of citrus. Groves of orange trees surrounded my Park Street neighborhood and also fields of strawberries. There were sidewalk fruit stands which sold berries so ripe and fresh that they exploded with sweet juice when you bit into them

They are gone now. The real estate has grown too valuable for cultivation of that kind. The whole shebang was once the property of the Standard Oil Company, so a drive through our town full of orchards included the odd mix of oil wells—the kind that look like horses reaching for water in a trough as they go up and down. The oil folks are more concerned with profits than preservation, so that landscape is long gone. Even most of the wells have been replaced by condos and tract homes. Still, many yards in the area are rich with remnants of its agricultural roots. Guava trees hug the walls, and all manner of citrus persists in the remaining patches of soil.

Perhaps in some of the neighborhoods fruited trees had taken hold and were simply incorporated. I don’t have any idea why some parts of town, including the poorest, are still rife with food trees, while others, including the richest, are not.

My neighborhood is so rife with it that one needs to stay sharp to avoid being beaned by a grapefruit grown too ripe for the spindle of branch which nurtured it. They hit the sidewalk regularly with quite a thud.

BITTER TRUTH.

I had a hairdresser for a while on Sabrina whose name I cannot recall. He was tall and reed-thin, with a thatch of white-blond hair. He was struggling mightily with depression and confided in me that he was taking medication to try to ease the weight of it. John? Tim? What the heck was his name? Such a nice, talented fellow. He lived in Palm Springs and stayed at a friend’s place in town during filming.

Palm Springs is another anomaly in the agriculture department. The climate is meant to support cactus and shrubbery, but its dogged citizens have planted and planted and watered and watered, thereby creating an unlikely topography. In addition to the odd greenery of a gazillion golf courses, the place is lousy with fruit trees. Many of the sidewalks that wind through its low-slung buildings on the way to their equally out-of-place swimming pools boast canopies of Meyer lemon and tangerine.

“The medication is not working,” (dammit, let’s just go with Bob) confided to me while running a curling iron through my hair. “I still just feel like lying down and never getting up.”

There is almost no topic too personal to be discussed in the hair and makeup chair. It is a very intimate environment. We talked about things he could try. Exercise? More protein? Maybe an extra dose of the pharmaceutical stuff just for good measure? We got through the day just fine. He never let his problems interfere with his ability to do his job. He was talented and steadfast.

The next week, when we reconvened, he arrived in Hair and Makeup with two grocery bags bulging with grapefruit from his backyard tree in the desert.

“You all need to take some of these! My tree is loaded this year.”

A lightbulb went off in my head.

“Bob, have you been eating grapefruit?” I asked.

“Yes, of course. These are delicious, but there is no way I can eat them all.”

I explained to “Bob” that grapefruit is forbidden when one is taking antidepressants. (If you have been reading me for any length of time, then you understand how I came upon this particular kernel of insight.) The enzymes in the fruit block the absorption of the medication and prevent it from working. Voila! The secret to Bob’s ongoing struggle had been revealed. He threw his hands up in the air and laughed, relieved to have an explanation.

Then he died.

Turned out that depression was not the thing keeping him down. He had contracted the AIDS virus in the early days, before we had medications that could keep folks asymptomatic for decades. He had fought hard and lived long enough to be eligible for the new life-saving treatments, but the disease had ravaged his health, and it was too late to reverse the damage. So, yet another talented young man left us too early because of that damnable disease. I cried for days. He was a lovely person.

The moral of this story is:

If you are depressed, make sure that you know which foods and medications can interfere with your treatment.

Also, go to the doctor. The reason you cannot get up out of it may be health-related. I had another friend who thought he was depressed, whose therapist finally urged him to get a physical. It turned out that he was in dire need of open-heart surgery. He went straight from the doctor’s office to the operating theatre and lived to tell the tale.

As for me, my life is good—on balance for the most part—but I struggled with depression for years in my twenties and thirties, so I exercise and eat right, get plenty of protein and such. I am blessed to have family and friends who love and support me and lift me up. I am lucky, and I am grateful, but I am leaving nothing to chance ….

I have not eaten a grapefruit in thirty years.

On we go …

Lemon Almond Brownies

Ingredients:

• 1/2 cup poached lemon purée (see below)

• 1 cup granulated sugar

• 3/4 cup brown sugar

• 4 oz. melted butter

• 1 large egg

• 2 1/4 cups flour

• 1 tsp baking powder

• 3/4 tsp salt

• 1 tsp vanilla powder (optional)

• 1/2 cup almonds, toasted and coarsely chopped

Toppings:

• 3 tbsp raw sugar

• Zest of one lemon

* Preheat oven to 350°F.

* Place almonds in an 8x8-inch square baking pan and toast for 8 minutes. Transfer to a cutting board and coarsely chop. Wipe out the pan, then spray the bottom and sides with cooking spray. Set aside.

* In a food processor combine the lemon puree, both sugars, and melted butter. Process for a few pulses, then add the egg and process until smooth.

* Add the dry ingredients and pulse until well combined, scraping down sides as needed.

* Transfer batter into a mixing bowl, and then add the almonds, stirring to mix in thoroughly.

* Spread the batter into a prepared 8x8-inch pan. Bake for 30 to 40 minutes.

* Remove the brownies from the oven and let stand for 5 minutes. Meanwhile, in a small bowl, rub the lemon zest into the raw sugar and sprinkle over brownies.

* Let cool completely.

Lemon Purée

* Take several whole lemons (and any leftover pieces of fruit hanging around in the fridge) and place them in a saucepan. Cover with water and bring to a boil.

* Reduce heat to a simmer and place a weighted pan or plate on top to keep the fruit submerged. Simmer for at least two hours, adding water as needed to keep the lemons covered.

* Drain and let cool until safe to handle, then remove the seeds.

* Process the lemons in a food processor until they form a smooth paste. Do not add sugar or salt.

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This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe

Wit and Wisdom

by Beth Broderick

My hair is really short—way shorter than I wanted it to be. It looks fine, I guess, and blessedly is no longer purple, but dang it, why so short? The fellow who has been taking care of it for me is lovely and kind, and I am a bit fascinated by him, so I was maybe not paying enough attention to the “hair” part of the appointment and too much to the “him” part. He does house calls, and I needed a trim. It all felt very casual and chatty and delightfully social, and while I sat there being charmed, he just set about cutting, cutting, cutting, which I did not take note of until three inches of my tresses lay strewn across the kitchen floor.

The thing about short hair is you have to style it. When I poof it up and put some energy into it, it looks great, but on a soggy, foggy morning, plastered to the sides of my head, not so much. I can go from fashion model to Mary McGillicutty in mere moments. From Ralph Lauren matron to Appalachian crone in one block of high wind. Of course, I suppose that can be true with any length of hair.

My mother always insisted that I keep my hair short because hers was, and she looked great, and I guess the theory was that I would, too. I was a pudgy adolescent, and my cheekbones had not fully announced themselves, so I looked a bit like a redheaded Cabbage Patch doll. In short, short did not look good on me. But back then, I never wore it long, so I really have no images from those days to compare it to. Maybe I just didn’t look so good. The teen years can be unkind in that regard. I am still haunted by the specter of that deeply unpopular Junior High gal.

“You have a face like the moon!” the very high-powered director exclaimed. “I cannot shoot a face like yours.”

I had just appeared in a film for the studio he had a deal with, and they cottoned to my performance, so they were pushing him to hire me for his new movie. It was about a tree that eats babies, and they thought me perfect for the role of the valiant nanny who takes on the Evil Oak. He did not share that opinion and had a young woman whom he was very “close to” in mind.

“You are obese. You need to lose at least thirty pounds.”

“Sir, I am 5’8” and I weigh 118. If I did that, I would be dead.”

“Well, maybe so, but at least I could shoot your face. You’d have better angles.”

This went on for another ten minutes before the casting director thankfully ended our meeting.

I went home and lay on the floor and sobbed for hours. I cried for days, because there was no way I could lose weight and still be healthy. Of course, the whole thing was ridiculous. I had starred or co-starred in several shows and movies by then, and folks had no problem shooting my face. My face was considered by most to be a good one, but his words stung.

I proceeded to lose five pounds and was pronounced “scary thin” by the tabloids–a no-win situation. It would be quite a while before I recovered from that meeting.

NOT A HAIR OUT OF PLACE.

I will be 66 years old tomorrow, and I know better, but I confess to wasting several hours worrying about my hair being too short, wondering if that means my visage would suddenly morph into “Moon Face.” Would I suddenly be 12 years old again and shunned by most of my peers?

This fear has been widely contradicted by the considerable number of people who have complimented my hair, some going so far as to call my cut “terrific.” So, I have largely let go of the worry, but I felt it was worth reporting about, because so many, many girls and women harbor these negative ideas about their appearance. We spend way too much time caring about such things. This affects men, too, but mostly not as deeply or woundingly as it does the females of our species.

After a spell in my early twenties where I carried a whopping 123 lbs. and two brief run-ins with minor medication-related weight gain, I have spent the whole of my lifetime toggling between 116 and 118. And that is the least important thing about me, I mean, who gives a hoot about that? Are we going to write on my gravestone: “Here lies Beth. She sure did keep her weight down!”? And yet …. It all makes me wonder how old a gal has to be to come to outgrow these silly, time-wasting thoughts.

Older than 66, I guess. Dang.

66 is a bit of a letdown after the whiz-bang antics that surrounded turning 65. It’s a dull number, salvaged only slightly by having a famous highway named for it. One I have only sporadically traversed, but going the length of Route 66 remains on my bucket list.

I ended up guest-starring on a procedural show that was helmed by that “You have a moon face” director twenty years later. He was highly complimentary, told me I was a terrific actor. His baby-eating tree movie had been a bomb, and folks had long ago stopped being willing to finance any of his feature ambitions. He seemed content to be doing the rather routine and comparatively mundane job of capturing actors discovering murdered folks and then trying to figure out who done it. Most of us in TV and film love what we do and are just happy to be doing it.

I did not mention having met him before or the brutal nature of that event. Showbiz is a tough game. He wanted his chosen actress to star in his movie and was hell-bent on destroying anyone who got in the way of that. I was simply introduced to him for the right reason at the wrong time. His movie tanked, and it would soon be his turn to take some tough hits, to find himself unwanted for the job. I did not feel the need to remind him of his cruelty nor to relive a complicated exchange with him.

I shot the show, and he was completely lovely, and bygones were bygones. Mostly.

My birthday will be a low-key event this year—a weekend in Palm Springs with Michael. Dinner with my sisters and their new baby, a young lad named Kalen with whom I am borderline obsessed. A few dinners with pals, but no great ten-day excursions to a foreign land. The celebrations of the day of my birth will not drag on for a month as they did last time. I had a slice of good carrot cake at lunch yesterday, and we sang The song. That’ll do.

Also, I am starting to really like my hair. Life is long if you are lucky. I’m a lucky gal.

On we go …

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you!

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe

Wit and Wisdom

by Beth Broderick

I failed to read the directions. Just didn’t bother. The label seemed straightforward enough: “Color Extend Blondage.” It is supposed to tame any of the dreaded brassy notes a gal’s hair may pick up in the sunshine or under a hot dryer. It’s not dye; it is just a simple mask. The way I make a living is not entirely based on looks. One has to have talent, “chops” as it were, but the right look is also a crucial component to success in the film and TV game.

There are a lot of masks involved in the care and feeding of a guy or gal’s “look”. Face masks, hair masks, foot and hand masks. The overnight variety which promises expert results in the morning and the “works in minutes” type which guarantees instant improvement. There are “peel offs” and the type that you wipe or rinse away, and there are even some that you leave on, just leave on and hope for the best.

I have been slathering these “miracle potions” on for years. I don’t know if they work. I am inclined to speak more highly of diet, exercise, and strict avoidance of the sun, but maybe it’s the goo that has kept me going for nearly forty years in the biz of show.

I gave this new one a whirl. I took a big mittful of the purple solution and worked it into my hair. I added a bit of Cellophane product called “Ice”, threw on a heat cap and did some work at my desk for twenty minutes. After a vigorous shower, I dried off with one towel and wrapped my head in another. Then the endless–and I am so bored of it all, but it has to be done–application of body lotion, face toner and cream, deodorant and a spritz of perfume, and I unwrapped my hair, hoping to find a nice platinum silver result.

Um. Oops. Whoops. Rut Roh. My scalp had turned a deep shade of purple. The hair was white/ blonde but an inch of it near the base line was deeply colored in a royal hue. Dang it! I grabbed the tube and read the directions:

“Wearing suitable gloves, apply the mask to hair avoiding the scalp area.” See, now, if I had read them beforehand, the “suitable gloves” part would have tipped me off that this is some extra-strength stuff. But no…. I just whacked it onto my head and then added heat to make sure it penetrated as deeply as possible. Idiot. Just ridiculous.

I was getting ready to tape an audition, and the role was definitely not one which could support a flaming punk color palette on my head. I was not about to repeat the whole lotion, toner, blah blah blah routine, so I ran to the sink and shampooed several more times. The stubborn color did not budge. Double dang it!

I had to get on with it. So, I got ready and raced over to record the scenes with Jane. She is a true pro and a Godsend; it took me a while to find her, and I am ever grateful to have done so.

“Wow!” she said, pointing to my head.

“That noticeable?”

Jane nodded yes, and I told her the whole story of my morning mishap. We decided to try to do the scene without tilting my head forward, hoping that would somehow make my ridiculous scalp situation less detectable. We plowed through, and upon review, my roots were even more visible on camera. We sent it to the agents anyway, because I said I would do it and I always do what I say I am going to do.

The subject line of the email to my team was “Purple Problem.” I once again had to tell the tale of my ablution antics. I wrote that I did not think they should send it in, but it was their call.

“I love your work. I am just going to send it in and explain the situation.” My agent Amy replied.

Well, okay, I thought, at least I read well. I knew I would absolutely not be cast in the role, because one can try to assure the producers that the violet tresses are temporary, but this is a visual medium, and they can only go by what they see, and I looked weird. Lots of other folks have told me how much they like it, and I have made note of that, as maybe one day when I am a free old gal no longer engaged in acting and modeling I may just go for a royal crown. Might be fun later. Or maybe a green shade to match my eyes? Why not?

This morning, I got the brilliant idea to make a poultice of baking soda mixed with a tiny bit of water and pasted it onto my head. Then I massaged some conditioner into the ends and threw on my heated cap. I am a firm believer in the wonders of baking soda

Most of us know that baking soda helps to make baked goods rise and that it can also absorb odors in your refrigerator. But did you know that if you add it to water and bring it to a boil, it will help to release stuck-on grease and debris from your favorite sauté pan? Added to a marinade, it will also tenderize meat or chicken. It is also an essential component in the making of a perfect boiled egg. (See recipe below.) The stuff is amazing

After I let it sit on my head for about twenty minutes, I jumped into the shower and gave my hair a good double wash, and ya know … it’s not altogether gone, but it has faded to a mild pink. Progress. I love me some baking soda.

THROUGH THE PURPLE HAZE.

A little less than a month ago, as the fires raged across this city, I packed up the dog’s food, the medicines that both of us take, and my passport. Then I drove to the corner and filled up my car with gas and headed back to wait through the long night as all of my neighbors evacuated my building. Many of my friends left homes that they still cannot return to, and still others, ones that are lost forever.

I was truly lucky—all of us whose homes survived were—and we know it and we are grateful, but the signs of stress are everywhere. Since that time, I have tripped and fallen twice while walking the dog, lost in thought. I have burned my face with a curling iron more than once. I have dropped countless items, broken one vase and lost the set of keys to my car, home and mailboxes and bollixed the simple application of a hair product.

Another friend is hobbling on crutches, coping with a severe case of gout. Baffling, because Anthony is a beautiful and fit young man who eats a perfect vegetarian diet with only the occasional addition of seafood. The doctor told him that stress will cause it too. He evacuated the first home he has ever owned and sat through that torturous night as well.

Still others are catching colds and coping with colitis and many other ailments. It has been a stressful time. Californians are strong and resilient, but we are also human—a fact you cannot miss when we come limping toward you, or tripping into the room with crimson hair, or begging for help to find a phone, or some keys, or whatever else has slipped from our grasp in the wake of a traumatic time.

Given our current political climate, many of us are going to have to develop better ways of managing our stress because it’s dangerous to our health and prevents us from fully participating in life.

So, deep breaths all around … as many as it takes to get us grounded and keep us sane, sanguine, and, when the time comes, ready for a fight. Ready for all of the fights that being alive requires us to engage in. Especially in these most “interesting times.”

Meanwhile … my technique for a perfect boiled egg:

Perfect Easy-Peel Boiled Eggs

Place 4 eggs on the counter and allow them to come to room temperature. (about ten minutes)

Bring a pot of water large enough to accommodate all four without touching to a boil.

Add a teaspoon of baking soda to the water. (It will bubble up but not for long)

Gently lower the eggs into water one at a time and reduce to medium heat for a steady, gentle boil.

Set timer for ten minutes.

When timer rings, pour off boiling water and add cool to the pot leaving eggs inside. Add one cup of ice cubes to pot and allow eggs to fully cool.

Gently tap eggs against counter surface and peel, dipping them into cool water if needed to loosen shells.

If not using right away, dry eggs completely and store in the refrigerator in an airtight container.

On we go …

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you!

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe

Wit and Wisdom

by Beth Broderick

“Tell me the truth,” my nephew Conor said emphatically.

He is not a blood relative, but I have been his Auntie Beth for as long as he has been alive. He is 100% my family.

“Am I being a baby, or have the last few years just been impossibly hard?”

“You are not a baby. The last few years have been impossibly hard.”

For young people trying to carve out careers in the entertainment industry, the climb has not been just uphill. They have been sucked down into huge valleys and then forced to trudge up and over steep moguls, and then back down again. They lost a tremendous amount of momentum during the pandemic and fought their way back, only to encounter a business crippled by a strike. “Stay alive until 2025!” has been the rallying cry, the hope on the horizon, the visage of which has recently been filled with red, angry clouds of smoke and a cornucopia of carcinogens as parts of L.A. burned to the ground. Tough times in a notoriously tough town.

2025 has so far been a big ol’ bust.

My nephew has done the hard work. As a line producer, he has burnished his credentials first on commercials, then small film projects which have led to bigger ones. The budgets he writes have grown increasingly large and reflected higher and higher goals and values.

That is how it is supposed to be done. He has followed the rules, worked the insane hours, sacrificed social activities, and gotten by on a bare minimum of sleep. That’s the Hollywood way of life in the beginning and, well, frankly, in the middle and often at the end as well. It’s how we roll.

There was a wonderful book written many years ago called Force Majeure. The title refers to a clause in all insurance policies for films, large and small, which allows for repayment of funds when a force beyond the control of the production causes it to shut down. Say the lead actors are harmed or suddenly perish in an accident. Perhaps you are shooting on a location which is leveled by a hurricane, or the country you are working in breaks out into civil war. That’s Force Majeure.

Yesterday, I woke to the sound of raindrops falling softly outside my bedroom window. I reached for the pup, who was lying with his head near my belly. “Finally, rain,” I thought as the rain continued, and the drops began to fall in earnest. I prayed that they would extinguish the fires that have devastated our region. There was a spring in my step as Fairness and I sped to the park to meet some other dogs for a playdate near the caves, grateful for the soggy ground beneath our feet.

A few short hours later, I got the first of many warnings that parts of the city should prepare for mudslides. It took me aback. Perhaps we made it out of the fire, only to find ourselves flung into a frying pan. This city is taking it on the chin.

I got into the elevator in my new building a week ago and met a young woman who could not stop staring at me.

“Hi,” I said.

“Are you really? I mean, do you live in my building? Really?” she asked shyly.

“Yes, I am, really, and yes I live in your building.”

Daniel grew up watching Sabrina the Teenage Witch. My character served as a role model for her. She wanted to grow up to be strong, and smart, and well-dressed like Aunt Zelda. She did, in fact, grow up to be all of those things. She is an expert with hair and wigs and rose quickly into positions of responsibility on film and television sets. She has served as a “key” artist on several and that’s a big deal for someone so young. She has worked a lot of high-end jobs, including a fairly recent long stint on Barbie. She is talented and dedicated, and has made good, and she is leaving. She is heading to Pittsburgh to take a job in a wig shop, working for a company that supplies them to women and children in recovery from cancer treatments or suffering from alopecia.

She just cannot get by on what little work there is in Los Angeles and the ever-dwindling amount of salary that it pays. She is at the top of a game that is faltering, being sporadically played. She has no family money or anything to fall back on. She is on her own and made the very hard decision to leave a life she loves so that she can secure her future. She is comforted by the knowledge that she will be helping folks who really need it, but the sting of loss is there.

“Tell me the truth,” Conor said again. We were at dinner in a cozy little Mexican place that is walking distance from my apartment.

“I always do.”

“Is the universe telling me to quit? I feel like I am so close, but I just cannot make it right now. Should I give up?”

Like Daniel, my nephew is young, but old enough to start thinking seriously about the future. The trajectory that he mapped out for his career keeps moving, but in fits and starts due to crisis after crisis not of his making.

“Not yet, I replied “Don’t give up yet. Maybe it will be like after Hurricane Katrina when we sent dozens of productions to Louisiana to boost the economy. Maybe that will happen here. Maybe the industry will come home to help its own in Los Angeles. You have worked so hard and accomplished so much. Maybe ‘Stay Alive until the End of 2025?’

Governor Newsom recently signed some incentives into law that will make it more competitive for films and television to shoot here in Hollywood. Most studios and production houses have gotten out of the habit. As with many other industries in the U.S., a lot of work is outsourced to Mexico, Canada, Italy, and Eastern Europe, as well as states within the nation that offer big kickbacks to films that shoot within their borders. Maybe the new law will draw them back.

Maybe.

I paid the check. “That’s why God invented old people and Aunties,” I tell him whenever we go out. “So, they can pick up the check.”

“Beth, do you have time to meet for dinner?”

DANCE THROUGH THE STORM.

Chasen texted me a few days after the entire community of Pacific Palisades fell to the flames. A colossal disaster. The ballet studio where he teaches survived, but many of his students and their parents lost everything. He was not sure how to move forward. I serve on the Board of Directors for his dance company, The Realm, because I believe in his future. He is a wildly talented young man. The work he and his fellow artists do takes my breath away.

He drove up to meet me, to take a look at my new digs. We walked down to the classic restaurant La Poubelle, which I have been told translates to “The Trashcan”. I have been going there for 30 years. Its continued existence is a comfort.

“I mean, is it right for me to continue? So many people have lost everything. How can we ask for funding right now?”

“It will not be easy to find, that’s for sure. Have you taught yet? Gone back to class?”

“Yes.” he replied, his eyes welling. “They all came. Some of them were… well… a mess. One woman walked in, and her expression was just so sad. She looked so fragile. I threw my arms around her and just held on until she could find her footing. The beginning was rough. The students were disoriented and easily distracted, but they stayed, and we got through it. I think they–well, we ALL needed it.”

We talked about the spring show that we have been planning as a follow-up to our smash Christmas hit ballet. Krampus, which thrilled our audiences. He is working on an expanded revival of our show The Phoenix. This spring, it will be retitled, The Phoenix …. Rising. It will be difficult to find funding, and who knows if our primarily West Side audience will be up for attending. We hashed out pros and cons as best as we could, knowing we cannot predict what the future will hold

“Well, Chase, I say we dance.”

Chasen smiled wide. He is an artist. He wants to work. It’s my job to help him find a way to move forward with his next creation. It won’t be easy, but it must be done.

In the wake of yet another catastrophe, it is important not to dismiss these young visionaries and dreamers with the very valid point that some people have lost everything—their homes, schools, businesses and in thankfully few cases, their lives. Those folks will need our support, to be sure. It will require the kind of monumental effort that was applied after the terrible Northridge earthquake. There are fundraising efforts of every kind in play. Yesterday, some neighbors held a bake sale to raise money for fire victims. People came from blocks away and stood in the rain waiting to go in and purchase something in support. We all paid double and triple the price. It was not about the cookies (though the one I bought for $40.00 was delicious). We just want to help.

I feel the same way about the young people who have spent years honing their skills and crafts and expanding their talents. They need support too, and the promise of a way forward to share their considerable gifts. I am truly praying that we can center more film and television work here to boost the economy and keep more folks well-employed. The arts make up some of the crucial building blocks of a civil society. The three young people in this article are shining stars with so, so much to offer. There is no Force Majeure that should keep us from fighting for their fighting chance to do so.

On we go …

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Wit and Wisdom

by Beth Broderick

I moved home to my native California two years ago. I was born and raised in Orange County but have lived in Los Angeles for the better part of my life. I have tried other places. Spent time in New York City and Austin, Texas, but L.A. has always called me home.

Two weeks ago, on the last day of 2024, I moved into a new place in Beachwood Canyon. It is an old Hollywood community full of bungalows and small, beautifully crafted houses, like the kind you see in storybooks. It is a ten-minute drive to Paramount Studios, where I worked for five of the six years. I was on Sabrina, the Teenage Witch. This area is redolent with memories, each block a reminder of times past.

Several nights ago, most of my neighbors evacuated as what has been dubbed the Sunset fire raged nearby. I was lucky. The brave, amazing men and women of the Los Angeles Fire Department somehow got our fire under control.

My neighbors to the west were not as lucky. Over a hundred thousand have lost not only their homes, but their communities. The park where their kids used to play ... gone. The school where they learned their ABC’s … ashes. People have lost their beloved pets and, in some cases, friends and neighbors who succumbed to the flames. Tens of thousands have lost their livelihoods.

There are a lot of folks around the country weighing in on this situation and trying to turn this tragedy into some kind of political argument.

Don’t. Just don’t.

100-mile-an-hour winds have no political affiliation. Embers that float for thousands of miles hold no ideology. The catastrophic fires that had burned in Texas, Canada, Germany and, most horribly, Tokyo were not born of a belief system.

CAUGHT IN A GUST.

These devastating fires in California are a weather event. This is a weather event. One that is endemic to the region, and which has been exacerbated by drought. Period. End of story. We will learn how to better prepare and respond in the future, but this could not have been prevented. There is no politician or policy you can name that can stop the wind from blowing.

The gusts will be high again tonight and blow furiously for two more days. The sky above me is blue for now, but every time a helicopter flies overhead or I hear a siren in the distance, my stomach will drop, my shoulders stiffen. One ember, one half-crushed cigarette, one burning car crash, and it could all begin again.

We are weary and heartbroken, but we are not done in. We Californians are no strangers to disaster. We have seen tidal waves, mudslides, torrential rains, massive earthquakes, and yes, terrible fires. In spite of all of that, we have grown to be the fourth largest economy in the world. Los Angeles county is home to more citizens than many of the 50 states that make up this great nation. We know how to grow things, how to code things and how to create the content that keeps you entertained.

We will survive and we will thrive, because we are California strong, and that’s a whole different kind of strong.

To all of my fellow Angelenos: My heart is with you as we await the fate of the next few days, and my prayers will be with you as we work to rebuild and restore what we have lost.

To those who are offering opinions about people that you don’t know, who are coping with a situation that you clearly do not understand—well I offer this, something, my grandmother Edna used to say,

“Screw you and the horse you rode in on … well, not the horse.”

On we go …

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Wit and Wisdom

by Beth Broderick

I woke up in a new apartment on New Year’s Eve morning, the bedroom still full of boxes, the to-do list ever growing. But the anxiety had mostly eased. For a few glorious moments, I just lay there, the dog snuggled up beside me, and felt at home. I played a round of Words with Friends with my dear friend Michael, with whom I am always in a neck-and-neck battle to the finish. We take turns besting one another and both enjoy the competition. I took the lead decisively with the word “pong,” a stupid word, but it did the job. I prefer to score with a more sophisticated bit of language, but a win is a win. As good a way as any to start the day.

The move had been arduous and slow. The young men in charge of my destiny on the way to my new destination were inclined toward many long breaks. I handed them a hundred-dollar bill on their way to lunch, and they were gone a full two hours. I mean it wasn’t enough cash for a three-course meal, so why were they gone for what felt like an eternity? I think it was a way of padding the time, extending the hours required to do the job, so that the company could extract the maximum charge. I did not have the energy to argue with them. It is a really hard job, and they did in fact move me, so I just coughed up the dough and tipped them fairly on their way out.

I would hate being one of the folks that move people for a living. What a hard job they have. Firstly, there is the whole moving heavy objects part, and going back and forth with box after box of people’s belongings. Then there is the stressed-out-customer aspect. Like cops and ambulance drivers, movers often experience people at their worst, teetering on their most jagged edge.

My housekeeper Maria Elena met me at the new place and began unloading boxes at an astounding pace. She is roughly my age, in her mid-sixties, but she has the energy and countenance of a much younger person. She is a diligent worker and a delightful human, her one peculiarity being the places she randomly decides to put things–items needed for everyday use on the uppermost shelves, with weird things taking center stage in the reachable ones. I just went with it. At least the stuff is out of boxes, and I don’t really have a handle on what goes where yet anyway, so I’ll just leave it be for now.

Gail, my dear friend of too many years to count, arrived with a whole chicken and some delicious wraps and sides. We all ate with our fingers, standing up. Gail found a teeny hors d'oeuvre fork and managed to eat coleslaw with it without dropping a strand. She is a woman of many talents. She tackled the wardrobe boxes and managed to put things away in such a reasonable order that they will most likely remain thusly placed.

The ladies worked with me until about 10 PM. I was, and still am, crazy grateful for their assistance. I kept working for another few hours until my body threatened to shut down. I was elated to find a face cloth that I could use to remove my make-up and some paper towels to dry off with. Good enough.

THE EGG CAME FIRST.

The next morning, I was delighted to locate a pan to cook with and made a big breakfast for my giant dog. He is no longer underweight, but he is not fully filled out either. Like most rescue dogs, he was in bad shape when we found one another. Life on the street had left him emaciated, and there was flesh missing from the tips of his ears where flies had feasted on him. I set about adding specific people food to his diet to increase his nutritional intake. He has mashed potatoes with yams and brown rice, plus turkey or salmon added to each 1 1/2 cups of high-end chow. Every morning, an egg is cooked for him. He likes them the same way that I do: over easy so that the yolk creates a sauce that pulls the whole meal together.

One of the things I like about traveling is the break in my routines. One has to make do with whatever is on hand and adapt to different products, and foods, and accents, and points of view. Changing one’s address can have the same energizing effect. I find it helpful to be reminded that I really do not need every product and convenience that I frequently use. I can get by with a cloth and a sheet of paper. I can make do with whatever cooking utensils are on hand. I can be at peace amid the chaos of boxes and mounds of wadded-up clean wrapping paper.

I know a lot of people who are just wildly averse to moving house. My sister-in-law Sarah swears that now that they are settled in, she will never, never do it again. I have a friend in Austin who has remained in a small condo for decades, when he could easily afford a different, more accommodating space. His partner has begged for a bigger kitchen and one more bedroom for the girls for years, but he is comfortable where they are and does not have an appetite for change.

I love the opportunity to explore a new neighborhood. To find great new paths to walk, check out new stores and restaurants. I deliberately take the long way to my appointment if there is time, so that I can see what is in the area. Two days ago, I cruised down Western Ave., which is not a particularly fetching roadway, but it is lined with interesting small shops and a variety of ethnic dining spots. I also discovered that it boasts a “Smart and Final …. EXTRA” store. I don’t know what that means, or what the extra is all about, but intend to check it out first chance I get.

Fairness and I have been taking different routes on our walks, discovering roads that wind around and then reconnect to the main artery. We have headed down to look at the small shops and eateries in Franklin Village. He is still nervous about all of the newness in our digs, but he is always willing and eager to get out and take a stroll. The one bone of serious contention between us in the new apartment is the ice dispenser in my refrigerator. The apartment came with an old, cruddy one, quite like the one I have endured for two years at my former residence. No way I am coping with that again. I went to Lowe’s and shelled out the big bucks for a souped-up version.

It is beautiful to look at and boasts side-by-side fridge/freezer compartments, which have enough shelves to space out all of the ingredients within, so that I can easily locate them … can actually see what is in each section. Veggies here, frozen meals there. Dairy on one shelf, jams and small condiments on another. The best feature by far, though, is the ice machine/ water dispenser that is built into the door. At my old place, I had to use plastic ice trays, my arthritic hands smarting with every thwack of the frozen top to try to reveal the treasured cubes. It was a torturous way to supply my quite serious ice-water habit. The new system is heaven. Just push the lever and voila! I have actually hugged this machine several times.

The dog hates it. Every time I put ice in my glass, he runs into the kitchen to see what disaster is upon us. He cannot be dissuaded from his belief that an evil monster lurks inside the freezer door. I have repeatedly shown him how the contraption works, have offered him ice cubes to eat and a sip of water, to no avail. He hates it.

The thing I love most of all about my new kitchen is the thing he despises with a passion. It’s never easy cohabitating with another creature, human or otherwise. At least in this case, we can eschew the dreaded “couples counseling” and just agree that I am the boss. I also buy and cook the food he eats, which is stored in the damnable machine, so he will have to learn to cope. I am the sheriff of this tiny, crazy, two-bedroom town, and that is just that.

Today is the first day that I will attempt to return to some of my routines. The step-counter is once again strapped to my wrist. I will head to the gym after finishing this draft. There will be no more frozen gluten-free pizzas or takeout Thai food for a while. I am going to cook proper meals and, hopefully, at some point get the laundry done. There is still much to learn about our new environment. I took a field trip to Albertson’s grocery yesterday. My Mom used to love the one in Huntington Beach, where I grew up. I was pleased to learn that there is one nearby. It was okay. I am not sure what Mom loved about it, but I got some good salsa there, so that counts for something. I will stop by on occasion in her honor, but it was not my jam. There are many more places to explore, many more …

But, at some point, I am gonna need a nap. All of this excitement is wearing me out.

On we go …

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This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe

Wit and Wisdom

by Beth Broderick

“When you see me in February, I will look brand new.”

My dear friend said this to me not long ago. At the time, we were dining on croissants and some kind of sugar bun—one of the many holiday feasts we had recently consumed—but soon, he promised, it would be time for famine.

“I think you look good now,” I said.

“You are old and blind and deaf, so you can’t really see me,” He replied.

“I just heard you say that I am deaf. I HEARD that, but I’ll give you old and blind. You’ve got me there.”

On the advice of his masseur/healer guy, my pal will be spending January refurbishing the goods. He will abstain from alcohol, gluten, and sugar while adding copious amounts of exercise to his regimen.

I have never been a great giver-upper of things. I once swore off of Chardonnay for Lent and was thereby forced to drink champagne for weeks on end. That is more of a hardship than it sounds if one does not love a bubble, but I made it through.

I work out and try to take care of myself, and I have been pretty consistent regarding a diet/fitness regimen. Sometimes people ask me what the secret is. Why are so many people in my business in good shape?

It is my job. That is literally part of the job. Failure to keep it up is not an option.

That said, with the holidays in full swing, I am absolutely going to indulge here and there. This is the time of year that all of the rules are meant to be broken. There is definitely a box of See’s Candies Nuts and Chews out there with my name on it!

I confess I saw my doctor recently, the fellow who helped me get my jawline well … in line. Everybody in my business does that. If you work in front of a camera and plan ever to turn sideways, you are at some point going to need help with your sagging profile. I had not seen him in years, but thought it time that I stopped by. I was hoping to get a suggestion for a little in-office procedure or some such. A bit of a refresher—that’s what I was looking for. He examined me quietly and carefully, then gave me this advice:

“I think you need a full face-lift.”

He may just as well have said: “Well, Beth, the only thing for it, really, what we will have to do, is set you on fire.”

The thought of doing it just makes me want to cry. I mean, I found the jawline thing to be more than a bit of an ordeal. I got lucky with that one. I insisted that “less is more” and said that I could always come back and repeat the whole thing, if need be, thinking, of course, that this would never be necessary. I guess I thought the whole aging process would just stop right there.

It is the opinion of the good doctor that it did not. I have a mirror; I mean, I look at my face, and I see his point. The skin has slackened some; the wrinkles deepened.

I am just struggling to work up the energy to care. I mean, who are we fooling? I work in front of cameras constantly. While watching one of my recently released movies, I noticed a shot of my hand as I reached down to take a cake out of the oven. In art, as in life, I spend a great deal of time moving things in and out of ovens. The hand looked knotty and pale, and it looked old. It looked like the hand of a 65-year-old woman….

I AM a 65-year-old woman. At a certain point, I’m going to need to be okay with that.

January is the time when most folks in the business of show get their repair work done. They go in for surgeries, chemical peels, liposuction, and the like. Their cover story is most often the claim that they are touring Europe.

I just do not have the bandwidth for a “trip across the pond.” It sounds like too much damned time and trouble at this moment in my life. I do, however, need to make an appointment with the brilliant esthetician Lucy. She is attempting to keep me somewhat on track. It’s always a bit harrowing as she scrutinizes my face, looking for sags and bags that can be diminished or a bit of symmetry that has gone awry.

She has a coterie of tricks for this occasion that includes Botox and a variety of fillers. She has warned me that I am due for some kind of new-fangled peel: a CO2 treatment that is supposed to require five days for recovery. I am a bit on the fence about that one.

I had a full chemical peel years ago, and I looked like hell on wheels for a month. When I finally recovered, my skin looked great—not a freckle to be found. Then I opened the door to let the dog out and looked up at the sky, and every damned one of them came right back.

Point, please?

How about I change every light bulb in the house to 25 watts and just get on with it instead?

LIKE A FINE WINE.

I will see my “brand new” old friend in February. He is gorgeous, and the buffing and burnishing will only make him more so—and bravo to that! We are all doing what we can, all hoping to outsmart Father Time and retain a youthful essence.

That said, it is also important to enjoy getting older.

Aging is a privilege not afforded to everyone. A little gratitude is in order.

I got my Medicare I.D. in the mail last year. I’m thinking of it as a sort of “Get Out of Jail Free” card. It is quite liberating to no longer be teetering on the edge of it, but to be undeniably and properly old.

So, I am going to hold off on the whole redo for now. I look okay for an older gal, and I feel great. I am going to ride that for at least another year. For the foreseeable future, I am going to enjoy being “old” old me.

No promises, though. That doctor is brilliant, and this kind of thing weighs on me. Should I or shouldn’t I? In my profession, there are no easy answers to that question. So, if next January, you hear that I have gone “overseas,” y’all should definitely be on the lookout for a “new” old me.

No matter what, I will still be old and still be me, and I am good with that.

Wishing you all a safe and prosperous New Year!

On we go …

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you!

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe

Wit and Wisdom

by Beth Broderick

Can we talk about trash? It is a subject that consumes many of my thoughts. I am borderline obsessive about it. I save food scraps in compostable bags in my refrigerator until they are full enough to be placed in one of the green bins that frequently line the streets alongside their blue and black bin brethren. I divide recycling carefully and rinse it, if need be, with runoff water saved from cleaning the dishes.

It is an endless source of frustration for me that the folks who live on this street are blithely ignorant of what goes where. They do not know or do not seem to care about how these separate trash receptacles are intended to function. It makes me insane when I approach a green bin with my carefully curated compost items, only to find that some careless person has thrown two plastic Starbucks cups and a bunched-up bag full of God-knows-what into the bottom of it and yes, I have stood there, tipping the thing over and thrusting myself inside trying to retrieve the offending items.

I have done that.

As I said, this stuff makes me crazy.

It also depresses me. I mean, if we cannot muster the collective will to get this task–which could not be easier, really–accomplished (simply sort and place in the correct bin), then how will we ever resolve the big-picture challenges that we face as a nation and a world community? Is it possible that folks just cannot figure it out? If so, how to help?

I have fantasies about making public service announcements for the City of Los Angeles. I would recruit stalwart celebs like Tom Hanks to demonstrate what goes where. My film would be titled Let’s Talk Trash. I would deliver the voice-over for this in my sultriest tones. We would celebrate on camera the joys of putting things in their rightful place. Maybe that would make it fun, like a toddler’s game of match-the-shapes in a 3D puzzle. I have seriously thought about petitioning the City of Los Angeles for the funding to do this.

This is not a problem that is unique to L.A. When I had a home in Austin, Texas—the notorious “blueberry in a sea of red” city–folks there were just as confused and/or careless. The introduction of composting bins in my old neighborhood was considered deeply suspect by many. They were not going to put food scraps in a bin without sealing them in plastic, which is, of course, not biodegradable and therefore defeats the purpose and contaminates the bin. Others just thought they got a new receptacle as a thoughtful gift from the folks at City Hall and proceeded to fill it with regular trash.

The lids of those cans were labeled with words and pictures of what was supposed to go inside. One merely needed to read the very large lettering on top or take in the meaning of the correlating picture of veggies/food-stained cardboard, etc. But no. No one had the will to think it through or enough sense of civic duty to bother implementing the new rules.

The principles of composting are simple and a great solution to the problem of food rotting in landfills, which is a significant source of greenhouse gases. Once the foodstuffs have gathered in the appropriate bin, they can be processed down, then dehydrated, and the residue can be used as a first-rate fertilizer. We can reduce harm and enhance our plant life. Easy-peasy. Win-win. Why God, why, won’t folks cooperate with this?

The human race is sometimes plagued by a severe case of dipshittery. Sigh.

Egypt, which was once the cradle of civilization, has long been home to a tribe of people who handle trash with great care. The Zabbaleen are a Christian sect who collect trash from the city of Cairo and carefully recycle and reuse as much as 80 percent of it. Well, they do so when they are allowed to operate in their preferred fashion. Organic materials are fed to their pigs, while synthetics are refashioned into plastic pellets, which are shipped to China. Metals and glass are remade into salable items. Jewelry is made from pop-tops and Nescafé pods. The people who do this work are largely regarded as outcasts in society at large, though they are very familiar to the folks whose homes they service. It is customary to offer payment of some kind, though there are no hard-set rules around that.

When I was in Cairo for two months of filming, the system had broken down. There had been a global alert about an outbreak of “Swine Flu” and, in an act of religious zealotry, a group of Muslim men used that occasion to raid the Zabbaleen village and slaughter their prized pigs. This deeply offended the trash collectors, and service was disrupted for quite some time. I was astonished to see garbage piled up as high as six feet on street corners, and stray cats wandering in and out of it. This later prompted the government to try to take over trash service entirely–an effort which was thwarted by the fact that the trucks they bought for this purpose were too large to drive down the streets and alleyways.

Yes, the folks who gave us math, arts, and sciences failed to think that through. Being, therefore, unable to make a dent in the ever-growing piles of refuse, as big as cottage homes, the city once again engaged the full services of the Zabbaleen people. They live and work in a city/slum outside of Cairo. The work is hard and dangerous, but they do it with pride. Their children are vulnerable to disease and have no opportunity to attend school, and there does not seem to be any will toward addressing that. Still, theirs is a rich culture, and they are very aware that they are providing a much-needed and much-admired service.

CLEAN UP YOUR ACT.

If all goes according to plan in America, which, of course, it never does, we have the capacity to recycle around 28% of our garbage. It does not matter where you live–red state, blue state, or whatever-color-you-want-to-call-it state–this simple task is not being taken seriously, and that is a shame.

On a recent stay to look after my dog Fairness, my pet-sitter/buddy Rob decided to save me from myself by throwing away all of my clean, empty cottage cheese containers. His reasoning was that since one cannot readily see what’s inside, they are a nuisance. I love Rob, OCD and all, but this is the kind of thing that makes me want to lie down and pound my fists and feet on the floor. Why not take the time to label them? A simple piece of masking tape with some lettering would do this well. I reuse every piece of plastic I come into contact with. I refuse it until it cannot be reused, until it has broken down or become overly contaminated. I rinse off any piece of tin foil I come into contact with and repurpose it.

I have a system, willy-nilly though it may seem, and I like it that way.

I have many friends who think my attitude toward trash is over the top, borderline nutter, and I am okay with that. What they don’t realize is that I am trying to compensate the planet for their lack of concern. I am doubling down on my efforts toward recycling in an attempt to tip the scales a bit, to bend them toward a cleaner, safer environment. I am using old cottage cheese containers because I KNOW that my friends, like Rob, will not. I am labeling for the team.

The word “trash” has a pretty routinely negative connotation in American lingo. Some folks who live in mobile homes are called “trailer trash.” The term “white trash” has thankfully fallen out of favor, but it was used to describe white families who were as poor and uneducated as their neighbors of color were supposed to be, which, of course, boiled down to a matter of opportunity or lack thereof. Good riddance to that term. Then there is the girl who’s inclined to enjoy the attentions of men, and for this, she gets herself a ‘trashy’ reputation. This moniker is, more often than not, given to her by the very men who stand to benefit from her proclivities. Makes no sense, but there you have it.

There was lots of talk of trash in the last election. One fellow designated a whole island nation as trash. Another claimed the only trash he knew of was the folks in the audience who heard those remarks. Yet another kept decrying that it was “time to take out the trash.” Folks dressed up in trash bags–the heavy-duty black plastic kind, the kind that never breaks down, the kind that pollutes for eternity. They proudly sported them with neatly tied belts and clever shoes. I am going to leave that there.

All of this behavior showed a lack of respect for trash. I am offended on trash’s behalf.

We need to treat our refuse with respect and care and maybe take a lesson from the Zabbaleen playbook. They can go to sleep at night knowing they helped to make the world a cleaner, safer place. If we can just develop an iota of concern about our planet and the creatures who inhabit it. If we can learn to span the one-foot space between the different-colored bins and place our trash in the correct one, well … I am pretty sure that if we can get that right, we can evolve in other important ways too.

Meanwhile, that crazy lady halfway inside the bin that you saw out of the corner of your eye could very well be me. I am aware that I am weird and—well—who cares? I am trying to do the right thing. I will never do it perfectly, never not contribute to the problem in some small ways, but I am determined to be a part of the solution whenever and however I can.

I am a trashy kind of a gal, and I am not sorry.

On we go …

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you!

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe

Wit and Wisdom

by Beth Broderick

My last article was published on November 4, 2024, twelve days ago as of this writing. November 5th occasioned an electoral outcome that shocked and dismayed many while thrilling others. It is no secret that the results were not what I had hoped for. I believe that the implications of this vote are as far-reaching as any I can think of in my lifetime, but the people have spoken. 

This is not a political Substack. There are others writing en masse, and dissecting every nuance of the contest. That is above my pay grade, but I have a few thoughts to share.

I was at Jeremy’s. We have spent many an election night together. Neither of us can be trusted in public, as we are likely to spit out expletives and slap our heads in dismay as the vote count rolls in. I made pasta with burst tomato sauce and a simple Caesar salad. We had some good crusty bread (which I always scrupulously avoid, gluten being a big trigger for my psoriatic arthritis), but it was an occasion of sorts, so I allowed myself a small piece.

“She is underperforming in Virginia,” Jeremy said aloud while I was busy in the kitchen. My heart dropped.

As the news got worse, I had two more pieces of bread and Jeremy broke out the lemon snap cookies, which we consumed at a rapid pace. No amount of physical pain was going to matter in the morning. I would be numb to it for several days. Everything had changed. Everything. 

I left early, as we were both rendered speechless by the proceedings.  I had understood that we might lose the White House. A woman running for any office is going to have a rough go of it in this country. President of the United States? I worried that we were just not there yet. I did, however, think my side would eke out control of the House and Senate. Split the ticket, as it were. I was wrong. It was a sleepless night.

The next day, as I walked my dog through Beverly Hills, I saw a young woman strolling along with her man. She was sporting a MAGA hat and a pretty smile. He doted on her, holding close to the elbow nearest him with his other arm around her shoulder. They were a beautiful couple. "Well,” I thought, “I guess it’s good that someone is happy today.” I really did have that thought.

My friends and family have had a disparate set of reactions. Some are devastated, wracked with pain and filled with fear. Some are happy; others angry. Many are not all that bothered.

“Oh, I am not going to worry about that. I just want to build my business,” said one friend at dinner.  

Another pal winced when the subject came up and then shrugged: “Let’s talk about other things. I mean there are always silver linings, right?”

I suppose that is true. The Mercedes Benz company came out of World War II wealthier than ever. Some folks will do very well in the new America. Others will suffer.

“I have unsubscribed to all news outlets and social media. I do not want to know,” said one family member. 

“Hey guys, I am not going negative with you all. We still have agency over our lives.” He is brilliant and a powerful force for good, so he was not being cavalier.

I see his point about going negative. I mean, that won’t help, and yes, we still have agency over our lives; that is 100 % true…unless it is not.  

I keep thinking about that seventeen-year-old girl in Texas who, a few weeks ago, celebrated at a baby shower thrown for her by friends. The next day she began to hemorrhage and the medical personnel who were supposed to help her could not, or did not out of fear that they might violate the new abortion restrictions in that state. The girl died. She had literally no agency over her life in that political climate. So….

“I am going to focus on what I can control,” said another friend who then added. “I love you.”

I appreciated that. We all need love right now.

The main difference between these folks? Some of them pay attention to politics. Most of those folks were truly baffled and broken-hearted. Others are indifferent to the state of the nation, and they were nonplussed by it all. I understand that there are many points of view, including the folks who are happy with the outcome, but I need to take a minute to breathe and try to see this situation for what it is.

The thinking of many in the left/center-left coalition has long been that folks just did not understand what they were in for when they pulled the lever for Donald J. Trump. This election has made it clear that they know exactly what they are in for and that “Fascism” and/or “Soft Autocracy” sound like a good idea. New and different, anyway. Folks on the left have been crying out “Save our Democracy!” between gnashed teeth and ever more exclamation points to no avail. What they did not expect, could not imagine, was that a large group of Americans just did not get that message. They might not, in fact, know exactly what a Democracy is or why it might be worth saving.

ALL HANDS ON DECK.

The frustration with progress has been palpable on both sides for a long time.  People want resolve; they want quicker, if not instant results. Most recently, we have all lacked patience with the fact that the whole world has been in recovery from a pandemic. It does not matter to many that we have done so in record time and built a booming economy out of the wreckage. Prices are high, and that’s no fun–it is a real hardship on many families. 

We want someone to FIX it! 

The real culprit, I think, the source of so much division and unrest, is the slow and steady growth of income inequality and the failure of both sides of the political spectrum to address it. It has been growing since the 80’s. No matter which party has been in power, that gap has continued to widen. This is not easy to resolve, because to do so would surely mean raising taxes on the wealthy, and those are the folks with the money to put leaders in power or take them down. There are no easy answers.

Our forefathers could never have imagined how big a nation we have become. America is an enormous expanse which houses millions upon millions of citizens. They could not have predicted the sheer magnitude of the place, and yet they instinctively built a system of government that was meant to move slowly. The wheels of change are meant to turn in a deliberate manner. That was a great insight on their part.  One cannot turn an oil tanker on a dime. A ship of so great a dimension must turn with caution, moving its mass incrementally. A massive cruise ship does not have the agility of a speedboat or even a tugger. For most of our history there have been enough safeguards in place, cogs in the wheels to keep us from careening too far, too quickly.

That is about to change. One side now has control of the House and Senate, as well as crucial parts of the judiciary. The president-elect is threatening to eliminate the independence of the Treasury department and dismiss most of the experienced officials in our armed forces. This big boat is about to take some very, very sharp turns.  

For my friends and family who voted in favor of this, it is good news. I hope they are right. I hope so with all of my heart, because I am always rooting for us to succeed. 

Change is definitely coming and coming quickly. This brings to mind the old adage:

” Beware what you wish for; you might get it.”

What to do? Get some sleep. We cannot react to what has not yet happened. Let your mind and body rest. Pay attention to your local politics, start a community garden, volunteer somewhere, be a part of whatever small solutions seem possible. My guess is that the waters will be very choppy indeed and that some things we hold very dear will be washed overboard, but we are all still in this boat together. I keep thinking of the famous line of Fred Rogers from Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood:

“Look for the helpers.”

There will always be trouble in the world, and greed, and people seizing power when and where they can. There will always be those who seek to defame and destroy folks who look or sound or just plain seem different. Many civilizations have seen fascism rise and then fall and lived to tell the tale. So will ours. In the meantime, don’t just look for the helpers. Be one of them. 

On we go …

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Wit and Wisdom

by Beth Broderick

I saw her first: a lovely coyote walking just twenty steps ahead of us on the opposite side of the street. It was about 8:30 PM, darkness just beginning to settle over my Beverly Hills neighborhood. She looked right into my eyes, and I nodded with a neutral expression. Fairness, the pup, caught on at that point and strained toward her, wanting a better look.

“No,” I said gently as I turned him around toward the busy street behind us. Just then, I saw her spouse, a larger male keeping pace from 50 feet back. Of course, I am assuming he was her spouse. They could have been a couple of teenagers venturing out for the first time or maybe cousins headed to a “howl off.” There is no way to know without getting up too close for comfort. Neither wanted anything to do with the tall lady and her ninety-pound pup. I am sure they were grateful we turned around, so they wouldn’t have to worry about us behaving in an untoward manner. 

For all the worrying and “NEXTDOOR spottings” and warning cries of “Danger! Coyotes seen on Swall Street!!!” these creatures have been co-existing with us in our cities for several decades now. They are largely beneficial. They eat gophers and rats and snatch up the stale french fries that were left on the curb. We are more dangerous to them than they could ever be to us.

These animals average about 30 pounds apiece, and yet they loom ever large in our culture. There is, of course, Wile E. Coyote of Road Runner fame. He is a notorious scoundrel, dreaming of ever better ways to capture his avian target. Road Runner is too clever for him, though, and the Coyote is routinely hoisted upon his own petard, his schemes literally blowing up in his face.

Then there are human coyotes: the folks who smuggle any number of things across borders—drugs, guns and, most notably, desperate individuals. People who have crossed deserts, rivers, and even oceans, and put their last cent of cash and final scrap of faith into the hands of said “coyotes.” Some succeed in finding their way into a new land, a new life. Many perish in the effort, left to suffocate in cargo vans, allowed to drown in unsafe vessels. Human coyotes are not a beneficial variety.

Then we have coyote mornings, which have been described by Wikipedia thusly:

A coyote morning is when one has too much to drink the night before and, as a result, wakes up next to someone less than desirable. Like a trapped coyote, one would rather gnaw off their own arm than risk waking the creature next to them.

"I drank way to much last night and woke up having another coyote morning." 

"That chick at the bar was hot last night, but she turned into a coyote morning for me.” by The Add November 19, 2007.

Lastly, there is the moniker of “coyote ugly,” which, I believe, refers to a person’s visage or demeanor, being the cause of a “coyote morning.”

The actual coyotes walking through your neighborhood are crafty, to be sure, and they are talented, too. Like their cartoon representative, they can and do tiptoe to avoid detection. They are also good swimmers and are almost catlike in their ability to climb. Their biggest asset, though, is the ability to adapt. They have evolved into having very large litters of pups to compensate for what will most surely be the loss of several offspring to predators, both human and animal. They have learned to read traffic and have been known to wait patiently at red lights. They travel alone or in pairs to avoid distressing humans with the fact of their abundant numbers.

They will not approach humans unless they are cornered. Like most animals, they will run off if you wave your arms and act scary. Just make sure there is a place for them to run to before you begin to engage in any such behavior. Do not corner or trap any wild animal, not even a deer. Deer have, in fact, killed more humans than have coyotes and wolves put together, so just make sure the creature has a path to escape. The best plan of action is no plan. Just ignore them and leave well enough alone. A small dog is safe as long as it is tethered to your person in some manner, but if you are concerned, by all means pick up your pup until you are well away from the last sighting. Like most wildlife around us, they are just trying to survive, and they truly do not want a piece of you. 

That is not to say that they are above snatching your toy poodle if it is left unattended in an accessible yard. They will 100% eat an outdoor cat if they get the chance. This is a tricky subject because I love cats. I am thinking about getting one for Fairness. He likes them too and needs a pal. Cats are great when they are kept indoors. Outdoor cats are an environmental hazard. They are responsible for the needless slaughter of countless birds, and the feral ones breed at an alarming rate. The shelters are teeming with unwanted kittens, so the urban coyote is helpful in keeping the balance there, too. 

One woman in the foothills reported that a pack of coyotes had taken to howling in her front yard every night, making it hard to put the kids to bed and watch her nightly programs. She tried howling back as loudly as she could to try to scare them off. They just stopped, looked at her, and gave the coyote equivalent of a shrug and went right on telling their nighttime tales. Finally, she persuaded a local sheriff to help relocate the noisy lot. He slowly approached with his siren wailing until they dispersed. He did this twice more before they got the hint and moved their nighttime ritual to a distant location. 

They are wildly adaptive and can be taught to behave in a more harmonious manner. We just need a bit of patience for and some understanding of one another. 

I think about them a lot. I actually say a prayer for them some nights because I know that humans fear them, and we are not a great lot when we are afraid. We are the deadliest species on the planet. Some of us kill for sport, but most of us do so out of fear.

“If you talk to the animals, they will talk with you, and you will know each other.  If you do not talk to them you will not know them, and what you do not know you will fear.  What one fears one destroys.”

— Chief Dan George

RUNNING WITH THE PACK.

You are reading this on the 4th of November. Tomorrow’s election, whenever and however it is decided, will live on in infamy for as long as history is being recorded. One side is peddling fear, and the other hope. I am praying mightily for the hope side because God help us if the fear folks win.

We will have to learn to talk to them, though, to reach out to the other side somehow. There must be a way to honor their fear while also demonstrating that there is no need for it. 

There is room for all of God’s creatures on this wondrous planet if we can just learn to accept each other’s place in this beautiful place. 

It is my dear hope that tomorrow will bring a new way forward because waking up with Donald J. Trump reinstalled in the White House would be the penultimate “coyote morning,” and we all stand to lose more than a limb.

On we go …

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you!

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe