Annual Meeting

Jacquieʼs Email Hello Literary Ladies! Just a quick reminder that we will be meeting this Wednesday, March 12th, in Joanna's beautiful, now finished living room, for the annual meeting of the Literature Club of Hastings-on-Hudson. Please come equipped with book/play/TV/movie recommendations to share, or just helpful hints on how you are getting through your days. In addition, if so desired, please brown bag your lunch, though Joanna will be providing a hot soup, beverages hot and cold, and I'll bring something sweet to share. (Not lunch???!!!)

Besides general chat, we will be brainstorming new possible themes for next year, as well as reviewing the old. For inspiration, above I've attached the list of past themes from 1909 to the present which I've taken the liberty of updating (see sidebar, important documents).

Christineʼs Minutes On March 12, 2025, ten members and one associate gathered at Joanna’s historic house, where the ceiling was no longer falling down. We gathered initially in the kitchen and enjoyed a delicious soup, which was not meant to be our lunch. Following that came the pièce de résistance: for Joanna’s 60th birthday, Jacquie made her famous gateau au chocolat fra diablo. This is where words fail me.

Joanna rang the bell at 1:05 PM. Given that this was our annual meeting, it was posited: what exactly do we do now? Many suggestions followed. The minutes of the previous meeting were not read, because they were unfinished. However, the minutes for January 22 were read and accepted. Our treasurer was in Rome, but it was stated with confidence that our treasury remains the same. Dues are generally due at this time, and they can be submitted via check, cash or Venmo. A nominating committee was created of Linda, Carol and Constance. They are tasked with coming up with a slate for Recording Secretary and Corresponding Secretary. It appears entirely likely that Lori will remain treasurer, but about this your current recording secretary is unsure. In determining who will fill the soon-to-be vacant offices, Joanna asked the salient question: who is not here today?

Then Laura, our hard-working vice, passed out a list of possible topics for the coming season. A rollicking discussion followed. Certain topics were jettisoned for obvious reasons, and new possibilities were suggested, including, but not limited to: how-to books, as a cultural marker; books about movies; investigative journalism; and just picking a topic from a hat. Laura will type up the list, and Jacquie will put it into a Google doc. Laura also told us about a bookstore in Ossining called Hudson Valley Books for Humanity. It sounds excellent. There is also a rumor that a bookstore will soon be opening in Hastings.

The club then played a short round of the game “Humiliation” in which one names a classic book she NOT read and then gets points for the number of people in the group who have read it. (Or maybe who have not.) Books unread by members braving such humiliation included: One Hundred Years of Solitude; War and Peace; Hamlet; Moby Dick; Paradise Lost; and even Pride and Prejudice. But having been sufficiently bribed, your secretary will not name names.

Finally, in an egregious breach of Literature Club protocol, members were requested to leave by 2:30, as our president and hostess had a compelling appointment in Brooklyn.

Respectfully submitted,
Christine Lehner, Recording Secretary

A Friendship and a Feud: Vladimir Nabokov and Edmund Wilson Presented by Frances

Jacquie's Email Hello Literary Ladies! I made the mistake of reading the headlines this morning before writing this, so my mood is a bit gloomy. How did we get here?
      Luckily, we have our upcoming meeting of the Literature Club of Hastings-on-Hudson to look forward to—a much-needed balm in anxious times. We will be meeting at Carol's beautifully perched home on Villard Avenue at noon for what I imagine will be a full-out lunch. (Itʼs time to just call it, right?) Our intrepid president, Joanna, will not be able to join us this week since she will either be hosting some important event at the Federal Bar Councilʼs annual retreat somewhere in Mexico, or lying on the beach, so Laura will be ringing the bell at 1PM to begin our meeting, after which Frances will present on A Feud and a Friendship: The Letters of Vladimir Nabokov & Edmund Wilson. Now THESE are some feuding white men I can get behind!
    That's all I have in me to report. Iʼm looking forward to seeing you on Wednesday. x Jacquie

Carlaʼs Minutes On a chilly and sunny day, 10 members and two associates gathered in Carol Barkin’s warm and welcoming home to enjoy her delicious carrot soup, charcuterie plus, and not one, not two, but three wonderful loaf cakes and cookies—an un-lunch? A presentation followed to be sure.

Laura Rice, vice-president, presided in the absence of the president and secretary. After non-minutes and treasurer’s report—a familiar $248—we shared book/culture likes which included: Elizabeth Strout’s Tell Me Everything, the film A Real Pain, the book Orbited, the Japanese Netflix series Asuna, Ina Garten’s memoir, the book Couplets by Maggie Millan, The Rest is Memory by Lily Tuck, as well as Tana French’s The Searcher (the author’s father is NOT The NY Times op-ed writer). Then we were ready for Frances Greenberg’s presentation on the feud & friendship of Vladimir Nabokov and Edmund Wilson.

If the Hatfields and McCoys had possessed brains and not bullets, intellect not ire, writing rather than fighting words, respect not rancor, there might have been a feud like that of Nabokov and Wilson. Both were born in the late 1800’s, grew up in wealthy homes: Wilson in Red Bank, New Jersey; Nabokov in St. Petersburg, Russia. Both had fathers who were jurists, though Nabokov’s father had other government roles as well.  Both Wilson and Nabokov were towering intellects, egotists, men of the pen. As Frances said, both had a “high level of self-esteem,” i.e., arrogance. Their testiness, their need to dominate, their ultimate conflict, reminded her of the horsemen's saying that two stallions should never be kept in the same barn. 

 Nabokov had grown up speaking French and English as well as Russian. He attended Cambridge after his family fled the Bolshevik October Revolution in Russia. Wilson was educated at Princeton. Nabokov’s university years were lonely; although he had no sympathy for White Russian Monarchists, he was perceived as a reactionary by fellow Cantabrigians fascinated by the Russian experiment. He first studied zoology, then switched French and English Literature. (Ultimately, he became an outstanding lepidopterist as well as a renowned writer.) Physically, the men were opposites—Nabokov was tall, slim and handsome. Wilson was short and rotund. His mother had given him the unfortunate nickname Bunny, which stuck with him over the years.

Their relationship began cordially in 1940, when Nabokov emigrated to the U.S. He left England after Cambridge, joining his family in Berlin, where he struggled financially, supporting himself by tutoring and teaching tennis. During his time in Germany, he published 9 novels, in Russian. The Russian diaspora was a lively literate society, there were more than a handful of publishers in western Europe, keeping Russian literature alive. The Bolsheviks exercised iron control over culture; only novels following the Communist party line could be published in Russia. Nabokov’s work never appeared in the country of his birth.

Living in Berlin during Hitler’s rise to power, Nabokov understood his family’s vulnerability. His wife, Vera, was Jewish. They moved first to Paris but were aware of the possibility of a German invasion. In 1940, he was able to get a visa for a teaching position in the U.S. a position which never materialized. He was without financial resources. Nabokov’s cousin, Nikolai Nabokov, had already established himself as a composer and a music critic in the U.S. He was a friend of Edmund Wilson’s, then at the height of his power in the New York literary world. Nikolai Nabokov introduced the two. Wilson helped Vladimir find work writing book reviews for publications like The New Yorker and The New Republic. Both men were important members of their respective literary circles in the 1920’s and 1930’s, but Nabokov’s was a small and limited group of Russian émigrés, scattered from New York to Peking, living precariously, both economically and politically. 

Wilson came to New York after graduating from Princeton and serving as a hospital orderly in the army during World War I. He had quick success as an editor, a writer and critic.  He wrote for Vanity Fair and The New Republic. He had met, and became friends, with F. Scott Fitzgerald while they were both at Princeton.  We read Wilson’s comments, many critical, on Fitzgearld’s first published novel, The Far Side of Paradise. Even so, Wilson’s final words were “I really liked the book.” Wilson could drink all night and be up the next morning ready to work He held his liquor remarkably well, unlike many of his contemporaries. As for his love life, Edna St. Vincent Millay was his first affair. He was madly in love with her but she feared the entanglement of marriage, and no doubt Wilson's domineering character. The two remained friends. Wilson married Mary Blair, an actress, soon after Millay's refusal, Blair was the first of his four marriages. His work—plays and fiction—had progressive sympathies and he believed communism held the answer to many social ills.

Nabokov got a position teaching English literature at Cornell University in the late 40’s. He believed that novels should be “pure invention.” Their only purpose was to enchant. This contrasted strongly with Wilson’s progressive philosophy. In Wilson’s 1940 book, To the Finland Station, he ignored the excesses of Bolshevism. But Wilson’s and Nabokov’s mutual admiration society continued until ...Pushkin changed everything. Their feud began. It had to do with a translation of Eugene Onegin and their differing interpretation of Russian poetic meter. Russians venerate Pushkin in the same way English speakers venerate Shakespeare.

Wilson had learned Russian but was hardly a match for Nabokov’s fluency and the subtleties of translating. An explosive and harshly critical exchange appeared in letters published in The New York Review of Books, in 1965, following Wilson's harsh review of Nabokov's 1200 page translation of Eugene Onegin. Their vitriol was extreme. An example of Wilson’s words of war in this exchange refers to Nabokov’s translation. “Mr. Nabokov is in the habit of introducing any job of this kind which he undertakes by an announcement that he is unique and incomparable and that everyone else who has attempted it is an oaf and ignoramus, incompetent as a linguist and scholar, usually with the implication that he is a low-class person and a ridiculous personality. Nabokov ought not complain if the reviewer, though trying not to imitate his bad literary manners, does not hesitate of underline his weaknesses.” In his reply letter, Nabokov says “... we are indeed old friends. I fully share the warm affection sometimes chilled by exasperation that he says he feels for me. We have had many exhilarating talks, have exchanged many frank letters. A patient confidant of his long and hopeless infatuation with the Russian language, I have always done my best to explain to him his mistakes of pronunciation, grammar and interpretation. ... In the present case, however, things have gone a little too far. I greatly regret Mr. Wilson did not consult me about his perplexities (as he used to do in the past) instead of lurching into print in such a state of glossological disarray.”

The swords were unsheathed—actually even before then with Nabokov’s publication of Lolita, in 1955 in France, and in 1957 in the U.S. One suspects that Nabokov’s financial and literary success was envied by Wilson. Wilson's reputation was in decline by the 1950's. He was no longer the power in the literary circle he had been in his earlier years, in the 1920’s through the 1940’s. 

During Wilson’s final illness, Nabokov wrote to him, recalling the pleasures of their former affectionate friendship. Wilson died in 1972 at 77; Nabokov in 1978 at 78.

Respectfully submitted,
Carla Potash
Secretary for the day

Carol Presents Maxwell Perkins

Jacquie's Email Hello Literary Ladies! Just a quick reminder on this, our last day of the Biden Administration, that The Literature Club of Hastings-on-Hudson will be gathering this Wednesday, January 22nd, for Carol Barkinʼs presentation, “Letters from the Editor: Maxwell Perkins.” This week's meeting will be at Lori Walshʼs lovely home. We will begin at noon with what Iʼm sure will be a tasty and gracious spread that may or may not be called lunch. Joanna will ring the bell a bit earlier to begin our meeting at 12:45pm since, like Max and Ernest above, many members of our group will be going on a field trip afterwards, and it would be helpful if they could leave a bit earlier than usual. There are still seats available in either Sharon or Kathyʼs car to drive to New Roc for a 3:55pm showing of “Sing Sing,” so please let the ladies know if you would like to join in the fun.

I think thatʼs all the change I can handle for one day. My how our group continues to evolve! I look forward to seeing you there! x Jacquie 

Christine's Minutes January 22nd, 2025 was a very chilly day, due to the dry, low-level Arctic airmass hovering over the area, when twelve members and one associate gathered in Lori’s warm and inviting house.

The red lentil soup was a winner, as was the lemon olive cake Laura made so we could celebrate our two members who turned 80 last year, Barbara and Carol. Yes, I know it is hard to believe they have attained such an elegant senescence but believe it we must.

Under the heading of “Things You Did Not Expect to Learn at Literature Club,” this fact must be included: you can use chickpea juice (called aquafaba) to substitute for egg whites. Seriously. You can make meringues with it.

Our honorable president Joanna, arrived in the nick of time, directly from the Marthaʼs Vineyard ferry, and was able to start the meeting at the proper time.

The minutes of the previous meeting were read and accepted.

The treasury remains the same at $248.06

Two books were recommended by members: Shakespeare: The Man who Pays the Rent by Dame Judi Dench and Newton and the Counterfeiter by Thomas Levenson

Then we were off to an early start for Carol Barkin’s program on Letters from the Editor.

Maxwell Perkins. Unlike most of our subjects thus far this year, no, all our subjects, Perkins was not an author. He was, however, the most admired editor of the first half of the twentieth century, and edited books by F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Thomas Wolfe, Ring Lardner, Erskine Caldwell, Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, Edmund Wilson, Alan Paton and James Jones. Too many to list. The editorial hand of Perkins rests on many of the books we all know and love, many of them considered classics. We know that most masterpieces do not emerge fully formed from the authorial typewriter, so what exactly did Perkins do that was so brilliant and effective?

As an editor and an author, Carol has long known about Perkins and his remarkable career and was curious to know more about him and his relationships with his authors.

Perkins was born in 1884 and grew up in Plainfield, New Jersey. He attended St Paul’s in New Hampshire, and then Harvard. But he was not “to the manner/manor born.” He worked through his summers and had a horror of being patronized by his rich classmates, to the extent that he declined an invitation to a friendʼs summer house because he could not afford to tip the butler. I am sure we can all sympathize.

At Harvard, he majored in economics, which he later regretted. A writing course with the actor, Charles Copeland, set him on the path of literature. Max later said that in Copeland’s classes he developed his editorial instincts. He wrote to him: “…you did more good than all the rest of Harvard out together.”

After graduating in 1907, Max’s first job was teaching English to immigrants. He then spent a year at The New York Times before joining Scribnerʼs, in their advertising department, in 1909. By 1910 he had joined the editorial department, and Max remained at Scribners for all his working life.

In 1910 he also married Louise Sanders. They were very much in love, but they also argued from the start. Still, they managed to have five daughters between 1911 and 1917, and Max often wrote to his daughters from the office. His eldest daughter Bertha (Aka Bert) collected those letters in a book, Father to Daughter, from which we read, and gleaned an idea of his charm as well as his deep empathy for his authors.

Max Perkins’ acute literary judgment quite literally revolutionized American literature. In a 1946 lecture to aspiring editor, Max identified his own guidelines in dealing with authors: he was emotionally careful, and a handmaiden to the writer; he often offered both emotional and psychological support; he wrote constantly to his writers, about books he’d read, other authors, society in general; he helped with structure, plot and title, but he believed that the “the book belongs to the author.”

In fact, Max wrote so many letters to so many writers, that Carol had to focus on one specific correspondence, between Max Perkins and F. Scott Fitzgerald.

The Scribner’s Max had joined in 1909 was a second-generation family business, a most genteel and tradition-encrusted publishing house. But such was not Max’s vision; by 1918 he realized that their list needed some creativity. When Scribner’s received a mss. from FSF, it was disliked by all the senior editors. It finally made its way to Max who saw in it “so much vitality.” They passed on the mss. but Max sent his comments to FSF, who then revised it, and brought it back. Again, it was voted down, but then FSF came to speak personally with Max, who suggested he rewrite the novel in the third person, rather than the first.

The result was This Side of Paradise. The older editors were still unenthusiastic, but Max convinced them that their first allegiance must be to talent, and pointed out that FSF would go elsewhere, and other young writers would follow him.

At last, Max sent a special delivery letter to Fitzgerald, accepting the novel. It was published in the spring of 1920.

FSF was selling stories to the Saturday Evening Post, for $500, as well as the serial rights for This Side of Paradise for $7000. Still, he had an expensive lifestyle and borrowed fairly large sums from Scribner’s. Then, This Side of Paradise received good reviews and sold 20,000 books.

In April 1921 FSF had completed The Beautiful and Damned. He borrowed $600 for 2 tickets to Europe. By this time Max was acting as FSF’s financial overseer, as FSF rarely even knew how much money he owed Scribner’s.

After a lengthy and fascinating exchange over changing the word “Godalmighty” for “Deity”, Max wrote to FSF: “Don’t ever defer to my judgment.” The Beautiful and Damned came out in 1922; it sold fairly well but was not the great success they had hoped for. At the same time, ScribnerThe s published his collections of stories, Flappers and Philosophers in 1920, and Tales of the Jazz Age in 1922.

By 1924, editor and writer were calling each Max and Scott.

Members read many letters chronicling the history of this brilliant editor and his brilliant author. We were taken through the introduction of Hemingway, the publication and success of The Great Gatsby, the rocky times with Zelda, the publication of Tender is the Night. Throughout it all, there is thoughtfulness, excellent advice, deep friendship, as well as financial aid.

By 1932, Max was editor in chief at Scribnerʼs. These minutes cannot list all the iconic writers he nurtured and edited and published.

When FSF died of a heart attack in 1940, at the age of 44, Max was of the few people at his funeral.

The story of Maxwell Perkins, the editor who shaped American literature, continued for a few more years. He died in 1947, at the age of 62.

Over the course of the afternoon, these letters—and Carol’s explanations and choices—gave us a glimpse into one of the most remarkable editor-author relationships in literary history.

Then as we were winding up, in another Literature Club first, several members left promptly at 3 pm for a field trip to see the movie Sing Sing at Jacob Burns. Await the reviews.

Respectfully submitted,
Christine Lehner, Recording Secretary

 

Diana Presents Kurt Vonnegut

Jacquie's Email: Hello Literary Ladies! It feels like a year since we've been together, and what a year it has been already! There's something about avoiding the news that just makes me want to curl up with a good diverting and soul-nourishing book, which I did! Ann Patchett's Annotated Bel Canto was the perfect book for soul-nourishing, and I'd highly recommend it. What's so much fun, besides re-reading a gorgeous favorite, is you're not reading alone. Ann is right there beside you, enjoying the very best passages, explaining where she was when writing certain bits, what her inspirations were (“I called my friend Renee Fleming...”), and editing out unnecessary words so you don't have to. She hysterically admonishes herself for bad metaphors, long descriptions that could have been better expressed with fewer words, and repeated descriptions to the point of ridiculousness, (i.e. hair smells: “...alas.”) And being able to hold her hand as you brace for that shocking ending, well, it's quite an experience.

Apologies if I have taken advantage of my role as corresponding secretary and a captive audience to gush about my latest favorite read. (And I also apologize to those who would have named Bel Canto as a book they haven't read in Joanna's Books I Haven't Read Game.)

I am actually writing to remind you all that the first meeting of 2025 of the Literature Club of Hastings-on-Hudson will be this Wednesday, January 8th, at Kathy Sullivanʼs art-filled home. We will gather at noon for a good chat and whatever-we-are-now-calling-the-refreshments-served-by-our-hostess. Joanna will ring the bell at 1PM for our meeting after which Diana Jaeger will be presenting on the letters of Kurt Vonnegut.

I also wish to remind all of our Associate Members that you are invited to each and every one of our meetings. We would love to see you, join us in conversation, and enjoy our marvelous presentations together. Sharing is what our Club is all about and you are most welcome. All we ask is that you let our hostess know that you are attending so they can be sure to put out the correct number of chairs. You can contact the hostess directly or write to me and I will let them know you are coming.

Unfortunately, I will not be able to make this week's meeting. I'm so sorry to miss all of you as well as Diana's take on the Vonnegut letters. I read his love letters and found them charming and surprising. Thank goodness I have Christineʼs minutes to look forward to for the re-cap!

I also look forward to seeing you all on the 22nd. Have a glorious meeting! Love you madly! Jacquie

Christine's Minutes On a chilly January 8, 2025, ten members and two associates, including the elusive Mary Lemons, gathered at Kathy Sullivan’s warm and cozy house. While this secretary has resolved to cease mentioning food in these minutes, this resolution must be broken for the Sinclair Lewis Main Street Chicken Salad, a winner in both culinary and literary circles. And while we are breaking resolves, the pastries from Hastings new patisserie, Aromé, were beautiful and delicious.

For better or worse, the $60 million bond currently proposed by the Hastings School Board dominated the pre-meeting chatter.

Members recommended some books: The Mighty Red, Louise Erdrich; The Talented Mrs. Mandelbaum, Margalit Fox; The Bad-Ass Librarians of Timbuktu, Joshua Hammer; The Best Minds, Jonathan Rosen (about a murder in Hastings); Year of the Child, Niall Williams; Enlightenment, Sara Perry.

Absent both our President and Vice-President, Connie valiantly stepped into the breach and ably saw that things did not fall apart, the center did hold. She rang the bell—yes, even a substitute bell was procured—and thanked Kathy for our excellent repast.

The minutes of our previous meeting were read and accepted.

The treasury remained at a respectable $248.06.

There being no other business, we proceeded directly to our program of the day, Diana Jaegar’s presentation on the Letters of Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

It was mere serendipity. Last year Diana came upon a collection of Vonnegut’s letters from the 1940s to the 1970s, edited and introduced by Dan Wakefield, and thereupon decided on her topic.

On November 11, 1922, Vonnegut was born into a large and prosperous family, the youngest of three children. His father, Kurt Vonnegut Sr, was a prominent architect, and his mother was heir to a local brewery. But then came the Depression and Prohibition, and the family fortunes changed for the worse. They had to sell their home, and young Kurt had to leave his private school. His mother became addicted to alcohol and drugs, and upon her death, Kurt Sr moved to a cabin in the woods. Clearly, Vonnegut’s lifelong struggle with depression did not fall far from the tree.

But he did do well in school and went to Cornell. His father and older brother wanted him to study something useful, but his heart wasn’t in biochemistry. He loved journalism and became managing editor of Cornell’s daily student paper.

The summer after his freshman year, Vonnegut reconnected with some old friends, including Jane Cox. They shared a passion for social justice, the arts, and each other. But then off she went to Swarthmore—and we have this separation to thank for the tonnage of effusive love letters, “Dear Woofy, darling, sugarfoot, sweet, angelface.” He asked Jane to marry him (repeatedly) and said he wanted to have seven children with her.

But then in 1943 he enlisted in the army (better that than being drafted). Basic training was a mere 35 miles from home, a car, and thus visits to Jane Cox. In May 1944, Kurt and his sister found their mother dead; she had committed suicide.

When Kurt next proposed to Jane, she again said no, BUT agreed to wait for him when he went off to combat. He was sent to Europe in December of 1944 and fought in the bloody Battle of the Bulge. As an advance scout on the front line, Vonnegut and his group were quickly captured by the Germans and sent to Dresden as POWs. By sheer luck, the POWs survived the Allied bombing because they were housed in an underground meat locker and slaughterhouse. It was this experience that led to his masterpiece, Slaughterhouse-Five.

In 1945, Kurt and Jane married and moved to Chicago. When Jane became pregnant, Kurt realized he would have a family to support, and with his brother’s help, he got a job with GE in Syracuse. But he kept writing. Jane was a huge supporter of his work, and did almost everything for him, except typing his manuscripts.

For his first short story, “Report on the Barnhouse Effect,” Vonnegut was paid $750 by Collier’s. His next story sold for $950, and he was soon able to quit his job and move to Cape Cod. Then came more children, and the books. His first novel, Player Piano, was published in1952 and sold well. Still, he was always needing to make more money. When his sister’s four boys were orphaned following their parents’ very untimely deaths, Vonnegut drove to New Jersey, collected the four boys. They raised the three oldest, while the youngest went to relatives in Georgia.

Vonnegut kept writing novels, including Cat’s Cradle and God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, with limited financial success. There was a brief and fruitless attempt at managing a Saab dealership. In the mid 1960s, at a low point in his writing career, Vonnegut received an offer to teach at the Iowa Writers Workshop. It was a saving grace. Though he did have an affair with a student, Loree Rackstraw, and single mother and writer, and they remained friends for life.

Then came a Guggenheim fellowship, a teaching post at Harvard, and Slaughter-Five. Kurt was 47 years old, and this was his first major success, and the source of “So it goes.” In 1972, a film version was produced. By then Vonnegut was one of the most famous writers on the planet. But at home, things were falling apart. In 1971, he left his home and his marriage, moved to New York, and suffered from writer’s block. His next two books, Breakfast of Champions and Slapstick, addressed the theme of the disintegration of families.

While being photographed during the production of his play Happy Birthday, Wanda, Vonnegut met Jill Krementz, the famous photographer. By 1973, they moved in together, and in 1977 they bought a house in Sagaponack. It was a tumultuous marriage, but they stayed together because of their adopted child, Lily, born in 1982.

Vonnegut stayed busy, working for PEN and always speaking out for writers’ freedoms. He died in 2007, after falling on the steps of his New York brownstone.

Diana treated us to a wide and entertaining selection his letters, starting with Vonnegut’s love letters to Jane Cox, then his letter outlining his promises to do better as a house-husband; we also read letters to his father, and war-time letters about his experiences at Slaughterhouse Five; some letters were filled with good advice for young friends and writers; there were several letters to his children, as well as the ACLU. He never stopped being fully engaged and engaging. It was a wild ride, and a lovely afternoon. “If this isn’t nice, what is?”

Respectfully submitted,
Christine Lehner, Recording Secretary