A few weeks ago, when I told my old friend Eric about how my old friend Jack was doing (maybe not so good), he wrote back sympathizing and told me Susan Connell-Mettauer had died. Susan Connell was my girlfriend in 1963; we danced to the Beatles, had a passionate affair, and were busted by her aunt because she didn’t want me, 20 then, screwing Susan, 16 then. Cambridge police put us into separate interrogation rooms (we didn’t know what each other was doing), got us to confess to the affair, and sentenced me to six months’ probation and Susan to a mental hospital. The charge was fornication, an old Massachusetts blue law. It sucked – the aunt, the law, the situation. It drove us apart, not immediately at first, but for decades.

About 15 years ago, I seem to recall through Eric, I got in touch with Susan again and saw her in Boston. She’d aged a lot; she’d been drinking and drugging and her liver was shaky. It was great to see her anyhow, and strange. It’s funny how your past circles back on you.

A few years later, I saw her again, introducing her to my wife and kids. It was an odd encounter, not a meeting of the minds so much as a meeting of generations. She seemed to have gotten stuck while I had moved on – and even then, I didn’t feel as if I could do anything for her. Then I heard she was married. She wrote, well and tough, publishing some stories online. Maybe two years ago, she told me her marriage was over and she had to move out of her house in Marblehead. She’d been trying to get over her hepatitis but couldn’t lock into the right regimen. She never did get work. I lost touch with her again.

Then came the news, from Eric to me, that she’d died March 26. He’d heard about it from Susan Green, an old friend of his in Burlington, where I, Eric and Susan used to hang out in the ‘70s. Susan Connell and Susan Green, I discovered, had been friends, semi-related through rock ‘n’ roll. After we were together, Susan married Lee Mason, a drummer who was in a ‘60s rock group in Boston called the Bagatelle. Susan Green, meanwhile, was associated with Willie Alexander (once of The Lost, later of Willie Alexander and the Boom Boom Band), a friend of Lee’s. So the network deepened and extended and I’m glad it’s held; I’ve been in touch with Susan Green about this and hope I can join her and other mourners of the late Susan Connell-Mettauer (expired March 26 before she could secure the liver transplant she needed), probably in Boston, where, it seems, it all began and still continues.

I miss Susan. I wish I could have helped her. That she died the way she did is very sad. That she didn’t live as rewardingly as her passion promised may even be sadder.

Katy had a pretty bad accident today, driving the 2001 Honda Accord EX I bought her last night into the rear of some high-end Ford product, which in turn hit the rear of one of those mercifully rare new Chrysler Sebring convertibles. Hope I don’t get sued for this by angry Chryslerians.
There’s been a lot of car movement lately. I bought Katy the Accord so she could have more mobility, driving her sister around and getting to work at Stone Oven. But she’s been feeling mono-depressed for a bunch of weeks, and she was definitely off today, not feeling good at all; when she called to say she’d hit someone, she said her car was “fucked up.” I was on the toilet at the time; this did not go down well. She apologized later, when I said that was OK and her description was accurate. The car looks totaled to me, though it drove onto the tow truck. Nobody was hurt, thank God.

In other car action, I traded in my four-year-old Acura TL last Sunday for a, would you believe, Scion XB with a manual transmission. I didn’t realize I’d missed a stick shift until I imagined, what the hell, probably feels real good. It did when I went to a Mentor Toyota dealer, told the salesman I wanted to trade straight up—and two-and-a-half hours later, drove away with a stick-shift, boxy silver Scion, a kind of mini-minivan, a box with high-tech stereo and display, enough power appointments to comfort me, and a radio I’m going to add XM to next weekend. I like driving it; I miss the cushiness of the Acura—my only quarrel with it was its mileage—but this offers its own, future-retro pleasures.
Best thing about the XB: it gets 25 to 31 miles a gallon, so a tank in the Scion lasts 140 miles longer—on regular—than the Acura did on premium or midgrade. Kinda matters these days, when it’s all about getting back to basics. If Karen trades her 2005 Odyssey Touring (bargelike, amazingly appointed, still high-tech after three years, but gets only about 16-18 mpg city) for a Scion XB, we’ll be a two-toaster family. And actually save some money. Which would be nice these days.
Pearl Marie, our Newfoundland puppy, is growing fast. Maybe that’s why we’re downsizing on the car front. If you’re looking for sequiturs, you’ve come to the wrong place.

Karen and I and Lylah drove to West Union, Ohio on St. Patrick’s Day and bought an eight-week-old Newfoundland puppy from Herb Erwin, a fast-talking farmer/realtor/auctioneer who rules a huge roost , not to mention a whole gang of roosters. A surreal scene, indeed, when our yuppie Odyssey pulled up, zippered “crate” from Target in tow to transport the pup back 250 miles north.

Karen and I came across Herb’s farm following a barn sale sign in mid-January, when we spent a weekend at Murphin Ridge Inn, a fabulous b&b a few miles from Herb’s. We met the Newfoundland elders, the great landseer Madison (a landseer is a genetic rarity, a Newfoundland with a black head and black-and-white body) and Madison’s “wife,” all-black Katy.
Madison was our first view when we pulled into the driveway that sunny January day, and I liked him: funky, big, matted, very calm, very kind - and beautiful. So when we saw Katy, gigantic with imminent litter, we told Herb we’d like a puppy when she dropped. The one we got was the last, a girl, black with a white tuft on her chest and chin and a dash of white on a paw (or is it two)? We brought her back north with minimum fuss - yes, there was whining, but it was moderate - and when Lylah’s sister Katy saw her, she went nuts. So has everybody else who’s seen her, and we had a gang of visitors over this Easter weekend.

The Newfie girl’s name is Pearl Marie; settling on the moniker wasn’t easy, but it works and everybody agreed on it. Pearl, or Pearly, is very calm and friendly. She barks occasionally; she seems already kind of housetrained, as she goes outside to pee and poop and really, really likes to play in the snow. At eight weeks, she weighs 18 pounds. I suspect she’ll easily top 100, and she’s going to be hairy and drooly. But I already love her, and look forward to hanging out with her a lot.

The crate Karen bought in advance of the puppy is one to grow in for sure. It occupies a goodly portion of our family room, and Pearl already seems comfortable with it. I plan to take her for a walk today and see how she fares with that (Karen tells me it’s tricky). I also hope the cats settle down about Pearl; they seem not only scared but downright hostile, particularly Elliott, who’s done his best to avoid the dog. Her curiosity keeps the engagement going, however. Pearl Marie feels like a peaceable kingdom unto herself.

Karen and I are traveling to West Union, Ohio tomorrow, then driving back with a fresh cargo: a Newfoundland puppy, yet to be named. It’ll be a girl, one of seven born to Katy and Madison, a happy and productive Newfoundland couple at Herb Erwin’s sprawling, wacky farm.

Violetta, the Russian hottie who commandeers our biweekly house cleanings, told me yesterday Newfoundlands are sloppy and high-maintenance and big. I kind of sensed this and hope I can handle that. Our last dog, Ramona, certainly qualified on maintenance and sloppy (she was cute, too). But this Newfoundland will be a new dimension, not only in size but also in intelligence. Madison, the dog that got me to renege on my pledge last year to never own a dog again, seems really bright and affectionate and responsive, and Karen has vowed to train our imminent dog well and deeply and to be responsible for her. Names under consideration include Louise, Belle and Pearl. Any ideas? 

On another issue: the elections. My last blog was Obama time, which I still think it is. I also think it’s Democrat time, or liberal time, or shift time. It’s a year of wrenching changes, one in which the economy is a tilt-a-whirl, unpredictable and way shaky. Time for a new perspective, for a greener, more collaborative world. My parents raised me to be idealistic, and for them, Jewish immigrants escaping Hitler, America meant hope and opportunity. I wonder what they would think now. I hope the Democratic Party gets through this competition to be the best and the brightest – Obama and Hillary are both  formidable candidates and indisputably smart – so Obama can lead a ticket that not merely reflects today’s constituency but moves it to a higher plane. Is he perfect? No, no candidate is. But he seems to confront his imperfections with unusual grace and in so doing, speak to our better nature. Here’s hoping. 

I’ve watched a good dozen of the Democratic Party debates and I’m a fan of Bill Clinton’s. But on March 4, if not before, I’ll cast my vote for Barack Obama in the Ohio Democratic primary. The decision has gotten easier.

I know Ohio Gov. Ted Strickland, an obviously intelligent and sensitive guy, backs Hillary Clinton, suggesting her grasp of specifics and her detailed plans outweigh Obama’s hope-fueled bid. Hillary would make a good president, too. But Obama’s inclusiveness and his willingness to engage with the world without preconditions appeal to my deeper, less strategic nature.

A colleague at work tells me he plays poker with a gang of East Side Cleveland-area Jews, like both of us, and they won’t vote for Obama because he’s black. It would be naïve to assume racism is dying because of Obama’s campaign, but I hope it is, and his drive would seem to signal its imminent death. I remember picketing Woolworth’s in the early ‘60s in Cambridge, Mass. because it wouldn’t serve blacks. We’ve come a long way since then, for sure. But there’s a long way to go. Electing a man who looks like the rest of the world is the right step.

I’ve always been a politics junkie, and 1992 was the first year I ever volunteered for a presidential campaign: Bill Clnton’s. I’m going to work for Obama this year and do everything I can to put him into the White House. He’s clearly a brilliant politician, he has ambitious, populist plans and he’s calm. He’s also a genetic hybrid, like this country was always meant to be.

Too bad 2008 also is the first year a woman is within striking distance of the White House. Among my most fervent hopes is that Hillary drops out of the race gracefully so she can wield a powerful influence in the Obama administration.

It’s Obama time.