Lori’s Whirled
A long, long time ago—back in the late 20th century—I wrote a column called, “Lori’s Whirled.” We, the Kohn family, had a Christmas newsletter called, The Kohn Times—All the news that fits in print. The original posts were written in the end-times of what was a long and fruitful marriage. My husband was the editor. The kids and I were contributors. Unlike The NY Times, it was ad-free, and everything we wrote was true.
Page 3 was reserved for “Lori’s Whirled”—a single page, all to myself, where I would deliver slice-of-life observations which I wrote in a particular style. As my greatest fan once put it— “She’s a cross between Dave Barry and Erma Bombeck.” If you are not familiar with either of these names I don’t know whether to deliver a stern fingerwagging or weep silently as I huddle in the cold, black shadow cast by your shame. Let’s just say they were well-known literary humorists of the mid- to late-20th century, or more succinctly, they were big in the ‘80’s. Of the two, Dave Barry is still alive. A bow to you, sir. It has been my pleasure to have walked the earth in your time. And angel kisses to you, Erma. Mwah!
Prepare to re-enter the year 2023…in 3, 2, 1…
My husband was the editor and main contributor of the more serious news stories, reporting on business mostly, but also included his annual reading list. It was a good list, a true list, but it made most of our readers feel like chowderheads. “Lori’s Whirled” was the comic relief.
It is taking all of my strength not to insert the word ‘chagrin’ here, but I will try. Much to his chagrin…d’oh!…my column was always submitted at the last minute. Let me say this for the record, I did not purposely withhold my column to annoy, infuriate, or enrage him. At least not in that order. My delay was simpler and considerably less hostile than that—I just couldn’t bring myself to write until I was ready. The pot had to reach a full boil before I could toss in my noodles. The oven had to pre-heat to 350 before I could bake my cookies. The tank had to come to room temperature before I would put my goldfish in. Never-did-I-ever kill a fish, burn a cookie, under- or over-cook a noodle.
If you are a writer you know what I’m talking about. If you are not a writer you, too, know what I’m talking about because it is not only the writing part that is at issue here, it is also the deadline part. As an executive, an attorney, a man of letters he excelled at self-motivation, focus, and goal-setting, but he never quite learned how to herd a cat.
Even though everyone—and I mean everyone my husband ever met, voted for, knew from business, went to summer camp with, or shared DNA with—anticipated the December arrival of The Kohn Times, their sole fear was being taken off the mailing list. To my knowledge, no one was ever taken off the list. Not ever.
Personal friends admitted to me (privately) that sure, they were in awe of my husband’s annual reading list, and yes, they felt like chowderheads after reading it, and of course they liked keeping up with the kids—we did a Q&A every year asking the same questions and the world watched as their interests evolved—but what the Kohn Times readers really waited for was their annual dose of “Lori’s Whirled.” And I’m not saying this just because it is probably true, I’m saying it because it is literally true.
This new blog of mine, An Inch Deep and a Mile Wide, is a descendant of “Lori’s Whirled.” It’s hard to say precisely how the one will differ from the other but considering the original was written by a busy California mommy of two children, in a marriage slightly adrift, and is written today by a fading, grey lady wading, peacefully, quietly and alone through the mile-wide midwest, it is safe to say the differences will be nothing more or less than…existent.
At the time of this writing, not one single person has read one single word of this new blog. In the future, tens, if not dozens of people will have read it. It is my sincere hope that you will be among them.
