|
Pat Heidenreich |
|||
|
THE ERMA BOMBECK SPECIAL NEWSLETTER Since the 1960’s
I have considered Erma Bombeck the world’s greatest writer and myself as
her number o THE INDIANAPOLIS NEWS ran a quarter page ad for her column: (There was a line drawing of the Statue of Liberty with the head of Erma Bombeck.) ‘Give Me Your Tired, Your Overworked Housewives Yearning For A Laugh When things get grim around the house, the best tonic is to laugh at what bugs you the most. That’s what Erma Bombeck does, and she shares her hilarious impressions with you in her three-times-a-week column, At Wit’s End, in the Indianapolis News. Erma, who says she is over-kidsed (she has three) and underpatienced lives on a farm in Ohio with her husband, a consultant to the Dayton Board of Education. When it comes to schools she fills ‘em and he tells ‘em how to run. Her measurements are 45-22-35, -not in that order-and according to Erma, her husband calls her Army after a pack mule he had in Korea. She started writing as therapy because as she put it, If I didn’t laugh at myself, I’d cry. Today her column has found nationwide acceptance among nearly 20 million readers. Writing also gives her a perfect excuse to let the household chores pile up more than ever before. Deadline, you know, she says. Laugh along with Erma every Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday in The Indianapolis News.’ Here are some sample paragraphs from the writing of Erma Bombeck: From her column ‘A Sleeping Mother Is Prone to Interruption’ (Previous passages describe her experiences trying to take a nap.) ‘The other afternoon, through the din, I heard the phone ring. The bedroom door opened cautiously and my son entered. He placed his hands near my throat and shook me vigorously. Mom! It’s Grandma on the phone! I bolted upright. What’s the matter? She wants to know if you’re taking a nap. What should I tell her? From her column ‘The Time Is Right For Going Astray’. ‘If a woman ever is to have an affair, it will be in March. Psychologically, it is a perfect month for it. The bowling tournaments are over. The white sales on bedding are past. Your chest cold has stabilized, and the Avon lady is beginning to look like Tom Jones.’ From her column ‘Summer Siblings Have Mom Against The Wall’ ‘There’s a sign over my bed that reads, Think September It would have meaning only for a mother who has two siblings who make Cain and Able sound like the Everly Brothers.’ ................... Later in this newsletter I tell about my personal meeting with Erma. But now I’d like to share the three letters I wrote to her and her responses. Dear Erma, I am your number one fan. I love your column and never miss reading it. I also adore your book! (Now that I have your attention.) No, seriously, you are my idol, my inspiration and my relaxation through identification. (If that doesn’t puff you up.) Actually, I’m a #4 still hanging in there. (Editor’s note: This was in reference to one of her columns.) And I’m learning not only are you a riot, but you know about of which you speak(I’m a kool writer, no?) Since I just broke into print three weeks ago with a Fashion Column (of all things) in the SPEEDWAY FLYER JOURNAL, I’ve learned that you were really serious when you wrote, Don’t expect your husband to break out in a rash over your material. Truer words were never written (the rat). How can he maintain that bored attitude when each word I type is a pearl and vastly interesting? Anyway, I have your columns safely tucked away in my Erma Bombeck scrapbook. Here are some of my favorites: SUMMER SIBLINGS HAVE MOM AGAINST THE WALL HOP IN THE PLAYPEN, LADY, AND START TYPING A SLEEPING MOTHER IS PRONE TO INTERRUPTION THE TIME IS RIGHT FOR GOING ASTRAY SOME WOMEN DON’T WEAR LIBERATION WELL NONE OF OUR FRIENDS WRITES DIRTY BOOKS Every time I want a good cry I get these out and read them.(that’s meant as a compliment). I would love to meet you someday. If you are ever in Indianapolis (maybe for the 500 mile race, I live in Speedway) and would stop in for a visit I would know how the people of Jerusalem felt when Christ came.and I certainly would have my palms ready. Yours in sincere
admiration, (Her response, in a Publishers-Hall Syndicate envelope, mailed from Chicago and typed on Publishers-Hall Syndicate stationary): January 6, 1971 Dear Pat: Thanks so much for your thoughtful letter. I am always amazed at the nice people who take time to write when they like something. Congratulations on your entry into print. Your husband is proud of you, I’m sure. It takes a sense of humor to know one. I thank you for yours. Hope you continue to look in on me. Best regards, ................... (My second letter to Erma): January 9, 1971 Dear Erma, I just about flipped when I received your letter last week. This may sound weird, but, is the letter really from you, or do you have a fan mail answering service through the syndicate? The reason I ask is the letter was mailed from Chicago and I thought you lived in Ohio. Anyway, may I be so bold as to ask if you could possibly send me an autographed picture of yourself? I would love to have one to hang over my writing desk. Am enclosing a column of mine from the Speedway Flyer Journal.I passed it off as a fashion column.hope you enjoy it. Don’t forget, if you’re ever near Indianapolis or Speedwaylook me upI’m serious! Your earnest fan, Pat Heidenreich (Her answer.hand-written and sent in a brown envelope, mailed from Ohio, along with a 5 x 7 black and white head and shoulders picture of herself.) 1/22/71 Pat I read the mail
and dictate answers. Erma (My third letter to Erma): February 11, 1971 Hi! It’s just me, your faithful fan, bugging you again! I just want to thank you for sending the requested picture of yourself. And thanks for the hand written note to reassure me that the first letter really was from you. I hope I didn’t offend you by doubting.I’m so dumb. Am enclosing a snapshot to show that I hung you right over my writing desk next to my cuckoo clock.(an honored place!) Now when I’m writing my manuscripts, I can look at you for inspiration and when I receive my rejection slips, I can look at you for consolation. Am enclosing the last two fashion columns I wrote before I resigned. I found writing about fashions too confining and am preparing several sample columns, (similar to your type), for submission. Hope I can find a market, because my greatest ambition is to write like you do. I’m saving all your columns in a scrapbook and read them often. Don’t feel you have to answer this letter you have enough to do, Lord knows. I just wanted to thank you for the great picture and the autograph it really means a lot to me. Well, hang in there, Erma, and keep those great columns coming. Everybody I ask, out here, says they love you. And I repeat,
for the third time, if you’re ever near Indianapolis or Speedway.look me
up. (I’m pretty sure you won’t, though, because by now you must be
convinced that I’m some kind of a nut to be avoided.)
|
WRITER MEETS HEROINE
Erma Bombeck Holds Autograph Session Published in THE NORTHERN SUBURBANITE on Wed., Nov. 17, 1971 Last Friday afternoon everything was normal. I was sitting at my desk in THE NORTHERN SUBURBANITE office, lethargically moving mountains of news releases and photos around, staring at my almost empty news run log sheet, which should’ve been filled by then and anticipating Monday’s deadline with the same excitement of a man walking to the gallows. The phone rang; it was my daughter. “I know I’m only supposed to call in case of emergency,” she apologized, “but people have been phoning you all day here to see if you knew that Erma Bombeck was in town.” “You’re kidding! …where? …when? …you mean she’s really HERE?” (My two co-workers glanced up from the mountains on their desks, since I had jumped up and was screeching.) “She’ll be at Block’s, Lafayette Square, between 4:30 and 5:30. That’s what they say.” “Thanks, honey,…good-bye.” I was wildly flipping through the phone book (the office girls looked at each other and shrugged.) “Hello, Book Department? Is it really true? Is Erma Bombeck going to be there today?…” “That’s right, at 4:30 for an autograph party.” “Thanks, goodbye.” I turned to the two ‘Question Marks’ beside me. “It’s TRUE! Erma’s here – ERMA BOMBECK!!!!” I squealed. They returned to shuffling their mountains. “You don’t understand – you didn’t hear me…I said BOMBECK IS IN TOWN!!” “We heard you, we heard you. She writes a column in the NEWS, doesn’t she?” “My dears, she writes “AT WIT’S END”! The greatest humor column there ever was. I have all her columns in a scrapbook and her picture hanging over my desk at home. She’s only the world’s greatest writer, that’s all.” “Oh,” they said into their mountains. I threw all my papers into my briefcase, grabbed my camera and purse and started out the door. “What about the deadline?” they asked. “What-da-ya mean?…I’ve got the whole weekend!” I rushed into Block’s, raced up the escalator – two steps at a time and went directly to a sales clerk. “Where’s Erma’s book? I want it!” I said puffing and panting. “We have put all copies back until her arrival, which won’t be for another hour,” she said glancing at my $9.95 Polaroid Swinger. I regained my composure and walked over to the empty table and chair where SHE would soon be sitting. I was the first in line and the only one in line for the next 45 minutes. Passing shoppers stared at me. Finally, others started to gather and we compared our favorite Bombeck quips. “I like the one, when someone on TV asked her if she ever yelled at her kids and she said, ‘Are you kidding? I’m the only woman in Ohio with varicose veins in my neck!’” We all stared anxiously at the top of the escalator as 4:40 approached. “Maybe she’s already here, hiding back in the luggage department or somewhere,” we speculated. I relinquished my place in line to clarify this with the sales clerk, “No, she’ll be coming up the escalator.” Just as I was making my way back to the table – I SAW HER! “It’s HER, she’s HERE!” I screamed, dropping my purse, raising my camera and climbing over a few little old ladies. I snapped the picture when I was about four feet from her. Blinded by the flash, she staggered to the table and slipped out of her coat. Everyone moved in closer. The clerks brought out the books. I grabbed mine and clutched it to my breast. Having lost my place in line, I stepped back to regroup my forces and load my camera with another flashbulb. Erma was busy autographing her book. I took two more photos. I noticed each time I moved in closer for a picture, the “security man” accompanying her also moved closer. (He might’ve been someone from the publicity department or from the store – I don’t know, but I had the distinct feeling that he thought he was protecting her from some nut. His beady little eyes never left me – oh well!) The biggest part of the crowd left – I got into line with my book. Finally, I was face to face with her. “I can’t believe it’s really you,” I bubbled, (she smiled). “I’m your number one fan in Indianapolis. I know you don’t remember, but you sent me your picture and I’ve written to you three times. My name is Pat Heidenreich.” (The security man was within inches now.) Erma said, “Of course I remember you, Pat.” I doubted this, but rambled on and on while she was signing my book. “Can you come over for dinner? Can’t I drive you to the airport? I bet you’re tired, huh? Can’t wait to get out of your girdle, huh?” The security man was breathing on me. Some lady behind me was shoving her book in my back and the others in line were shifting their weight from one foot to the other. Erma explained that all transportation arrangements had been set up previously. Reluctantly, I moved away. The security man relaxed a little and loosened his tie. I noticed the other people had left after having their book autographed, but somehow, I couldn’t. I stood back and watched how she handled the whole deal. (In case I would ever be in that position – Ha!) I reloaded my camera. The store ran out of books and the crowd started to disperse. I gathered my gumption and asked the security man if he could take a picture of Erma and me together. He said he wasn’t a photographer. (He wasn’t either – the picture turned out too dark). He agreed probably thinking he’d be rid of me. I asked Erma if I could impose on her once more. Still blinking from the other flashbulbs, she agreed. (She’s so nice.) I continued to ramble on during the photograph posing. “You know, I’m now a staff writer for THE NORTHERN SUBBURBANITE and THE ZIONSVILLE TIMES – two great weeklies here.” “Oh?” she smiled, interested. “Yes,” I continued, “and I’m trying to syndicate a humor column. It would be in competition with yours.” (I could’ve bitten off my tongue.”) Her eyebrows raised slightly and she said, “Well, good.” The security man was helping her slip into her coat. The sales clerk was thanking her for her appearance and explaining that the store was mortified to have run out of books. I was still there. The group moved to the escalator and out of the store. I followed. One man went to get the car and while Erma and the security man waited on the sidewalk, I said, “If you ever come here for the 500 Mile Race, you can stay at my house.” The security man stepped between us and linked arms with Erma. She explained she really wasn’t a race fan. As the car pulled up, I said, “I just can’t take my eyes off you. It really is you, isn’t it?” “Yep,” she said, getting into the car. “I’ll keep writing to you and brightening up your days,” I yelled as the car moved away. She waved out the window. I stood on the sidewalk alone, hating myself for that last remark. That was the dumbest thing I ever said! ME brightening up HER days! Later I was sitting dejectedly at home reflecting on the encounter and staring at all the photos I took, when my husband arrived. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Oh, Bob, I really blew it. My big chance to ask all those professional questions about writing – you know, all the ones I said I’d ask if I ever met Erma Bombeck in person. I was so excited, that every time I opened my mouth, something stupid came out. And look, I took all these photos. I was the only one with a camera. I made such a fool of myself. I even invited her for dinner tonight.” “Well, there’s one bright side – she didn’t accept,” he laughed. “You know, there’s no groceries in and we’re going to Burger Chef. Don’t feel bad, she probably has at least one ding-a-ling like you at every appearance she makes. How did you stop yourself from following her to the airport?” “It was hard,” I sighed, “darned hard, but I restrained myself.”
|
||
| Home | |||
|
Pat Heidenreich mitigate, or prevent a disease or illness. Results may vary per person" | |||
