FRED DANZLE CHRISTLE September 18, 1884 - September 11, 1971

On a date that is forever etched in the American psyche as one that showed us the worst of what humans can do, I choose instead to remember a man who, if only on a personal level, showed the best of what humans can be.  This man, Fred Christle, who was born in Pennsylvania on September 18, 1884, died peacefully in his sleep on September 11, 1971.  When he was a boy, his father beat him so brutally that Fred left home at the age of 12 and hired out as a farm hand.  With no more than a sixth grade education, Fred went on to become an extraordinary farmer and gardener, worked a variety of hard, physically-demanding jobs throughout his lifetime, and had the good sense to marry my grandmother when she was 62 and I was only 3 years old.

Even with a past marred by domestic violence, which so often is the unfortunate predictor of future violence, he never raised his voice in anger nor lifted a finger to hurt another creature.  In fact, he gave the biggest, warmest hugs to children of all ages.  He lavished family and friends with the most luscious strawberries and other produce imaginable and after a lifetime of farming for sustenance, in retirement he began cultivating flowers for beauty.  His flower gardens and fields of flowers drew admirers from miles around and he was never happier than when cutting samples for large bouquets for his visitors.  In his 70s he began to carve magical folk art depicting activities and characters from his childhood as well as one or two fantasies of his, such as a fruit bowl with bikini-clad young women dancing on the rim.  Even Grandma found that one amusing.

His entire life was a hymn of joy and love and his daily activities were a gift back to his Maker.  His weathered face bore the wrinkles of a hard worker who toiled in the sun and smiled more than frowned.  His gnarled, beefy hands, which could crush without effort, usually cradled a sleeping child or a fistful of delphinium when they weren't gently cupped around my grandmother's elbow, helping her up a step or into the car.

The most beautiful three words I ever heard come out of his mouth were, "How's my girl?" when greeting me with open arms.  Well, today your girl misses you, Grandpa, but also feels extremely blessed to have been nurtured by your gentle, loving hands, heart and soul and to have bloomed in your garden.

Women at Work

Best-Selling Author Ilene Beckerman, Author/Humorist/Feminist Theorist Gina Barreca, Humorician Patricia Wynn Brown, and Publisher Suzanne Braun Levine at the Erma Bombeck Writers Workshop April 11, 2014

It’s not the hushed, conspiratorial sound of men in board rooms or the exalted “C” suites.  It’s the squeal of greeting, laughter and recognition; the high-pitched tone of excitement.

It’s not the back-slapping, checking you out for the right spot to insert the knife of betrayal, or firm handshake/secret test of strength of men in suits.  It’s the hugs and hands on the arms of old friends, the hugs and hands on the arms of soon-to-be friends.

It’s not the jostling of men for place in a hierarchy of power or even just in line for the rest room.  It’s the sending forward of the woman doing the most desperate dance in the Ladies room line, the woman best prepared for the book pitch.

It’s not the stampede to get to the front of the room or a seat at the head table.  It’s the invitation to the person all alone to join a table of strangers, it’s the speaker everyone wants to meet showing her complete lack of pretense by joining the group at the table by the kitchen.

It’s not the arm shielding the test answers so others can’t see; it’s not the “I made it on my own so you’ll have to make it on your own.”  It’s the finger pointing out the correct answer, it’s the suggestions and ideas, and the “here’s what worked for me” comments.  It’s the generosity of “I made it, you can, too, and here’s how.”

It’s not the heartless critique of a flawed presentation or a failed marketing campaign on Fifth Avenue.  It’s the standing ovation and hooting and cheering as a show of support for the frightened woman who ventures out of her home and onto a limb.  It’s her female audience saying, “We won’t let you die alone out there.”

It’s the quiet murmur of collaboration, the hand on the shoulder in support, the set-up for the punch line, the laughter that says I know what you mean, the applause that says you nailed it now keep going…

It’s the filling of empty cups (okay, and wine glasses, too) and it’s the shoring up of others’ confidence and self-esteem.  It’s the healing of wounded parts, the sharing of insecurities and doubts, and it’s the rekindling of each other’s spirits when our inner flames have gone out.

It’s different from other workshops and conferences; it’s the Erma Bombeck Writers Workshop.  You might mistake it for fun and games and nothing more, but your estimation would fall foolishly short.  It’s the sound of joy, laughter, friendship and support.  It’s the joyous sight and sound of women at work.